Oxford Days

The month’s reading in Oxford during the “Long” was, of course, a novelty, but he did not find the dulness he expected. He saw a good deal more of Edwards than in his tutorial capacity, and soon made great friends with his wife; and as young men are at a premium in Oxford out of term, his social vanity was flattered by numerous invitations.

Towards the latter part of October he went to town for the Bar Examination. He put up at the Inns of Court Hotel, to be near Lincoln’s Inn, in the Hall of which he duly appeared one Saturday morning at ten o’clock. He saw plenty of familiar faces and several friends. One of the examiners also was an Oxford professor. The paper—there only was one—was not difficult, and Frank had very nearly finished when, just on the stroke of twelve o’clock, he was called up for vivâ voce. The plan struck him as strange; and as he was kept waiting for at least twenty minutes, he envied the other candidates who were still writing or looking over their papers. His vivâ voce, however, did not last very long, and he had ample time to correct his work carefully. Within a week he received the pleasant news that he had passed, and went up in November to eat his dinners, with a certain amount of pride at having achieved one more distinct step towards his desired end.

Not long after this, Crawford, who had taken a “first” in the summer, gained a Fellowship at Queen’s; and by an odd coincidence, another of his friends, Monkton, was sent down about the same time. His rustication after the escapade in the theatre had apparently failed to inspire him with any awe of the University authorities, and he had scorned the notion of the Proctors being able to track or catch him in any of his favourite haunts, till one night he received palpable and painful evidence to the contrary. The matter was promptly settled. He was summoned before the Vice-Chancellor and the Proctors privately; his previous offence was proved against him; a bad report came from his own college authorities; his name was removed from the books, and he was told to leave Oxford at once. The remainder of his history is neither poetic nor uncommon. He disappeared from the surface for a season, only to rise, however, on the tide of a theological college. Thence, having easily satisfied a bishop—for he was by no means a fool—he was ordained, and, having passed a few years as junior curate, was promoted to be his vicar’s vicegerent, and glided into a more comfortable, decent existence, much invited and much beslippered by the ladies of his congregation.

The spring soon passed away, and with the end of May all the examinations began.

Frank felt far more nervous when he appeared in the Schools for Divinity than subsequently for Law. Failure in the former would prevent him from taking his degree that term; and failure was quite possible even to one who had a very good general knowledge of the matter and teaching of the Bible. It is not easy to see what good is effected by an examination which induces cramming, irreverence, and a cordial dislike of its subject. It certainly furnishes an inexhaustible store of amusing stories.

“What do you know of Gamaliel?”

“It is a mountain in Syria.”

“Who was Mary Magdalene?”

“The mother of our Lord.”

“Who was Zacchæus?”

“He was the man who climbed up a sycamore-tree, exclaiming, ‘If they do these things in the green tree, what will they do in the dry?’”

“Describe accurately the relations between the Jews and Samaritans from the earliest periods.”

“The Jews had no dealings with the Samaritans.”

“What is the meaning of phylactery?”

“An establishment where love-philtres were made. The Pharisees did a good business in these; hence the expression ‘Make broad your phylacteries,’ means, ‘Extend your business.’”

“Why was our Lord taken before the high priest first, and not before Pilate?”

“Because Peter had cut off his servant’s ear.”

“Who was Malchus?”

“He was the High priest’s servant whose ear Peter cut off, and supposed to be the author of a treatise on population.”

Frank contributed one to the stock of blunders. Given the Greek words and asked to explain the context of “The thorns sprang up and choked it,” he translated them, “The thieves sprang up and choked him;” and proceeded to give an elaborate description of the parable of the Good Samaritan. He did not, however, end in the legendary manner: “He took out two pence and gave them to the host, saying, ‘Whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again I will repay thee.’ This he said, well knowing he should see his face no more.”

He answered the rest of the paper, as he thought, fairly; and, from the short vivâ voce he had a few days later, inferred that the written part of his work was better than he imagined; and two hours afterwards received in exchange for the customary shilling the much-coveted piece of blue paper from the patient Parker, clerk of the schools. A few days elapsed, and then he went in for Law. We need not follow him through all the details. As so often happens, he did better than he expected in the subjects he feared most, and worse in those he fancied he should do better. But on the whole he was satisfied with his performance. In vivâ voce he considerably improved his position, and to this he attributed the fact that when the class-list appeared he found himself in the second instead of the third class. A first he had never expected to get; but Edwards learnt from the examiners that he was considered a good second-class man, having amply retrieved in vivâ voce the failure in one of his papers which had threatened to lower him to the third.

CHAPTER X

GOWN AT LAST

So now it was all over—all the work and anxiety. The taking of his degree remained, and—Commemoration. It was Thursday when the class-list appeared. The following Sunday was Show Sunday, the semi-official commencement of the festivities. He telegraphed to his father: “Have got a second. You must come up for Commem. I hope to put on my gown on Thursday.” He telegraphed to Rose. He wrote a long letter to his mother by that night’s post, begging her to bring one of his sisters and Rose. He wrote to Rose herself. He was in a whirl of excitement, and to conceal his emotion he ordered an elegant summer suit, which he did not in the least require, at a most obliging tailor’s not a hundred yards from St. Mary’s Church. So obliging was he, in fact, that it is matter of history that when a certain wealthy and aristocratic Irishman, in a flow of unbounded extravagance, ordered him to “send in his whole shop,” the tailor, with undisturbed equanimity, replied, “Certainly, sir! What time would you like it?”

The receipt of Frank’s letter, and the request that his mother would bring Rose, produced a little commotion. His father still tried to pooh-pooh the notion of an engagement; but his mother, who had Frank’s confidence, maintained that, as far as the two were concerned, the engagement was a reality, and that it only waited the formal consent of the parents and the means to marry. So it was at last decided that Mr. and Mrs. Ross, and Frank’s elder sister, Mary, would go. The Vicar, glad of an excuse to visit Oxford again, agreed to join the party and bring Rose. And Rose herself—well, there was no need to ask her consent. On Friday morning a telegram was despatched to Frank, telling him they were coming on Saturday evening, and giving him directions to secure lodgings; and Mary and Rose were together most of the day and evening, arranging, selecting, altering, and making various articles of adornment for the coming gaieties.

Pembroke concert had taken place on Thursday, Queen’s on Friday, and there was nothing for Saturday. But that was no loss to Frank’s party, for they were all too tired for any gaiety after their long journey. By a fluke—for he was late in looking for lodgings—he found some disengaged rooms in Grove Street; and the shady little corner, so close to the sunny, busy High, was most pleasant and convenient. After supper the Vicar went down to Christ-Church to “look up” some old friends, still in residence as Senior Students,14 and the rest strolled by Merton to the river. Mr. and Mrs. Ross, not caring to trust themselves to the boat which Frank had chosen, wandered round the paths by the Cherwell, and, after losing themselves by the Botanical Gardens, eventually got safe to Grove Street. Frank rowed Rose and Mary down to Sandford, where he gave them tea in the little inn overlooking the lock, and then took them round to see the lasher that has been so fatal to many bright young lives.

Coming home, he pointed out to them all the spots of interest and importance to the rowing man. The tavern at Iffley where the last of the Eights starts in the races; the Green Barge, at the entrance to the “Gut;” the Gut itself, that terror of young coxswains; the Long Bridges; the White Willow where the boats make their final crossing to the Berkshire bank on the journey home. Every spot had its little history. Here, in the first Torpids, he had nearly “caught a crab.” There his crew had made their final “spirt;” here they had bumped Brasenose, when the coxswain would not acknowledge the bump. There “bow” broke his oar, and nearly pitched out of the boat. Yonder, strolling quietly down the Berkshire bank, was Harvey, the Humane Society’s man. There was old George West on the Brasenose barge; there, just above, was Timms, the “Father of the Crews,” leading a quiet time of it, now that the “Eights” and the “Sculls” and “Pairs”15 were over. Frank took the girls into the ’Varsity barge, and showed them the pictures of the old “oars,” who had rowed for Oxford at Henley and Putney; and told them what little legends had come down to him of Chitty and Meade-King, Arkell and Warre, Morrison and Woodgate; and, coming to later times, of Tinney, Willan, Yarborough, and Darbishire, the famous four who, besides their glories at Putney, licked the Yankees from Harvard; and, in later times still, of Leslie and Houblon, Edwards-Moss and Marriott. They were all heroes to Frank—these “brutal rowing men,” as Mr. Wilkie Collins deems them—these savages whose only glory is their brute strength. It has been said that English battles have been won in the Eton playing-fields. Possibly the Isis and the Cam have as much as anything to do with the feats of dogged endurance and quiet pluck that have made Alma and Inkerman, Isandula and Rorke’s Drift, immortal names in the annals of warfare.

On Sunday they all went to St. Mary’s. The Vicar’s gown admitted the ladies to the seats appropriated to the wives of the Masters of Arts, and Mr. Ross to the seats of the Masters themselves. Frank, being still de jure an undergraduate, had to retire to the upstair gallery. The church was crowded. People were even standing in the aisles. The sermon, by a silver-haired professor with a cherubic face, was a discourse on friendship, delivered, if somewhat monotonously, with a delicate utterance and in a delicate phraseology that was quite too charming; and if it formed a rather strange contrast to the anathemas thundered by rural Boanerges to placid congregations in sweltering country churches, the contrast was a pleasing one rather than otherwise.

“Well,” said Mr. Ross as they emerged into the High, “that’s an odd sort of sermon, eh, Vicar?”

Mr. Ross was a very sound lawyer, but he had not travelled much, nor had he heard many sermons other than those of his friend the Vicar. The Vicar smiled, and continued his explanations to Mrs. Ross of certain allusions to Oxford celebrities made by the preacher. Frank also, to whom his father appealed, had only a commonplace comment to make. His studies not having been philosophical, he could not go into raptures over every utterance of the new Plato.

The church was even more crowded, if that were possible, in the afternoon, in spite of the awkwardness of the hour (two o’clock) and the heat of the day. And what an assemblage of famous men was present! Gladstone and Tyndall, Lord Selborne and Huxley, Forster and Sir Stafford Northcote, Sir William Harcourt and the Oxford Conservative member, all sitting amicably side by side, listening to one of those eloquent attacks on men of science which satisfy and please those for whom they are not needed, and only amuse those whom they are intended to convince.

After the sermon the Vicar and Mr. Ross betook themselves to the Union, to read the papers over a cup of coffee; and about a quarter to five Frank started with his mother, sister, and Rose, to Magdalen Chapel. Tickets had been, of course, difficult to get, and with all his exertions he had only been able to secure two for the choir, and two for the ante-chapel. The two former Mrs. Ross and Mary took, without any resistance, for they knew that Rose would be happier to be with Frank. How many husbands and wives come back in after-years to Oxford, to go over again all the old days, to revisit all the old spots, to find one particular tree the same, save, like themselves, a little older; to sit in the same chapel, and listen perhaps to the very same anthem they had listened to when they were boy and girl, sung by different voices, but for them the same; to pass the same surly porter, whose favour can only be purchased; to see the same placid gardener tidying up the velvet grass under the grey walls; to hear the same bells ringing; and, with it all, to feel as young as ever!

Frank and Rose, as they sat in the dim ante-chapel, under the great brown window that sheds such a strange light over all, thought neither of the past, for that was eclipsed, nor of the future, for that was uncertain, but just lived in the present. And if he did hold her hand during most of the service, nobody saw him, and therefore nobody’s feelings were outraged.

Another happy pair emerged from another dim corner of the ante-chapel, when the service was over—Crawford and the little lady, who doubtless has not been forgotten, best known by the title “Blue-eyes.” She, too, had in attendance on her a mother and sister; and they, too, had been sitting in the choir. So that altogether, when the introductions took place in the cloisters, all mentally agreed that the party was a most symmetrical one—two mothers, two sisters, and two pairs of lovers.

After dinner at their respective lodgings the two parties met in Grove Street, and went to the Broad Walk to see and contribute to the show of visitors. The Vicar pronounced a melancholy eulogium on the glories of past Show Sundays, from which the present was a sad falling-off, caused chiefly as he explained by the indiscriminate admission of the “Town,” and the consequent absence of the “Gown” element. His hearers, however, having no historic past with which to contrast the present, though they listened submissively to his diatribes, enjoyed themselves immensely, stared at everybody, wondered, and questioned.

All the morning of Monday, Frank was engaged at a committee meeting of the Masonic Fête, of which he was a steward: and as he and one or two others were decidedly opposed to the general plan of disposal of tickets, the meetings were not so peaceable as hitherto; he used to return hot, tired, and annoyed. But Rose’s presence soon restored him to his wonted equanimity.

On Monday afternoon there was a concert given by the Philharmonic Society in the Sheldonian Theatre, and after a hurried tea he took his party to the river to see the procession of boats. He had tickets for them for the ’Varsity barge, and having got them good seats at the lower corner, next to the Brasenose barge, hurried off to his own barge to put on his boating clothes. To Rose and Mary, who had never seen any river-boat except the “tubs” at Porchester, the long slender craft were objects of much wonder, and they thoroughly enjoyed the sight of the many “Eights” and “Torpids” rowing up and saluting Paul’s, the head boat, which lay close under the ’Varsity barge. The cox—a facetious young gentleman—could not resist the pleasure of shouting every few minutes, “Eyes in the boat!” as he caught the eyes of his crew wandering to the many fair faces that were looking down at them from beneath the awning.

One by one the boats rowed up—it is to be feared not in the best style, for the crews were for the most part mere “scratch” affairs got together hurriedly for the procession, in the absence of the regular men who had gone down. One by one they rowed up to the post opposite to the ’Varsity barge, “easied,” and then, standing up, raised their oars and saluted the head boat, “Well rowed, Paul’s!” to commemorate the honour of the May races. Rose felt quite flattered, and took to herself half the honour at least that was being given to Frank’s boat. The proceeding repeated by some forty boats was growing somewhat monotonous, when, to the intense delight and half-terror of the ladies, one Eight upset—on purpose, of course; and there was much merriment over the intentionally assumed danger and frantic efforts to get out of the crowded water. When all the boats had saluted, they turned at Folly Bridge (with what difficulty coxswains know to their cost), and dropped down the stream to their respective barges.

Those who embark on the festivities of Commemoration have not much time to spend in dreaming. Rose would fain have gone down the river quietly in the cool of the evening; and yet—and yet—the thoughts of dancing were perhaps sweeter.

Back to the town streamed the crowds: some to the Wadham concert; some to rest before dressing for the University ball; many to summon up their strength and energy for both. Among the latter were Mrs. Ross and Mary, Rose and Frank. The fathers dined at Christ-Church, and spent a cosy evening in the Common Room—the Vicar chatting away unceasingly with old friends, and Mr. Ross making a very pleasant and amused listener.

It was a lovely evening, and most of the people walked to Wadham—one of the many things that struck the country folks as strange and yet pleasant. The concert was held in the College Hall, beautifully decorated for the purpose. After the first part, every one adjourned to the gardens, where refreshments were served in a large tent, and then wandered about, enjoying the cool air till the second part began. Frank and his party did not return to the Hall, but went to the Corn Exchange, to the University ball. And what a night they had! He and Rose forgot to count how many times they danced together. Mary had partners in abundance, for Frank’s friends were there in great force; and they were all longing for a dance with Rose, but had chiefly to console themselves with Mary, for Frank could not spare many dances. However, from Mary’s happy face, as they walked down the High in the sweet early morning air, Frank inferred that the consoling process had been not unpleasant for all parties concerned.

Tuesday morning brought the much-needed rest, taken by some in chairs at home, by others in punts on the river (Frank and Rose preferred the latter). Tuesday afternoon—the flower-show held in the gardens of New College. A Commemoration flower-show is more than a flower-show. In fact, the flowers are almost the last thing regarded. Tuesday evening—New College concert, always one of the best, and the Masonic ball. Rose and Mary again in much request, but the former too deeply engaged to Frank to be able to spare many dances. To this ball Mr. Ross, being a Mason, went as a matter of course, and he even succeeded in enticing the Vicar. The latter had a lurking love of vestments, but Porchester gave him no encouragement; here, however, seeing the aprons and scarves, and the cloaks of the Templars, he thought he might satisfy his love. He would be a Mason, and though unable to disport himself in picturesque attire to his congregation in church, he might do so to his heart’s content to his brethren in the secrecy of lodge-meetings, or the publicity of such a ball as this. So strongly was he enamoured of the notion, that over supper, in a quiet corner with Mr. and Mrs. Ross, he asked that gentleman to propose him for election at a lodge in a town not far from Porchester, of which he was Worshipful Master.

Then came Wednesday, the day of Encænia, or Commemoration of the Founders and Benefactors. Who that has ever been present in the crowded Sheldonian Theatre can forget the scene? The jostling, pushing, squeezing that begins before ten o’clock, though the proceedings themselves seldom begin before noon; the pause and quiet, till the boldest undergraduate starts the chaff; the grave faces of the officials as they hand the ladies to their seats, half amused, half angry, when told by some wag in the gallery “not to squeeze her hand;” the cheers for everybody and everything that the occasion suggests—“the ladies in pink,” “the ladies in blue,” “the ladies who are engaged;” the groans for this statesman, the cheers for the other, for the ’Varsity Boat Club, the ’Varsity Eleven, the popular Proctors. Then the chaff becomes more personal. “When is the Vice-Chancellor coming?” “Poor old man, he’s nervous.” “Has the Senior Proctor gone to Aylesbury?” (alluding to the Christ-Church grinds and the Senior Proctor’s failure). “Dissolvimus hanc Convocationem,” uttered in imitation of the Vice-Chancellor, and causing much amusement among the Masters of Arts and others familiar with the phrase. Just then a very white-headed gentleman enters the area, and is met with shouts of “White hat!” “Turn him out!” For a long time the object of the shouts is perfectly oblivious. At length he puts on his hat, and is of course greeted with “Hats off!” How long the uproar would have continued is hard to say, had not a huge paper fool’s-cap, with D.C.L. written on it, been let down from the gallery. The white-headed gentleman blessed the circumstance. The cap fluttering downwards paused, either by accident or design, exactly opposite one of the galleries where a Master of Arts on duty as Proproctor for the occasion was standing, and was waved gently within a few feet of his face. “Put it on, sir!” now came from all sides of the upper gallery; and somebody leaning from above the Vice-Chancellor’s chair, seizing the opportunity of a second’s lull, said in a sedate voice, “Admitto te ad gradum Doctoris in jure civili.” All this time the intended recipient of this most dubious honour was making frantic clutches at the cap, which it is needless to state was bobbed up and down in front of him, while “Let him have it!” “He knows what fits him!” greeted his indignation, which now scarcely knew bounds. He dashed upstairs to find the offender; but, just as his head appeared, the cap dropped into the area, and his efforts to discover the author of the offence were fruitless. The entry of the Vice-Chancellor, followed by the Doctors and Proctors and various distinguished visitors, and the pealing of the organ, turned the thoughts of the undergraduates, and under cover of the music and applause the irate Proproctor beat an ignominious retreat. His conduct was not only unpopular among the undergraduates, but was condemned by senior and junior graduates alike.

The Vice-Chancellor, having taken his seat, opened Convocation with the usual Latin speech. Dr. Bryce, Regius Professor of Civil Law, then presented a number of distinguished men—bishops, judges, statesmen, soldiers, poets, and historians—and in introducing each alluded in brief Latin speeches to the peculiar merits that had called for the honorary degree of D.C.L.—the highest honour which the University can confer. After this the Creweian oration was delivered by the Public Orator; but as he spoke in an indistinct voice, and in Latin, the interesting allusions he made to past and present were scarcely even heard, much less understood. He took the chaff hurled at him with profound good humour, and ignoring the various injunctions to “Speak up,” and “That will do, sir—now translate!” hurried bravely on, and finished amid cheers of satisfaction. Then came the various prize poems and essays, to none of which, except to the Newdigate, was the slightest attention paid. But the Newdigate, though an exceptionally good poem, was badly read, and most of the cheers were ironical—all sorts of absurd constructions being at once fixed upon various lines.

The Masonic Fête on Wednesday afternoon was very delightful, but they were getting tired of the incessant gaiety; and so was the Magdalen concert and Christ-Church ball on Wednesday night; but they had had enough of concerts and enough of dancing, and all their energies and interest were centred in Thursday morning, when Frank was to take his degree—a far important event to Rose than the conferring of honorary D.C.L. on all the bishops, judges, statesmen, and soldiers put together.