Oxford Days; or, How Ross Got His Degree

But there he stopped by lack of rhymes and a general stampede of the Freshmen, to the great relief of the much-enduring Master.

Frank selected for Responsions the books he had offered for Matriculation, the usual and natural course; and with the assistance of Crawford to interpret the Lecture-List on the college gates, he made out his own lecture-card as follows:—

The lectures in his books were much the same as at school, except that the undergraduates were treated with more respect than school-boys. A certain quantity was set: the men were put on in turn to translate; and general questions asked. Sometimes, if time permitted, the lecturer would translate the lesson himself when the men had finished.

The grammar and prose in Hall were in the form of examination. The men were called up one by one to be shown the mistakes in the papers done on previous days, so that, with this interruption, not much more than forty minutes were left for actual writing. The prose on Thursday morning was the only tutorial link that bound Mr. Wood to his pupil, and that was, as often as not, severed by a note to the effect that Mr. Wood would be “unable to see Mr. Ross on Thursday morning.”

To Frank the work seemed as nothing after the long hours of school. It never occurred to him to look ahead, and to think of Moderations; in fact, he had been told not to do so. And so he commenced, energetically it is true, going over work he already knew well enough to satisfy the examiners, listening to the marvellous mistakes of his fellow-freshmen and of those senior men who had been degraded because of failure in previous terms. He soon learnt to think nothing of hearing mistakes that would disgrace school-boys of fifteen; and to fancy that, because he regularly prepared his work and attended his lectures, he was working to the utmost extent that he could, or that was required of him. And that is how so many first terms are wasted, and boys with energy enough for eight or ten hours’ daily study drift into two or three, and often into none at all. Failure sometimes rouses them; but it is a questionable remedy, and more often demoralizes than benefits.

There is not much work done in the summer term; an outsider might say, none at all. But then he would be judging from the external appearance of the place: the quads crowded with lounging men, waiting for drags to go to the cricket-ground; the wide-open windows with their gay flowers, whence issue sounds and scents of the heavy luncheons of the more languidly inclined; the river swarming with boats of all sorts and sizes; the Union rooms full of readers leisurely scanning the papers or dipping into the magazines, with ices or cigars to soothe or sweeten the summer afternoons; the roads busy with rattling pony-carriages bound for Woodstock or Abingdon, Witney or Thame; even the shops themselves are full, whose windows from without and wares within tempt the passing “loafer.” “Where are the reading men?” the stranger may well ask.

There are plenty of them if you know where to find them. But it is just because the stranger is a stranger that he won’t find them. What can he know of the hours of heavy work got through in the quiet of those bright summer afternoons; of the one close-shut room on this deserted staircase of open, idle doors; of that back-quad attic, with its sported oak; of the “coach’s” crowded chambers, where, unheeding the charms of river or cricket-field, of Union-garden or leafy roads, he and his hourly pupils sit, “grinding for the schools”?

Besides, the surprised and maybe shocked stranger must remember that a large number of men who come to Oxford do not come there merely for the sake of the degree. They take one if they can; the sooner they can, so much the better are they pleased. They come to be made men and gentlemen. A degree is only one of the many means to that end. It is only because some make it their all-absorbing motive that the University sends forth into the world so many prigs.

Within the first week Frank had made many friends, most of them friends of Crawford’s, who had called at his suggestion. The secretaries of the Boat and Cricket Clubs had looked him up, to whom Frank, with much pleasure, had paid his entrance fee and annual subscriptions.

The captain of the Paul’s company in the Rifle Corps had come to work upon his military ardour; the president of the College Debating Society, to arouse his ambition for oratory; the collector for the various Church Societies, to test his impartiality and charity. Frank was enabled, by his father’s wish and the means he had placed at his disposal, to join the various societies, and pay the subscriptions. But it was not this pecuniary willingness alone that gained for our freshman so much popularity. The pecuniary outlay was as follows:—

There is no need to enter into Frank’s charitable subscriptions. They were neither large nor small, but what they were, were given with pleasure. About this time also came in the valuation of his rooms, amounting to 30l. Our freshman is now, therefore, fairly started on his career.

CHAPTER IV.
THE EIGHTS.

“You’d better come down to my rooms. I’ve got one or two fellows coming in for a hand at whist.”

Frank, not being the impossible model young man of the story-books, did not resist the invitation, but, linking his arm into Morton’s, went off to Magdalen. The April night was not so warm that a fire was not pleasant. Morton’s rooms were in the old quad, looking out towards the new buildings and the deer-park. The curtains were drawn and the lights burning. Several little tables were laid with dessert, and one cleared in the centre of the room, with packs of cards upon it. There were about a dozen men present.

Dessert over, cards began; but it was not whist. Everybody voted that slow. Frank himself thought that he never had played so enticing a game as loo. When he knocked in that night at five minutes to twelve, he fancied the porter eyed him suspiciously and knew that he had returned minus a few pounds and plus a racking headache. His suspicions were right. Few read more rightly or more quickly the character and career of the undergraduates than the porters who open to them nightly.

But, in spite of his headache, Frank managed to be up at four o’clock next morning. He had accepted Morton’s invitation to breakfast at six, after hearing the choir sing the May-Morning Hymn on the college tower. George, the porter, as he opened the Lodge-gates to Frank and others, thought, in spite of his pale face, that he at least could not have been up to much mischief last night, or he would not have been up so early after it. And George, usually infallible, began to retract his last night’s opinion.

As he stood on the leads and looked down through the grey battlements on the faint fresh green that was brightening the trees in the Botanical Gardens; on the distant spires and towers; and on the less fortunate crowds in the street below; and as the sweet voices of the choir rose and blended through the soft morning air, a feeling, whether it was regret or remorse he hardly knew, came over him. Anyhow he felt that this was a sweeter, purer pleasure than the gambling of last night, and confessed to himself that he had been “an utter fool for his pains.”

It was a blazing afternoon about the end of May. The river—meaning thereby the Isis, the main river, to distinguish it from its tributary the Cherwell—was deserted save for a few energetic men in outrigged skiffs practising for sculling races, and the boatmen, in charge of the various college barges, sweltering in the sun, and, as fast as the heat would allow them, making preparations for the work of the evening. The Cherwell, with its slow, shady stream, its winding banks and drooping trees, was the favourite resort, but even here all was quiet. Every now and then a canoe flashed by lazily, or a punt plunged up in search of some cool nook. There was a momentary disturbance, perhaps, as it bumped against one already moored; and pairs of sleepy eyes would look up to scowl at the new-comer, if a stranger; or greet him lazily if a friend.

Just in one of the pleasantest corners, Frank and Monkton had fixed their craft, and were lying face upwards on a couple of enormous cushions—Monkton smoking or pretending to smoke; Frank reading or pretending to read.

“Are you going to stay for the Eights?” asked Monkton.

“Rather,” answered Frank. “Why? aren’t you?”

“No, not I! In the first place, I don’t care about them; and in the second place, I’ve promised Morton to drive to Abingdon at seven. It’ll be getting cool then.”

“It seems to me you’re rather fond of going to Abingdon,” answered Frank. “What’s the attraction?”

“My dear boy, ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies”—and at that moment a punt ran right into them.

“Now then, sir, look ahead!” spluttered Monkton as their punt was nearly upset, and his cigar falling from his mouth burnt a small hole in his flannel trousers. The intruder apologized and plunged on again to disturb the rest of other unlucky beings.

“Well,” went on Frank, “I’m glad I’ve not to pay your bill for pony-traps, that’s all.”

“Oh, well, as far as that goes,” retorted Monkton, waking up a little, “that don’t trouble me. I patronize the trustful Traces, and I’m sure the trustful one would be quite embarrassed if I offered to pay him; so I don’t. That’s all.”

“Does your governor give you an allowance?” asked Frank.

“Not he. He told me not to get into debt, and to send in the bills. And a fellow can’t live like a hermit. I’ve always had a horse at home, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t have one here. But I’m not proud, and so I hire a pony instead, and I’m sure the old man ought not to mind.”

“Come out of that, you lazy young beggar!” called a voice in Frank’s ears, and looking up he saw Crawford in one of those little cockle-shells in which Mr. Verdant Green so highly distinguished himself—“Aren’t you coming down to see the Eights?”

Monkton looked at Crawford with that expression of half insolence, half fear, which characterizes so many freshmen, and drawled out,—

“Yes; Ross is going. He’s so energetic, you know.”

“That’s a blessing, at all events,” answered Crawford, “as long as there are fellows like you, about.”

“By Jove!” said Frank, pulling out his watch, “it’s getting late. If you’re going to Abingdon at seven, Monkton, you’ll have to look sharp.”

“Going to Abingdon?” asked Crawford, half to himself, and getting no answer from Monkton.

“Look here! I say, you fellows! can’t you manage to get this punt back to the barges, and let me cut up through the meadows?” said Monkton. “I promised to be in Morton’s rooms at half-past six, and it’s just on six now.”

“All right,” said Frank, “Crawford will help me back with the punt”—really glad to get rid of him, for his younger and his older friend did not hit it off exactly.

“It strikes me that young man is beginning rather early,” said Crawford paternally, as he lashed his boat to the punt and got in, much to Frank’s relief, for it was his first day in a punt.

The latter did not say much, for he had himself commenced various extensive dealings with the trustful tradesmen—trustful, that is, for two years, but most distrustful afterwards—and he feared questioning and an inevitable lecture from Crawford.

By the time they reached the barges, the river and banks were getting crowded. The band was assembling on the ’Varsity barge (that belonging to the University Boat Club); and all the other college barges were in a bustle of excitement. It was “the first night of the Eights,” and many were the attempts to explain that somewhat elliptical phrase to the uninitiated matrons and maidens who were flocking from every quarter of the town.

Just at the mouth of the Cherwell, Crawford and Frank met a party of ladies and escorted them to the Paul’s barge; and the latter, though he fancied he was clear as to the meaning of “Eights” and “Torpids,” was really not sorry to overhear his friend’s explanation.

“You see,” Crawford was saying to a pretty girl with bright blue eyes, that certainly did not seem to be reminded that they could see—“You see, every college, that is athletic enough, has a Boat Club; the best eight oars, rowers I mean, constitute ‘the Eight;’ the second best eight are ‘the Torpid.’ The Torpid-races, or as we call them, ‘the Torpids,’ take place in the Lent term; every college that has an Eight and a Torpid enters the latter for the Torpid-races; and then they all row to see which is best. Then in the Summer term ‘the Eights’ are on; that is the races of the college Eight-oars; to-night is the first night, you know. All the Eights are going to row to see which is best.”

“Yes; but,” said Blue-eyes, “why do they have more than one race?”

“Well, you see”—Crawford could not help the phrase—“that is—er—it’s rather difficult to explain.”

But after a moment he took courage, and plunged into his explanation, which was to this effect, and which may assist the uninitiated reader.

The river is too narrow to admit of boats racing abreast. They are therefore arranged one behind the other, there being 120 feet from the nose of one to the stern of the other. All start simultaneously, the object of each being to “bump”—i.e. run into and touch the one in front of it. When a “bump” has taken place, both the “bumper” and the “bumped” row to the bank to let the others pass. There is a post opposite the barges, where most of the spectators sit, and when once a boat has passed this it cannot be bumped. The following night—called “night,” but really meaning seven o’clock—the boats all start, with this exception, that if, for example, on Monday Balliol has bumped Christ-Church, on Tuesday Balliol will start ahead of Christ-Church. The latter then has the chance of regaining its position by bumping Balliol, but it is also exposed to the danger of being bumped by the next boat. This goes on, in the case of the “Torpid,” for six days; of the “Eights,” for eight “nights.” At the end, the boat that finishes with all the others behind it, holds the proud position of “Head of the River” for the year. It may have gained this by making “bumps,” or by avoiding being “bumped.” How the order was, in the origin of the races, settled, it is impossible to say; but it is the rule that any college club which “puts on”—i.e. enters a boat for the races—for the first time shall start at the bottom. Perhaps, after this explanation, any remaining difficulty will be cleared up by suggesting, as an illustration, a school-class, in which a place is gained for a successful answer. The boats, by “bumping” and being “bumped,” respectively gain and lose places.

Crawford was rowing in the Brasenose Eight. So, after seeing his lady friends to seats on the top of the college barge, he ran down-stairs to dress for the race. The men who rowed in the Brasenose Eight and Torpid were unlike the majority of men of other colleges, in that they walked to the river in mufti, and put on their boating-clothes in their barge. Frank, pleading an excuse that he wanted to go down the Berkshire bank to see the start, but chiefly because he was rather shy, left Crawford’s party to the attention of some other men, and, crossing in old George West’s punt, was soon lost in the crowd.

One by one the boats paddled down to the start, cheered by their own men as they passed. The crowd thickened. A great surging mass pressed up against the rails that enclosed the barges, and gazed enviously at the lucky ones within the enclosure. A black line went coiling down the pathway towards Iffley. Those were the men who would see the start, and run back with the boats to cheer them on. Presently there was a great silence. Everybody was looking right away to the Iffley Willows, or at watches. Then the first gun went. Conversation flowed again for four minutes. Then the one-minute gun—and then utter silence, till with the third boom a roar of voices began, that came nearer and louder as the great black line began coiling home again, as fast as it could.

Brasenose was Head of the River; and Blue-eyes was wearing the Brasenose colours; and Blue-eyes’ heart, though she would not have confessed it, was in a flutter of excitement. On came the boats. Balliol was close behind Brasenose. The Brasenose men on bank and barge shouted. The Balliol men shouted more loudly. They must catch them. Blue-eyes hated the Balliol men; but, for all that, the nose of the Balliol boat was within a foot of the Brasenose rudder. Now it overlapped it, but failed to touch it, for the Brasenose coxswain, by a sharp pull of the rudder-string, turned a rush of water against their nose and washed them off.

The Brasenose men yelled till Blue-eyes felt the drums of her little ears were nigh to cracking. And then Crawford, who was rowing stroke, seemed to pull himself together for a final effort, and laying himself well out, gave his men a longer stroke. Now they were clear—now there was a foot between them—now two—now three. Then he quickened: his men answered bravely. Foot by foot they drew ahead, and when they were on the post, Balliol was a good length behind. Blue-eyes had often heard, “See, the Conquering Hero comes,” but she could not make out why the sound of it now gave her a choking feeling in the throat. Certainly she saw no more of the races, though boat by boat came by, each in as keen pursuit of the one just in advance of it as Balliol had been to catch Brasenose.

There was a merry party that night in Crawford’s rooms, and Blue-eyes sat by the host, and was highly amused at the plain fare he was obliged to eat in the midst of the dainties of the supper-table; and she was half inclined to be cross when at a quarter to ten the captain of the Boat Club, who was present, firmly but politely suggested the breaking up of the party—“unless,” he explained, “you want to see Brasenose go down to-morrow night.”

But men must work, or at any rate go in for examinations, whatever the women may do. So the “Eights” passed away, and Blue-eyes returned to her home, taking with her, from many, the sunshine she had brought. The Proctor’s notices recalled Frank and several hundred other unfortunates to the stern realities of University life. Parted for a while in the all-too-brief days of Blue-eyes’ supremacy, Monkton and Frank drifted together again by the force of kindred obligations. Together they went to the Junior Proctor, and entered their names for Responsions (commonly called “Smalls,” “because such a werry small number on ’em gets through,” as the guides will tell you); together they parted with the statutable guinea, fondly hoping that in due time they would get a tangible result in the shape of a testamur. Together they gazed admiringly, nor yet without awe, at their names when they appeared in the Gazette; and together, in white ties and “garments of a subfusc hue,” as prescribed by the statutes, they proceeded one bright morning in June to the Schools. There for two days, from nine to twelve, and from half-past one to half-past three, they were examined by papers. Then, after waiting a few days, Monkton’s vivâ voce came on, the order of this being alphabetical. But when at two o’clock the same day the Clerk of the Schools read out a list of those who had passed, and for the gladly-paid shilling handed over a small piece of blue paper, testifying the fact in the handwriting of the much-enduring Examiners, Monkton’s testamur was, alas! not forthcoming. Frank did not pass as easily as he might have passed. The last few weeks had taken the polish off his work. He got his testamur, it is true, but he was rather ashamed of feeling relieved, for he knew that he ought never to have had any fears of failing in such a school-boy examination.

He called on his tutor to consult him as to his future work. The First Public Examination (commonly called Moderations) is, like Responsions, obligatory on all; but here the student may offer either the minimum amount of work, called “a Pass,” or go in for Honours either in Classics or Mathematics. The Honours Examination is to chiefly test style of translation from Latin and Greek authors into English, and vice versâ, together with grammatical and critical questions bearing on the contents, style, and literary history of the books offered. Papers are also set in the Elements of Comparative Philology; the History of the Greek Drama, with Aristotle’s Poetics; and the Elements of Deductive Logic, with either selections from the Organon, or from Mill’s “Inductive Logic.” The four Gospels in Greek, together with questions on the subject-matter, are compulsory on all,—Passmen and Classmen alike. After the examination is over, the examiners (in this instance called Moderators) distribute the names of those whom they judge to have shown sufficient merit into three classes, the names in each class being arranged alphabetically. If a candidate is not good enough to be placed in a class, but has yet shown as much knowledge as is required of the ordinary Passmen, he receives a testamur to that effect. This is called a “gulf.” The subjects for Pass Moderations are Latin Prose (rather more difficult than for Responsions); the elements of Logic, or Arithmetic and Algebra to Quadratic Equations; unseen passages of Greek and Latin; and three authors, of whom one must be Greek, and one must be either an Orator, Philosopher, or Historian.

After a little questioning, Mr. Wood’s advice to Frank was to go in for a Pass, and, that over, to read for Honours in one of the Final Schools, such as Modern History or Law. The advice was wise, for his classical reading was not very much advanced; and even if he could have got through the bare reading of the necessary text-books, he would not have acquired the style of translation and elegance in composition needed for the highest honours.

He chose Logic in preference to Mathematics, by Mr. Wood’s advice; and for his authors, Herodotus (Books V. and VI.); Livy (Books V., VI., and VII.), and Juvenal, certain Satires being omitted. Having purchased these books, and laid in a good store of industrious intentions, he left Oxford and his freshman’s term behind him, not at all sorry to be going home.

CHAPTER V.
THE LONG VACATION.

There was a good deal of the school-boy’s pleasure in the commencement of the holidays, mixed with the pride that he felt in his new condition. There were only a few passengers for Porchester, and only a few people on the platform when he alighted; but the few there were knew him, and Oxford made the chief matter of their inquiries, and a pleasant topic for him to dilate upon. But he was soon hurried off by two of his admiring younger brothers, and seated at the side of old John, the factotum, in the pony-carriage, talking hard, now to him, now to his brothers, who sat behind. How familiar the road was! Did green hedges ever look so green as those? or was summer twilight ever so sweet as this that lay so peacefully about little Porchester? The old church-tower rose like a soft shadow from the close trees. There, beside it, peeped the vicarage gables and chimneys. There was old Sally, the laundress, resting at her gateway, rubbing her wrinkled fingers as though she would smooth away the signs of so much soap and water. There was the postmaster putting up the shutters of his little grocery-shop; the tailor in his garden, tending his standard roses; the blacksmith at his silent smithy; there were the carrier’s horses just being unharnessed from the van that in these primitive parts was no mean rival of the railway. A few children here; a knot of women there, chattering, scolding, laughing, staring, questioning; there a group of men outside the “Anchor;” here some boys playing marbles.

How unchanged it all was! The term at Oxford seemed like a dream. Frank could scarcely believe he had been away more than two months.

Now they are passing the vicarage garden. The gate is open, and Frank, much to the amusement of Tom and Will in the hind-seat of the pony-carriage, stares hard through the white posts and up the lawn. Whatever his thoughts or hopes may have been, they are rudely interrupted (and most probably shattered) by a couple of voices from behind, which seem to be bubbling over with amusement, and to be jostling each other for the first and loudest place.

“She’s away!”

“Who’s away?” asked Frank quietly, with assumed indifference.

“Who’s away?” repeat the two behind. “Why, who’re you looking for, eh?”

“Are the vicarage people away, then?” said Frank.

“Rose is,” again comes from the bubbling voices.

But before the subject can be pursued further, old John, pointing with his whip, says,—

“There’s the master, sir.”

And Frank, looking straight away up the road, discerns his father coming towards them, and jumps out of the carriage.

“Why, Frank, my boy, I declare you’ve grown!”

Nor did his dignity decline the honour. He took his father’s arm, and, letting the younger ones drive home with John and the luggage, walked and talked with his father till they reached the house. His mother and sisters were at the door to welcome him. Never had there been such a pleasant, proud home-coming yet. The servants peeped from the upper windows to see “Master Frank,” whom they doubtless expected to find completely transformed, and John, taking the luggage from the carriage, again took stock of him, and told the servants with an air that, as always, carried weight,—

“Arter all, there’s no place like college to make a man of a young gentleman.”

One scene more to complete the first act of our freshman’s life.

Mr. Ross was, as became a lawyer, a man of sound business-like habits. Directly after breakfast on the following morning he called Frank into his study, and they went together through all the bills.

The result of their investigation was as follows:—

The summer passed. Frank had been to the Henley Regatta at Crawford’s invitation, and had stayed with him at the old “Red Lion” with various crews; had run down the bank at his side when he was practising for the Diamond Sculls in the sweet June mornings, and had shouted with the shouting crowd when he won the race, beating the London man and the Cantab who had been training “dark.” Then he had gone to Crawford’s home for a pleasant week; then back to little Porchester, where, with garden-parties and cricket, with boating on the river that seemed so deserted after the crowded Isis, and lawn-tennis, the time had passed away happily enough. Of work for the “Schools” Frank had done little or nought; but when in August the vicar’s daughter left Porchester for six weeks, work somehow seemed easier, and he managed to get through a fair amount; and again, when the boys went back to school about the middle of September, and he was left alone with his parents and sisters, there seemed fresh opportunities for study. But then—but then back came the vicar’s daughter, and books were again forgotten. The village seemed to have gained fresh beauties. Every old gate and stile seemed no longer made of common wood, every hedge no longer clad with common green. The organ-loft where she practised in the week was no longer a dusty, dark, break-neck place, but the place for breaking something which, whatever lovers may say, is often easily mended by

And what a poet Frank was in those days! How he idealized, and in his own fashion glorified, every little winding woodland path, every glimpse of wold seen through the fading autumn leaves, every stretch of quiet river, the old boats, the crumbling bridge, the dark weir, the church-tower—that useful part of a young poet’s stock-in-trade.

In fact, when he returned to Oxford one Friday evening in October, he quite agreed with the old woman’s and the sailor’s superstition that Friday was an unlucky day; he wrapped himself in his rug, and felt that if his heart was not breaking, he was at least deeply in love. Silence was his consolation. He rejected the invitation of a friend whom he met en route to transfer himself and his goods to the atmosphere of a smoking compartment. He stared gloomily at the persistent bookstall-boys; rejected even the offer of a Banbury cake at Didcot. In his condition, there was something positively comforting in that most cheerless and wretched of all stations. The wind that moaned in the telegraph-wires seemed to murmur “Rose.” The bell that rang violently in the platform-porter’s hand seemed like the little single bell in Porchester Church—of course much louder and harsher to Frank’s imagination, but it was a bell, and it recalled Rose, and that was enough.

Having passed safely through the turmoil of the Oxford platform, and the loneliness of Friday night, on Saturday morning he rushed precipitously to Davis’s picture-shop in “the Turl,”[8] and having purchased a photograph of the Huguenot picture by Millais, hung it in a corner by his chimney looking-glass. In that corner his friends noticed he now was constantly to be found sitting. They, of course, did not know that in that picture Frank saw Rose and himself under the vicarage wall. He was at a loss, it is true, to account even to himself for the pocket-handkerchief which is being bound round the reluctant arm. But what mattered to him such a paltry detail, even though it made the whole gist of the picture?

Term began with the usual routine. Chapel at half-past eight on Saturday evening, at which all assembled except a few who were detained by those convenient “tidal trains,” which always seem to be late when one is coming back from a Long-Vacation scamper on the Continent, or from the injured Emerald Isle, but never when one is thither bound.

And then comes Sunday morning, with the many good-intentioned ones hurrying to their seats past the much-enduring Bible-clerk, whose labours would, however, very soon lessen with the growth of term;—Sunday, with the heavy luncheon;—Sunday, with the long constitutional in the bright October sunlight—was a first Sunday in Michaelmas Term ever other than a bright one? Dinner in Hall at six, with the endless greetings that the confusion of Chapel had prevented. Monday morning, with its formal calls on Master and Dean, Tutor and Lecturer; and Monday evening, with its posted list of lectures, club-meetings, and subscriptions; till Tuesday morning comes, with the greater or less obedience of the victims of those various calls, shows that term has begun in very earnest, no matter whether the earnestness be the earnestness of industry or of that which flourishes as abundantly—idleness.

CHAPTER VI.
“THE FLYING TERMS.”

It was a Thursday night; and the rooms of the “Union” were crowded, for the debate was to be opened by a popular member. A few men were in the reading-rooms, indifferent to the subject and its mover; a few were in the writing-room, hurrying over their letters, in order to be in time for the “private business,” which is usually the most amusing part of the evening’s proceedings. There were several important telegrams posted in the Hall, and the stopping of members to read them considerably added to the general confusion. Ladies were hurrying upstairs to the little uncomfortable gallery,[9] with amused looks of curiosity, or the calm equanimity of accustomed visitors. No one to-night waited to read, either for edification or for amusement, the endless notices of those private tutors, to whom advertisement seems a dire necessity—those manifestos of all shades, pleading, peremptory, apologetic, confidential, and confident, which suggest the question:—“Where are the pupils, to be instructed by these willing and anxious instructors?”

The steward’s room is in possession of two attendants only, for the steward and his indefatigable son are upstairs in the committee-room, in attendance upon the committee.

It is eight o’clock, and the debating-room is crammed. Every seat is filled; but those for whom there are not seats are quite content to stand. The gallery is fringed with women’s faces, looking down upon the mass of men below. There is a murmur of suppressed conversation, which suddenly ceases on the cry of “Order.” The president enters, followed by the treasurer, librarian, and most of the members of the committee. He is in evening dress—the exception and not the rule; in his case it is the sign of honour. He has been dining, for the first time, at the High table of the college which has just elected him Fellow. To-night is his first public appearance since his election, and, being a popular man and officer, he is loudly cheered. The officers seat themselves, and in a moment the president rises and proclaims “Order,” and the business of the evening commences. He first reads a list of those members of the University proposed for election, and those already elected, and then calls upon the librarian to bring forth his list of books. That officer, a big-headed, ungainly man, with a squint, hurries through a list, to which prices and particulars are appended, and then asks any, who wish, to challenge any book or books. If any are challenged, they are temporarily withdrawn from the list, and the rest are put to the vote and carried; after which the objections are made to the particular books before challenged, and are met by the librarian with considerable ability, and the books, with one exception, carried. He then rises to propose “That ‘The Gorgon Head’ (much laughter), by Mr. Tennyson Jones, presented by the author to the library, be accepted by the society, and that a vote of thanks be given to the honourable member for his present.”

No one wishing to challenge this proposition, it is formally put and carried, with faint cheering.

The president then rises: “Does any honourable member wish to put any question to the officers of this society relative to their official duties?”

At least a dozen members rise in different parts of the room—we beg pardon—the House.

A red-headed young gentleman, with spectacles, catches first the president’s eye, and is put in possession of the House. His voice is high and shrill.

“Sir—”

“Hear! hear!” from several facetious members encouragingly.

“Sir—I wish to ask the honourable treasurer—(loud cries of ‘Speak up, sir’)—I wish to ask the honourable treasurer—”

“Hear! hear!” from a stentorian voice in one corner.

“Order! order!”

“Sir,” again resumes the luckless red-headed inquirer, “I—I—have lost my umbrella. I—I—put it in the stand on Wednesday evening—(‘Hear! hear!’)—on my way to—to—the smoking-room, and—and—and—it was not there when I came back.” And the speaker drops into his seat.

The treasurer takes no notice, but the president rises and says:—“I must remind the honourable member that any statement he may have to make must be introduced or followed by a question.”

The owner of the lost umbrella rises, and before he has opened his mouth is told to “speak up.” This time he does speak up, in very shrillness: “I wish to ask the honourable treasurer whether he will take some steps for the recovery of my umbrella.”

The treasurer is a stout youth, short of speech and of stature. He clips his sentences: “I must remind the honourable member that this society is not a police institution. I regret the loss of his umbrella. I regret still more that there are members in this society so careless or so dishonest as to remove umbrellas not belonging to them.”

“Sir”—from another corner—“I consider the answer of the honourable treasurer most unsatisfactory. I now beg to ask him whether he will take steps to prevent the robbery—(‘Oh! oh!’)—yes—robbery of the property of members of this society.”

The treasurer is again on his legs: “In answer to the last honourable member, I beg to say that as far as I know anything of the funds of this society, it is not in a position to pay for policemen to guard the umbrellas of honourable members. If honourable members value their umbrellas, I should recommend them to leave them in the steward’s room, or carry them with them into whichever of the society’s rooms they may go.”

“Sir”—from another quarter—“will you move for a committee of inquiry into the loss of umbrellas and other property?” (Loud cheers.)

By this time the treasurer is white-hot:—“No, sir!” and he flumps into his chair—(loud cheers from the treasurer’s partisans and from the admirers of his doggedness). He is not, however, yet done with.

“I beg to ask the honourable treasurer,” says a grimy-looking youth, “why there are so few nail-brushes in the lavatory?” (Roars of laughter.)

“In answer to the honourable member,” says the treasurer, “I beg to state that I have already given orders for a fresh and—as they seem so much in request—a still larger supply.” (Cheers.)

Then there is a brief space of silence.

“Does any other honourable member wish to put any questions to the officers of this society relative to their official duties?”

No one rising, the president says—

“The House will now proceed to public business;” and after waiting a few seconds, to give those who wish the chance to leave, he reads from a notice-board,—

“The motion before the House is, ‘That the present Ministry is unworthy of the confidence of this House and of the nation,’ moved by Mr. Dubber, of Trinity.”

There is a perfect uproar as Mr. Dubber rises and moves towards the table—cheers from his supporters, groans from his opponents; but he is too accustomed to the temper of his audience to take any notice. He pours out a glass of water and leisurely drinks half the contents, and waits confidently. His confidence commands attention; and in a clear, ringing voice, he proceeds to rattle away a clever résumé of the stump speeches of his political party. There is no lack to-night of speakers. No less than six rise directly he sits down.

And so the debate goes on unflaggingly until half-past ten, when, there being no more speakers, the mover replies; and then the president reads the motion once more, and says,—

“Those who are in favour of this motion will say ‘Aye;’ those who are against it will say ‘No.’”

There are nearly 500 members present, and the noise may be imagined.

“The ‘Noes’ have it,” is the president’s ruling.

“Divide! divide!” from the “Ayes;” and the president accordingly gives the order,—

“Those who are in favour of this motion will go to the right of the chair; those who are against it to the left.”

Then follows a scene of indescribable confusion. In about ten minutes’ time the numerous tellers have agreed, and the president reads the numbers,—

“Those who are in favour of this motion, 179; those who are against it, 290. The motion is therefore lost.”

Loud cheers, and the House separates.

Within a few days of the commencement of term, Frank had found his name posted for rowing—that is, for rowing under the direction of the senior men who were coaching the likely freshmen for the Torpid races, which would come off in the ensuing Lent Term; and he took so kindly to the work that he was soon regularly among the recognized set from which the crew would eventually be picked. In fact, his performances had attracted the notice of the president of the University Boat Club, and he had been “down” with the men who were being coached with a view to rowing against Cambridge. This was indeed an honour; and he strained every energy to get chosen for one of the Trial Eights that were to race at the end of term, and from which the University Eight (commonly called “the ’Varsity”) would be selected.

His wishes were fulfilled, and he was put No. 6 in what was supposed to be the better of the two boats. This, of course, insured his rowing in his College Torpid next term, and in his College Eight in the summer term, and it might have led to a seat in “the ’Varsity.”

As a matter of fact, it did not; but Frank was well content with the honour of merely rowing in the “Trials,” and more especially as the Eight in which he was rowing won the race in November. Towards the close of term he was made a Freemason, and very proud he was to tell his father, himself a Mason of some distinction, the various gossip of his lodge, “The Apollo,” which claims among its members some of England’s best-known brethren.

One other little distinction Frank had to relate on going down for the Christmas vacation, and that was the flattering notice, in the Undergraduate’s Journal, of a poem of his which had appeared in the University magazine, College Rhymes;[10] and it may safely be asserted that no one in Porchester was prouder of the poet than the vicar’s daughter, who saw herself reflected in the mirror of his verse.

The Christmas vacation passed. Lent Term came, and with it the Torpids. Paul’s made five bumps, and Frank duly posted copies of the Undergraduate’s Journal, which recorded the fact, to the vicarage and to his home. But with this proud event he abandoned for the present most of his amusements, confined himself to the practice for the Eights which were coming off in May, and to his work for Moderations, which was fixed for about the same date. The college lectures not being sufficient, he found himself obliged to “put on a coach”—i.e. employ a private tutor—during the summer term; but when he got his “testamur” in June, just a week before Commemoration, he and his father both felt that the ten guineas[11] had been profitably expended.

CHAPTER VII.
A READING PARTY.

But any candidate may for himself, or his parents or guardians for him, object on religious grounds to this examination, and in this case he is allowed to offer some books or subjects appointed for this purpose by the Board of Studies.

The subjects for the Pass Degree are arranged in three groups, as follows, the books specified being those which may now be offered till further notice:—