OXFORD.
As it was Long Vacation at Oxford, and I could not take rooms at
once in Trinity College, where my name had been put down, it was
necessary to place me somewhere out of mischief. At the intervention
of friends, a certain Doctor Greenhill agreed to lodge and coach me
till the opening term. The said doctor had just married a relation of
Dr. Arnold, of Rugby, and he had taken his bride to Paris, in order
to show her the world and to indulge himself in a little dissecting.
Meanwhile I was placed _pro tem._ with another medical don, Dr. Ogle,
and I enjoyed myself in that house. The father was a genial man, and he
had nice sons and pretty daughters. As soon as Dr. Greenhill returned
to his house in High Street, Oxford, I was taken up there by my father,
and was duly consigned to the new tutor. Mr. Du Pré vanished, and was
never seen again.
The first sight of Oxford struck me with a sense of appal. "O Domus
antiqua et religiosa," cried Queen Elizabeth, in 1664, standing
opposite Pembroke College, which the Dons desecrated in 1875. I could
not imagine how such fine massive and picturesque old buildings as the
colleges could be mixed up with the mean little houses that clustered
around them, looking as if they were built of cardboard. In after days,
I remembered the feeling, when looking at the Temple of the Sun in
Palmyra, surrounded by its Arab huts, like swallows' nests planted upon
a palace wall. And everything, _except_ the colleges, looked so mean.
The good old Mitre was, if not the only, at least the chief hostelry of
the place, and it had the outward and visible presence of a pot-house.
The river with the classical name of Isis, was a mere moat, and its
influent, the Cherwell, was a ditch. The country around, especially
just after Switzerland, looked flat and monotonous in the extreme. The
skies were brown-grey, and, to an Italian nose, the smell of the coal
smoke was a perpetual abomination. Queer beings walked the streets,
dressed in aprons that hung behind, from their shoulders, and caps
consisting of a square, like that of a lancer's helmet, planted upon
a semi-oval to contain the head. These queer creatures were carefully
shaved, except, perhaps, a diminutive mutton-cutlet on each side of
their face, and the most serious sort were invariably dressed _in
vestibus nigris aut sub fuscis_.
Moreover, an indescribable appearance of donnishness or incipient
donnishness pervaded the whole lot. The juniors looked like schoolboys
who aspired to be schoolmasters, and the seniors as if their
aspirations had been successful. I asked after the famous Grove of
Trinity, where Charles I. used to walk when tired of Christ Church
meadows, and which the wits called Daphne. It had long been felled, and
the ground was covered with buildings.
At last term opened, and I transferred myself from Dr. Greenhill to
Trinity College.
Then my University life began, and readers must be prepared not to be
shocked at the recital of my college failures, which only proves the
truth of what I said before, that if a father means his boy to succeed
in an English career, he must put him to a preparatory school, Eton or
Oxford, educate him for his coming profession, and not drag his family
about the Continent, under governesses and tutors, to learn fencing,
languages, and become wild, and to belong to nowhere in particular as
to parish or county.
In the autumn term of 1840, at nineteen and a half, I began residence
in Trinity College, where my quarters were a pair of dog-holes, called
rooms, overlooking the garden of the Master of Balliol. My reception
at College was not pleasant. I had grown a splendid moustache, which
was the envy of all the boys abroad, and which all the advice of Drs.
Ogle and Greenhill failed to make me remove. I declined to be shaved
until formal orders were issued to the authorities of the college.
For I had already formed strong ideas upon the Shaven age of England,
when her history, with some brilliant exceptions, such as Marlborough,
Wellington, or Nelson, was at its meanest.
[Sidenote: _Practical Jokes._]
As I passed through the entrance of the College, a couple of brother
collegians met me, and the taller one laughed in my face. Accustomed
to continental decorum, I handed him my card and called him out. But
the college lad, termed by courtesy an Oxford man, had possibly read
of duels, had probably never touched a weapon, sword or pistol, and
his astonishment at the invitation exceeded all bounds. Explanations
succeeded, and I went my way sadly, and felt as if I had fallen amongst
_épiciers_. The college porter had kindly warned me against tricks
played by the older hands, upon "fresh young gentlemen," and strongly
advised me to "sport my oak," or, in other words, to bar and lock my
outer door. With dignity deeply hurt, I left the entrance wide open,
and thrust a poker into the fire, determined to give all intruders the
warmest possible reception. This was part and parcel of that unhappy
education abroad. In English public schools, boys learn first "to
take," and then "to give." They begin by being tossed, and then by
tossing others in the blanket. Those were days when practical jokes
were in full force. Happily it is now extinct. Every greenhorn coming
to college or joining a regiment, was liable to the roughest possible
treatment, and it was only by submitting with the utmost good humour,
that he won the affection of his comrades, and was looked upon as a
gentleman. But the practice also had its darker phase. It ruined many a
prospect, and it lost many a life. The most amusing specimen that _I_
ever saw was that of a charming youngster, who died soon after joining
his Sepoy regiment. The oldsters tried to drink him under the table at
mess, and had notably failed. About midnight, when he was enjoying his
first sleep, he suddenly awoke and found a ring of spectral figures
dancing round between his bed and the tent-walls. After a minute's
reflection, he jumped up, seized a sheet, threw it over his shoulders,
and joined the dancers, saying, "If this is the fashion I suppose I
must do it also." The jokers, baffled a second time, could do nothing
but knock him down and run away.
The example of the larky Marquis of Waterford, seemed to authorize all
kinds of fantastic tricks. The legend was still fresh, that he had
painted the Dean of Christ Church's door red, because that formidable
dignitary had objected to his wearing "pink" in High Street. Another,
and far more inexcusable prank, was his sending all the accoucheurs in
the town, to the house of a middle-aged maiden lady, whose father, a
don, had offended him. In the colleges they did not fly at such high
game, but they cruelly worried everything in the shape of a freshman.
One unfortunate youth, a fellow who had brought with him a dozen of
home-made wine, elder and cowslip, was made shockingly tight by brandy
being mixed with his port, and was put to bed with all his bottles
disposed on different parts of his person. Another, of æsthetic tastes,
prided himself upon his china, and found it next morning all strewed in
pieces about his bed. A third, with carroty whiskers, had them daubed
with mustard, also while in a state of insensibility, and had to have
them fall, yellow, next morning under a barber's hands.
I caused myself to be let down by a rope into the Master of Balliol's
garden, plucked up some of the finest flowers by the roots, and
planted in their place great staring marigolds. The study of the old
gentleman's countenance when he saw them next morning was a joy for
ever. Another prank was to shoot with an air-cane, an article strictly
forbidden in college, at a brand-new watering-pot, upon which the old
gentleman greatly prided himself, and the way which the water spirted
over his reverend gaiters, gave an ineffable delight to the knot of
mischievous undergraduates who were prospecting him from behind the
curtain. I, however, always had considerable respect for the sturdy
common sense of old Dr. Jenkins, and I made a kind of amends to him in
"Vikram and the Vampire," where he is the only Pundit who objected to
the tiger being resurrectioned. Another neat use of the air-cane, was
to shoot the unhappy rooks, over the heads of the dons, as they played
at bowls; the grave and reverend signiors would take up the body, and
gravely debate what had caused the sudden death, when a warm stream of
blood, trickling into their shirts, explained it only too clearly. No
undergraduate in college could safely read his classics out loud after
ten o'clock p.m., or his "oak" was broken with dumb-bells, and the
dirty oil lamp, that half lit the stairs, was thrown over him and his
books.
[Sidenote: _Friends._]
I made amends to a certain extent for my mischief by putting my
fellow-collegians to bed, and I always maintain that the Welshmen were
those who gave me the most trouble.
The Oxford day, considered with relation to the acquisition of
knowledge, was a "fast" pure and simple--it began in the morning
with Chapel, during which time most men got up their logic. We then
breakfasted either in our rooms, or in large parties, where we consumed
an immense quantity of ham, bacon, eggs, mutton chops, and indigestible
muffins. We then attended a couple of lectures, and this was Time
completely thrown away. We were then free for the day, and every man
passed his time as he best pleased. I could not afford to keep horses,
and always hated the idea of riding hired hacks. My only amusements
therefore were walking, rowing, and the school-at-arms. My walks
somehow or other always ended at Bagley Wood, where a pretty gypsy girl
(Selina), dressed in silks and satins, sat in state to receive the
shillings and the homage of the undergraduates. I worked hard, under
a coach, at sculling and rowing; I was one of the oars in the College
Torpid, and a friend and I challenged the River in a two-oar, but
unfortunately both of us were rusticated before the race came off.
My friend in misfortune belonged to an eminent ecclesiastical family,
and distinguished himself accordingly. Returning from Australia,
he landed at Mauritius without a farthing. Most men under the
circumstances would have gone to the Governor, told their names, and
obtained a passage to England. But the individual in question had far
too much individuality to take so commonplace a step. He wrote home to
his family for money, and meanwhile took off his coat, tucked up his
sleeves, and worked like a coolie on the wharf. When the cheque for
his passage was sent, he invited all his brother coolies to a spread
of turtle, champagne, and all the luxuries of the season, at the swell
hotel of the place, and left amidst the blessings of Shem and the curse
of Japhet. Another of my college companions--the son of a bishop,
by-the-by--made a cavalry regiment too hot to hold him, and took his
passage to the Cape of Good Hope in an emigrant ship. On the third day
he brought out a portable roulette table, which the captain sternly
ordered off the deck. But the ship was a slow sailer, she fell in with
calms about the Line, and the official rigour was relaxed. First one
began to play, and then another, and at last the ship became a perfect
"hell." After a hundred narrow escapes, and all manner of risks by
fire and water, and the fists and clubs of the enraged losers, the
distinguished youth landed at Cape Town with almost £5000 in his pocket.
[Sidenote: _Fencing-rooms._]
The great solace of _my_ life was the fencing-room. When I first
entered Oxford, its only _salle d'armes_ was kept by old Angelo, the
grandson of the gallant old Italian, mentioned by Edgeworth, but who
knew about as much of fencing as a French collegian after six months
of _salle d'armes_. He was a priggish old party too, celebrated for
walking up to his pupils and for whispering stagely, after a salute
with the foil, "This, sir, is not so much a School of Arms as a
_School of Politeness_." Presently a rival appeared in the person of
Archibald Maclaren, who soon managed to make his mark. He established
an excellent saloon, and he gradually superseded all the wretched
gymnastic yard, which lay some half a mile out of the town. He was
determined to make his way; he went over to Paris, when he could,
to work with the best masters, published his systems of fencing and
gymnastics, and he actually wrote a little book of poetry, which he
called "Songs of the Sword." He and I became great friends, which
friendship lasted for life. The only question that ever arose between
us was touching the advisability or non-advisability of eating sweet
buns and drinking strong ale at the same time. At the fencing-rooms I
made acquaintance, which afterwards became a life-long friendship, with
Alfred Bates Richards. He was a tall man, upwards of six feet high,
broad in proportion, and very muscular. I found it unadvisable to box
with him, but could easily master him with foil and broadsword. He was
one of the few who would take the trouble to learn. Mostly Englishmen
go to a fencing school, and, after six weeks' lessons, clamour to be
allowed to fence loose, and very loose fencing it is, and is fated
always to be. In the same way, almost before they can fix their
colours they want to paint _tableaux de genre_, and they have hardly
learnt their scales, when they want to attempt _bravura_ pieces. On
the Continent men work for months, and even years, before they think
themselves in sight of their journey's end. A. B. Richards and I often
met in after life and became intimates.[1] His erratic career is well
known, and he died at a comparatively early age, editor of the _Morning
Advertiser_. He had raised the tone of the Licensed Victuallers' organ
to such a high pitch that even Lord Beaconsfield congratulated him upon
it.
A. B. Richards was furious to see the treatment my services received;
he always stood up bravely for me--his fellow-collegian, both with word
and pen--in leaders too.
[Sidenote: _Manners and Customs--Food and Smoking._]
The time for "Hall," that is to say for college dinner, was five p.m.,
and the scene was calculated to astonish a youngster brought up on the
Continent. The only respectable part of it was the place itself, not
a bad imitation of some old convent refectory. The details were mean
in the extreme, and made me long for the meanest _table d'hôte_. Along
the bottom of the Hall, raised upon a dwarf dais, ran the high table,
intended for the use of fellows and fellow-commoners. The other tables
ran along the sides. Wine was forbidden, malt liquor being the only
drink. The food certainly suited the heavy strong beers and ales brewed
in the college. It consisted chiefly of hunches of meat, cooked after
Homeric or Central African fashion, and very filling at the price. The
vegetables, as usual, were plain boiled, without the slightest aid to
digestion. Yet the college cooks were great swells. They were paid
as much as an average clergyman, and put most of their sons into the
Church. In fact, the stomach had to do the whole work, whereas a good
French or Italian cook does half the work for it in his saucepans. This
cannibal meal was succeeded by stodgy pudding, and concluded with some
form of cheese, Cheshire or double Gloucester, which painfully reminded
one of bees'-wax, and this was called dinner. Very soon my foreign
stomach began to revolt at such treatment, and I found out a place in
the town, where, when I could escape Hall, I could make something of a
dinner.
The moral of the scene offended all my prepossessions. The
fellow-commoners were simply men, who by paying double what the
commoners paid, secured double privileges. This distinction of castes
is odious, except in the case of a man of certain age, who would not
like to be placed in the society of young lads. But worse still was
the gold tuft, who walked the streets with a silk gown, and a gorgeous
tassel on his college cap. These were noblemen, the offensive English
equivalent for men of title. _Generosus nascitur nobilis fit._ The
Grandfathers of these noblemen may have been pitmen or grocers, but
the simple fact of _having_ titles, entitled them to most absurd
distinctions. For instance, with a smattering of letters, enough to
enable a commoner to squeeze through an ordinary examination, gold
tuft took a first class, and it was even asserted that many took their
degrees by merely sending up their books. They were allowed to live
in London as much as they liked, and to condescend to college at the
rare times they pleased. Some Heads of Colleges would not stoop to this
degradation, especially Dean Gaisford of Christ Church, who compelled
Lord W---- to leave it and betake himself to Trinity; but the place
was, with notable exceptions, a hotbed of toadyism and flunkeyism.
When Mr. (now Sir Robert) Peel first appeared in the High Street, man,
woman, and child stood to look at him because he was the son of the
Prime Minister.
After dinner it was the custom to go to wine. These desserts were
another abomination. The table was spread with a vast variety of fruits
and sweetmeats, supplied at the very highest prices, and often on
tick, by the Oxford tradesmen,--model sharks. Some men got their wine
from London, others bought theirs in the town. Claret was then hardly
known, and port, sherry, and Madeira, all of the strong military ditto
type, were the only drinks. These wines were given in turn by the
undergraduates, and the meal upon meal would have injured the digestion
of a young shark. At last, about this time, some unknown fellow, whose
name deserved to be immortalized, drew out a cigar and insisted on
smoking it, despite the disgust and uproar that the novelty created.
But the fashion made its way, and the effects were admirable. The
cigar, and afterwards the pipe, soon abolished the cloying dessert, and
reduced the consumption of the loaded wines to a minimum.
But the English were very peculiar about smoking. In the days of
Queen Anne it was so universal that dissident jurymen were locked up
without meat, drink, or tobacco. During the continental wars it became
un-English to smoke, and consequently men, and even women, took snuff.
And for years it was considered as disgraceful to smoke a cigar out
of doors as to have one's boots blacked, or to eat an orange at Hyde
Park Corner. "Good gracious! you don't mean to say that you smoke in
the streets?" said an East Indian Director in after years, when he met
me in Pall Mall with a cigar in my mouth. Admiral Henry Murray, too,
vainly endeavoured to break through the prohibition by leading a little
squad of smoking friends through Kensington Gardens. Polite ladies
turned away their faces, and unpolite ladies muttered something about
"snobs." At last the Duke of Argyll spread his plaid under a tree in
Hyde Park, lighted a cutty pipe, and beckoned his friends to join him.
Within a month every one in London had a cigar in his mouth. A pretty
lesson to inculcate respect for popular prejudice!
After the dessert was finished, not a few men called for cognac,
whisky, and gin, and made merry for the rest of the evening. But
what else was there for them to do? Unlike a foreign University, the
theatre was discouraged; it was the meanest possible little house,
decent actors were ashamed to show themselves in it, and an actress of
the calibre of Mrs. Nesbitt appeared only every few years. Opera, of
course, there was none, and if there had been, not one in a thousand
would have understood the language, and not one in a hundred would
have appreciated the music. Occasionally there was a concert given by
some wandering artists, with the special permission of the college
authorities, and a dreary two hours' work it was. Balls were unknown,
whereby the marriageable demoiselles of Oxford lost many an uncommon
good chance. A mesmeric lecturer occasionally came down there and
caused some fun. He called for subjects, and amongst the half-dozen
that presented themselves was one young gentleman who had far more
sense of humour than discretion. When thrown into a deep slumber, he
arose, with his eyes apparently fast closed, and, passing into the
circle of astonished spectators, began to distribute kisses right and
left. Some of these salutations fell upon the sacred cheeks of the
daughters of the Heads of Houses, and the tableau may be imagined.
[Sidenote: _Drs. Newman and Pusey._]
This dull, monotonous life was varied in my case by an occasional
dinner with families whose acquaintance I had made in the town. At Dr.
Greenhill's I once met at dinner Dr. (afterwards Cardinal) Newman and
Dr. Arnold. I expected great things from their conversation, but it was
mostly confined to discussing the size of the Apostles in the Cathedral
of St. Peter's in Rome, and both these eminent men showed a very dim
recollection of the subject. I took a great fancy to Dr. Newman, and
used to listen to his sermons, when I would never give half an hour to
any other preacher. There was a peculiar gentleness in his manner, and
the matter was always suggestive. Dr. Newman was Vicar of St. Mary's,
at Oxford, and used to preach, at times, University sermons; there
was a stamp and seal upon him, a solemn music and sweetness in his
tone and manner, which made him singularly attractive, yet there was
no change of inflexion in his voice; action he had none; his sermons
were always read, and his eyes were ever upon his book; his figure was
lean and stooping, and the _tout ensemble_ was anything but dignified
or commanding, yet the delivery suited the matter of his speech, and
the combination suggested complete candour and honesty; he said only
what he believed, and he induced others to believe with him.[2] On the
other hand, Dr. Pusey's University sermons used to last for an hour
and a half; they were filled with Latin and Greek, dealt with abstruse
subjects, and were delivered in the dullest possible way, and seemed to
me like a _mauvais rêve_ or nightmare.
[Sidenote: _Began Arabic._]
At Dr. Greenhill's, too, I met Don Pascual de Gayangos, the Spanish
Arabist. Already wearying of Greek and Latin, I had attacked Arabic,
and soon was well on in Erpinius's Grammar; but there was no one to
teach me, so I began to teach myself, and to write the Arabic letters
from left to right, instead of from right to left, _i.e._ the wrong
way. Gayangos, when witnessing this proceeding, burst out laughing,
and showed me how to copy the alphabet. In those days, learning Arabic
at Oxford was not easy. There was a Regius Professor, but he had
other occupations than to profess. If an unhappy undergraduate went
up to him, and wanted to learn, he was assured that it was the duty
of a professor to teach a class, and not an individual. All this was
presently changed, but not before it was high time. The Sundays used
generally to be passed in "outings." It was a pleasure to get away from
Oxford, and to breathe the air which was not at least half smoke.
Another disagreeable of Oxford was, the continuous noise of bells. You
could not make sure of five minutes without one giving tongue, and in
no part of the world, perhaps, is there a place where there is such a
perpetual tinkling of metal. The maddening jangle of bells seems to
have been the survival of two centuries ago. In 1698 Paul Heutzner
wrote: "The English are vastly fond of great noises that fill the air,
such as the firing of cannon, drums, and the ringing of bells, so that
it is common for a number of them that have got a 'glass' in their
heads, to go up into some belfry, and ring the bells for hours together
for the sake of exercise."
A favourite Sunday trip used to be to Abingdon, which, by the wisdom of
the dons in those days, was the railway station of Oxford. Like most
men of conservative tendency, who disliked to move quiet things, who
cultivated the _status quo_, because they could hardly be better off,
and might be worse off, and who feared nothing more than innovations,
because these might force on enquiring into the disposal of the
revenues and other delicate monetary questions, they had fought against
the line with such good will, that they had left it nearly ten miles
distant from the town. Their conduct was by no means exceptional;
thousands did the same. For instance, Lord John Scott, determined to
prevent the surveyor passing through his estate, engaged a company of
"Nottingham Lambs," and literally strewed the floor of the porter's
lodge with broken surveying instruments. Mrs. Partington cannot keep
out the tide with her rake, and the consequence was that Oxford was
obliged to build a branch line, and soon had to lament that she had
lost the advantage of the main line.
The Rev. Thomas Short was at that time doing Sunday duty at Abingdon.
He was not distinguished for ability as a college tutor, but he was
a gentlemanly and kind-hearted man; he was careful not to be too
sharp-eyed when he met undergraduates at Abingdon. They generally
drove out in tandems, which the absurd regulations of the place kept
in fashion, by forbidding them. No one would have driven them had they
not possessed the merits of stolen fruit. I, having carefully practised
upon "Dobbin" in my earlier days, used thoroughly to enjoy driving. In
later years I met with my old tutor, the Rev. Thomas Short, who lived
to a great age, and died universally respected and regretted by all who
knew him.[3]
At last the lagging autumnal term passed away, and I went up to my
grandmother and aunts in Great Cumberland Place. It was not lively; a
household full of women only, rarely is.
The style of Society was very promiscuous. The Rev. Mr. Hutchins, the
clergyman under whom the family "sat" in the adjoining Quebec Chapel,
introduced me to the eccentric Duke of Brunswick, who used to laugh
consumedly at my sallies of high spirits. Lady Dinorben, with whom Mrs.
Phayre still lived, gave me an occasional invitation. The aunts' near
neighbours were old General Sutherland of the Madras Army, whose son
Alick I afterwards met in the Neilgherry Hills. Mr. Lawyer Dendy was
still alive, and one of his sons shortly after followed me to India
as a Bombay civilian. Another pleasant acquaintance was Mrs. White,
wife of the colonel of the 3rd Dragoons, whose three stalwart sons
were preparing for India, and gave me the first idea of going there.
A man who dances, who dresses decently, and who is tolerably well
introduced, rarely wants invitations to balls in London, and I found
some occupation for my evenings.
[Sidenote: _Play._]
But I sadly wanted a club, and in those days the institution was not as
common as it is now. At odd times I went to the theatres, and amused
myself with the humours of the little "Pic" and the old Cocoa-Nut
Tree. But hazard is a terrible game. It takes a man years to learn it
well, and by that time he has lost all the luck with which he begins.
I always disliked private play, although I played a tolerable hand at
whist, _écarté_, and piquet, but I found it almost as unpleasant to
win from my friends as to lose to my friends. On the other hand, I
was unusually lucky at public tables. I went upon a principle, not a
theory, which has ruined so many men. I noted as a rule that players
are brave enough when they lose, whereas they begin to fear when
they win. My plan, therefore, was to put a certain sum in my pocket
and resolve never to exceed it. If I lost it I stopped, one of the
advantages of public over private playing; but I did not lay down any
limits to winning when I was in luck; I boldly went ahead, and only
stopped when I found fortune turning the other way.
[Sidenote: _Town Life--College Friends._]
My grandmother's house was hardly pleasant to a devoted smoker; I was
put out on the leads, leading from the staircase, whenever I required
a weed. So I took lodgings in Maddox Street, and there became as it
were a "man about town." My brother Edward joined me, and we had, as
the Yankees say, "A high old time." It appeared only too short, and
presently came on the Spring Term, when I returned to my frouzy rooms
in Trinity College; and I had not formed many friendships in Trinity
itself. It had made a name for fastness amongst the last generation of
undergraduates, and now a reaction had set in. They laughed at me, at
my first lecture, because I spoke in Roman Latin--real Latin--I did not
know the English pronunciation, only known in England. The only men of
my own college I met in after life, were Father Coleridge, S.J., and
Edward A. Freeman, of Somerleaze, the historian.
Mrs. Grundy had then just begun to reign, inaugurated by Douglas
Jerrold with "What will Mrs. Grundy say?" This ancient _genitrix_
highly disapproved of my foreign ways, and my expressed dislike to
school and college, over which I ought to have waxed sentimental,
tender, and æsthetic; it appeared to her little short of blasphemy.
I had a few friends at "Exeter," including Richards, and three
at Brasenose, then famous for drinking heavy beers and ales as
Bonn or Heidelberg, especially on Shrove Tuesday, when certain
verses chaffingly called the "Carmen seculare" used to be sung.
But I delighted in "Oriel," which, both as regards fellows and
undergraduates, was certainly the nicest college of _my_ day. There I
spent the chief part of my time with Wilberforce, Foster, and a little
knot, amongst whom was Tom Hughes (afterwards Tom Brown). We boxed
regularly, and took lessons from Goodman, ex-pugilist and pedestrian,
and actual tailor, who came down to Oxford at times. We had great fun
with Burke--the fighting man--who on one occasion honoured Oxford with
his presence. The "Deaf 'un," as he was called, had a face that had
been hammered into the consistency of sole-leather, and one evening,
after being too copiously treated, he sat down in a heavy armchair, and
cried out, "Now, lads! half a crown a hit." We all tried our knuckles
upon his countenance, and only hurt our own knuckles.
Balliol (it was chiefly supplied from Rugby) then held her head
uncommonly high. As all know, Dr. Arnold had made the fortune of Rugby,
and caused it to be recognized among public schools. During his early
government the Rugbyites had sent a cricket challenge to Eton, and
the Etonians had replied "that they would be most happy to send their
scouts;" but as scholarship at Eton seemed to decline, so it rose
in Rugby and Oxford. Scholarship means £ _s. d._ At Balliol I made
acquaintance with a few men, whose names afterwards made a noise in the
world. They all belonged to a generation, collegically speaking, older
than myself. Coleridge (now Lord Coleridge) was still lingering there,
but he had taken his bachelor's degree, and his brother, afterwards
a Jesuit and author of many works, was a scholar at Trinity. Ward of
Balliol, who also became a Catholic, was chiefly remarkable for his
minute knowledge of the circulating library novels of the Laura-Matilda
type. He suffered from insomnia, and before he could sleep, he was
obliged to get through a few volumes every night. Lake of Balliol, then
a young don, afterwards turned out a complete man of the world; and
there is no need to speak of Jowett, who had then just passed as B.A.,
and was destined to be Master of Balliol.
[Sidenote: _Coaching and Languages._]
Oxford between 1840 and 1842 was entering upon great changes. The
old style of "fellow," a kind of survival of the Benedictine monks,
was rapidly becoming extinct, and only one or two remained. Men who
lived surrounded by their books on vertical stands, were capable of
asking you if "cats let loose in woods would turn to tigers," and
tried to keep pace with the age by reading up the _Times_ of eight
years past. But a great deal of reform was still wanted. Popular
idea about Oxford was, that the Classic groves of Isis were hotbeds
for classical _Scholasticism_, whilst Cambridge succeeded better in
Mathematics, but I soon found out that one would learn more Greek and
Latin in one year at Bonn and Heidelberg than in three at Oxford. The
college teaching, for which one was obliged to pay, was of the most
worthless description. Two hours a day were regularly wasted, and those
who read for honours were obliged to choose and to pay for a private
coach. Amongst the said coaches were some _drôles_, who taught in very
peculiar ways, by Rhymes, not always of the most delicate description.
One celebrated coach, after lecturing his blockheads upon the subject,
we will say, of Salmanizer, would say to them, "Now, you fellows,
you'll forget in a day everything that I've been teaching you for the
last hour. Whenever you hear this man's name, just repeat to yourselves
---- and you'll remember all about it."
The worst of such teaching was, that it had no order and no system.
Its philology was ridiculous, and it did nothing to work the reasoning
powers. Learning foreign languages, as a child learns its own, is
mostly a work of pure memory, which acquires, after childhood, every
artificial assistance possible. My system of learning a language in two
months was purely my own invention, and thoroughly suited myself. I got
a simple grammar and vocabulary, marked out the forms and words which
I knew were absolutely necessary, and learnt them by heart by carrying
them in my pocket and looking over them at spare moments during the
day. I never worked more than a quarter of an hour at a time, for after
that the brain lost its freshness. After learning some three hundred
words, easily done in a week, I stumbled through some easy book-work
(one of the Gospels is the most come-atable), and underlined every
word that I wished to recollect, in order to read over my pencillings
at least once a day. Having finished my volume, I then carefully
worked up the grammar minutiæ, and I then chose some other book whose
subject most interested me. The neck of the language was now broken,
and progress was rapid. If I came across a new sound like the Arabic
_Ghayn_, I trained my tongue to it by repeating it so many thousand
times a day. When I read, I invariably read out loud, so that the ear
might aid memory. I was delighted with the most difficult characters,
Chinese and Cuneiform, because I felt that they impressed themselves
more strongly upon the eye than the eternal Roman letters. This,
by-and-by, made me resolutely stand aloof from the hundred schemes for
transliterating Eastern languages, such as Arabic, Sanscrit, Hebrew,
and Syriac, into Latin letters, and whenever I conversed with anybody
in a language that I was learning, I took the trouble to repeat their
words inaudibly after them, and so to learn the trick of pronunciation
and emphasis.
The changes which followed 1840 made an important difference in the
value of fellowships. They were harder to get and harder to keep.
They were no longer what the parlous and supercilious youth defined
them, "An admirable provision for the indigent members of the middle
classes." The old half-monk disappeared, or rather he grew his
moustachios, and passed his vacations "sur le Continong." But something
still remains to be done. It is a scandal to meet abroad in diplomacy,
and other professions, a gentleman belonging to the _bene nati, bene
vestiti, modice docti_ of "All Souls'," drawing, moreover, his pay
for doing nothing. The richest University in the world is too poor to
afford the host of professors still required, and it is a disgrace that
an English University, whose name means the acquisition of universal
knowledge, should not be able to teach Cornish, Gaelic, Welsh, and
Irish, the original languages of the island. Again, the endowment of
research, a _sine quâ non_, is simply delayed because money is not
forthcoming. A little sensible economy would remedy this, and make
Oxford what she ought to be, a Seat of Learning--not, as the old
fellows of Christ Church define it, "A place to make rather ignorant
gentlemen." The competition fellowships at Oxford were started in 1854,
which changed the whole condition of things.
During this term I formally gave up my intention to read for a first
class. _Aut primus aut nullus_ was ever my motto, and though many
second-class men have turned out better than many first-class men, I
did not care to begin life with a failure. I soon ascertained the fact
that men who may rely upon first classes are bred to it from their
childhood, even as horses and dogs are trained. They must not waste
time and memory upon foreign tongues. They must not dissipate their
powers of brain upon anything like general education. They may know the
-isms, but they must be utterly ignorant of the -ologies; but, above
all things, they must not indulge themselves with what is popularly
called "_The World_." They must confine themselves to one straight
line, a college curriculum, and even then they can never be certain of
success. At the very moment of gaining the prize their health may break
down, and compel them to give up work. I surprised Dr. Greenhill by
my powers of memory when I learned Adam's "Antiquities" by heart. But
the doctor, who had not taken a class himself, threw cold water on my
ambition--perhaps the best thing he could do--and frankly told me that,
though I _could_ take a first class, he could by no means answer that I
_would_. The fellows of Trinity were nice gentlemanly men, but I by no
means wished to become one of the number. My father had set his heart
upon both sons being provided for by the Universities, and very often
"when fathers propose, sons dispose."
My disgust at the idea of University honours was perhaps not decreased
by my trying for the two scholarships, and failing to get them.
[Sidenote: _Latin--Greek._]
I attributed my non-success at University College (where I was beaten
by a man who turned a chorus of Æschylus into doggerel verse) chiefly
to my having stirred the bile of my examiners with my real (Roman)
Latin. At times, too, the devil palpably entered into me, and made me
speak Greek Romaically by accent, and not by quantity, even as they
did and still do at Athens. I had learnt this much from one of the
Rhodo-Kanakis Greek merchants at Marseille, so that I could converse in
Latin and Greek as spoken as well as ancient Latin and Greek.
The history of the English pronunciation of Latin is curious. In
Chaucer it was after the Roman fashion, in Spencer the English A
appears, and the change begins to make itself felt under the succession
of Queen Elizabeth. It is most probable that this was encouraged by
the leaders of education, in order more thoroughly to break with
Rome. The effect was, that after learning Greek and Latin for twenty
years, a lad could hardly speak a sentence, because he had never been
taught to converse in the absurdly _called_ Dead Languages, and if
he did speak, not a soul but an Englishman could understand him. The
English pronunciation of Latin vowels, happens to be the very worst
in the world, because we have an O and an A which belongs peculiarly
to English, and which destroys all the charms of those grand-sounding
vowels.
Years after I was laughed at at Oxford, public opinion took a turn,
and Roman pronunciation of Latin was adopted in many of the best
schools. I was anxious to see them drop their absurd mispronunciation
of Greek, but all the authorities whom I consulted on the subject,
declared to me that schoolmasters had quite enough to do with learning
Italianized Latin, and could not be expected to trouble themselves with
learning Athenianized Greek. I had another most quixotic idea, which
was truly breaking one's head against a windmill. I wanted the public
to pronounce Yob for Job, Yericho for Jericho, Yakoob for Jacob, and
Yerusalem for Jerusalem. The writers of the Anglican version, must
certainly have intended this, and it is inconceivable how the whole
English public dropped the cognate German pronunciation of J, and took
to that of France and Italy.
[Sidenote: _Holidays._]
At last the dreary time passed away, and a happy family meeting was
promised. My father brought my mother and sister from Pisa to Wiesbaden
in Germany, and we boys, as we were still called, were invited over
to spend the Long Vacation. We were also to escort Mrs. D'Aguilar,
who with two of her daughters were determined to see the Rhine. One of
the girls was Emily, who died soon. The other was Eliza, who married a
clergyman of the name of Pope, and whose son, Lieutenant Pope of the
24th Queen's, died gallantly at Isandula; though surrounded by numbers,
he kept firing his revolver and wounding his enemies, till he received
a mortal wound by an assegai in the breast. This was on January 22nd,
1879. In the end of 1875 he came to Folkestone, to take leave of my
wife and me, who were going out to India. We both liked him very much.
In those days travellers took the steamer from London Bridge, dropped
quietly down the Thames, and, gaining varied information about the
places on both sides of it, dined as usual on a boiled leg of mutton
and caper sauce, and roast ribs of beef with horse-radish, and slept
as best they could in the close boxes called berths or on deck; if the
steamer was in decent order, and there was not too much head wind, they
could be in the Scheldt next morning.
Our little party passed a day at Antwerp, which looked beautiful from
the river. The Cathedral tower and the tall roofs and tapering spires
of the churches around it made a matchless group. We visited the
fortifications, which have lately done such good work, and we had an
indigestion of Rubens, who appeared so gross and so fleshy after the
Italian school. Mrs. D'Aguilar was dreadfully scandalized, when, coming
suddenly into a room, she found her two nephews at romps with a pretty
little _soubrette_, whose short petticoats enabled her to deliver the
sharpest possible kicks, while she employed her hands in vigorously
defending her jolly red cheeks. The poor lady threw up her hands and
her eyes to heaven when she came suddenly upon this little scene, and
she was even more shocked when she found that her escort had passed the
Sunday evening in the theatre.
From Antwerp we travelled to Bruges, examined the belfry, heard the
chimes, and then went on to Cologne. A marvellous old picturesque place
it was, with its combination of old churches, crumbling walls, gabled
houses, and the narrowest and worst-paved streets we had ever seen.
The old Cathedral in those days was not finished, and threatened never
to be finished. Still there was the grand solitary tower, with the
mystical-looking old crane on the top, and a regular garden growing out
of the chinks and crannies of the stonework. Coleridge's saying about
Cologne, was still emphatically true in those days, and all travellers
had recourse to "Jean Marie Farina _Gegenüber_." What a change there is
now, with that hideous Gothic railway bridge, and its sham battlements,
and loopholes to defend nothing, with its hideous cast-iron turret
over the centre of the church, where the old architect had intended a
light stone lantern-tower, with the ridiculous terrace surrounding the
building, and with the hideous finials with which the modern German
architects have disfigured the grand old building!
[Sidenote: _The Rhine to Wiesbaden._]
At Cologne we took the steamer and ran up the river. A far more
sensible proceeding than that of these days, when tourists take the
railway, and consequently can see only one side of the view. The river
craft was comfortable, the meals were plentiful, the Piesporter was a
sound and unadulterated wine, and married remarkably well with Knaster
tobacco, smoked in long pipes with painted china bowls. The crowd, too,
was good-tempered, and seemed to enjoy its holiday. Bonn, somehow or
other, always managed to show at least one very pretty girl, with blue
porcelain eyes and gingerbread-coloured hair. Then came the Castle Crag
of Drachenfels and the charming Siebengebirge, which in those days were
not spoiled by factory chimneys. We landed at Mainz, and from there
drove over to the old Fontes Mattiace, called in modern day Wiesbaden.
It has been said that to enjoy the Rhine one must go to it _from_
England, not the other way from Switzerland; and travellers' opinions
are very much divided about it, some considering it extremely grand,
and others simply pretty. I was curious to see what its effect upon me
would be after visiting the four quarters of the globe; so, in May,
1872, I dropped down the river from Basle to the mouth. The southern
and the northern two-thirds were uninteresting, but I found the
middle as pretty as ever, and, in fact, I enjoyed the beautiful and
interesting river more than when I had seen it as a boy.
I found the middle, beginning at Bingen, charming. Bishop Hatto's
Tower had become a cockneyfied affair, and the castles, banks, and
islands were disagreeably suggestive of Richmond Hill. But Drachenfels,
Nonnenswerth, and Rolandseck, were charming, and I quite felt the
truth of the saying, that this is one of the paradises of Germany.
At Düsseldorf the river became old and ugly, and so continued till
Rotterdam.
Wiesbaden in those days was intensely "German and ordinary," as Horace
Walpole says. It was a kind of Teutonic Margate, with a _chic_ of its
own. In the days before railways, this was the case with all these
"Baths," where people either went to play, or to get rid of what the
Germans call _eine sehr schöne corpulenz_, a corporation acquired by
stuffing food of three kinds, salt, sour, or greasy, during nine or ten
months of the year. It was impossible to mistake princely Baden-Baden
and its glorious Black Forest, for invalid Kissingen or for Homberg,
which combined mineral waters and gambling tables. Wiesbaden was
so far interesting that it showed the pure and unadulterated summer
life of middle-class Germans. There you see in perfection the grave
blue-green German eye.
You are surprised at the frequency of the name of Johann. Johann was
a servant; Johannes, a professor; Schani, a swell; Jean, a kind of
_fréluqué_; Hans, a peasant; and Hansl, a village idiot. Albrecht,
with flat occiput, and bat-like ears, long straight hair and cap,
with unclean hands, and a huge signet ring on his forefinger, with a
pipe rivalling the size of a Turkish _chibouque_, took his regular
seat on one of the wooden benches of the promenade, with Frau Mutter
mending his stockings on one side, and Fraülein Gretchen knitting
mittens on the other. This kind of thing would continue perhaps for ten
seasons, but on the eleventh you met Albrecht, _au petit soins_, with
Mütze as his bride, and Gretchen being waited upon by her bridegroom
Fritz, and then everything went on as before. Amongst the women the
_kaffee-gesellschaft_ flourished, when coffee and scandal took the
place of scandal and tea, the beverage which I irreverently call
"chatter-water." The lady of the house invites two or three friends
to come and bring their work and drink a cup of coffee. Before the
hour arrives the invitations most likely number twenty. They dress in
afternoon promenade toilette, which was very unadorned at Wiesbaden,
and they drop in one by one--much kissing and shaking of hands and
uncloaking; then each one pulls out knitting, or various pieces of
work, which are mutually admired, and patterns borrowed, and then they
fall to upon children, servants, toilettes, domestic economy, and the
reputations of such of their friends as are not there. This goes on for
hours, only interrupted by the servant wheeling in a table covered with
coffee, cakes, sweetmeats, jam, and _kugelhupf_.
In the evening there was often a dance at the Kursaal--admirable
waltzing, and sometimes quadrilles with steps. Here the bald old
Englishman, who in France would collect around him all the old ladies
in the room to see him dance, was little noticed. The hearty and homely
Germans danced themselves, even when they had grey hair.
Our family found a comfortable house at Wiesbaden, and the German
servants received the "boys," as we were still called, with
exclamations of "Ach! die schöne schwarze kinder." We paid occasionally
furtive visits to the Kursaal, and lost a few sovereigns like men. But
our chief amusement was the fencing-room. Here we had found new style
of play, with the _schläger_, a pointless rapier with razor-like edges.
It was a favourite student's weapon, used to settle all their affairs
of honour, and they used it with the silly hanging guard. Some of them
gave half an hour every day to working at the post, a wooden pillar
stuck up in the middle of the room and bound with vertical ribbons of
iron.
When we were tired of Wiesbaden, we amused ourselves with wandering
about the country. We visited the nearer watering-places. The first was
Schwalbach, "the Swallows' Brook," where the rusty waters turned all
our hair red. We then went off to Schlangenbad, "the Snakes' Bath,"
whose Kalydor made the Frenchman fall in love with himself. These
waters had such a reputation, that one lady (of course she was called a
Russian Princess) used to have them sent half across Europe for daily
use.
In those days there were not many English in these out-of-the-way
places, and the greater number were Oxford and Cambridge men. They
were learning German and making the most extraordinary mistakes.
One gentleman said that the German particles were difficult, but he
made a great confusion of the matter. Amongst others, there were the
daughters of Archbishop Whately, at that time very nice girls. We
then returned to Wiesbaden, and went over to Heidelberg, which is so
charmingly picturesque. Here we found a little colony of English, and
all fraternized at once.
[Sidenote: _The Nassau Brigade._]
We "boys" wanted to enter one of the so-called brigades, and chose
the Nassau, which was the fightingest of all. An Irish student, who
was one of the champions of the corps, and who had distinguished
himself by slitting more than one nose, called upon us, and, over
sundry _schoppes_ of beer, declared that we could not be admitted
without putting in an appearance at the Hirschgasse. This was a little
pot-house at the other side of the river, with a large room where
monomachies were fought. The appearance of the combatants was very
ridiculous. They had thick felt caps over their heads, whose visors
defended their eyes. Their necks were swathed in enormous cravats, and
their arms were both padded, and so were their bodies from the waist
downwards. There was nothing to hit but the face and the chest. That,
however, did not prevent disagreeable accidents. Sometimes too heavy
a cut went into the lungs, and at other times took an effect upon
either eye. But the grand thing was to walk off with the tip of the
adversary's nose, by a dexterous upward snick from the hanging guard.
A terrible story was told of a duel between a handsome man and an ugly
man. Beauty had a lovely nose, and Beast so managed that presently it
was found on the ground. Beauty made a rush for it, but Beast stamped
it out of all shape. There was a very little retreating in these
affairs, for the lines were chalked upon the ground. The seconds stood
by, also armed with swords and protected with masks, to see that there
was nothing like a _sauhieb_ or unfair cut. A medical student was
always present, and when a cut went home, the affair was stopped to
sew it up. Sometimes, however, the artery shrank, and its patient was
marked with a cross, as it was necessary to open his cheek above and
below in order to tie it up.
A story is told of a doctor who attended a students' duel, when the
mask fell, and one of them lost his nose. The doctor flew at it and
picked it up, and put it in his mouth to keep it warm, whipped out his
instruments, needle and thread, and so skilfully stitched on the nose,
and stopped it with plaster, that the edges united, and in a few weeks
the nose was as handsome and useful as ever.
We boys did not see the fun of this kind of thing, and when our Irish
friend told us what the ordeal was, we said that we were perfectly
ready to turn out with foils or rapiers, but that we could not stand
the paddings. Duels with the broadsword, and without protection, were
never fought except on desperate occasions. Our friend promised to
report it to the brigade, and the result was that some time afterwards
we were introduced to a student, who said that he knew a little
fencing, and should like to try a _botte_ with us. We smelt a rat,
as the phrase is, and showed him only half of what we could do. But
apparently that was enough, for our conditions were not accepted, and
we were not admitted into the Nassau Brigade.
At Heidelberg I told my father that Oxford life did not in any way
suit me. I pleaded for permission to go into the Army, and, that
failing, to emigrate to Canada or Australia. He was inexorable. He
was always thinking of that fellowship. Edward, too, was deadly tired
of Dr. Havergal, and swore that he would rather be a "private" than
a fellow of Cambridge. However, he was sent _nolens volens_ to the
University on the Cam, and there he very speedily came to grief. It
was remarked of him, before the end of the first term, that he was
never seen at Chapel. His tutor sent for him, and permitted himself
strong language on this delinquency. "My dear sir," was the reply, "no
party of pleasure ever gets me out of bed before ten o'clock, and do
you _really, really_ think that I am going to be in Chapel at eight
o'clock?" "Are you joking, or is that your mature decision?" said the
tutor. "My very ripest decision," said Edward, and consequently he was
obliged to leave college without delay.
When the visit was over, and the autumnal term was beginning, I left
Germany and steamed down the Rhine. Everything that I saw made me less
likely to be pleased at the end of my journey. However, there was no
choice for it. I arrived in London, and found my grandmother and aunts
still at the seaside, in a house over the cliff at Ramsgate. Ramsgate
I rather liked. There were some very handsome girls there, the Ladies
P----t, and the place had a kind of distant resemblance to Boulogne.
The raffles at the libraries made it a caricature of a German Bath.
I wandered about the country; I visited Margate, where the tone of
society was perfectly marvellous, and ran about the small adjacent
bathing-places, like Broadstairs and Herne Bay. This brought on the
time when I was obliged to return to Oxford.
I went there with no good will, and as my father had refused to
withdraw me from the University, I resolved to withdraw myself.
[Sidenote: _The Straws that broke the Camel's Back._]
My course of action was one of boyish thoughtlessness. Reports of
wine-parties were spread everywhere, whispers concerning parodies on
venerable subjects, squibs appeared in the local papers--in those days
an unpardonable offence--caricatures of Heads of Houses were handed
about, and certain improvisations were passed from mouth to mouth. I
had a curious power of improvising any number of rhymes, without the
slightest forethought; but the power, such as it was, was perfectly
useless to me, as it was accompanied with occasional moments of
nervousness, when I despaired, without the slightest reason whatever,
of finding the easiest rhyme. Probably the professional Italian, who
declaims a poem or a tragedy, labours under the perfect conviction that
nothing in the world can stop him. And then it is so much easier to
rhyme in Italian than in English; so my efforts were mostly confined to
epigrams and epitaphs, at wines and supper-parties, and you may be sure
that these brilliant efforts did me no good.
This was the beginning of the end. My object was to be rusticated, not
to be expelled. The former may happen in consequence of the smallest
irregularity, the latter implies ungentlemanly conduct. I cast about
in all directions for the safest line, when fortune put the clue
into my hands. A celebrated steeplechaser, Oliver the Irishman, came
down to Oxford, and I was determined to see him ride. The collegiate
authorities, with questionable wisdom, forbad us all to be present at
the races, and especially at what they called "the disgraceful scenes
of 'race ordinaries.'" Moreover, in order to make matters sure, they
ordered all the undergraduates to be present at the college lecture, at
the hour when the race was to be run.
A number of high-spirited youngsters of the different colleges swore
that they would not stand this nonsense, that it was infringing the
liberty of the subject, and that it was treating them like little boys,
which they did not deserve. Here, doubtless, they were right. But, well
foreseeing what would be the result, they acted according to the common
saying, "In for a penny, in for a pound;" so the tandem was ordered to
wait behind Worcester College, and when they should have been attending
a musty lecture in the tutor's room, they were flicking across the
country at the rate of twelve miles an hour. The steeplechase was a
delight, and Oliver was very amusing at the race ordinary, although he
did not express much admiration for the riding of what he called "The
Oxford lads."
[Sidenote: _Rusticated._]
Next morning there was eating of humble-pie. The various culprits
were summoned to the Green Room and made conscious of the enormity
of the offence. I secured the respect of the little knot by arguing
the point with the college dignitaries. I boldly asserted that there
was no moral turpitude at being present at a race. I vindicated the
honour and dignity of collegiate men by asserting that they should not
be treated as children. I even dropped the general axiom "that trust
begets trust," and "they who trust us elevate us." Now, this was too
much of a good thing, to commit a crime, and to declare it a virtuous
action. Consequently, when all were rusticated, I was singled out
from the _Hoi polloi_, by an especial recommendation not to return to
Oxford from a Rus. Stung by a sense of injustice, I declared at once
that I would leave the college, and expressed a vicious hope, that
the caution-money deposited by my father would be honestly returned
to him. This was the climax. There was a general rise of dignitaries,
as if a violent expulsion from the room was intended. I made them my
lowest and most courtly bow, Austrian fashion, which bends the body
nearly double, wished them all happiness for the future, and retired
from the scene. I did not see Oxford again till 1850, when, like the
prodigal son, I returned to Alma Mater with a half-resolution to finish
my terms and take my bachelor degree.[4] But the idea came too late.
I had given myself up to Oriental studies, and I had begun to write
books. Yet I was always glad, during my occasional visits home, to call
at my old college, have a chat with the Reverend and Venerable Thomas
Short, and to breakfast and dine with the dons who had been bachelors
or undergraduates at the time of my departure.
The way in which I left Oxford was characteristic of the rest. One of
my rusticated friends, Anderson of Oriel, had proposed that we should
leave with a splurge--"go up from the land with a soar." There was now
no need for the furtive tandem behind Worcester College. It was driven
boldly up to the college doors. My bag and baggage were stowed away
in it, and with a cantering leader and a high-trotting shaft-horse,
which unfortunately went over the beds of the best flowers, we started
from the High Street by the Queen's Highway to London, I artistically
performing upon a yard of tin trumpet, waving adieu to my friends, and
kissing my hand to the pretty shop-girls. In my anger I thoroughly felt
the truth of the sentiment--
"I leave thee, Oxford, and I loathe thee well,
Thy saint, thy sinner, scholar, prig, and swell."
Alfred Bates Richards, Dick's college mate, wrote in after years: "It
is a curious reflection at school for any boy or any master, 'What
will become of the boy? Who will turn out well? who ill? Who will
distinguish himself? who will remain in obscurity? Who live? who die?'
I am sure, though Burton was brilliant, rather wild, and very popular,
none of us foresaw his future greatness, nor knew what a treasure we
had amongst us."
[1] He began and wrote the "Career of R. F. Burton," printed by
Waterlow, and brought it up to 1876. We deeply regretted him.--I. B.
[2] Richard always said that if _all_ Catholics were like Dr. Newman,
nearly every thinking person would become Catholic.--I. B.
[3] I can remember, in later years, Richard going to see him, and
when he was so old he had almost to be supported, gazing at him with
affection and moist eyes.--I. B.
[4] How often I have heard him regret that he did not do this, and I
can testify that at the bottom of his heart he loved Oxford, but he
could not obey his father, and also carry out the destiny for which he
was best fitted and obliged to follow.--I. B.