Of the above subjects in the three groups each candidate is examined in three, of which not more than two can be taken from any one of the three groups, and of which one must be either A (1) or B (2). The examinations in the three subjects may be passed in separate terms.

The commonest selections made are as follows:—

Group A (1).

Group B (3) and (4).

Those men who prefer History will naturally offer the outlines of Ancient History, as it works well with the text-books in Group A (1). Those who are going to the Bar or to be admitted as solicitors will naturally offer one of the branches of Law, the Roman Law being especially the favourite with Bar-students, as the Roman Law Bar Examination may be studied for and passed almost simultaneously. The choice for the Classman lies among the following:—

Frank had always intended to go in for one of the Honour Schools, but agreed with his father that there was no necessity to avail himself of the longest allowance of time granted. He need not present himself for three years, but his father decided that two years was quite long enough, in addition to the year he had already spent. He must do what he could in the two years.

There was no dispute between father and son. Their views corresponded. Frank was to be called to the Bar, and the Honour School of Law was chosen for the degree. The subjects for this would, in a great measure, answer the further purpose of the Bar Call Examination. Mr. Ross proposed to enter Frank’s name at the Inner Temple in the ensuing Michaelmas Term. He should then “eat dinners” during the two years in which he was reading for his Oxford degree; that taken, he should have one year’s reading in a barrister’s chambers. This, he considered, ought to qualify him not only in book-work, but practically for a call. Moreover, it would give him just the necessary time to complete the statutable number of terms.

Frank was anxious to enter at once, before the Trinity Term was over, but on this point his father was firm. There was no need for such immediate hurry. As it was, he would be qualified for a call, at an age considerably below the average. Mr. Ross had noticed that the first Long Vacation had been, comparatively speaking, wasted. He had said nothing, but had resolved that the second and third should not be a repetition of the first. He therefore directed Frank to write to his college tutor, Mr. Woods, for particulars of the subjects for the Honour Law School, and for advice as to a “coach” for part of the Long Vacation; and he himself wrote to his old friend, Mr. Wodehouse, on the latter point.

Frank’s letter from Mr. Woods was as follows:—

The letter from Mr. Wodehouse was characteristic:—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know,” she answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All slept soundly that night at Martigny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.
IN THE THICK OF IT.

Of Crawford he saw little, for it was his last term, and he was in for Honours in the Final Classical Schools in November. But on Sunday they used to lunch together—alternately in one another’s rooms—and go for a long constitutional afterwards. To Crawford alone of his many friends he confided his hopes. To him alone he told his dreams of Rose, of their engagement, and even of the marriage in the future. And Crawford never laughed at him, or pooh-poohed the notion as a boyish fancy; for he saw that if there was one thing more than another which would keep him straight, and make him stick to his work, it was the hope of one day making a home for Rose. But the Bar! How hopeless it seemed! To talk of marriage, at least three years before the wig could be worn, much less a brief gained! Still the boy was hopeful. And why damp his energy? Besides, Crawford had a belief—he knew it was not a prevalent one—that though there are so many barristers, the Bar as a profession is not really so crowded as the world believes; that if you eliminate the large numbers of so-called barristers who live by their pen, by speculating—by anything, in fact, except the profession they claim, the number of men left is by no means large enough to do the work that offers. Again, he knew that he came of a family of lawyers, with large firms in various towns, and at least one of considerable eminence in London. So that altogether he by no means considered the boy’s ambitions and dreams as baseless or silly. As for himself, he hardly cared to confess his hopes. But Frank had always placed him, in anticipation, in the position Crawford secretly desired. He seemed fitted in every way for a Fellowship and Tutorship. To begin with, he was a gentleman in birth and in heart. He would therefore know how to feel with, and for, all the various grades of men with whom he would come in contact: unlike the many who, with neither the breeding nor the feelings of gentlemen, have nothing but their intellectual supremacy to recommend them.

As to Crawford’s intellectual powers, he had already given ample proof. He had taken a first class in Classical Moderations. He had won the Chancellor’s prize for Latin Verse, and had been proxime accessit for the Stanhope Essay. And then, to crown all, from the boyish undergraduate point of view, he had rowed in his College Eight, and won the Diamond Sculls at Henley. Why, he was the very beau-ideal of a Fellow. A handsome, clever, athletic English gentleman. Oxford has had many such, and, thank God, she has them still. Men who consider a fellowship and tutorship a sacred trust; who look upon the undergraduates as friends to be helped, guided, and taught, but not in mere learning for the schools; who will draw out, not crush, the fresh hopefulness of youth; who will cheer, not cloud, boys’ ambitions; who will look for good qualities, not watch and wait for errors; whose chief thought will be what good they can do, and not what fines they can impose.

“Do you see much of Monkton now?” Crawford asked, as they were walking to Godstow by the upper river.

“Very little,” said Frank. “I can’t think what he does with himself.”

“Not much, I fancy. I see him loafing occasionally, and I believe that’s pretty nearly all he does. However, I’m glad you don’t see much of him.” And Crawford changed the subject. “What’s this I hear of you and the Undergraduates’ Journal? You don’t mean to say you’ve taken to write in it? I should have thought you had work enough to do.”

Frank got red and confused.

“Well, the fact is—I have written a few things; but it didn’t take much time.”

“Ah! that’s just where it is,” said Crawford. “If you do anything of that sort at all, it’s worth doing well—just as everything is, for the matter of that. You haven’t time to do it well, and you square the matter by doing it hurriedly. You’d far better stick to your Law reading.”

“I say, old fellow,” remonstrated Frank, “I didn’t come out for a lecture. You’re a regular old school-master. I only wrote three little poems, or ‘sets of verses’ as I suppose I ought to call ’em: that’s the extent of my writing.”

“Oh!” said Crawford, somewhat mollified. “Well, take my advice; get your degree first and write afterwards.”

“That’s all very well,” retorted Frank; “but I should like to know how you expect a fellow to be able to write without practice? Reading Law and writing answers to papers don’t help one.”

“I don’t think we’ll discuss the question any further,” answered Crawford. “You want to marry Rose, I know, as quickly as possible. Well, my opinion is that you’ll do it a great deal more quickly by reading Law than by writing poetry.”

Frank was silent. There was truth in what Crawford said, he knew; but he could not help writing poetry. And whether he will ever be a known poet, ever succeed in charming the hydra-headed public, or not, he certainly had one requisite in a maker—spontaneity. Rose, of course, considered him a poet in the highest sense of the term. In fact, she cared for no poetry but his, which speaks volumes for her affection, but little for her powers of criticism. But if lovers are to be critics, Love may as well go to Mr. Critchet, and be operated on for cataract.

Term, with all its activity, was passing quickly. Every day till two o’clock Frank devoted himself to his work. From two till five he rowed, or practised at the butts. From five till six he usually spent at the Union, reading the papers or magazines. Dinner at six. He did not do much work in the evening, for various reasons—chiefly, because he was too lazy—excusing himself because he thought his eyes were weak; and partly because of various engagements. On Tuesday evening there was either a regular Apollo lodge-meeting, or a lodge of instruction. Monday, the Paul’s Debating Society. Wednesday, the practice of the Philharmonic, a somewhat different form of excitement from the usual undergraduate amusements, owing to the presence of a large number of ladies. Thursday, the debate at the Union, in which he usually took part. Friday and Saturday had no definite fixture; but then there was always something in the shape of nondescript entertainment at the “Vic.,” or concert at the Town Hall or Corn Exchange; or else there was a friend to be asked to dinner in Hall, or an invitation to dinner to accept. Altogether, his evening work never amounted to more than one hour on the average.

One evening, seeing a large poster announcing a performance by “the great Bounce,” he turned up the narrow little passage which leads from Magdalen Street to the “gaff” that is dignified by the name of theatre. Here, by permission of the Very Reverend the Vice-Chancellor, and his Worship the Mayor—a permission always necessary and always publicly announced—entertainments of every description, as long as they are not stage plays, are performed. Conjurors, mimics, ventriloquists, mesmerists, Tyrolese singers, Japanese acrobats, music-hall singers of every grade and degree, display themselves before a crowded audience of undergraduates. But anything so demoralizing as a play of Shakespeare or other healthy author is strictly forbidden. The authorities doubtless have their reasons, but it is somewhat hard to imagine what those reasons can be. An occasional concert is given in the Town Hall or Corn Exchange, to which of course ladies can go; but from the entertainments in the “Vic.,” good, bad, or indifferent, they are absolutely debarred. And in very, very few instances do they miss anything worth seeing.

The first person whom Frank recognized on entering was Monkton, who was sitting in a stage-box, or at least in what does duty for a stage-box. He was dressed in a somewhat startling costume of ginger-colour check; a bright crimson necktie; his hat well on the side of his head; an enormous cigar in his mouth, which he appeared to be sucking rather than smoking. Between his knees, a gigantic bull-dog, whose efforts to plunge upon the stage or into the orchestra he was with difficulty controlling. Another man sat with him, dressed, if it were possible, in louder style than he; and from the tone of their voices they appeared not a little pleased with themselves and with the impression they were creating. The theatre was crammed from floor to ceiling; the University element decidedly predominating; the town being represented by a gallery full of that peculiar style of cad and cadger for which Oxford seems so famous. The smoke from pipes and cigars was far too thick to allow of recognition except at a very short distance; and Frank was much relieved to find that Monkton did not “spot” him.

We need not describe the performance. The vulgar, strutting, swaggering comique, who supplies in fancied wit what he lacks in voice; the booming tenor, who yells “Tom Bowling” to give respectability to the entertainment; the brazen-throated “lady vocalist,” who disdains to be called a singer, and who certainly doesn’t deserve the title, are all too wearisome and sickening to merit notice, but for the lamentable fact that they are patronized by the undergraduate because the University authorities refuse to sanction anything better.

The entertainment had not proceeded very far before Monkton had attracted the notice of the “star” of the evening, who, seeing that he had the audience on his side, commenced, in the spoken portion of his performance, to chaff “the gentleman in ginger.” Monkton’s position was too prominent for him to venture to respond; perhaps, too, he was not good at repartee. At all events, he drew back out of sight as far as possible, contenting himself with allowing his dog to put his forefeet on the cushion of the box and to growl an answer to the chaff.

The next performer happened to be a young lady not quite so much at her ease as is usual in these persons. She was evidently frightened at the dog; and Monkton, seeing his opportunity, made the brute growl and spring forward as near the singer as possible. There were loud cries of “Turn him out!” The singer stopped in the middle of her song, burst into tears, and ran off at the wings. The manager came forward and expostulated. By this time the gallery was infuriated. Then Monkton let the dog go, and with a bound he cleared the orchestra and leapt on the stage. The manager, in evident trepidation, rushed off. The orchestra seized their instruments, and hastily began to decamp; some one in the confusion turned out most of the gas; and at that moment a cry of “Proctors!” was heard.

It was by the merest chance that the Senior Proctor happened to be passing, and hearing the unusual disturbance, and the shouts which were evidently not shouts of applause, came in. He sent two of his men to one door, and he himself with two waited at the principal exit. There they took everybody’s “name and College,” giving directions as to the usual call on the following morning; and then, when the theatre was emptied, sent for the manager, and learned the facts of the case. Monkton had, of course, made his way out with the rest, with no further notice from the Proctor than they; but his time was to come.

There was a great crowd at nine the next morning at the Senior Proctor’s rooms. The men went as a matter of form, hardly expecting to be fined for going to an entertainment sanctioned by the University, and simply anticipating an order to attend before the Vice-Chancellor for an investigation of the fracas of the preceding evening. Monkton appeared with the rest; and from the way in which every one gave him the cold shoulder he saw pretty clearly that no one would screen him. At twelve o’clock he received an official notice to answer before the Vice-Chancellor to the charge of setting and inciting a bull-dog, with intent to do bodily injury, and so forth.

At eleven o’clock on the following day there was such a crowd as had not been seen in the Vice-Chancellor’s Court for many a long day. The case was investigated as before a magistrate, the Vice-Chancellor being ex officio a justice of the peace for the city of Oxford, with, however, far greater powers. There were plenty of undergraduates who gave evidence in support of the charge, and the manager and singers gladly exonerated the rest of the audience. It was acknowledged on all sides that neither Monkton nor the “star” comique put in so easy and unembarrassed an appearance before the Very Reverend the Vice-Chancellor and the Proctors as they did in their respective positions on the eventful evening. It was in vain that Monkton’s solicitor urged provocation on the part of the “star.” There were plenty of men ready to testify that they too had been chaffed. The Vice-Chancellor gave the defendant a sharp reprimand, fined him 5l., and “sent him down for a term.”

The Proctor’s summons to the rest of the men was allowed to pass, and they heard no more of the matter.

The Michaelmas Law Term commenced on the 2nd of November, and Frank obtained leave from the Dean to go to town to enter at the Inner Temple and eat his first three dinners. He left at 9 a.m., with feelings somewhat akin to those he had on starting from home for matriculation, with the important difference, however, that there was no examination to face. His father met him at Paddington, and they drove straight to the Temple. At the gate of the “Inner” they found the two friends who had promised to be sureties for the payment of fees. With them they went to the Steward’s office, and there Frank presented a paper signed by the Dean of Paul’s to the effect that he had passed a Public Examination at Oxford. This exempted him from any examination on admission as a student of the Inns of Court. On payment of one guinea he obtained a form of admission, to be signed by two barristers to vouch for his respectability, with which he and his father went to the chambers of two friends, who gave the necessary signatures; then back again to the Treasurer’s office, where the two sureties entered into a bond to the amount of 50l.; and by a further payment of five guineas for the privilege of attending the Public Lectures of the Law Professors, and 35l. 6s. 5d. for fees and stamp on admission, the whole business was complete, and Frank was a student of the Honourable Society of the Inner Temple.

A little pleasant chaff about the woolsack, and the quartet broke up, the two sureties to their respective businesses, Frank and his father to lunch. Then Mr. Ross took a cab to Paddington, leaving Frank at the door of Maskelyne and Cooke’s mysterious entertainment, where he proposed a little mild dissipation till it was time to go down to the Temple to dine.

Hurrying through the crowd of students and newspaper-boys at the lodge just before six o’clock, he met three friends, and the usual expressions of mutual surprise were uttered. They agreed to make up a mess together, and certainly would not have accepted the definition of a mess as “a party of four who eye each other with feelings of mutual distrust and suspicion.” Frank, as freshman, had to “stand” the orthodox bottle of wine, and felt quite like an old fogey as he “took wine” with the three. With the exception of wine, and the power of sending for various sorts of liquors, the dinner was very much the same as the usual dinner in Hall at Oxford. The servants were better dressed, but waited worse. There was more order, from the fact that everybody has to be present at grace before and after meat, failing which, the dinner does not count. Then the diversity of age and style of men struck Frank. Old men and beardless boys sitting side by side, wearing the student’s gown; mild-looking students with pale faces and spectacles; fast men, in whom the notion of study seemed a ridiculous anomaly; dark faces from the East; and even a few of the thick lips from Africa. All the rest—the Benchers at the high table, the portraits overhead, the coloured windows, the fretted roof, the carved panelling—it was all familiar; Oxford over again, simply transplanted to the very heart of London.

After dinner they went to a theatre, and after that Frank was initiated into the mysteries of Evans’s.

The three evenings passed all too quickly, and he was once more in Oxford, with the sense of having at least made one distinct step towards winning Rose, even though it was such a matter-of-fact affair as the eating of three dinners.

There was not much to mark the succeeding Lent Term. There were the “Torpids” as usual, in which Frank again rowed, and with such decided improvement that he was considered safe for the “Eight” in the summer term. There was the ordinary scarlet-fever scare; a suicide of a studious undergraduate, the annual result of the climate, and the Lenten depression of the social atmosphere; and there were the Christ-Church Grinds,[12] and the Brasenose Ale Festival on Shrove Tuesday.

To the former Frank went, surreptitiously of course, for the Grinds are with annual regularity forbidden, but with equal regularity carried out. The Proctors for the time being were not over-sharp, and imagined that the simplest and easiest way to catch the men coming home from Aylesbury was to go to the station and meet the in-trains. But, strange to relate, not a single undergraduate was to be found! Innocently confessing his failure on the following evening in Common Room, the Senior Proctor drew upon himself the ridicule of one of the older fellows, a sporting man, and the “inextinguishable laughter” of the rest.

“You don’t mean to say you expected to find them at the station? Why, man alive! what is easier than to tip the guard and engine-driver half-a-sovereign, and have the train stopped just by the Goods-station?”

The Senior Proctor mentally resolved to be sharper in future. He was sharper—when he caught men. But his sharpness was the sharpness of acidity and not of acuteness.

The Brasenose Ale Festival is simply ordinary dinner in Hall, at which some special ale, brewed by the College and kept for high occasions, is given in unlimited quantities to the undergraduates. Possibly the most important feature (certainly it is the most uncommon) is the fact of the ale being given. Anything not paid for is a fact so rare that of itself it deserves a festival to commemorate it. The ale is celebrated in a poem which is supposed to be written by the College Butler. College Butlers being, however, not necessarily gifted with the poetic faculty, the honour or duty is deputed to some undergraduate. The merits of the verses vary, apparently with the quality of the ale, which is sometimes good, often bad, and usually indifferent. In a collection of the productions of the laureates of the barrel, lately published, are verses by Bishop Heber, by Garbett, once Professor of Poetry, and others of less reputation. The various later authors may be found in country rectories, doubtless endeavouring on temperance principles to counteract the effects of the obnoxious liquor, which in the days of their youth they celebrated in such festive fashion.

The College bounty did not stop short, however, at ale; cakes of ample proportions were cut up and distributed. But when all rose to bless the indirect giver, and the direct benefactor, it must of course have been indigestion or malicious scepticism which made Frank’s host whisper to him,—

“I wonder what the difference is between the pecuniary value of the bequest, when it was made to the College, and its present value.”

Frank, not being able to hazard a conjecture, made the most apposite remark his state of ignorance allowed,—

“You’d better ask the Bursar.”

CHAPTER IX.
THE CLOSE.

Frank read with Edwards in the Summer term, the College again paying half the fee. He rowed in the Eights, and Paul’s made four bumps, thereby getting head of the river. To commemorate the event a “bump-supper” was given. All the men, with the exception of a very few, subscribed the necessary guinea, and, as many brought guests, the supper was emphatically a success. The exceptions were of the three ordinary types: those who could not afford a guinea for such a purpose, and who were not ashamed to say so; those who considered “bump-suppers” and such-like entertainments as immoral orgies; and lastly, those who both enjoyed them and who could afford to subscribe, but who were too mean to do so, and preferred rather to extract an invitation to another college bump-supper in the specious manner which usually characterizes the tight-fingered. The Dons readily gave permission for the use of the hall, with certain provisos as to time of termination of the feast. Cooks and scouts vied with one another, in a spirit not altogether disinterested, in supplying and laying out the best that the College kitchen could provide. A gorgeous dessert was ordered from a neighbouring confectioner, and wine came in without stint or stay. Slap’s[13] excellent band was engaged, and discoursed most sweet music from time to time during the evening. And then, what speeches were made! What songs were sung! How they all cheered when the captain of the boat-club returned thanks! And—tell it not in the Common Room, whisper it not to the Dons (for the very simple reason that they know by experience what it all means)—what aching eyes, what cracking heads, what foul and furry tongues there were next morning! Nor did the store of College legends fail to receive the additions usual on such occasions; and one story even reached the Master’s ears: how that the captain of the boat-club was observed, long after the last guest had passed the porter’s lodge, sitting in a corner of one of the back quadrangles, rowing with all his might at an imaginary oar, shouting every now and then to “bow” to keep time, and telling the “cox” not to put the rudder on so sharp.

Frank did not stay up for Commemoration; that he reserved as a pleasure for the following year. His final examination would then be over, and he would be able to enjoy all the fun and gaiety in his new glory as Bachelor of Arts. Before going down he had a consultation with Edwards as to his work in the “Long.” The latter was again going to take a reading party abroad, but he advised Frank not to join; he told him that in his present state of progress he could do more work at home. Frank was relieved by the advice, for he knew his father could not afford to send him abroad again. But he felt he might close with Edwards’ proposal to come up a month before the Michaelmas Term began, chiefly for the purpose of making his work safe for the first Bar Examination in Roman Law, which was fixed for the end of October. Edwards wished him to go in for this on his first opportunity; for he felt that, apart from the direct advantage in passing, the examination would prove of service as a partial test for the final Oxford Examination in the ensuing summer.

Mr. Ross was not only satisfied but pleased with the scheme for Frank’s work. He was a man who always looked ahead and tried to map out the future. He felt that men for the most part create their own future, and that where the object in view is clearly marked out, and the means to that object carefully weighed and chosen with firm determination, chance is but a trifling factor in a man’s career. He loathed that comfortable philosophy which folds its hands and leaves “Time and the hour” to work for one. So far his plans had been fulfilled; and if this had made him somewhat dogmatic and obstinately fond of insisting that “anything can be done if only there is the will to do it,” it had, at all events, taught his children the lesson of dogged perseverance and the value of far-sightedness.

Frank spent a pleasant “Long” vacation. He had plenty of cricket and boating; he saw Rose at least three times every week. There were endless picnics and lawn-tennis parties. Above all, he got through a good deal of reading. During the three months he was at home he worked, on an average, five hours every day; but by judiciously arranging these he always found plenty of time for amusements. He bathed in the river, wet or fine, every morning at seven; read from eight till nine; breakfasted at nine; read from ten till one. By this plan he always had done four hours’ work before luncheon; and he had no difficulty in keeping up his average number by regulating the rest of his work according to the general plans for the day’s amusements.

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you know of Gamaliel?”

“It is a mountain in Syria.”

“Who was Mary Magdalene?”

“The mother of our Lord.”

“Who was Zacchæus?”

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

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

“The Jews had no dealings with the Samaritans.”

“What is the meaning of phylactery?”

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

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

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

“Who was Malchus?”

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

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