Oxford Days

CHAPTER VIII

IN THE THICK OF IT

Paul’s had no Law Lecturers, and Frank was therefore compelled to “put on a coach.” He accordingly wrote to Edwards, a week before term commenced, to arrange with him. Much to his surprise, the College offered to pay half the fee on his behalf, which after all was but fair, considering that he had to pay his College tuition fees, although there were no lectures for him. By Edwards’ advice he attended certain of the Law Professors’ Lectures, which were open to the University at large—in some cases on payment of 1l., in others free. Six hours in each week were spent at these, and three hours with Edwards; and with a daily average of four hours’ private reading he considered he was industrious. His degree seemed so far off. He would work more when the time was drawing nearer. So he consoled himself, and so the time went by.

Of Crawford he saw little, for it was his last term, and he was in for Honours in the Final Classical Schools in November. But on Sunday they used to lunch together—alternately in one another’s rooms—and go for a long constitutional afterwards. To Crawford alone of his many friends he confided his hopes. To him alone he told his dreams of Rose, of their engagement, and even of the marriage in the future. And Crawford never laughed at him, or pooh-poohed the notion as a boyish fancy; for he saw that if there was one thing more than another which would keep him straight, and make him stick to his work, it was the hope of one day making a home for Rose. But the Bar! How hopeless it seemed! To talk of marriage, at least three years before the wig could be worn, much less a brief gained! Still the boy was hopeful. And why damp his energy? Besides, Crawford had a belief—he knew it was not a prevalent one—that though there are so many barristers, the Bar as a profession is not really so crowded as the world believes; that if you eliminate the large numbers of so-called barristers who live by their pen, by speculating—by anything, in fact, except the profession they claim, the number of men left is by no means large enough to do the work that offers. Again, he knew that he came of a family of lawyers, with large firms in various towns, and at least one of considerable eminence in London. So that altogether he by no means considered the boy’s ambitions and dreams as baseless or silly. As for himself, he hardly cared to confess his hopes. But Frank had always placed him, in anticipation, in the position Crawford secretly desired. He seemed fitted in every way for a Fellowship and Tutorship. To begin with, he was a gentleman in birth and in heart. He would therefore know how to feel with, and for, all the various grades of men with whom he would come in contact: unlike the many who, with neither the breeding nor the feelings of gentlemen, have nothing but their intellectual supremacy to recommend them.

As to Crawford’s intellectual powers, he had already given ample proof. He had taken a first class in Classical Moderations. He had won the Chancellor’s prize for Latin Verse, and had been proxime accessit for the Stanhope Essay. And then, to crown all, from the boyish undergraduate point of view, he had rowed in his College Eight, and won the Diamond Sculls at Henley. Why, he was the very beau-ideal of a Fellow. A handsome, clever, athletic English gentleman. Oxford has had many such, and, thank God, she has them still. Men who consider a fellowship and tutorship a sacred trust; who look upon the undergraduates as friends to be helped, guided, and taught, but not in mere learning for the schools; who will draw out, not crush, the fresh hopefulness of youth; who will cheer, not cloud, boys’ ambitions; who will look for good qualities, not watch and wait for errors; whose chief thought will be what good they can do, and not what fines they can impose.

“Do you see much of Monkton now?” Crawford asked, as they were walking to Godstow by the upper river.

“Very little,” said Frank. “I can’t think what he does with himself.”

“Not much, I fancy. I see him loafing occasionally, and I believe that’s pretty nearly all he does. However, I’m glad you don’t see much of him.” And Crawford changed the subject. “What’s this I hear of you and the Undergraduates’ Journal? You don’t mean to say you’ve taken to write in it? I should have thought you had work enough to do.”

Frank got red and confused.

“Well, the fact is—I have written a few things; but it didn’t take much time.”

“Ah! that’s just where it is,” said Crawford. “If you do anything of that sort at all, it’s worth doing well—just as everything is, for the matter of that. You haven’t time to do it well, and you square the matter by doing it hurriedly. You’d far better stick to your Law reading.”

“I say, old fellow,” remonstrated Frank, “I didn’t come out for a lecture. You’re a regular old school-master. I only wrote three little poems, or ‘sets of verses’ as I suppose I ought to call ’em: that’s the extent of my writing.”

“Oh!” said Crawford, somewhat mollified. “Well, take my advice; get your degree first and write afterwards.”

“That’s all very well,” retorted Frank; “but I should like to know how you expect a fellow to be able to write without practice? Reading Law and writing answers to papers don’t help one.”

“I don’t think we’ll discuss the question any further,” answered Crawford. “You want to marry Rose, I know, as quickly as possible. Well, my opinion is that you’ll do it a great deal more quickly by reading Law than by writing poetry.”

Frank was silent. There was truth in what Crawford said, he knew; but he could not help writing poetry. And whether he will ever be a known poet, ever succeed in charming the hydra-headed public, or not, he certainly had one requisite in a maker—spontaneity. Rose, of course, considered him a poet in the highest sense of the term. In fact, she cared for no poetry but his, which speaks volumes for her affection, but little for her powers of criticism. But if lovers are to be critics, Love may as well go to Mr. Critchet, and be operated on for cataract.

Term, with all its activity, was passing quickly. Every day till two o’clock Frank devoted himself to his work. From two till five he rowed, or practised at the butts. From five till six he usually spent at the Union, reading the papers or magazines. Dinner at six. He did not do much work in the evening, for various reasons—chiefly, because he was too lazy—excusing himself because he thought his eyes were weak; and partly because of various engagements. On Tuesday evening there was either a regular Apollo lodge-meeting, or a lodge of instruction. Monday, the Paul’s Debating Society. Wednesday, the practice of the Philharmonic, a somewhat different form of excitement from the usual undergraduate amusements, owing to the presence of a large number of ladies. Thursday, the debate at the Union, in which he usually took part. Friday and Saturday had no definite fixture; but then there was always something in the shape of nondescript entertainment at the “Vic.,” or concert at the Town Hall or Corn Exchange; or else there was a friend to be asked to dinner in Hall, or an invitation to dinner to accept. Altogether, his evening work never amounted to more than one hour on the average.

One evening, seeing a large poster announcing a performance by “the great Bounce,” he turned up the narrow little passage which leads from Magdalen Street to the “gaff” that is dignified by the name of theatre. Here, by permission of the Very Reverend the Vice-Chancellor, and his Worship the Mayor—a permission always necessary and always publicly announced—entertainments of every description, as long as they are not stage plays, are performed. Conjurors, mimics, ventriloquists, mesmerists, Tyrolese singers, Japanese acrobats, music-hall singers of every grade and degree, display themselves before a crowded audience of undergraduates. But anything so demoralizing as a play of Shakespeare or other healthy author is strictly forbidden. The authorities doubtless have their reasons, but it is somewhat hard to imagine what those reasons can be. An occasional concert is given in the Town Hall or Corn Exchange, to which of course ladies can go; but from the entertainments in the “Vic.,” good, bad, or indifferent, they are absolutely debarred. And in very, very few instances do they miss anything worth seeing.

The first person whom Frank recognized on entering was Monkton, who was sitting in a stage-box, or at least in what does duty for a stage-box. He was dressed in a somewhat startling costume of ginger-colour check; a bright crimson necktie; his hat well on the side of his head; an enormous cigar in his mouth, which he appeared to be sucking rather than smoking. Between his knees, a gigantic bull-dog, whose efforts to plunge upon the stage or into the orchestra he was with difficulty controlling. Another man sat with him, dressed, if it were possible, in louder style than he; and from the tone of their voices they appeared not a little pleased with themselves and with the impression they were creating. The theatre was crammed from floor to ceiling; the University element decidedly predominating; the town being represented by a gallery full of that peculiar style of cad and cadger for which Oxford seems so famous. The smoke from pipes and cigars was far too thick to allow of recognition except at a very short distance; and Frank was much relieved to find that Monkton did not “spot” him.

We need not describe the performance. The vulgar, strutting, swaggering comique, who supplies in fancied wit what he lacks in voice; the booming tenor, who yells “Tom Bowling” to give respectability to the entertainment; the brazen-throated “lady vocalist,” who disdains to be called a singer, and who certainly doesn’t deserve the title, are all too wearisome and sickening to merit notice, but for the lamentable fact that they are patronized by the undergraduate because the University authorities refuse to sanction anything better.

The entertainment had not proceeded very far before Monkton had attracted the notice of the “star” of the evening, who, seeing that he had the audience on his side, commenced, in the spoken portion of his performance, to chaff “the gentleman in ginger.” Monkton’s position was too prominent for him to venture to respond; perhaps, too, he was not good at repartee. At all events, he drew back out of sight as far as possible, contenting himself with allowing his dog to put his forefeet on the cushion of the box and to growl an answer to the chaff.

The next performer happened to be a young lady not quite so much at her ease as is usual in these persons. She was evidently frightened at the dog; and Monkton, seeing his opportunity, made the brute growl and spring forward as near the singer as possible. There were loud cries of “Turn him out!” The singer stopped in the middle of her song, burst into tears, and ran off at the wings. The manager came forward and expostulated. By this time the gallery was infuriated. Then Monkton let the dog go, and with a bound he cleared the orchestra and leapt on the stage. The manager, in evident trepidation, rushed off. The orchestra seized their instruments, and hastily began to decamp; some one in the confusion turned out most of the gas; and at that moment a cry of “Proctors!” was heard.

It was by the merest chance that the Senior Proctor happened to be passing, and hearing the unusual disturbance, and the shouts which were evidently not shouts of applause, came in. He sent two of his men to one door, and he himself with two waited at the principal exit. There they took everybody’s “name and College,” giving directions as to the usual call on the following morning; and then, when the theatre was emptied, sent for the manager, and learned the facts of the case. Monkton had, of course, made his way out with the rest, with no further notice from the Proctor than they; but his time was to come.

There was a great crowd at nine the next morning at the Senior Proctor’s rooms. The men went as a matter of form, hardly expecting to be fined for going to an entertainment sanctioned by the University, and simply anticipating an order to attend before the Vice-Chancellor for an investigation of the fracas of the preceding evening. Monkton appeared with the rest; and from the way in which every one gave him the cold shoulder he saw pretty clearly that no one would screen him. At twelve o’clock he received an official notice to answer before the Vice-Chancellor to the charge of setting and inciting a bull-dog, with intent to do bodily injury, and so forth.

At eleven o’clock on the following day there was such a crowd as had not been seen in the Vice-Chancellor’s Court for many a long day. The case was investigated as before a magistrate, the Vice-Chancellor being ex officio a justice of the peace for the city of Oxford, with, however, far greater powers. There were plenty of undergraduates who gave evidence in support of the charge, and the manager and singers gladly exonerated the rest of the audience. It was acknowledged on all sides that neither Monkton nor the “star” comique put in so easy and unembarrassed an appearance before the Very Reverend the Vice-Chancellor and the Proctors as they did in their respective positions on the eventful evening. It was in vain that Monkton’s solicitor urged provocation on the part of the “star.” There were plenty of men ready to testify that they too had been chaffed. The Vice-Chancellor gave the defendant a sharp reprimand, fined him 5l., and “sent him down for a term.”

The Proctor’s summons to the rest of the men was allowed to pass, and they heard no more of the matter.

The Michaelmas Law Term commenced on the 2nd of November, and Frank obtained leave from the Dean to go to town to enter at the Inner Temple and eat his first three dinners. He left at 9 a.m., with feelings somewhat akin to those he had on starting from home for matriculation, with the important difference, however, that there was no examination to face. His father met him at Paddington, and they drove straight to the Temple. At the gate of the “Inner” they found the two friends who had promised to be sureties for the payment of fees. With them they went to the Steward’s office, and there Frank presented a paper signed by the Dean of Paul’s to the effect that he had passed a Public Examination at Oxford. This exempted him from any examination on admission as a student of the Inns of Court. On payment of one guinea he obtained a form of admission, to be signed by two barristers to vouch for his respectability, with which he and his father went to the chambers of two friends, who gave the necessary signatures; then back again to the Treasurer’s office, where the two sureties entered into a bond to the amount of 50l.; and by a further payment of five guineas for the privilege of attending the Public Lectures of the Law Professors, and 35l. 6s. 5d. for fees and stamp on admission, the whole business was complete, and Frank was a student of the Honourable Society of the Inner Temple.

A little pleasant chaff about the woolsack, and the quartet broke up, the two sureties to their respective businesses, Frank and his father to lunch. Then Mr. Ross took a cab to Paddington, leaving Frank at the door of Maskelyne and Cooke’s mysterious entertainment, where he proposed a little mild dissipation till it was time to go down to the Temple to dine.

Hurrying through the crowd of students and newspaper-boys at the lodge just before six o’clock, he met three friends, and the usual expressions of mutual surprise were uttered. They agreed to make up a mess together, and certainly would not have accepted the definition of a mess as “a party of four who eye each other with feelings of mutual distrust and suspicion.” Frank, as freshman, had to “stand” the orthodox bottle of wine, and felt quite like an old fogey as he “took wine” with the three. With the exception of wine, and the power of sending for various sorts of liquors, the dinner was very much the same as the usual dinner in Hall at Oxford. The servants were better dressed, but waited worse. There was more order, from the fact that everybody has to be present at grace before and after meat, failing which, the dinner does not count. Then the diversity of age and style of men struck Frank. Old men and beardless boys sitting side by side, wearing the student’s gown; mild-looking students with pale faces and spectacles; fast men, in whom the notion of study seemed a ridiculous anomaly; dark faces from the East; and even a few of the thick lips from Africa. All the rest—the Benchers at the high table, the portraits overhead, the coloured windows, the fretted roof, the carved panelling—it was all familiar; Oxford over again, simply transplanted to the very heart of London.

After dinner they went to a theatre, and after that Frank was initiated into the mysteries of Evans’s.

The three evenings passed all too quickly, and he was once more in Oxford, with the sense of having at least made one distinct step towards winning Rose, even though it was such a matter-of-fact affair as the eating of three dinners.

There was not much to mark the succeeding Lent Term. There were the “Torpids” as usual, in which Frank again rowed, and with such decided improvement that he was considered safe for the “Eight” in the summer term. There was the ordinary scarlet-fever scare; a suicide of a studious undergraduate, the annual result of the climate, and the Lenten depression of the social atmosphere; and there were the Christ-Church Grinds,12 and the Brasenose Ale Festival on Shrove Tuesday.

To the former Frank went, surreptitiously of course, for the Grinds are with annual regularity forbidden, but with equal regularity carried out. The Proctors for the time being were not over-sharp, and imagined that the simplest and easiest way to catch the men coming home from Aylesbury was to go to the station and meet the in-trains. But, strange to relate, not a single undergraduate was to be found! Innocently confessing his failure on the following evening in Common Room, the Senior Proctor drew upon himself the ridicule of one of the older fellows, a sporting man, and the “inextinguishable laughter” of the rest.

“You don’t mean to say you expected to find them at the station? Why, man alive! what is easier than to tip the guard and engine-driver half-a-sovereign, and have the train stopped just by the Goods-station?”

The Senior Proctor mentally resolved to be sharper in future. He was sharper—when he caught men. But his sharpness was the sharpness of acidity and not of acuteness.

The Brasenose Ale Festival is simply ordinary dinner in Hall, at which some special ale, brewed by the College and kept for high occasions, is given in unlimited quantities to the undergraduates. Possibly the most important feature (certainly it is the most uncommon) is the fact of the ale being given. Anything not paid for is a fact so rare that of itself it deserves a festival to commemorate it. The ale is celebrated in a poem which is supposed to be written by the College Butler. College Butlers being, however, not necessarily gifted with the poetic faculty, the honour or duty is deputed to some undergraduate. The merits of the verses vary, apparently with the quality of the ale, which is sometimes good, often bad, and usually indifferent. In a collection of the productions of the laureates of the barrel, lately published, are verses by Bishop Heber, by Garbett, once Professor of Poetry, and others of less reputation. The various later authors may be found in country rectories, doubtless endeavouring on temperance principles to counteract the effects of the obnoxious liquor, which in the days of their youth they celebrated in such festive fashion.

The College bounty did not stop short, however, at ale; cakes of ample proportions were cut up and distributed. But when all rose to bless the indirect giver, and the direct benefactor, it must of course have been indigestion or malicious scepticism which made Frank’s host whisper to him,—

“I wonder what the difference is between the pecuniary value of the bequest, when it was made to the College, and its present value.”

Frank, not being able to hazard a conjecture, made the most apposite remark his state of ignorance allowed,—

“You’d better ask the Bursar.”

CHAPTER IX

THE CLOSE

Frank read with Edwards in the Summer term, the College again paying half the fee. He rowed in the Eights, and Paul’s made four bumps, thereby getting head of the river. To commemorate the event a “bump-supper” was given. All the men, with the exception of a very few, subscribed the necessary guinea, and, as many brought guests, the supper was emphatically a success. The exceptions were of the three ordinary types: those who could not afford a guinea for such a purpose, and who were not ashamed to say so; those who considered “bump-suppers” and such-like entertainments as immoral orgies; and lastly, those who both enjoyed them and who could afford to subscribe, but who were too mean to do so, and preferred rather to extract an invitation to another college bump-supper in the specious manner which usually characterizes the tight-fingered. The Dons readily gave permission for the use of the hall, with certain provisos as to time of termination of the feast. Cooks and scouts vied with one another, in a spirit not altogether disinterested, in supplying and laying out the best that the College kitchen could provide. A gorgeous dessert was ordered from a neighbouring confectioner, and wine came in without stint or stay. Slap’s13 excellent band was engaged, and discoursed most sweet music from time to time during the evening. And then, what speeches were made! What songs were sung! How they all cheered when the captain of the boat-club returned thanks! And—tell it not in the Common Room, whisper it not to the Dons (for the very simple reason that they know by experience what it all means)—what aching eyes, what cracking heads, what foul and furry tongues there were next morning! Nor did the store of College legends fail to receive the additions usual on such occasions; and one story even reached the Master’s ears: how that the captain of the boat-club was observed, long after the last guest had passed the porter’s lodge, sitting in a corner of one of the back quadrangles, rowing with all his might at an imaginary oar, shouting every now and then to “bow” to keep time, and telling the “cox” not to put the rudder on so sharp.

Frank did not stay up for Commemoration; that he reserved as a pleasure for the following year. His final examination would then be over, and he would be able to enjoy all the fun and gaiety in his new glory as Bachelor of Arts. Before going down he had a consultation with Edwards as to his work in the “Long.” The latter was again going to take a reading party abroad, but he advised Frank not to join; he told him that in his present state of progress he could do more work at home. Frank was relieved by the advice, for he knew his father could not afford to send him abroad again. But he felt he might close with Edwards’ proposal to come up a month before the Michaelmas Term began, chiefly for the purpose of making his work safe for the first Bar Examination in Roman Law, which was fixed for the end of October. Edwards wished him to go in for this on his first opportunity; for he felt that, apart from the direct advantage in passing, the examination would prove of service as a partial test for the final Oxford Examination in the ensuing summer.

Mr. Ross was not only satisfied but pleased with the scheme for Frank’s work. He was a man who always looked ahead and tried to map out the future. He felt that men for the most part create their own future, and that where the object in view is clearly marked out, and the means to that object carefully weighed and chosen with firm determination, chance is but a trifling factor in a man’s career. He loathed that comfortable philosophy which folds its hands and leaves “Time and the hour” to work for one. So far his plans had been fulfilled; and if this had made him somewhat dogmatic and obstinately fond of insisting that “anything can be done if only there is the will to do it,” it had, at all events, taught his children the lesson of dogged perseverance and the value of far-sightedness.

Frank spent a pleasant “Long” vacation. He had plenty of cricket and boating; he saw Rose at least three times every week. There were endless picnics and lawn-tennis parties. Above all, he got through a good deal of reading. During the three months he was at home he worked, on an average, five hours every day; but by judiciously arranging these he always found plenty of time for amusements. He bathed in the river, wet or fine, every morning at seven; read from eight till nine; breakfasted at nine; read from ten till one. By this plan he always had done four hours’ work before luncheon; and he had no difficulty in keeping up his average number by regulating the rest of his work according to the general plans for the day’s amusements.