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 1_l._, 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 5_l._,
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 50_l._; and by a further payment of five
guineas for the privilege of attending the Public Lectures of the Law
Professors, and 35_l._ 6_s._ 5_d._ 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.”