Oxford Days

“Paul’s.

“Dear Mr. Ross,—I am very glad to hear that you have so soon made up your mind as to the subjects in which you propose to take your degree; and I have no doubt your father’s plan of entering you at the Inner Temple next Michaelmas Term is a wise one.

“Mr. Edwards, of University College, is, I have every reason to believe, a most advisable Law ‘coach.’ He is just now arranging a reading party to Switzerland, and I should hope your father will consent to your joining. Tell him from me that reading parties are not what they were in my undergraduate days—mere pleasure-trips, in which work forms the very last consideration. The few men now who go with a reading party really go to read. You may mention my name in writing to Mr. Edwards. He will, of course, furnish you with all particulars.

“Believe me, yours sincerely,“J. Woods.”

The letter from Mr. Wodehouse was characteristic:—

“Dear Mr. Ross,—Law is not my line, or I would take your boy myself; but I know an excellent coach, Edwards of University, who is now settling a reading party, for Switzerland, I believe. Send your boy with him; you can’t do better. I send by this post a copy of the Examination Regulations, revised to this date. Details, of course, you will get from Edwards.

“I am yours truly,“Philip Wodehouse.”

After the letters, there was not much difficulty in deciding that Edwards was the coach to be secured. But the Swiss tour! Frank said nothing, nor did Mr. Ross—the former because he knew his father’s disposition, the latter because he would not promise what he might not be able, with justice to the rest of his family, to afford.

However, after a suspense of three days, Frank was summoned after breakfast to the study. His father had received a letter from the coach, telling him the probable cost of the tour, and he had decided to send Frank. The party would leave London on the 1st of July. They were to meet for dinner at the Grosvenor Hotel at six o’clock, and go from Victoria by the mail that catches the night-boat from Dover to Calais. Mr. Edwards added a few particulars as to books, and, rightly conjecturing this to be Frank’s first journey abroad, some suggestions as to clothes and necessaries generally.

Mr. Ross winced a little when he heard the route that was chosen. But when he had made up his mind to an expense, he was not a man to worry over the inevitable extras.

The few days of June that remained passed quickly enough. Frank, somehow, was not at home as much as his brothers and sisters could have wished. At meals there were sundry questions as to his doings, amused looks at his evident confusion, till even Mr. Ross, usually oblivious to the jokes that passed between the young folks, questioned his wife as to their meaning.

When he heard the suggestion, he at first laughed at it as ridiculous, then said the whole affair was “out of the question,” not from any dislike to Rose, for he was indeed very fond of her, and finally saying he would speak to Frank, said nothing after all.

It was a soft, sweet evening, that of June 30th, and Frank, having finished his packing, slipped out unnoticed after dinner. It was a difficult matter to avoid the prying eyes of his brothers, but the dessert that evening was unusually absorbing, and long after Mr. and Mrs. Ross had left the table, the boys were diligently making themselves ill. Seizing the opportunity, he was three fields beyond the paddock before his absence was even mentioned.

He was sad, down-hearted, romantically melancholy. And yet he had a delightful tour through Switzerland in store. Porchester had never seemed such a lovely little place. No Swiss mountains could ever have such beauty as those soft hills yonder; no glaciers the charm of the gently flowing river; no Alpine forests the sweetness of these English meadows, now silvering with the evening dew, and softening in the falling mist. He stopped by a gate. He found his initials cut there, just in one corner out of sight; and near them one other letter. Three years ago he had broken his best knife, and cut his finger, over that little work. And there it was still—lichened over now, but still legible. He would not touch it. He wondered if it would still be there when he came back. When he came back! Was the boy going to India for twenty years, or to the North Pole? Who would touch the letters? Who would even read them? Who that came by this way would be likely to stop by that uninteresting gate, and draw aside those great dock-leaves merely to see F. R. and R. clumsily carved? And who, if they saw them, would trouble to deface them?

But Frank was in love and was proportionately melancholy. And lo! as in answer to his thoughts, softly over the new-cut grass comes the vicar’s daughter.

It should be clearly understood that the pathway along which Rose came so opportunely was public, though seldom frequented. It led from the village of Porchester to a ferry, and this carried you to a hamlet, Wood Green, that lay within the vicar’s ministrations. Just now there was illness in the hamlet, and Rose used daily to visit the sick. Frank, on no such journeys bent, passed many hours of those last days of June about the fields, and crossing and re-crossing in the ferry-boat. Luckily this was worked by a marvellous contrivance of wheels, ropes, and poles, and there was no observant Charon to wonder at, and then report, the strange and repeated passages of the lawyer’s son. Last evening, at the same time and place, he had met Rose: had told her he was leaving for Switzerland: had gone so far as to ask her if she was going to Wood Green the next evening; and she, because she was Rose, told him yes. Perhaps there was another reason, the cause of which lay in him. But she never speculated. He had asked her, and she had told him. She was going to Wood Green, and why not say so?

They walked slowly, oh! so slowly, across the misty meadows. They crossed, as lazily as the stream would suffer them, the little ferry. They reached Wood Green. It was only a basket and a message that Rose had to deliver to-night, and Frank had not long to wait at the little white wicket at Vowles’s cottage. Then back again, across the ferry, and up the fields; and then, just by the gateway where they had met, they stopped, and he showed her something, pulling aside the gigantic dock-leaves—three letters, rudely cut, and covered with lichen.

“I cut them three years ago,” he said. “Was it very silly?”

“I don’t know,” she answered.

“I loved you then, Rose,” he said softly, taking her hand, “but I love you a thousand times more now, darling.”

And Rose has told him something that makes him utterly happy—something they have known these many weeks, but neither has dared to express. They are but children, but why should they not be happy? Only boy and girl, but is that any reason why their love should not be true? And so they walk back through the deepening summer night, he as proud as knight of old, and she as happy as any “fair ladye.” And then by the vicarage garden-gate they say good-bye. They have not thought of the future. The present is theirs, and that is enough. She is a simple little village girl, and he an undergraduate; that is all. But “all” is a great deal to them.

At six o’clock in the evening of July 1st, Edwards and his six pupils dined at the Grosvenor, wisely and not too well, in view of the passage that night. The party consisted of Hoskins of Brasenose, reading for Honours in Law; Lang and Kingdon of Christ Church, Maude of John’s, and Royds of Exeter, reading for the Final Pass Schools; and Frank, who had thus one companion only in work. Edwards was quite a young man. He had been married about two years, but left his wife and child at home. He was just of an age not to be “donnish,” and yet old enough to command a certain amount of necessary respect.

The pecuniary arrangements were as usual. Each was to pay his own personal expenses, and tuition-fee to Edwards at the rate of 10l. per month. But for the sake of convenience he would make the actual payments, and divide the amounts weekly.

At Victoria they broke up, for most of the men wanted to smoke. Edwards was not a smoker, and would have travelled to Dover alone had not Frank got into his compartment. The coach’s weakness in this respect was the one little difficulty on the tour, and afforded a fund of amusement to the rest, who were young enough to regard a non-smoker with feelings of surprise. With the exception of Royds, none of the seven had ever been abroad. He spoke French slightly, and had a smattering of German. Edwards could not speak a word of the former, but knew enough of the latter for comfort in travelling. No one else spoke either. Royds plumed himself on his position of superiority, not without offence to the rest of the party, who one and all joined in snubbing him whenever he forgot his relation to Edwards. He was just a source of a little “pleasant acidity.”

“I should advise you to lie down, if you’re inclined to be sea-sick,” said Royds, for the benefit of the party generally, when they were on board. “I never am.”

Edwards retired to the centre of the boat; Frank rolled himself in a rug on a bench near the central deck cabins. The rest again consoled themselves with cigars. The passage was long, for the night was foggy; but the water was calm as a duck-pond. Nevertheless, Royds looked very pale as he landed at Calais.

They reached Paris in the early sweetness of the morning. And what a charm the great city has at that hour, and to first-comers! The brightness, the laughter, the sunshine of the town in its life! What a contrast to the death and dirt of London at such an hour!

They rushed across to an hotel near the Lyons Station, and after a hasty breakfast, breaking into three parties, drove all over the place, seeing, not “doing,” as much as time allowed. In the evening they left for Geneva. Here they stayed two nights, and then went on to Chamounix by diligence. From Chamounix they ascended the Montanvert to cross the Mer de Glace.

This was their first climb. Royds, of course, had been before; and with quite a paternal air he selected a guide one evening, and marshalled the party the following morning. Going up the pine-woods, their weary eyes were refreshed by the sight of three female figures. Without confessing as much to one another, they one and all quickened. But still those much-wished-for forms retreated, nor did they stop till the little hut on the top was reached. And then!—But we draw a veil. They were charming ladies, and delighted to see these gay young Englishmen. But, dear ladies! they were not young. However, they were very pleasant, and the sound of the English tongue has a marvellous charm among foreigners.

The following morning, at ten o’clock, the corner by the Hôtel de l’Union was the centre of interest for the good folks of Chamounix. There at the hotel door stood seven sturdy mules and two guides. And presently, to the infinite delight of the bystanders, seven young Englishmen, followed by many packages, emerged and mounted. They were bound for Martigny, over the Col de Balme.

Poor guides! Unaccustomed to such riders, they started on their journey in happy ignorance. That evening, at seven o’clock, after a game struggle to keep within sight of their charges, they gave it up. And the cavalcade, headed by Edwards, putting their mules to their utmost speed (no contemptible pace considering their day’s work), raced wildly by the wondering villagers into Martigny. Knapsacks banged and flapped over the mules’ backs; tutor and pupils were boys once more, and simply shouted with delight as they clattered through the quiet streets. Much to his disgust the great Royds did not come in first. His was the worst mule, he explained at table-d’hôte.

All slept soundly that night at Martigny.

There they again fell in with the ladies of the hut on Montanvert, and talked, with all the energy of comrades in danger, of the crossing of the Mer de Glace and the descent of the Mauvais Pas, to the not-unreasonable amusement of Royds. Next morning they left for Brieg, going by rail to Sierre, not without missing the first train, and imprecating maledictions on the head of the landlord who, his hotel being somewhat empty, was constrained to adopt some measures for detaining his profitable guests. Arrived at Sierre, they were told the diligence for Brieg had started, and were offered carriages. A little patience, however, proved this to be one of the usual misrepresentations, and in due course, after a hearty déjeûner in the pretty old inn, they started in the company of a very fat ecclesiastic and a young and happy couple of Americans. From Brieg, which they reached at eight, after heavy rain, they were to ascend the Bel-alp, where Edwards intended to stay for a clear fortnight or three weeks for work.

There was no diligence to the Bel-alp; that they knew; but they had fondly hoped there was a carriage-road. They were quickly undeceived. There was only a bridle-path, and it was now late and getting dark. But Edwards had resolved to push on without further delay, and, seeing he was firm, the landlord of “La Poste” raised no objections. The heavier luggage was to be carried up, on the following day. The absolute necessaries were packed on the sturdy shoulders of two guides; and at half-past eight the party started. The rain, which had been falling heavily all the afternoon, fortunately ceased, but there was no moon, and the clouds hung thickly. The darkness intensified the grandeur of the hills and made the climb seem harder. Once, as they passed between a cluster of châlets, all dark and still, the moon struggled into view, and far below they saw a great white sea; but it was only the mist that lay along the valley. At half-past ten they reached the first halting-place, a little châlet perched on a level plateau. There was no light, and only the sound of the bells on the cows whose slumbers they had disturbed. But presently, after some patient knocking, the door was opened by a young giant of seven feet, with a sturdy girl at his side.

Royds, the officious, the experienced, the polite traveller, advanced, took off his hat, and made some remarks in French; but neither host nor hostess understood him, and the guide’s patois was necessary to explain. In they all trooped to the rough, low, wooden room, glad enough to rest. The wine was sour, but it was the landlord’s best; and they all made merry. Then one of the guides sang a Tyrolese ditty, of which the following is a paraphrase:—

“With rifle aye ready,A dog of sharp scent,And a maiden to love him,A lad is content.“What needs hath the hunter?The hunter hath noneBut a nut-brown-eyed maiden,A dog, and a gun.“On Sunday, the church-day,To dance we are gone;Andrew leads Peggy,Janet leads John.”

And then the guides, the landlord, and his wife all sang together; the young giant representing the love-sick tenor in such a way as to make every one shout with laughter:—

Tenor. “Out of the Tyrol I come, a long, long way,To look for my sweetheart, my little May.Bass. What does he say?Soprano. Ah, poor lover!All. So long, so long he has not seen his love,So long he has not seen his love!Tenor. “As any bright penny was my little Jenny!And a dimple was inMy Jenny’s sweet chin!Bass. What does he say?All. So long, so long he has not seen his love!Tenor. “’Tis two long years agoneSince I left my love alone;I’d give my true love’s weight in goldCould I her face behold.Bass. Hark what he says!Soprano. O what a fond lover!All. So long, so long he has not seen his love!”

And then Edwards sang an English song, the rest joining in the chorus, to the infinite delight of the Switzers. After which the guide suggested moving on.

At half-past one they reached the Bel-alp, and found, somewhat to their surprise, that there was no village, not even a châlet, but only a great inn, half wooden, half stone. The landlord, a little, fat, hoarse-speaking man, with a thick black moustache, and two cow-girls, called chambermaids, with their faces swathed in flannel, met them; and presently they slept soundly in their little bare rooms, with their wooden walls and ceilings, that made them feel for all the world as though they were dolls put to bed in boxes.

But what a view next morning! Down there in the valley, as they stand at the inn door, they can just make out where Brieg lies. Beyond, the entrance to the Simplon Pass; and, over all, the Matterhorn, Weisshorn, Monte Leone, Mischabel, and the Fletschhorn. Up behind them towers the great white Sparrenhorn. Down on the left crawls the broad Aletsh Glacier, with its huge, rough, pale-blue waves moving and melting, and foaming at the “snout” in torrents of stormy water.

The inn was full, and three weeks went pleasantly enough. People came and went, for the most part bound to or from the Eggisch-horn. Every now and then there was a brief excitement caused by the arrival of some friend whom chance had brought. Some of the visitors were regularly settled, and with these the men soon formed acquaintance: notably, Professor Tyndall, who was there on one of his usual summer visits, measuring the motion of the glaciers, and who, as “Father of the Table-d’hôte,” made the meals doubly pleasant with his genial talk and merry laugh. Then there was another, well known in the public-school world, with his wife—a jolly pair—and a young couple from Ireland, who, oddly enough, turned out to be distant connexions of Lang. The husband fraternized with the men in their climbs. The wife spent most of her time rambling along the mountain paths within easy distance, in which she was not unfrequently accompanied by Royds, who flattered himself on being eminently a “ladies’ man.” There were several old ladies who, each evening, used to entice the men to whist. Frank usually was one of those caught. Lang and Maude, the two lazy ones of the party, always retired to the smoking-room, whence they never emerged till midnight. The others, for the most part, read in the common sitting-room. Edwards devoted four hours in the morning to his pupils’ work, from 8 to 12, and one hour before dinner. Out of respect for Lang and Maude, their hour was fixed at 11. But, as often as not, when that hour arrived, on looking out of the window to call them in, their coach would hear that they were not down yet, or would see them strolling casually down the hill to meet the mules which brought the letters or the day’s provisions from Brieg.

“Haven’t got any work ready yet,” would be Lang’s answer, if Edwards managed to overtake them.

“Do you mind taking me after dinner?” from Maude.

But in spite of the idleness of these two, the average amount of work achieved by the party was very creditable, and Edwards was satisfied.

At the end of the fixed three weeks, to the great regret of the landlord (for he found the young Oxonians thirsty to a degree) and of most of the guests, the party departed. They went as they came, on foot, with a couple of horses to carry their luggage, and a couple of guides to carry Lang, who had contrived to strain his ankle. They slept one night in Brieg—a short, restless night, with the diligences rolling through the streets and clattering into the courtyards, with jingling bells and cracking whips, the shouts of the drivers, and the agonized voices of weary and confused travellers. At six, in the fresh clear dawn, they took the diligence for the Rhone Glacier, and thence over the Furka to Andermatt. There, also, they slept one night—in fact, slept so soundly that when the diligence started next morning for Flüelen by the St. Gothard Pass, Edwards, Frank, and Royds alone were in time for breakfast and for choice of seats; Hoskins and Kingdon only saved their seats by chasing the diligence after it had started; while the first that Lang and Maude saw of the morning was the sight of the diligence turning a corner, with three of their companions seated outside, and two running frantically after it. But they consoled themselves with the reflection that this delay would furnish them with an excellent excuse for “cutting” the next day’s lesson with Edwards. Frank was separated from the rest of the party, having for his companion a little soldier who spoke neither French nor German, but an unintelligible patois which made conversation impossible.

About ten o’clock they passed Altdorf. The little town looked so bright and gay, full of reverence for its William Tell, and ignorant of, or despising, the knowledge that makes his story a myth. Thence to Flüelen, and thence over the clear waters of the Vierwaldstätter See to Lucerne. What a change from the Bel-alp! Here all is softened—grown Italian almost. Just in the distance a few snowy peaks; but the frowning heights have melted to soft wooded hills—running down to look at themselves in the glassy mirror. Lucerne was reached about one o’clock; and here, at the Englischer Hof, right on the quay, a hospitable welcome met them.

Lang and Maude revelled in the change. For them the Bel-alp was too cold, too dull; but here they had the lake, the shops, the cafés, the band at night, and all those countless charms which no English town seems to possess. Here even Frank relaxed a little. They made excursions every day, for the most part in the comfortable little steamers. They went up the Rigi luxuriously in the train. Edwards, Royds, and Frank climbed Pilatus; the rest were content with the Rigi. They bought presents, useless as well as useful; they strummed on the salon piano, and sang in broken German, to the intense delight of the waiters. They spent the evenings invariably in a little café round the corner, where Gretchen’s merry black eyes flashed from one to another, hardly divining the relationship of the party; or, if not there, on the boulevard, listening to the band; and sometimes on the lake; and it was on one of these occasions that Edwards astonished them by his vocal as well as his poetical powers.

He called his song, “The Lay of the Vice-Chancellor,” and it ran as follows:—

“I’ve sung you many a ditty, some stupid and some witty,In our snug and cosy common-rooms after dinner many a day;But there’s one I have omitted, of a blunder I committed,That may serve you as a warning, and may while an hour away.When I was young and hearty, I took a reading party(“Hear, hear!” from the audience)To study in America one summer long ago;And while out there we tarried, I went—and—I got married,And what that is, my bachelors, you very little know.But upon that little portion of my most unhappy tale,Will you kindly, will you kindly draw a veil, draw a veil?Chorus.—Draw a veil! draw a veil!“But oh! when I reflected that I should be expectedTo forfeit either Fellowship or wife,I thought ’twould be a pity she should leave her native cityAnd be tied to an old tutor all her life.When I pictured you all cosy, at your port wine old and rosy,And I was at cold mutton, and romance was growing cool—When I thought of you so gaily dining gloriously daily,I took a single cabin in a ship for Liverpool.But upon the mix’d emotions of my hurried homeward sail,Will you kindly, will you kindly draw a veil, draw a veil?Chorus (very gently).—Draw a veil! draw a veil!“Since then, by her unhamper’d, up fame’s ladder I have scamper’d,And run through all our snug berths in a trice;I’ve been Bursar, Dean, Professor, Public Orator, Assessor,And sat on a commission once or twice.I’ve told quite different stories to the Liberals and Tories;I’ve snarl’d among the Radicals, “Retrench!”But I really should not wonder if my friend Lord Blood-and-Thunder,On the very next occasion, should transfer me to the Bench.So really let me beg you on that portion of my tale,Will you kindly, will you kindly draw a veil, draw a veil?Chorus.—Draw a veil! draw a veil!”

When they were all back again in Oxford, even many terms afterwards, “Draw a veil” was always a sort of pass-word between them.

A fortnight soon passed, and they travelled together to Paris. Here they parted, Frank going straight to Porchester, Edwards to Oxford. Frank had made a good start with his law reading, and, thanks to Edwards’ style of teaching, had thoroughly grasped all that he had touched, and what is more, liked his subjects. One practical point before passing to other scenes: his expenses were 50l.;—35l. for railway fares, hotel bills, &c., 15l. to Edwards for tuition.