Читать книгу: «Oxford Days», страница 5

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:—

 
“With rifle aye ready,
A dog of sharp scent,
And a maiden to love him,
A lad is content.
 
 
“What needs hath the hunter?
The hunter hath none
But a nut-brown-eyed maiden,
A dog, and a gun.
 
 
“On Sunday, the church-day,
To dance we are gone;
Andrew leads Peggy,
Janet leads John.”
 

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:—

 
Tenor. “Out of the Tyrol I come, a long, long way,
To look for my sweetheart, my little May.
Bass. What does he say?
Soprano. Ah, poor lover!
All. So long, so long he has not seen his love,
So long he has not seen his love!
 
 
Tenor. “As any bright penny was my little Jenny!
And a dimple was in
My Jenny’s sweet chin!
Bass. What does he say?
All. So long, so long he has not seen his love!
 
 
Tenor. “’Tis two long years agone
Since I left my love alone;
I’d give my true love’s weight in gold
Could I her face behold.
Bass. Hark what he says!
Soprano. O what a fond lover!
All. So long, so long he has not seen his love!”
 

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:—

 
“I’ve sung you many a ditty, some stupid and some witty,
In our snug and cosy common-rooms after dinner many a day;
But there’s one I have omitted, of a blunder I committed,
That may serve you as a warning, and may while an hour away.
When I was young and hearty, I took a reading party
(“Hear, hear!” from the audience)
To study in America one summer long ago;
And while out there we tarried, I went—and—I got married,
And what that is, my bachelors, you very little know.
But upon that little portion of my most unhappy tale,
Will you kindly, will you kindly draw a veil, draw a veil?
Chorus.—Draw a veil! draw a veil!
 
 
“But oh! when I reflected that I should be expected
To forfeit either Fellowship or wife,
I thought ’twould be a pity she should leave her native city
And be tied to an old tutor all her life.
When I pictured you all cosy, at your port wine old and rosy,
And I was at cold mutton, and romance was growing cool—
When I thought of you so gaily dining gloriously daily,
I took a single cabin in a ship for Liverpool.
But upon the mix’d emotions of my hurried homeward sail,
Will you kindly, will you kindly draw a veil, draw a veil?
Chorus (very gently).—Draw a veil! draw a veil!
 
 
“Since then, by her unhamper’d, up fame’s ladder I have scamper’d,
And run through all our snug berths in a trice;
I’ve been Bursar, Dean, Professor, Public Orator, Assessor,
And sat on a commission once or twice.
I’ve told quite different stories to the Liberals and Tories;
I’ve snarl’d among the Radicals, “Retrench!”
But I really should not wonder if my friend Lord Blood-and-Thunder,
On the very next occasion, should transfer me to the Bench.
So really let me beg you on that portion of my tale,
Will you kindly, will you kindly draw a veil, draw a veil?
Chorus.—Draw a veil! draw a veil!”
 

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

Paul’s had no Law Lecturers, and Frank was therefore compelled to “put on a coach.” He accordingly wrote to Edwards, a week before term commenced, to arrange with him. Much to his surprise, the College offered to pay half the fee on his behalf, which after all was but fair, considering that he had to pay his College tuition fees, although there were no lectures for him. By Edwards’ advice he attended certain of the Law Professors’ Lectures, which were open to the University at large—in some cases on payment of 1l., in others free. Six hours in each week were spent at these, and three hours with Edwards; and with a daily average of four hours’ private reading he considered he was industrious. His degree seemed so far off. He would work more when the time was drawing nearer. So he consoled himself, and so the time went by.

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

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

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

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

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

Frank got red and confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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