Читать книгу: «Oxford Days», страница 6

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’s¹³ 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.”

He answered the rest of the paper, as he thought, fairly; and, from the short vivâ voce he had a few days later, inferred that the written part of his work was better than he imagined; and two hours afterwards received in exchange for the customary shilling the much-coveted piece of blue paper from the patient Parker, clerk of the schools. A few days elapsed, and then he went in for Law. We need not follow him through all the details. As so often happens, he did better than he expected in the subjects he feared most, and worse in those he fancied he should do better. But on the whole he was satisfied with his performance. In vivâ voce he considerably improved his position, and to this he attributed the fact that when the class-list appeared he found himself in the second instead of the third class. A first he had never expected to get; but Edwards learnt from the examiners that he was considered a good second-class man, having amply retrieved in vivâ voce the failure in one of his papers which had threatened to lower him to the third.

CHAPTER X
GOWN AT LAST

So now it was all over—all the work and anxiety. The taking of his degree remained, and—Commemoration. It was Thursday when the class-list appeared. The following Sunday was Show Sunday, the semi-official commencement of the festivities. He telegraphed to his father: “Have got a second. You must come up for Commem. I hope to put on my gown on Thursday.” He telegraphed to Rose. He wrote a long letter to his mother by that night’s post, begging her to bring one of his sisters and Rose. He wrote to Rose herself. He was in a whirl of excitement, and to conceal his emotion he ordered an elegant summer suit, which he did not in the least require, at a most obliging tailor’s not a hundred yards from St. Mary’s Church. So obliging was he, in fact, that it is matter of history that when a certain wealthy and aristocratic Irishman, in a flow of unbounded extravagance, ordered him to “send in his whole shop,” the tailor, with undisturbed equanimity, replied, “Certainly, sir! What time would you like it?”

The receipt of Frank’s letter, and the request that his mother would bring Rose, produced a little commotion. His father still tried to pooh-pooh the notion of an engagement; but his mother, who had Frank’s confidence, maintained that, as far as the two were concerned, the engagement was a reality, and that it only waited the formal consent of the parents and the means to marry. So it was at last decided that Mr. and Mrs. Ross, and Frank’s elder sister, Mary, would go. The Vicar, glad of an excuse to visit Oxford again, agreed to join the party and bring Rose. And Rose herself—well, there was no need to ask her consent. On Friday morning a telegram was despatched to Frank, telling him they were coming on Saturday evening, and giving him directions to secure lodgings; and Mary and Rose were together most of the day and evening, arranging, selecting, altering, and making various articles of adornment for the coming gaieties.

Pembroke concert had taken place on Thursday, Queen’s on Friday, and there was nothing for Saturday. But that was no loss to Frank’s party, for they were all too tired for any gaiety after their long journey. By a fluke—for he was late in looking for lodgings—he found some disengaged rooms in Grove Street; and the shady little corner, so close to the sunny, busy High, was most pleasant and convenient. After supper the Vicar went down to Christ-Church to “look up” some old friends, still in residence as Senior Students,¹⁴ and the rest strolled by Merton to the river. Mr. and Mrs. Ross, not caring to trust themselves to the boat which Frank had chosen, wandered round the paths by the Cherwell, and, after losing themselves by the Botanical Gardens, eventually got safe to Grove Street. Frank rowed Rose and Mary down to Sandford, where he gave them tea in the little inn overlooking the lock, and then took them round to see the lasher that has been so fatal to many bright young lives.

Coming home, he pointed out to them all the spots of interest and importance to the rowing man. The tavern at Iffley where the last of the Eights starts in the races; the Green Barge, at the entrance to the “Gut;” the Gut itself, that terror of young coxswains; the Long Bridges; the White Willow where the boats make their final crossing to the Berkshire bank on the journey home. Every spot had its little history. Here, in the first Torpids, he had nearly “caught a crab.” There his crew had made their final “spirt;” here they had bumped Brasenose, when the coxswain would not acknowledge the bump. There “bow” broke his oar, and nearly pitched out of the boat. Yonder, strolling quietly down the Berkshire bank, was Harvey, the Humane Society’s man. There was old George West on the Brasenose barge; there, just above, was Timms, the “Father of the Crews,” leading a quiet time of it, now that the “Eights” and the “Sculls” and “Pairs”¹⁵ were over. Frank took the girls into the ’Varsity barge, and showed them the pictures of the old “oars,” who had rowed for Oxford at Henley and Putney; and told them what little legends had come down to him of Chitty and Meade-King, Arkell and Warre, Morrison and Woodgate; and, coming to later times, of Tinney, Willan, Yarborough, and Darbishire, the famous four who, besides their glories at Putney, licked the Yankees from Harvard; and, in later times still, of Leslie and Houblon, Edwards-Moss and Marriott. They were all heroes to Frank—these “brutal rowing men,” as Mr. Wilkie Collins deems them—these savages whose only glory is their brute strength. It has been said that English battles have been won in the Eton playing-fields. Possibly the Isis and the Cam have as much as anything to do with the feats of dogged endurance and quiet pluck that have made Alma and Inkerman, Isandula and Rorke’s Drift, immortal names in the annals of warfare.

On Sunday they all went to St. Mary’s. The Vicar’s gown admitted the ladies to the seats appropriated to the wives of the Masters of Arts, and Mr. Ross to the seats of the Masters themselves. Frank, being still de jure an undergraduate, had to retire to the upstair gallery. The church was crowded. People were even standing in the aisles. The sermon, by a silver-haired professor with a cherubic face, was a discourse on friendship, delivered, if somewhat monotonously, with a delicate utterance and in a delicate phraseology that was quite too charming; and if it formed a rather strange contrast to the anathemas thundered by rural Boanerges to placid congregations in sweltering country churches, the contrast was a pleasing one rather than otherwise.

“Well,” said Mr. Ross as they emerged into the High, “that’s an odd sort of sermon, eh, Vicar?”

Mr. Ross was a very sound lawyer, but he had not travelled much, nor had he heard many sermons other than those of his friend the Vicar. The Vicar smiled, and continued his explanations to Mrs. Ross of certain allusions to Oxford celebrities made by the preacher. Frank also, to whom his father appealed, had only a commonplace comment to make. His studies not having been philosophical, he could not go into raptures over every utterance of the new Plato.

The church was even more crowded, if that were possible, in the afternoon, in spite of the awkwardness of the hour (two o’clock) and the heat of the day. And what an assemblage of famous men was present! Gladstone and Tyndall, Lord Selborne and Huxley, Forster and Sir Stafford Northcote, Sir William Harcourt and the Oxford Conservative member, all sitting amicably side by side, listening to one of those eloquent attacks on men of science which satisfy and please those for whom they are not needed, and only amuse those whom they are intended to convince.

After the sermon the Vicar and Mr. Ross betook themselves to the Union, to read the papers over a cup of coffee; and about a quarter to five Frank started with his mother, sister, and Rose, to Magdalen Chapel. Tickets had been, of course, difficult to get, and with all his exertions he had only been able to secure two for the choir, and two for the ante-chapel. The two former Mrs. Ross and Mary took, without any resistance, for they knew that Rose would be happier to be with Frank. How many husbands and wives come back in after-years to Oxford, to go over again all the old days, to revisit all the old spots, to find one particular tree the same, save, like themselves, a little older; to sit in the same chapel, and listen perhaps to the very same anthem they had listened to when they were boy and girl, sung by different voices, but for them the same; to pass the same surly porter, whose favour can only be purchased; to see the same placid gardener tidying up the velvet grass under the grey walls; to hear the same bells ringing; and, with it all, to feel as young as ever!

Frank and Rose, as they sat in the dim ante-chapel, under the great brown window that sheds such a strange light over all, thought neither of the past, for that was eclipsed, nor of the future, for that was uncertain, but just lived in the present. And if he did hold her hand during most of the service, nobody saw him, and therefore nobody’s feelings were outraged.

Another happy pair emerged from another dim corner of the ante-chapel, when the service was over—Crawford and the little lady, who doubtless has not been forgotten, best known by the title “Blue-eyes.” She, too, had in attendance on her a mother and sister; and they, too, had been sitting in the choir. So that altogether, when the introductions took place in the cloisters, all mentally agreed that the party was a most symmetrical one—two mothers, two sisters, and two pairs of lovers.

After dinner at their respective lodgings the two parties met in Grove Street, and went to the Broad Walk to see and contribute to the show of visitors. The Vicar pronounced a melancholy eulogium on the glories of past Show Sundays, from which the present was a sad falling-off, caused chiefly as he explained by the indiscriminate admission of the “Town,” and the consequent absence of the “Gown” element. His hearers, however, having no historic past with which to contrast the present, though they listened submissively to his diatribes, enjoyed themselves immensely, stared at everybody, wondered, and questioned.

All the morning of Monday, Frank was engaged at a committee meeting of the Masonic Fête, of which he was a steward: and as he and one or two others were decidedly opposed to the general plan of disposal of tickets, the meetings were not so peaceable as hitherto; he used to return hot, tired, and annoyed. But Rose’s presence soon restored him to his wonted equanimity.

On Monday afternoon there was a concert given by the Philharmonic Society in the Sheldonian Theatre, and after a hurried tea he took his party to the river to see the procession of boats. He had tickets for them for the ’Varsity barge, and having got them good seats at the lower corner, next to the Brasenose barge, hurried off to his own barge to put on his boating clothes. To Rose and Mary, who had never seen any river-boat except the “tubs” at Porchester, the long slender craft were objects of much wonder, and they thoroughly enjoyed the sight of the many “Eights” and “Torpids” rowing up and saluting Paul’s, the head boat, which lay close under the ’Varsity barge. The cox—a facetious young gentleman—could not resist the pleasure of shouting every few minutes, “Eyes in the boat!” as he caught the eyes of his crew wandering to the many fair faces that were looking down at them from beneath the awning.

One by one the boats rowed up—it is to be feared not in the best style, for the crews were for the most part mere “scratch” affairs got together hurriedly for the procession, in the absence of the regular men who had gone down. One by one they rowed up to the post opposite to the ’Varsity barge, “easied,” and then, standing up, raised their oars and saluted the head boat, “Well rowed, Paul’s!” to commemorate the honour of the May races. Rose felt quite flattered, and took to herself half the honour at least that was being given to Frank’s boat. The proceeding repeated by some forty boats was growing somewhat monotonous, when, to the intense delight and half-terror of the ladies, one Eight upset—on purpose, of course; and there was much merriment over the intentionally assumed danger and frantic efforts to get out of the crowded water. When all the boats had saluted, they turned at Folly Bridge (with what difficulty coxswains know to their cost), and dropped down the stream to their respective barges.

Those who embark on the festivities of Commemoration have not much time to spend in dreaming. Rose would fain have gone down the river quietly in the cool of the evening; and yet—and yet—the thoughts of dancing were perhaps sweeter.

Back to the town streamed the crowds: some to the Wadham concert; some to rest before dressing for the University ball; many to summon up their strength and energy for both. Among the latter were Mrs. Ross and Mary, Rose and Frank. The fathers dined at Christ-Church, and spent a cosy evening in the Common Room—the Vicar chatting away unceasingly with old friends, and Mr. Ross making a very pleasant and amused listener.

It was a lovely evening, and most of the people walked to Wadham—one of the many things that struck the country folks as strange and yet pleasant. The concert was held in the College Hall, beautifully decorated for the purpose. After the first part, every one adjourned to the gardens, where refreshments were served in a large tent, and then wandered about, enjoying the cool air till the second part began. Frank and his party did not return to the Hall, but went to the Corn Exchange, to the University ball. And what a night they had! He and Rose forgot to count how many times they danced together. Mary had partners in abundance, for Frank’s friends were there in great force; and they were all longing for a dance with Rose, but had chiefly to console themselves with Mary, for Frank could not spare many dances. However, from Mary’s happy face, as they walked down the High in the sweet early morning air, Frank inferred that the consoling process had been not unpleasant for all parties concerned.

Tuesday morning brought the much-needed rest, taken by some in chairs at home, by others in punts on the river (Frank and Rose preferred the latter). Tuesday afternoon—the flower-show held in the gardens of New College. A Commemoration flower-show is more than a flower-show. In fact, the flowers are almost the last thing regarded. Tuesday evening—New College concert, always one of the best, and the Masonic ball. Rose and Mary again in much request, but the former too deeply engaged to Frank to be able to spare many dances. To this ball Mr. Ross, being a Mason, went as a matter of course, and he even succeeded in enticing the Vicar. The latter had a lurking love of vestments, but Porchester gave him no encouragement; here, however, seeing the aprons and scarves, and the cloaks of the Templars, he thought he might satisfy his love. He would be a Mason, and though unable to disport himself in picturesque attire to his congregation in church, he might do so to his heart’s content to his brethren in the secrecy of lodge-meetings, or the publicity of such a ball as this. So strongly was he enamoured of the notion, that over supper, in a quiet corner with Mr. and Mrs. Ross, he asked that gentleman to propose him for election at a lodge in a town not far from Porchester, of which he was Worshipful Master.

Then came Wednesday, the day of Encænia, or Commemoration of the Founders and Benefactors. Who that has ever been present in the crowded Sheldonian Theatre can forget the scene? The jostling, pushing, squeezing that begins before ten o’clock, though the proceedings themselves seldom begin before noon; the pause and quiet, till the boldest undergraduate starts the chaff; the grave faces of the officials as they hand the ladies to their seats, half amused, half angry, when told by some wag in the gallery “not to squeeze her hand;” the cheers for everybody and everything that the occasion suggests—“the ladies in pink,” “the ladies in blue,” “the ladies who are engaged;” the groans for this statesman, the cheers for the other, for the ’Varsity Boat Club, the ’Varsity Eleven, the popular Proctors. Then the chaff becomes more personal. “When is the Vice-Chancellor coming?” “Poor old man, he’s nervous.” “Has the Senior Proctor gone to Aylesbury?” (alluding to the Christ-Church grinds and the Senior Proctor’s failure). “Dissolvimus hanc Convocationem,” uttered in imitation of the Vice-Chancellor, and causing much amusement among the Masters of Arts and others familiar with the phrase. Just then a very white-headed gentleman enters the area, and is met with shouts of “White hat!” “Turn him out!” For a long time the object of the shouts is perfectly oblivious. At length he puts on his hat, and is of course greeted with “Hats off!” How long the uproar would have continued is hard to say, had not a huge paper fool’s-cap, with D.C.L. written on it, been let down from the gallery. The white-headed gentleman blessed the circumstance. The cap fluttering downwards paused, either by accident or design, exactly opposite one of the galleries where a Master of Arts on duty as Proproctor for the occasion was standing, and was waved gently within a few feet of his face. “Put it on, sir!” now came from all sides of the upper gallery; and somebody leaning from above the Vice-Chancellor’s chair, seizing the opportunity of a second’s lull, said in a sedate voice, “Admitto te ad gradum Doctoris in jure civili.” All this time the intended recipient of this most dubious honour was making frantic clutches at the cap, which it is needless to state was bobbed up and down in front of him, while “Let him have it!” “He knows what fits him!” greeted his indignation, which now scarcely knew bounds. He dashed upstairs to find the offender; but, just as his head appeared, the cap dropped into the area, and his efforts to discover the author of the offence were fruitless. The entry of the Vice-Chancellor, followed by the Doctors and Proctors and various distinguished visitors, and the pealing of the organ, turned the thoughts of the undergraduates, and under cover of the music and applause the irate Proproctor beat an ignominious retreat. His conduct was not only unpopular among the undergraduates, but was condemned by senior and junior graduates alike.