(iilP: mm J THE BOOK OF THE CAMBRIDGE REVIEW Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN THE BOOK OF THE CAMBRIDGE REVIEW 1879 1897 CAMBRIDGE: MACMILLAN AND HOWES 1898 CAMBKIDGE PRINTFD liY JONATHAN PALMER ALEXANDRA STREET as TO W. CUNNINGHAM, D D- ' To expect neither too much nor too little is what we would ask of our readers. Not too much, for amongst the many claims of busy Cambridge life the editing of this journal will be a serious and a difficult task ; not too little, for it rests with our readers themselves to make the Review what it should be a fair representative of the life and thought of the University.' C Ji. VoL I No. I Oct. 15 1879. PREFACE It is not our purpose to give here a history of the Cambridge Review; indeed there is little to chronicle. A first meeting was held in Mr, J. G. Frazer's rooms in the Old Court of Trinity (Letter E) on a broiling day in the Vacation of 1879, the Rev, F, Wallis, M.A., of Caius College, now Bishop of Wellington, in the Chair : 'For two or three hours,' writes one who was present, ' some forty men discussed some thirty pro- posed titles. The one chosen at last I brought forward myself for a friend (Mr. Arthur Strachey, of the Hall, now a judge in Bombay), who was kept away. Some rejected rivals were The Gogmagogs and Tertn-Time. We voted in the American way, rejecting one name at every round." All journals start in the face of more or less over- whelming obstacles. This has been no exception to Letter by the Rev. J. P. Whitney, M.A., rector of Milton. C. R. Feb. i8 1897. Vlll the rule. The fact that we have survived for a longer period than any other periodical connected with the University will tell its own tale. Yet it would be possible to write, and indeed a former editor achieved, an account of dies parvi, when the sole plant was * a small hand-press on which only two pages could be printed at a time,' and the printing office used to be * somewhere down in Barnwell.' A list of the officers and editors is here sub- joined : President. Editors. 1879. Oct. . .J. P. Postgate ...E. V. Arnold, Trin.i Trinity A. W. W. Dale, Trin. Hall. W. Hillhouse, Trin.2 1880, Tan. > G. Nugent-Bankes, King's. t Oct. >> A. W. W. Dale. G. M. Edwards, Trin. E. Impey, King's.* 1881. Feb. " A. W. W. Dale. G. M. Edwards. H. Le Roy, Trin.* Mar. >> G. M. Edwards. F. B. Westcott, Trin. H. Le Roy.* Oct. . ..A. F. Torry ... ..,F. B. Westcott. St. John's A. W. W. Dale. H. Le Roy. 1882. Feb. 1) A. W. W. Dale. E. M. Sympson, Caius. C. Strachey, King's. May E. M. Sympson. C. Strachey. H. A. Newton, Magd. * Undergraduate Editor. + Press Editor. 1 Professor of Latin, University College, North Wales. - Professor of Botany, Mason College, Birmingham. IX President, Editors. 1883. Jan. ...A, F. Torry E, M. Sympson. St. John's H. A. Newton. H. B. Smith, Trin. Oct W. A. Raleigh, King's. ^ A. Gerstenberg, Trin. J. Fearnley, St. John's. t 1884. Oct. H. B. Smith. 2 W. A. Raleigh. T. M orison, Trin. E. Jenks, King's,^ + 1885. May H. B. Smith. A. Gerstenberg. C. F. Clay, Trin. W. A. J. Archbold, Pet.t Oct. ...G. M. Edwards ...C. F. Clay. Sidney F. C. Holland, Trin. H. F. W. Tatham, Trin. 1886. Mar. ,, C. F. Clay. S. M. Leathes, Trin. D. N. Pollock, King's. F. G. T. Rowcroft, Non.ColI.t Oct. ,, G. Nugent- Bankes.t W. G. Headlam, King's. A. B. Cane, Trin. I. Gollancz, Christ's. 1887. Oct ,, I. Gollancz. J. A. C. Tilley, King's. G. Townsend-Warner, Jesus. 1888. Oct J. A. C. Tilley. G. Townsend-Wamer. W. J. Corbett, King's. 1889. Oct, J. A. C. Tilley. G. Townsend-Warner. C. .Stevenson, King's. W. J. Lias, Jesus. t 1890. Oct. G. W. Grant-Wilson, Trin. E. M. Todhunter, King's. R. P. Mahaffy, King's. t Press Editor. J Professor of Kn^lish Literature, Univ. Coll., Liverpool. - Private Secretary to Lord P>lgin, Governor General of India. ^ University Reader of English Law, Oxford. 1892. Mar. Oct. 1893. Jan. May Oct i894. Oct. 1895. May 1897. Oct. President, Editors, 1891. Oct. ...W. Cunningham. ..G. A. Davies, Trin.' Trinity J. H. B. Masterman, St John's. ,, A. B. Cook, Trin. R. E. Childers, Trin. ,, E. C. Marchant, Pet. J. E. McTaggart, Trin. W. J. Conybeare, Trin. ,, J. H. B. Masterman. F. B. Malim, Trin. H. J. Edwards, Trin. J. N. Figgis, Cath. At the cost of sacrificing, perhaps to a serious degree, the representative character of the present volume, we have thought fit to exclude from it pieces which have found a permanent home elsewhere. But, while it was felt that it would be unfair to otu- readers to present them with what in another form they had already on their shelves, on the other hand much remained which, in the opinion of some, deserved to be made accessible by republication. The task of jus- tifying this belief must be left to the following pages. November 1898. 1 Professor of Greek, University College, Liverpool. CONTENTS GENERAL ARTICLES : Rowing in the Greek Triremes. By Sir Patrick Col- quhoun... The Esmonds of Castlewood and the Warringtons of Suffolk. By R. F. S Notes by a Constant Reader. By J. K. S. On Bluffing On some Passages in Jane Austen's Mansfield Park. By Dr. A. W. Verrall How to Commentate. By V. H. R. A Letter to Freshmen, By ' Chesterfield ' American Universities Oxide of Milton ... Aristotle on the East Coast. By A. H. T. History repeats Itself. By * Observer '.. . VERSE : Occasions ... Near and Far. By B. To incepting M.A.'s Academus ... Ballade of Reviewers. By J. D. B. Song. By C. E. ... Ona*Bohn' Bill Asplen ... iJefietur mors Palinuri A Roundel. By J. K. S.. In Memoriam J. K. S, By W. H. II 15 26 31 42 48 53 75 77 87 93 95 96 97 102 104 105 106 107 108 109 Xll Verse continued. The Fountain of Youth. By E. E. D. Sails. ByA. J. B Caledonia Postgraduata. By R. H. F. The Lover's Melancholy. By A. H. T. Hymn of St. Pancras. By A. H. T. . Ballade. By A. H. T Ballade of Degrees. By Lyndore Herrick on the Trumpington Road. By 'P. KTHN OP0OAOHO2. By Kvvny6s Night. By F. M. C CAMBRIDGE : Our Old Trees. By John Willis Clark Undergraduate Life at Cambridge in 1794-1800. By H. A. Newton Ugly Cambridge. By J. D. D Cambridge Archaeology. By T. McKenny Hughes .. The Expansion of the Union A Commonplace Book of 200 years ago. By G. C. M. S Thackeray at Cambridge ... The Gogmagogs. By W. W. Skeat Letters to Lecturers To Dr. Verrall ... To Professor Jebb To Professor Stanford To Professor Macalister To Professor Sidgwick A Private Oration ... Archbishop Benson. By A. J. M. Epilogue ... GENERAL ARTICLES ROWING IN THE GREEK TRIREMES [March 17, 1880] As one who, in his day, was allowed to know the right from the wrong end of an oar, I may be permitted to offer for the judgment of the Athletic and Classical members of my old University, the following remarks on the above subject. If their correctness be not admitted, they will, at least, provoke such discussion as may elicit the truth. The subject is one of which a mere Classic is no competent judge; and a mere Oarsman as little so. Practical experience has to be reconciled with classical authority, for which task none are so competent as University men ; for Senior Wranglers and Senior Classics have carried off the palm of University oarsmanship. When I was last at Athens, in 1874, for the purpose of again visiting tlie living Finlay and the dead City, my attention was attracted on the Parthenon hill by a fragment of marble set up against the ruins of tlic l'>echthcium, which had theretofore escaped my observation, and around which some native gentlemen were grouped. On my expressing my delight at the sight of this fragment in the original, (for it is depicted in Jal's work,) to the utterly illiterate guardian, I was asked to explain the nature of the fragment in the vernacular. This I did, somewhat to the astonishment of the guardian, who at once dubbed me Kvpie Kadrj'pfTa, ov Mr. Professor, and treated me as an honorary member of the Society of Antiquaries of Athens, with becoming reverence. I subsequently had a cast made of this fragment under my own superintendence, which matrix I brought to England, and forwarded casts from it to the two English Universities, the British Museum, and other public bodies. As it exists in the University Library it is needless to describe it further in this place. According to local tradition there was another portion ; but whether the fore or afterpart of the trireme I could not ascertain ; and simply, " that it had been stolen by an American traveller /' and, since its weight must have been considerable, this could not have been effected without the complicity of the guardians, who attach greater value to gold than to marble. It represents the midship portion of a trireme, and goes under the popular name of the Trireme of Archimedes. It evidently formed a portion of some frieze of a local temple. The number of the rowers must remain uncertain. The bas-relief shows nine ; and, if it be assumed that this be one-third of the entire length of the vessel, and that one-half that 5 number is deducted for the other two portions, on account of the tapering of the two extremities, the calculations would stand 3x9x2 = 54, or 108 oars on both boards, so that there would not have been less than 100 oars in both, or 50 on each board ; and, as it is an admitted classical fact that there was but one man to an oar, as appears also in the bas-relief, the minimum number of the rowers would be loc; adding to this, 50 for relief and casualties, makes up the total to 150. Now, if these men used their oars as we do, in an eight-oared or other boat, at an obtuse angle to the water, the lower tier would have handled their oars without any difficulty ; not so, the second tier ; and tor the upper tier the task would have been impossible by reason of the length required to clear the lower tiers. This difficulty the bas-relief apparently solves, as I interpret it. The gallery was constructed very much in the likeness of a " monkey boat," called by barge- men a " Wusser," and to be seen on all canals, except that it was built up higher. The top sides were probably upright, on, but slightly " tumbled out," and carlins built into it at various distances above the water line, extending respectively two, three, and four feet beyond the sides. On these a gallery was constructed, extending, as stated, beyond the side, furnished with thwarts and stretchers, as in our boats; the rowlock, however, was not on the gunwale some- what below the level of the elbow, as with us, but near the outside of the stretcher, so that the rower rather paddled than rowed ; that is, he rowed perpen- dicularly, the consequence of which would necessarily be, that he would grasp his oar with the fingers on opposite sides of the handle, and by dropping the loom slightly inwards, would clear the oar of the water at the end of the stroke, and carry it forward for the next. The oars would increase in length in the successive tiers, but the upper oars would not be longer than those of our eight-oared racing boats. Height would also be saved by so placing the thwart, (to?xo^ or tcivXiov), that the head of the lower tiersman would come under the knees of the second tiersman, and so on. The lower oars would necessarily be very short, say 9, 12, and 15 feet respectively, thus allowing 3 feet for the loom, 18 inches between each tier, and 30 inches for immersion. It will therefore be observed that the galleries could all be carried away if run aboard, which was the principal tactic in Greek naval warfare, without affecting the integrity of the hull. In fact, the galleries would be entirely out-rigged ; and the whole hold of the vessel available for relief men and stores. The soldiers were notoriously on deck, as well as the passengers ; one of whom is seen lying at length in the bas-relief, on the quarter deck, as lay Ulysses on leaving Korkyra. The upper tiersmen, termed O/jn^iuirai, were of a more skilled class, the ^v-i'i-ut came next, and the OaXafxirai last, and were paid in proportion. The vessel was steered by a long oar, over or under the tafifrail, and sometimes by or on either quarter. This 7rt]Bd\iou was not hung like our rudder, which word in Dutch means the same as kwttt], an oar. This device enabled the stem or Trpv^ivrj to be rowed round. The oar was kept in its place by a thauel, or pin, (XKnXfios; to which a thong of raw hide was attached, called -rpoTTOf or Tf)07ru)7r']p, and the oar must have had a shoulder, to prevent its running out ; like the present oars of a Turkish caik, which work more smoothly and pleasantly than our rowlocks. The thramnites are described as occupying a more dangerous position, being exposed to the darts of the enemy, while, if the vessel got beaked, the thalamites were drowned. Archimedes of Syracuse is reported to have invented the trireme, and must therefore be considered as the first Greek naval architect. The trireme seldom sailed but with a fair wind. When it was in battle array no sails were used. There were two decks, Kmaa-rpwfLa-ra, the upper one wider than the lower by the width of the upper gallery, say 8 feet ; the lower deck was within the hull of the vessel, and the upper deck would, by this calculation, be 9 feet above the line of floatation. We read of quinqueremes and even decaremes, but how these were arranged it is not clear, since, even by the above suggested contrivance, the upper tier oars would be of inordinate length. The merchant vessels, mpo^/r^vXoi 8 i/z/es, on the contrary, seldom "swept," but always sailed, usually with a pretty fair wind, for it does not appear they " beat." The crew of a trireme by this calculation, must have been nearly as follows : Rowers ... Relief Soldiers ... Officers and Slaves All told lOO 50 100 50 300 At the average weight of 12 stone to a man, with his arms, this would give about 22 tons, to which adding 3 tons for provisions and water, would make a total of 25, though, it more probably amounted to 30 tons. On entering into an engagement, they struck the masts and cleared the deck for action. The two principal tactics were one, to run along- side the enemies' vessel, at an angle, and cripple the oars on the one side, and board her by the soldiers ; the other, to run into the enemy at right angles, and sink her by beaking, in which case they backed hard after the contact, for we learn that the Rhodian vessels, unable to effect this, were dragged down head first by the sinking vessels. There are many other manoeuvres imaginable, which were doubtless called into requisition, such as running into a vessel's stem, etc. The attacking squadron was usually arranged in a wedge-like form, led by the Admiral, ^avapxo^ or Vlavdpxov vavv, and received by the enemy in an inverted wedge, so as to enable them to close round, and take their opponents in rear. Much depended on the TrrjtaXiovxo^, who ranked as an officer ; indeed, the word Pilot appears to have been another word for naval officer. It will be observed in the frieze, that no two men sit to their work alike, and most of them in very bad form, with crooked backs, whence it may be inferred that the representation was taken from nature. It is well known to our university oarsmen, how difficult it is to get even eight men to sit in the same form, and row together, exerting their strength simultaneously ; at all events I have never seen it effected in fifty years' experience ; while any crew which could accomplish this would be certain of victory. It will also be observed that the men used short stretchers, and sat with their knees well up, and that they rowed naked. The Egyptians, according to their monuments, are for the most part represented as standing up to row in open boats. It is not my intention to write a treatise on the rowing of the Greeks and Romans, which can be better done by one who is still in the full swing of classical study ; but to draw attention to the possible 10 solution of a problem which has puzzled scholars and oarsmen for many centuries, and which sums itself up in this ; that the ancient Greeks did not row^ but paddled their triremes ; to which the action of a steamer's paddle-wheel bears the nearest mechanical resemblance. P. COLQUHOUN. THE ESMONDS OF CASTLEWOOD AND THE WARRINGTONS OF SUFFOLK [June 13, 1889] In Time for April appears an article by Mr. E. C. K. Conner on Thackeray's genealogies. Mr. Conner gives the genealogies of the Warringtons, of the New- comes, the Fokers, and the Floracs, but curiously enough omits the genealogy of the Esmonds, over which Mr. Thackeray was so careful. I have always felt a deep interest in my dear and honoured friend, Colonel Esmond, and all that concerned him. I have read and re-read his stately history, I know not how many times. I have made pilgrimages to the rooms in Trinity which are believed to have been his " in the great court close by the gate, and near to the famous Mr. Newton's lodgings.'' I have mused by the side of the torn!) of Beatrix's boyish lover in King's Chapel. 12 Some years ago I endeavoured to reconstruct that family tree, which we know Colonel Esmond prepared in his later years, representing " the family springing from the Emperor Charlemagne on the one hand, who was drawn in plate-armour, with his imperial mantle and diadem, and on the other from Queen Boadicea, whom the Colonel insisted upon painting in the light costume of an ancient British queen, with a prodigious gilded crown, a trifling mantle of furs, and a lovely symmetrical person, tastefully tattooed with figures of a brilliant blue tint." Oh ! why did George Warrington (of Lamb Court, Upper Temple) neglect to give us this, while editing the memoirs of his relatives? Had he done so, he must have supplemented it by a pedigree of the Warringtons and then we should have been saved much perplexity. His grandfather, Sir George Warrington (of Virginia and Warrington Manor) is a most irritating person. It will be seen from the family tree accompanying this article that I disagree with Mr. Conner as to several of Sir George's children. The fact is Sir George is so wrapped up in himself, that it is only while he is moralising over his troubles that we incidentally hear of his family. There is a mysterious child " who died in infancy," a " Mary " who suffered from fever but apparently recovered, a "Henry" whom I have ventured to identify with "a learned collegian." Mr, Conner, I think, identifies the ^> 2 - fa"" rt .5 -3 4) o ^ d w - U u: r> c - ^5 C3 c S S 1-^ .2-1 OS *- O J3i fc <^ '^ II w II ;s O i: -3-8 e 3 Ha S rt OJ^ hH Ho KS .3 - I J 9. = H" Jo* Si ft V ^ni Jj o -2 Si 14 collegian with George and makes him take holy orders for which I know of no authority. Then Major Pendennis served with another unidentified son in India and New South Wales. Surely, "Stunning" Warrington knew his uncles and his aunts? Even the good Colonel is rather hazy at times. Who shall tell us authoritatively whether it was Edward or Francis Esmond who died defending Castlewood against the forces of the Parliament ? R. F. S. NOTES BY A CONSTANT READER [October 22, 1891] I was told, the other day, by an experienced and judicious person, that it was most desirable to form the habit of reading novels : because, in periods of worry, distress, illness or enforced rest, no possible resource was so valuable. I hugged myself on hearing this : for I do not often form good habits, and since I have certainly formed the habit of reading novels, though I did not form it until rather late certainly long after I took my degree I venture to hope that, for once, I have discovered in myself an unsuspected merit. The discoveries one makes about oneself are generally of an exactly opposite character. The habit of reading novels is a phrase which means more than appears at first sight. A person cannot really be a habitual novel-reader, unless he take pleasure in reading bad novels as well as good. The number of good novels which the world contains i6 is not enough to supply the wants of an habitual reader, unless he has a faculty for reading things over and over again so abnormally developed as to render him an exception, not worth considering by a person engaged in the study of general principles. Ninety- nine habitual novel-readers out of a hundred are readers of bad novels as well as of good ; and the man who sees no good in wasting on admittedly bad novels the time so sparingly doled out to him by that destiny which has also bestowed upon him capacities far exceeding the measure of his opportunities, such a man and I speak with feeling, for I was such a man myself for many years is not, and would scorn to be, an habitual novel-reader. I am glad to know that the habit which this important and valuable section of the human race does not possess, is a good habit : for I had sometimes felt a feeling of regret, if not of remorse, at having ceased to belong to that section myself Now a person who reads bad novels is likely also to read other bad books. But an habitual novel- reader, as we have seen, almost always reads bad novels. Therefore an habitual novel-reader is likely also to read other bad books. The fact that a man is likely to read other bad books as well as bad novels, makes the habit of novel-reading even more interesting and important than I have hitherto shown it to be. For the man who reads only good books may know as little of the world which is made up of books, as a 17 man who met only good people would know of the world which is made up of people. It would certainly be dull, and probably be demoralizing, to know no bad people : and a constant and exclusive perusal of volumes likely to be included in authorised versions of the Hundred Best Books might well produce unde- sirable results. I say that the habitual novel-reader is likely to read bad books ot all sorts, but I would by no means suggest that he is certain to do so, or that he is nearly as likely to do so as he is to read bad novels. All that can be established about him for certain is that one of the reasons which deters men from reading bad books a determination to read nothing that is not first-rate, does not exist for him; since, if it did, he would not be an habitual novel-reader. But it is perfectly possible that the habitual novel-reader may read absolutely nothing except novels. The habit of novel-reading may be due to that congenital laziness which inclines a person at any moment to do that which costs the least eflfort ; or to that inherent perversity which inclines him always to do that which there is the least apparent fitness in doing at the moment. In the former case the same laziness which causes a person to read novels may prevent him (or her) from ever doing anything else except such duties as are necessary to be done in order to keep out of the workhouse, the gaol, or the lunatic asylum. This is a bad state of things for almost anybody. I will 2 I8 go so far as to say, that if the habit of novel-reading is the only habit a person has, it is hardly a good habit at all. The second case which I have supposed is less fraught with disaster and less conducive to intel- lectual decay than the first. The inherent perversity which makes a person read novels at times when it is obviously improper and absurd to read novels may possibly lead them to read philosophy, poetry, science, and theology at times when the study of these subjects is evidently out of place ; and such times abound in the life-time of every man. Nevertheless, there are always many things which it is improper to do at a given moment, besides a larger and constant number of things which it is improper to do at any moment whatever. It is therefore impossible to rely upon the inherently perverse. The outlets of perversity are innumerable, and you cannot be certain that the most perverse of men will ever read Voltaire or Shakespeare; not because it is not certain (for it is) that he will have many opportunities of reading them perversely (in church, for instance, or during a football match), but because these pursuits will have to compete con- tinuously with many other pursuits, some of them essentially seductive to the inherently perverse. But when a novel-reader is not inordinately lazy and not extravagantly perverse, nor yet so feeble in intellect as to be unable to read serious books, nor so hopelessly ignorant as not to know anything of the topics to which books refer, nor so passionately 19 devoted to out-door life as never to go into a library, nor so continuously occupied with commercial, pro- fessional or social pursuits as barely to find time even for his (or her) novel-reading; when, in short, the novel-reader is not subject to any of the ordinary disabilities which prevent the great majority of human beings from reading more than a very few books after they settle down in life ; when, to put it more shortly, the novel-reader is also a "general reader," he will probably be a reader of bad books as well as of good books. Of those who habitually read books a small but not wholly contemptible class there are two kinds. First there are those who read books which their friends tell them they "ought to read," and books which they think it will be good for them to read, and books which they are ashamed of having to say that they have not read, or, by the help of a lie, that they have read ; " good books," in short, not of course in the worst and vilest sense of the word, but in the sense in which Shakespeare, and Molit;re, and Scott, and Dickens, and Newman, and Meredith are good, and in which Martin Tupper, and Mr. G. R. Sims, and *' Hugh Conway " are bad. Secondly, there are those who read a book when it comes their way because it happens to be a book, and not for any other reason. Let us for convenience sake call this second class by the name of constant readers. Let me say that of general readers some are readers of the Hundred Best Books, and others are constant readers. 20 I sum up what has gone before by declaring, that if a general reader is an habitual novel-reader, he is pretty sure to be a constant reader, and not a reader of the Hundred Best Books ; and I introduce what is to come by observing that ^ am a constant reader myself. II [November 5, 1891] I have not exhausted the advantages of being a novel-reader, and therefore, in all probability, a constant reader, A man who enjoys this privilege is not only a reader of bad books as well as of good : he is also a reader of old books as well as of new ; or, as the case may be, of new books as well as of old. Either of these results is advantageous : but the latter is, in one way at least, a more valuable boon than the former. It is no doubt well for a man who reads all the new books to read old books too, because there are not enough new books to satisfy him. But the man who reads new books by choice and old books only by necessity is not likely to be a general reader of the most valuable kind : and his recourse to old books is not likely to be nearly so useful to him as it is to the reader of old books by choice, and of new books by accident. The former is the lowest kind of general reader. He has a perilous affinity with the reader of the Hundred Best Books : the reader 21 who reads what he will benefit by, or what it may be a social disadvantage not to have read. Reading devoted primarily and essentially to the perusal of new books, and to knowing what the reviewers know, and talking as the reviewers talk, is only rescued from the lowest rank, and entitled to be called constant reading at all, because it extends even to such new books as are not mentioned by the reviewers, and because, if the new books fall short, it will be extended so as to include a portion of the old. But one who reads an old book solely because there is no new book at hand to read, is very unlikely to read old books to the best possible advantage. Therefore I say that the latter of the two classes is the more important and the more favoured, and that (paradoxical as the statement may appear to those who are not so careless as to think it insignifi- cant) the reading of new books as well as of old is a greater boon than the reading of old books as well as new. There are men who ordinarily, in leisure moments, pick up an old book ; and who wait to read the books which arouse the enthusiasm of journalists and feed the chatterers at social gatherings, until they have become old, and been forgotten by the superficial critic. Those men are more likely to read to good purpose than those whose first aim is to get the newest publication. It is therefore more important that they should obtain a small opportunity of which they will make good use, than that their inferiors 23 should obtain a great opportunity of which they will make small use. It is well that the reader of Voltaire, Swift, Defoe, Howel, Marlowe and Brantome, should have a look at " Robert Elsmere " and the " Wages of Sin " before they have become practically obsolete. It will be good for him, and it will be good for the cause of sound criticism. His natural inclination is to neglect these works so long as they are the cause of wide-spread loquacity, and not to take them up until they have become books wholly dependent on their intrinsic qualities for literary eminence, and interesting as evidence of the sort of thing that was written and read at a period sufficiently remote for dispassionate analysis. The fact, therefore, that a constant reader is likely to read almost anything in the way of a book which he happens to find under his hand, is a fortunate circumstance, among other reasons, because it forces people with a strong prefer- ence for old books not entirely to neglect the new. Moreover it is a characteristic of the genuine constant reader that he will read foreign books as well as native books. A book is none the less a book because it is written in a foreign language, however unintelligible or undesirable. The constant reader will of course encounter some works written in a language wholly incomprehensible, and printed perhaps in type which he cannot decipher. Even these volumes he will recognise for books. One of them may keep him employed for a leisure quarter of 23 an hour. He will make what he can of the title page. He will see whether the general character of the type, and the method of printing more nearly resemble one or another of the typographical styles with which he is acquainted. He will try to trace and identify a constantly recurring word : an " I," a "he," an "and," or a "for." He will study the punctuation, the breaking up of the sentences, the length of the words, the variability of roots and fre- quency of inflections. If he has handled a book in the same language before, reminiscences will be awakened, and possibly new light will be thrown on baffling problems of minute bibliosophy. To study a book in Russian or Arabic, or even in Spanish or Welsh, without any knowledge whatever of the lan- guage in question, is not a specially interesting or an eminently fruitful occupation : but the ideal constant reader will do it all the same, and will enjoy doing it. If a wholly unintelligible book is better than no book at all to a constant reader, there is no doubt that he will make every effort to meet with as few unintelligible books as possible. He will be a student of languages all his life, and will make every eftbrt to retain and extend such knowledge of languages, whether ancient or modern, as his education, or youthful experiences, may chance to have conferred upon him. By reading, unscrupulously and auda- ciously, without the aid of a dictionary, books wiiuen in languages which he has no right to say that he 24 knows, he will convert a slight and elementary know- ledge of particular languages into sound and practically useful knowledge. Indeed, a constant reader comes to read books in a way wholly different from that of a person whose idea of reading is reading aloud, or being read to aloud, in a circle of persons who think that an hour or two every day ought to be devoted to conscientiously and accurately traversing the exact course which the writer of a book has laid down for them. To read for a given time every day, and to make sure that you have not "skipped," are the attributes of persons most remote in methods and tastes from true constant readers. Some of these persons join societies, bind themselves by vows, and expose themselves to pecuniary liabilities in case of default, in order to make themselves certain of doing their duty by the books which the world contains. But a constant reader joins no society, takes no oaths and pays no fines. He reads when he can, and where he can, and as long as he feels inclined. He does not use "book-markers." He does not copy out edifying passages. He does not keep a methodical record of his reading. He has no conscientious scruple about skipping. He reads as much or as little of a book as he feels disposed. He will spend an hour one day in tearing the heart out of a big book ; an hour next day in dwelling on the minutest shades of style and meaning in half a dozen pages which he almost knows by heart. His own pleasure is his 25 only guide in reading. Sometimes it pleases him to find out as quickly as possible what an author had to say ; sometimes to realise as fully as possible how he chose to say a thing ; sometimes to find the interesting passages in a dull book; sometimes to sound the depth of dulness in the stupid parts of an interesting book. Books are at once his tools and playthings; he can use them, apply them, criticise them, realise them, or lose himself in them ; he can feel as if he had written them, as if he had answered them, as if he were worshipping the writer, or as if he were about to horsewhip him. To all the uses he makes of books in collecting apply the name " to read " ; but "reading" in the sense of a person who belongs to an "hour a day" club is a very small part of the collection of processes to which the name " to read " applies. J. K S. ON BLUFFING [February i8, 1892] Bluffing as a deliberate artifice is of recent growth in our literature. It seems to spring from two dif- ferent causes from a legitimate desire to secure respectful consideration for genuine wares, and again from a dishonest wish to obtain readers on false pretences. In the former kind Anthony Trollope was a past master. In later life he frankly admitted that he had made it his practice to construct a phrase, a sentence, or a long passage, two or three times in a volume, which should awe the ignorant and bewilder the learned. His readers were to look up to him, as to a brilliant speaker on a platform, not as superior folk in the boxes look down on the toiling comedian. If we may judge from the complacency with which Trollope unfolds this stratagem, it must have answered his purpose more than enough. Nor is there repre- hensible dishonesty in bluffing that deals only in bombast and eighteen-inch words. But there are authors who bluff in another and a more cruel fashion. Their method is to carry the 27 reader bodily into an enchanted maze, and there leave him to wander in blissful pain until death or ennui relieves him. Perhaps this trick of weaving a plot for the reader to finish was suggested by history (though history more commonly mimics fiction, from Lost Sir Massingberd upwards) ; for the best of the " half-told tales " are historical. There are many in Herodotus, some of them stories whose end he seems never to have heard, some of them with solutions which with characteristic malice he knows but prefers not to say. Yet much may be forgiven him, in that he gives us the complete story of the Nasamonians, who went across the marshes to a race of pigmy sorcerers, and stayed in their town (was it Timbuctoo ?) beside a big river full of crocodiles. Here was a grand opening for bluff, but the simple conclusion that they all came safely home is very much more satisfactory than that of a very tantalising story told with much detail by Strabo, of the man from Cyzicus, who, after two unsuc- cessful attempts to circumnavigate Africa, for each of which he was heavily fined at Alexandria, at last got fairly started southwards from the Pillars of Hercules. The rest of the facts, says Strabo, rubbing his hands at our disappointment, I really do not know; but inquiries in the neighbourhood of Cadiz might elicit something! The historian, or for that matter the novelist, who leaves us such locks as these to pick, deserves as little mercy " as the Examiners who set problems that will never come out" Probably 28 Mr. Frank Stockton made for himself more enemies than friends by writing The Lady and the Tiger ^ which, however, is hardly an instance of dishonest bluffing, for the three preliminary pages contain enough of clever work for most three-volume novels. It is even safe to suppose that the author has been impaled on the horns of his own dilemma, and is now working out his own solution in rage and misery. But of all recent offenders the most hardy and unashamed is Mr. Rudyard Kipling. When he was a very young man and wrote in the Pioneer and the Civil and Military Gazette, he used to bluff so crudely that people laughed, and the phrase, "There was a cooly-woman once, but that is another story," became a proverb in India. But time has brought his revenges, and to-day *' the young man from Lahore who got on in life by standing drinks," as a civilian jealously once described him, plays the game of literary poker as well as any whose name is known in Fleet Street. It is a vulgar game, but a subtle one too; and this is how he plays it. He assumes the part of an omniscient philosopher. No fact is too small for him, no gene- ralisation too wide ; with a single adjective he justifies a policy or condemns a continent To keep up this assumed knowledge of things dicenda et tacenda^ he gives you sudden glimpses of what he could tell you if he pleased : here a masterly aposiopesis, there a careless allusion, everywhere the trenchant tones that defy contradiction. It is impossible to disbelieve 29 Mr. Kipling ; it is possible to blame him for not put- ting our credulity to severe tests. Over his more interesting revelations he draws a veil of mystery, just to baffle the curiosity which the whole context was designed to whet. But it is time he took warning. The British public will not stand this literary bluffing for ever. Indeed, if I were a tyrant with a tyrant's taste for good literature hot and hot, I would clap Mr. Kipling into my dungeons and make him show his cards. I would learn at last whom he meant by the Biggest Liar in Asia; perhaps a pretty bit of autobiography might be extracted under threats of the bastinado. I would make him tell me what two words breathed into the stables of what cavalry regi- ment will bring out the men with mops and belts and bad language ; and whether he knows their virtue by experiment or only by hearsay. He should describe to me the image that Spurstow's camera showed in the dead man's eyes ; and what evidence there is for that gruesome bit of pseudo-science. For his English characters and their daintiness or violence, as the case may be, I care little. I have often wondered, but I should not ask, where Mrs. Hauksbee learned that astonishing habit of passing the lash of her riding-whip through her lips when she was thinking ; or what the Three Men did to Peythroppe at her request, that night when the long foot-rest chair was broken, and the trot of camels was heard in the compound, and they 30 four disappeared for six weeks. Sometimes I suspect that Mr. Kipling first invents and then answers his own riddles, in which case he is the prince of them that bluff. What, for instance, can have become of the Crown of Kafiristan ? What happens if you shout to the grey wolf through the gate at even, " Badl khas is dead " ? How was the man at Rawal Pindi sobered by being made a fool of? Who dance the Ndlli-hukh, who and where and when? What did the Englishman say when he conferred with the Sub-judge till that excellent official turned green? What became of the Little Fish in the silver box, which was an unfailing love charm, and what was the nature of the only other regular working amulet in the world, which "was in the possession of a trooper of the Nizam's Horse " ? These are but a few of the loose ends which Mr. Kipling will have to knot up some day. It may be that his sleeve is "stuffed full of aces and bowers, and the same with intent to deceive," in which case he had better take ship for India. Personally, I still believe that there are answers to these questions ; but it will go hard with Mr. Kipling if he strains our faith much longer. ON SOME PASSAGES IN JANE AUSTEN'S MANSFIELD PARK I [November 30, 1893] Some time ago, when the edition of Jane Austen's novels by Mr. R, B. Johnson was noticed in the Cambridge Review^ attention was called to some of the more or less obvious errors of printing, which, as is well known, are in most or all of her works un- happily frequent. It may be worth while to resume the subject, for the purpose of pointing out twc^ curious cases of an exceptional kind, which forcibly illustrate the difficulties and dangers of such investiga- tions, and the ease with which the " corruptions " may be propagated and the truth irremediably obscured. The passages in question are both to be found in Mansfield Park, and in the same scene that in which Mr. Rushworth's mother pays a visit at Mansfield and gives her invitations for the famous visit to Sotherton (Chap. 8 : Vol. I. pp. 7782, ed. R. B. J.). In each case there is an established text, produced by altera- 32 tions, plausible and apparently certain, of what was allowed to stand in both the editions passed by the author herself. And in each the alteration is eno- neous, while the original sentences, although, with a little more professional skill than Miss Austen hap- pened to possess, they might perhaps have been better exhibited in type, are not only right in sub- stance but very interesting and characteristic of her mind. It will be remembered that the party present on the occasion includes Mrs. Rushworth, the usual Bertram group (with the exception, in the first in- stance, of Edmund), and. as visitors from the par- sonage, Mrs. Grant and Mary Crawford, who have dropped in at the Park by accident. Mrs. Rushworth, "a well-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who thought nothing of consequence but as it related to her own and her son's concerns ", is dealing all round invitations for a proposed excursion to her great house. The plan, as originally made, was to include Mrs. Norris, the two Misses Bertram, and Mr. Crawford. It has been further settled, after some humorous little performances, that Lady Bertram will not be at the trouble of going, and that Lady Bertram cannot spare Fanny Price. We then read, or rather should read, if we possessed either of the author's own editions, as follows : " Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the convic- tion that everybody must be wanting to see Sotherton, to 33 include Miss Crawford in the invitation ; and though Miss Grant, who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for her sister ; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in accepting her share of the civility." The eye and ear of the reader stumble of course at the name of " Miss Grant " ; there is no such person in the book. Almost equally as a matter ot course, the re-prints simply substitute " Mrs. " for " Miss ", mostly without observation, Mr. Johnson with a foot- note recording the original ; and in this shape the sentence slips quietly through. The present writer, for instance, must have read it so at least a dozen times. This, however, is but one among many frequent proofs, how little activity of the mind may go to the amusement which we dignify by the name of reading. Very little consideration will show that the "corrected" text is nothing better than nonsense. " Mrs. Grant " we are told according to this version " civilly declined the invitation on her own account." Did she indeed ? What invitation did she civilly decline ? Mrs. Rush- worth meets at Lady Bertram's an intimate of the house, Miss Crawford, with whom she is herself un- acf[uainted, and asks Miss Crawford to visit her. Thereupon Mrs. Grant, another stranger, civilly de- clines the invitation on her own account. How very 3 34 civil ! But how easy, and how much more civil, for Mrs. Grant to wait until she was asked ! And the sequel is more wonderful still. Mrs. Grant, though so ready with her own refusal, " was glad to secure any pleasure for her sister" Miss Crawford. Then why does she intercept the invitation addressed to her sister, instead of leaving her sister to accept it? Miss Crawford's pleasure was already secure, if Mrs. Grant would but allow her to speak ; how then should Mrs. Grant " secure " it by thrusting herself forward unasked ? Miss Crawford, a very independent young lady, is for the time being resident with Mrs. Grant, and for this reason she might, or might not, consult her before accepting. Yet for this again Mrs. Grant might with more civility have waited. Mrs. Grant in short, as the affair is represented in the emended text, had nothing whatever to do with the proposal ; and the emendation therefore is absurd. To reach upon this tack the semblance of sense, we should have to write thus : " Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next ... to include Miss Crawford in the invitation, and Mrs. Grant ; and though Mrs. Grant " etc. This would at least give Mrs. Grant an invitation to decline ; but it would still remain a mystery what she need do, or could do, to " secure the pleasure " for her sister. Moreover this would be, in the language of the commentators, rather to re-write than to correct. No such improvement is wanted. The original words are right, and add an excellent touch to the 35 general purport of the scene. The humour of the situation turns upon Mrs. Rushworth's beHef that ** everybody must be wanting to see Sotherton ", and the way in which she asks and presses everybody in turn, without reserve and without discrimination. The procedure, as conceived by the author, was this. Mrs. Rushworth, having invited all the people whom she knew, and also Fanny Price, whom she hardly knew, was going on to invite the two callers, beginning with Miss Crawford. But having no knowledge of either, beyond the two names as given in a rapid, formal introduction, she made the sort of mistake which we have all seen made under similar circumstances ; while naming " Miss Crawford" she addressed herself to Mrs. Grant. Under these circumstances, and only under these circumstances, it was natural that Mrs. Grant, in order to pass the matter off without an awkward hitch, should answer the equivocal invitation on behalf of both, *' she could not have the pleasure herself, but perhaps her sister . , , ." and so on, thus " securing " the gratification for Mary, while declining it on her own account. The author, wishing to bring in this bit of by-play, and yet not to cumber the story with detail, puts it tersely and suggestively thus : Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must be wanting to see Sotherton, to in- clude "Miss Crawford" in the invitation; and though " Miss " Grant, who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth on her coming into the neighbourhood. 36 civilly declined it on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for her sister ; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in accepting her share of the civility. The unappropriated description " Miss " Grant is purposely used as a brief equivalent for " the person addressed as Miss, whose true name happened to be not Miss Crawford but Mrs. Grant." The latter part of the paragraph, as well as the former, depends upon this equivocation for its point and sense. It is be- cause the invitation, though worded for Miss Crawford, was not unmistakably intended for her, that she re- quires to be " properly pressed and persuaded " before accepting it; and she is said to accept not " the civility " but "her share of the civility", because, such and so far civil as it was, it was actually divided between two. That the author wrote the sentences as above printed, with the desirable inverted co7nmas, I would not assert. It is likely enough that she wrote exactly what her printer printed and she in two revisions allowed. Her literary training was unprofessional, and her books are full of evidence that her command of typography was far from complete. But the words which she meant to write, and wrote, did in this in- stance get through the press, and though chargeable perhaps with excessive brevity, they are highly signifi- cant both of her minute recollection of social tricks, and her fastidious anxiety at all events not to be too diffuse or too emphatic. 37 II [December 7, 1893] Guided by this example, we can also see our way through another, similar and similarly spoilt, in the same scene. When Fanny Price, as we saw above, is invited to join the excursion, her two aunts, in their respective styles, promptly decline on her behalf. But Edmund, who appears just in time to learn what has been settled and to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her carriage, proposes on his return that his favourite Cousin Fanny shall nevertheless go, he himself re- maining instead as companion for his mother. Lady Bertram. Mrs. Xorris, who of course opposes Fanny's interest, objects that Mrs. Rushworth will be offended if Fanny goes, after her going has been pronounced impossible. Since Mrs. Rushworth has made it super- fluously clear that for her purposes one admirer of Sotherton is as good as another, and has particularly regretted the misfortune of not receiving Miss Price, Mrs. Morris's apprehension is altogether baseless, and does not for a moment pass as sincere. But Edmund is provided with an additional refutation. Mrs. Norris, he says, " . . . . need not distress herself on Mrs. Rush- worth's account, because he had taken the opportunity, as he walked with her through the hall, of mentionir;.: Miss Price as one who would probably be of the part}-, and had directly received a very sufficient invitation for her cousin." 38 *' A very sufficient invitation " say the re-prints, not "for her cousin" but "for his cousin", that is to say for Fanny. And in this case it must be admitted that, if the re-prints were the sole evidence and the author's editions were lost, it would be scarcely pos- sible by the most attentive scrutiny to conceive a suspicion against the particular word his. But a sus- picion, that something was wrong somewhere in the sentence, might easily be conceived by anyone versed in the author. For as given in the re-prints it is alto- gether unlike her and unworthy of her. Miss Austen did not make English like a penny-a-liner's. Miss Austen did not spin out lines about things of no significance, or pad them with needless equivalents and false epithets. If she had meant no more than that Edmund, on mentioning Fanny, "had received an invitation for her", this and no more she would have written. It is impossible in the circumstances that Mrs. Rushworth should have given to Edmund anything which could reasonably be described as *' a very sufficient invitation " for Fanny. She had given her before, in the drawing-room, an invitation much more than sufficient, an invitation as plain and pressing as could be. The aunts had declared it impossible that Fanny should go. If Mrs. Rushworth had understood Edmund to say, as he escorted her out, that Fanny could and would go, she could do neither less nor more than assure him that, if it proved so, she should be very glad. But that is not 39 a " very sufficient " invitation. It is idle to describe a thing as " sufficient " if its sufficiency cannot con- ceivably be called in question; and no good writer would describe anything as ^^very sufficient", unless to mark some quality so peculiar as to require and justify the use of a forced and improper expression.* The truth is that here, as in the former example, the author, wanting to make a fine little point, and fearing to make too much of it, has scarcely allowed herself words enough for her meaning. When Edmund "mentioned Miss Price as one who would probably be of the party ", Mrs. Rushworth did not very well understand to whom he referred. How could she? She had just been emphatically assured, by the ladies who ruled the family, that Fanny, the "Miss Price" in the drawing-room, could not possibly be of the party. How could she suppose that a young man like Mr. Edmund Bertram pretended to contradict Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris upon such a point? But knowing in fact hardly anything of the house and its frequenters, she was quite ready to suppose, and naturally did suppose, that this " Miss Price " who " would probably be of the party " was some other Miss Price, a cousin perhaps (Edmund in his hasty hint would almost inevitably use the word " cousin ") * In Pride and Prejudice, XV. (Vol. I., p. 71, ed. Johnson), the phrase "very sufficient income" belongs to the mind of Mr. Collins, who naturally would not be content to describe his income as sufficient, even when that was what he meant. 40 of the Fanny Price whom she had seen and had invited in vain. She would as willingly exhibit Sother- ton to this hypothetical Miss Price as to everybody else, and therefore at once gave Mr. Bertram an invitation for " Miss Price's cousin ". This is that invitation which is exactly and wittily described as " a very sufficient invitation ". As applied to Fanny herself, it is certainly something less than a plain invitation ; but it is an invitation '* sufficient " for her, because in the circumstances it would be sufficient for any lady whom the Bertrams chose to take, and also because Fanny did not really need any further invita- tion at all. Mrs. Norris's objections do not deserve, and do not receive, a serious answer. And further, this invitation may well be called ''very sufficient", although these are words without proper meaning. There is something excessive in the sufficiency of an invitation transferable to anybody, a compliment pay- able, as it were, to bearer. And such is the character of Mrs. Rushworth's civilities, the essentially humorous element in this scene. Here, as in the other case, type might have done something to ease the brevity of the wording. It would have drawn attention to the point designed if the sentence had been printed thus : She need not distress herself on Mrs. Rushworth's account, because he had taken the opportunity, as he walked with her through the hall, of mentioning " Miss 41 Price " as one who would probably be of the party, and had directly received a very sufficient invitation for her cousin / This would have been more clear; but it would also have been less delicate; and here, as in many another place, the author, economical of such arts, or careless, or perhaps partly both, has left the hint to find or to miss its way according to the alertness of the recipient. But what chance would there have been, in either of the two passages which we have considered, of recovering or establishing the original words, if we had nothing to work from but the re- prints, documents much better and nearer to the source than those with which a critic must often be content? A. W. Verrall. [Note. I take this opportunity of mentioning, that the corxecixon say iox stay {Mansfield Park, Chap. IX. Vol. I. p. lo6, ed. Johnson), given in the review above cited, vv^as suggested to me in conversation by Dr. Henry Jackson, as I ought to have remembered. A. \V. V.] HOW TO COMMENTATE [May 23, 1895] One who has suffered many things from many commentators on Greek poetry in the last two years ventures to give some idea of their methods of pro- cedure by imagining two stanzas ot an English classic found as fragments two centuries later, and put under their treatment. Wordsworth has been claimed by Max Miiller (" Science of Language ") as essentially ancient in feeling; so the first and third stanzas of one of his best known poems have been taken for the purpose. There is no exaggeration of tone in this specimen ; it is impossible to caricature the confidence of the ordinary commentator, and his preference, especially if he be a German, for his own original poetry rather than that of the author before him. With a minimum of poetical feeling, he never fails to claim the poetical licence quidlibd audere. The usual symbols and signs have been employed. 43 WORDSWORDS. Frag. 126 (Nockemorf. 129 a.) ed. Jabez. I. A simple child tdear brother Jemf That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death ? (5) 7 She had a rustic woodland air, 6 And she was * mildly glad* 5 Her eyes were *fine and very fair, 8 Her beauty made me *sad. "WORDSWORDS." So I read: previous edd. Wordsworth, but " Wordswords," a reduplicated form of "words," found in Byron ("a literary eclogue") is clearly correct, and intimates that these and similar pieces are fragmenta adespota a collection of words or possibly volkslieder ; see Schreckmann. Beitrage zur. vorm. Poes : 20th Ed. p. 1006. I. Nockemorf omits all the first stanza as corrupt, and Rheinwein the whole frag, except the last line. " A little child" some copies, and so Wackford, who compares Hymns A. & M. 473, stanza 2, 1. 2. " Dear brother Jim" or "Jem" (MSS.) is hopelessly corrupt. Sleimsoeth following Wackford's idea conj. " so runs the hymn " ; "I said to him," Mammageorgius ; " I spoke to him," Hotmann ; "A curious whim !" Pfloppe; I am inclined to read my own conj. ''' long-legged Jim ^^ 44 see comm. and cf. Bret Harte, Poems : " why, you limb ! I you ornery derned old long-legged Jim ! " 2. Buncke reads "his" for "its" in i and 2 and " he " for " it " in 4, and believes the first four lines to refer solely to " Jim." 5. 6. 7. 8. Following Pflugge I have transposed these lines, see comm. MSS, read " fair and very fair," which cannot be right. I read " fine and very fair," as Diidelsack ; " blue and very fair," Bellman ; which Nockemorf improves to " blue and fairly fair." 6. " Wildly clad," MSS. ; " mildly glad," Buncke, and " sad " for " glad " (MSS.) in 8, whom I follow ; see comm. 7. "Woodland air," MSS.; "woodland hair," Buncke ; but this is hardly possible with the verb *' had " and the indefinite article preceding. 8. Condemned by Boscher as unmetrical. I. These beautiful verses represent a rustic maiden of graceful mien but disordered mind presenting her- self before the poet as a vagrant asking alms ; though not apparent on the surface, this is clearly the sense of the passage. I. "Simple" is clearly not used in the ordinary sense, but implies idiotic, as the Greek evr]6t}9 (cf. 45 O. E. seely; German selig; Engl, silly). I have no doubt that Wordswords speaks of a vagrant child of a harmless type of idiocy ; idiots were always a favourite subject with him. Touches such as these underlying apparent simplicities of diction render the work of a commentator on these Fragments a particularly exact- ing task. I have retained " its " in 2 and 3 and " it " in 4, as the sex of the child need not be specified, though I think that the child of the first four lines is further described in the second stanza, and addresses *' long-legged Jim," perhaps her brother, in the first line ; an apparently violent sudden turn to the vocative is a well-known feature in poetry. As to my conj. " long-legged Jim," proper names are particularly liable to corruption cf. Tennyson (Lyrics-Princess) : all copies extant read " R.osc a nurse of ninety years, | placed his child upon her knee," but what is now taken as a verb is doubtless a proper name, and the passage should run, " Rose, a nurse of ninety years, | placed. ..." A contemporary hand no doubt changed Jim to Jem, and inserted the " dear brother " as a marginal comment, which has now found its way into the text. 4. Hockewoke objects that the idea of death is innate in all human beings, and cf Hartlesen, " Der Mensch in der Religionsgeschichte," Vol. 10, p. 34, ed. 10, but this objection is met by my view that the child is an idiot, and therefore not so fully gifted as the ordinary human being. 46 5 8. I have transposed these lines, following Pflugge; they are sensible and admissible as they stand, but I prefer the other order. 7 (5). The MSS. " fair and very fair " gives a weak and impossible tautology. I read "fine and very fair" in the sense of course of "fair" as opposed to "dark": " fine " is very near " fair " in MSS. writing, and better than ' blue " which only repeats " fair " ; the view that " fair and very fair " means " beautiful and very beauti- ful " hardly needs a mention ; it is undeniably weak. NockemorPs "blue and fairly fair" gives a vulgar and commonplace tone to this elevated passage. 6. I follow Buncke in reading " mildly glad " and " sad " in 8. The alteration of letters is so very small that his brilliant suggestion can hardly be called a conjecture ; it is quite certain ; the copyist took the second " glad " from two lines above, a common error. The MSS. reading will not do : an idiot girl, especially if "wildly clad," would not awaken joy in a poet's breast. Sadness is a particularly appropriate feeling ; the poet, no doubt, moralises on the weakness of the Socratic doctrine that "beauty of face indicates beauty of mind" (Bruce : Athenseum artic. on Ancient Beauty). A mild gladness on the part of the girl is a different thing, and we may notice that with the poet gladness not per se, but tempered with mildness, was a congenial frame of mind recognised by him in many objects; but here the hope of the vagrant that she will receive 47 a small sum in alms from the poet is finely hinted at, and I have no doubt that the rustic maiden was the recipient of the poet's generosity. His frame of mind was not always, I conjecture, that of his poem Frag. 183 (2006, a. Nockemorf). "Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, | and what he meant was, * Keep away, | and leave me to myself!'" though here the poet himself need not be speaking, as Boscher supposes. We may compare his attitude here to that of his friend, C. Lamb, in the essay on the " Decay of Beggars," but the Vagrancy Act at this time was strict (see Brassen- kettle, Leg. Ann. Dig. 2, 19). I cannot agree with Smarttork, who sees a veiled reference to the Reform Bill and Napoleonic invasion in this passage, V. H. R. A LETTER TO FRESHMEN [October 24, 1895] (From the Unpublished Papers of the late Right Hon. Philip Dormer, fourth Earl of Chesterfield. ) Spa, Oct. xvth. Dear Boys, It is now some years since I entered the University of which you are the Latest Members, but if you refer to the Encyclopaedia which, I make no doubt, each of you possesses, you will find that my Career was not without some Distinction, and that, while paying Due attention to the Studies so necessary to a Diplomatic Education, I acquired a Grace of Manners and a Civility which has since favoured my Progress through the Courts of Europe. I was no mere Beau: as became a Gentleman of Family, I joined the fashionable Clubs of the University, but, in consorting with their Members, kept a strict Regard to Econo?ny in Expenditure, and avoided that Appear- ance of Means which is the surest test of Vulgarity. Thus I think that there can be no Person better suited than Myself to Advise you in this early Stage of your 49 Experience, and if (as alas ! I have known it happen in my Nearest Relations) my Admonition is sown upon an Ungrateful Soil, the Fault is not mine. And first (to make no further Freambk) I would have you Respect those Humane Laws which the University so justly imposes on you. Your Tutors, with that generosity which is so Signal a Recommendation of their Class, have Presented you with a little Book, in which are Described the Rules she enjoins and the Advantages she offers to your Obedience. I have known a Man who, with a Superior Contempt of those Regulations, would scarcely be Prevailed upon to wear a Cap and Gown, who would neglect the Dccoriwi of the Study and Lecture Room for a Country Ride, and would drive landefn, as we say, on Sundays ; who Spent his Days at the Race-Course, and his Nights in the Watch-House; who, despising these Advantages, would never frequent the University Sermon, though Dr. South himself should be the Preacher, and not only had never seen the Penetralia of the University's Library, but hardly knew that there was such a Place. On the other hand, I knew one Student who was so Enamour'd of the Statutes as to be clothed perpetually in a Sad-coloured Coat, and, even in his Chambers, always wore his Academic Costume after sunset. At Break of Day, he would repair (after a hasty Toilette) to the Library, and was never out at the Sermon. Now, I would have you Avoid either of these Extremes, the first of which is unmannerly, and the second 4 so Laughable. A Civil Youth will know where to place the Mean. He will break no Rules save those whose Infringement is unhindered by Detection; he will show a Sufficient Gratitude for those Advantages by a Courteous Inspection of the one, and a limited Irregu^ larity of Attendance at the other. And, if he is something Uncultured and Rude, and hath not yet learned his Manners at Eaton or Winton Colleges, now is the Time for his Improvement. But there are some, who, altho' they have all the Characters of a Gentleman of Ton, still Suffer from an InfeUcity of Diction which it is hard to uproot. They talk a Language of their own, so Barbarian and Un- couth that it can only be Matched by those Tongues which the Genius of my late Friend, the Dean of Saint Patricks Discover'd in his Matchless Piece of Gulliver. These will Speak of the Commonest Things by most Recondite Titles, so that it is Difficult even for a well- bred Man to Fathom the Arcana of their Conversation, which they will Carry, by continual Use, into the Politest Company. I do not say that this is Criminal, but it is a Defect of Manners hard to be Remedied, and much to be Deplor'd. The Ungrammatical Per- son will always excite Ridicule in a huge degree : this sort of Man, open to no other Reproach of Behaviour, will, by his Pedantry (for I can call this Jangling Talk by no Name else), open the Fountains of Pity in those who are perhaps his Inferiors, if not by Birth, at least in Talent and Education. But a worse Fault than 51 this is that Extravagance which the Philosopher rightly condemns -as an excess. A lavish Expense too often Denotes a lowness of Mind and Principle. If you will give Dinners, avoid a too Sumptuous Appearance : this is Specious enough for an Alderman, but is an Abuse of your Gentility. If you will procure Dogs and Horses, consult your Relatives, for, at your time of life, you will scarce yet know one Horse or Dog from another, and will be as knowing in the Purchase of a Lion or a Tyger ; nor can you so Early afford to Amuse the Wise. You will be Beset by Touls with Promises of Gorgeous Apparel and Illustrated editions of the Immortal Shakespeare at a long Credit. Your Refusals, if they are Impartial, will be well-judg'd, for a Heap of Debts will do no small Harm to your depu- tation. But, in this careful Nurture of your behaviour and Conduct, I would have you pay a Strict Devotion to Literatiire. The Buying a Library will give you some Fame as a Confioisseur : the Reading of it will make your Presence everywhere Acceptable, if joined with the Indispensable Grace of a Courtly Demeanour. I cannot repress my Pity when I think that Dr. Samuel Johnson, a man of the widest Culture, would have Shone in any Court, had he possessed but Agreeable- ness of Manner and studied the Care of his Person. His Reflexions on my Correspondence you doubtless remember : they are expressed with the greatest Terse- ness, but the coarsest Ferocity of Language. I have in my Bureau a letter addressed from him to me in 52 Return for a kindness I offered him, which shows an Ingratitude rivalled only by its Indelicacy of Expres- sion. This is the Result of an Extreme which is most Deplorable and Ruinous. Preserve a mean course : avoid falling into Habits, however pleasing : let your Routine of Work and Reading be varied by Social Recreation. Keep yourselves Acquainted with the Actions of the Day. Your Bookseller will provide you with a daily Newsletter, and if you wish for instruction and learned Comment, a weekly Purchase of that Palatable Journal, the Cambridge Review^ will supply your Wants. Your own judgment, if it can be Depended upon, will doubtless Invite you to Public Lectures, which you should now and then attend, more especially if your Tutor is the Lecturer j for the Partiality of a Tutor, if it hinders your Popularity among your Comrades, is a sure Step to your future Advancement. Let me, in conclusion. Assure you that your Compliance with these valuable Maxims is not the least Compliment that you can Pay to one so highly Esteemed for his Perfect Knowledge of the World as Chesterfield. AMERICAN UNIVERSITIES I [November 7, 1895] To most Englishmen the names Harvard and Yale are perfectly familiar ; but except for the vague impression, on the whole not incorrect, that they are the Oxford and Cambridge of America, a very real and general ignorance exists on this side of the Atlantic with regard to not only the academic organi- sation of either of them, but also the life of the men who are being educated there to-day. This ignorance may be in part attributed to the disinclination shown by Europeans for travelling westwards, but is probably more largely due to the non-existence in the past of any mechanism by which an interchange of educa- tional advantages could be effected between the older Universities of Great Britain and those of America. But the reproach implied here, and which is so much more strongly expressed in the yearly migration of American graduate students through England, past Oxford and Cambridge, towards the German Univer- sities, seems now to be on a fair way towards removal. 54 The relations, too, between the younger members of the great English and American Universities, which have been always cordial, if ill-defined, have shown of late marked signs of change. Oxford and Yale, Yale and Cambridge, have already met in athletic rivalry, and there are signs that these contests are only the beginning of an extended series. But far more signi- ficant than these have been occurrences incidental to the latest of these meetings* above all, the introduc- tion of Cambridge students to both Harvard and Yale, not as tourists and sightseers, nor, we can believe, simply as members of an athletic team, but as the friends and guests of the undergraduates themselves of those Universities. If any proof were needed of the essential unity of the two great divisions of the English-speaking races in their University youth at least, it might be found in the welcome given to Cambridge men at Harvard and at Yale a welcome given first because they were of the great University brotherhood a courtesy made perfect by its spon- taneity and fitness. It is indeed very surprising that there should be so many points in common between England and America in the general aims and interests of student life at their Universities. For this relationship, im- pressive rather than definable, is everywhere obscured by the results of actual differences of climate, of national history, and of academic constitution. * On October 5th, 1895, at New York. 55 The men of Harvard and Yale are not drawn from so narrow a class as those of Oxford and Cam- bridge. Attracting students from all classes and all parts of a huge continent, these American Universities occupy a position intermediate in a sense between the older English Universities and those of Scotland. Like the latter, they primarily represent what is simply a phase in the education of their members ; but like the former, they are also to be regarded as extending special privileges other than those of in- creased scholarship. These relative positions can be illustrated in another way. A student at Edinburgh is subject to little restraint, either in the lecture-room or in the street. At Harvard or Yale he is rigorously supervised in his studies, while his habit of life may be his own. By a strange inversion an undergraduate with us may be " costumed, disciplined, and drilled by Proctors," but he certainly has the complete option of idleness or study. At the largest American Universities the actual university life includes a large part of what in England is confined to the great Schools. The American Col- lege may be said to be represented in England by the upper forms of the Schools (our "Public" Schools) together with the University, although, at the same time, the average age of entering the University is the same in both countries. From such schools in America ("preparatory" schools) boys pass from the Fifth Form direct to the University. Those not con- 56 templating such an extension of education enter the Fifth Form, and are able to earn a diploma there in many cases. Perhaps, as a result of this, the relation of School to University is affected. In England, school spirit, especially in athletic fields, predominates even in the Universities ; there are cases within recent his- tory where school spirit has had the moulding of athletic policy in certain colleges. But in America the College (now the " University ") spirit, so fierce in itself, even penetrates to the schools ; as if a boy destined for Harvard should treat a future member of Yale to a foretaste of " Harvard indifference." The fundamental distinction between either Har- vard or Yale as a University comprising faculties, and Oxford or Cambridge as each a group of little univer- sities combined in one, important as it is for good or evil to the Universities concerned, cannot be said to affect the character of the student life in any of them, except in so far as the college system in England pro- ^^des a large additional field for athletic rivalry. But in at least one conspicuous case the letter of the academic scheme has moulded the spirit of the undergraduate life. This is the sharp division of the men in American Universities into classes, resulting as it does in the class feehng so characteristic of them, A freshman, joining the freshman class at the outset of his career, belongs for all time to that class so long as he can contrive to keep pace within sufficiently broad limits with a certain roughly prescribed advance 57 in learning as tested by periodical examinations. His rejection from the class, from the men that is of his own year, may occur at any time during his four years at the University, should he be sufficiently stupid or lazy. The class the freshman class of four years ago finally emerges from its last examinations a body of graduates. Each class is denoted by the numerals of the year in which its graduation is accom- plished. So that we may have a series from freshman (class of '99), sophomores, juniors, to seniors (class of '96). It is only where studies are concerned that the class distinction is maintained by academic authority. By undergraduate practice, however, the distinction becomes almost one of caste. In the history it appears of all Anglo-Saxon youth there has been at all times a necessity for the ad- ministration of correction, at one period or another, to the " bumptious " junior. In England this problem is slowly worked out in the public schools to the salvation of many. With Americans, however, the process, dangerously postponed, comes into play at a time when the passions, further from the surface, can only be manifested in volcanic fashion, and at an age when the correction of a man by his one year's senior is too unnatural to be anything but arbitrary. The sophomore class in an American University is the police brigade of the undergraduate community. It is not only the inevitable and jealous rival of the freshman class, but, supported by an etiquette stronger 58 than law, is its actual and frequent oppressor. Civilisa- tion has within recent years modified this oppression to a large degree, the feeling of a sophomore to a freshman being now perhaps only four or five times stronger than that of mild superiority expressed in the bearing of a second year man at Cambridge to his junior. The most startling barbarities, however, are related by not very old graduates of Harvard and Yale, as having been practised in their day by sopho- mores upon freshmen during the process termed the "hazing" of the latter. No indignity was too in- sufferable in those days to be borne by a freshman, no cruelty too great for sophomore to inflict. In the smaller colleges these barbarities still linger. In the JVor/d* newspaper not a month ago there appeared an account of what the large headline declared to be a " clever prank by Sophs." These ingenious gentlemen had managed, it seems, to upset a freshman from his bicycle, and, after taking his money, had left him gagged and tied to a tree, from which he escaped several hours after. The " hazing " process has happily, at the larger Universities, prac- tically degenerated to a not quite passive contempt for freshmen in general, and to certain rudiments of persecution which are perpetuated as interesting customs. The rivalry between the sophomore and freshman classes is emphasized at the outset of the academic * The New York JVorld. 59 year by contests of champions from either class in the well-known "cane sprees," "freshmen rushes," &c. The " freshman rush " at Yale has now become a wrestling match in which three freshmen meet three sophomore champions. This takes place at night on a piece of waste ground, after a torchlight procession round the town. To one whose career at Cambridge was inaugurated in the smiling Com Exchange there must seem something savage in that scene a scene which gives to many Yale freshmen probably their first strong impression of college life. The bronzed, half-naked figures struggling in the ring, surrounded by the steep banks of faces rising from those kneeling in front ; the whole illuminated by the swinging torches held by the seniors. Then comes the sudden fall and struggle on the sandy ground, and the fierce long shout from the class whose champion has won. Many minor restrictions are imposed upon fresh- men. None may use a walking cane until after Washington's birthday (Feb. 22nd) in his first year, nor wear a silk hat until the same day in his sophomore year. A freshman may not smoke a pipe in the streets, and is barred from certain of the best restaur- ants in the town. It is not long since the historic Yale fence was destroyed, and many of its functions have now to be performed by the fence remaining on the Campus. All undergraduates except freshmen, and all graduates who cared to claim it, had the right 6o of seating themselves upon the two-railed wooden fence to indulge in talk or song. At the end of the academic year the sophomore class assembled upon their section of the fence and yielded it to their freshman successors. This was done in due form of speech by the sophomore "fence orator" an elective office eagerly coveted. When the freshmen's " fence orator " had suitably accepted the boon, the freshmen sat upon the fence for the first time. The cession of the fence occurs earlier in the term if the freshman baseball team or boat crew have defeated the Harvard freshmen in that year. The traditional hatred of sophomore to freshman results in a curious alternation of hostilities among the classes. The junior class in some sort is the natural protector of the freshmen against the sopho- mores their old victims. The seniors, in a less defined way, are expected to sympathise with the sophomores against the juniors. In a sense, perhaps a narrow one, the class feeling of American Universities finds some equivalents in the college feeling with us. " A man of my class " occurs instead of " a man of my college," "good athletic class" for a "good athletic college " ; and it is in proportion as class feeling waxes fierce that the members of each class are welded more firmly together against their common rivals. The main feature of English undergraduate life, that which adds so much charm to residence at 6i Oxford or Cambridge, is entirely wanting at the American Universities. This is the general social life, the general intercourse from breakfast in the morning till the last pipe at night, which may be shared by all members of the community to a greater or less degree. At Yale or Harvard, what actually social life there is exists only among the numerous sets into which the community is divided. The reason of this seems perfectly obvious. The social life of any community must rest on a material basis of food, and to this rule those of Oxford and Cambridge form no exception. The members of every college dine together in Hall, certainly under the letter of compulsion, but on the whole not unwillingly, and, to make the thing complete, every man has all his other meals and performs almost every other function in his own rooms or in those of a friend. At Harvard or Yale it is not so. There is in each case a dining hall, in which those who wish may be served with their meals for approximately cost price, at so much a week. At Yale it is as a rule only the poorer students who employ these advantages, and indeed the dining hall only accommodates 450 students altogether ; at Harvard most students make a point of joining Memorial Hall, for a time at least. But here any attempt at a general society ends. No meals can be served in the rooms of a man in college; there are no gyp-rooms, and in the unfortunate absence of the afternoon-tea habit, which does so much for 62 other societies, no cake habitually occupies his cup- board. The bulk of the men at either University belong to various small dining clubs, and take their meals with the rest of their "club" at a public restaurant or in a private club-building. The effect of all this upon the general social life seems to an Oxford or Cambridge man disastrous. There is a complete absence of the entertainment of one man by another, and, perhaps more important, of the junior by his senior, which is such a feature of our daily life. The mainspring of Oxford or Cambridge life is that we live to eat, and to eat together. The exclusiveness naturally engendered by this system of separate eating clubs is not diminished by the existence in the American Colleges of "secret societies." Of these there are Greek letter societies common to many of the colleges, while there are others peculiar to each college, the extent to which secrecy is preserved touching the latter, varying widely. At Harvard the societies are shrouded in no more mystery than surrounds exclusive clubs in EngHsh communities. The Porcellian occupies very much the position of the Athenaeum or the BuUingdon possessing, however, at the same time a very much more extensive and luxurious "material installation," including it must be remarked a large and well-chosen library. The Hasty Pudding Club is very similar in aim and arrangement to the A.D.C., which is half a century its junior. All the clubs have special club- houses or club-rooms ; the exceptional comfort and luxury ot these corresponds with the conspicuous part they play in the social life of the Universit3\ Where the secret societies of Yale secret in more than name are concerned, on the other hand, the etiquette of reserve is more strictly maintained, and the writer must be careful of his manners. At New Haven the club-buildings are a prominent architec- tural feature of the University. Each has a character of its own, many are beautiful in design. At the head of all, in age and in dignity, stand the three Senior Societies the Skull and Bones, the Scroll and Keys, and the Wolf's Head which at the end of every academical year elect about fifteen new members from the class about to enter its senior year. Hardly a greater mark of distinction can be bestowed on a man during his career at Yale than his election to one of these Senior Societies. Whilst the election of members is going on in each of the clubs, the agitation of all the Junior year for all are eligible becomes intense. All are assembled with transparent mystery upon the Campus. On the elec- tion by one of the societies of a new member, an ambassador from the society's building, finding the successful candidate among the crowd, claps him on the shoulder and sends him to his room. The excitement increases as each disappearance renders the chances of the remainder less liopeful. But from the moment of his election as a member of a secret 64 body, a man's lips are sealed upon the subject of his society. A reference to his membership is an impertinence to be rewarded by the cut direct. A conspicuous personal ornament is the badge of one of the senior societies, and this is never suffered to leave the dress oi its wearer, be it a bathing costume or the shroud. It is, perhaps, as frequent for a man to go to Yale with the deliberate ambition of "making his Senior Society" as it is for an Englishman to enter Oxford or Cambridge intent upon earning his " Blue " : and it is said that men have left Yale at the end of their Junior year on failing to accomplish what has been their object for three years. In the face of such competition and desire, it is infinitely creditable to those electing bodies that the election should proceed, as is universally admitted to be the case, on the most honourable and dismterested lines. It is their patent design to distinguish, not pure athleticism nor good fellowship alone, but sterling character, and those qualities which make for honour and success in life when the University career is at an end. II [November 14, 1895] A considerable controversy, recently aroused upon the subject of the rehgion of the Cambridge under- 65 graduate,* has shown the futility of any attempt to base a judgment of the theological tendencies of a body of young men upon even an intimate knowledge of indi- viduals during one period. It may be said, however, that at the American Universities the evidences of an active religious life among a proportion of the students are very much more upon the surface than is the case at Oxford or Cambridge. So far as "compulsory chapel" is concerned, Yale resembles most Oxford and Cambridge Colleges. The Battell Chapel, situa- ted upon a corner of the Campus, is the church of Yale University. It is a regular church organization of the Congregational denomination, of which the President of the University acts as pastor. The students are expected to attend the prayers held every morning at 8 a.m., and to be present at the service on Sundays. On the other side of the Campus is the large Dwight Hall, which represents the purely voluntary side of the College religious activity. In the Hall are a large reception room, a reading room, and a library containing a large collection of theological works. Surrounding these are rooms set apart for devotional and other exercises, one for each class, and above them all a large lecture room suited for general meetings and religious lectures. The chief organizations finding a home here are the Young Men's Christian Association * See The Nineteenth Century, Vol. xxxvni., \)\). 673, 856 S69, fj87 (Oct. Dec. 1895). 66 and the Berkeley Association of Episcopalian students. In Dwight Hall we have a striking monument to the religious activity of at least a proportion of the under- graduates. From this, as a centre, spring the various organizations for special mission work among the poorer districts of the large town of New Haven. Without a fuller, more intimate knowledge of Yale life, it would be impertinent to form an opinion as to the importance and reality of the position taken by Dwight Hall and its offshoots in the college life in general. There is, it is true, a slang, half-oppro- brious expression, " Dwight Hall heeler," used by the more frivolous, perhaps, of the undergraduates, and the importance of current slang in the revelation of actual local feeling must not be under-estimated. But the most superficial observer cannot fail to notice that the home of the religious organizations of the under- graduates of Yale themselves, instead of occupying an obscure position in a minor street, takes its place upon the Campus as one of the whole group of the buildings of the University. The conditions under which the various branches of athletic sports are pursued at Harvard and Yale are very different from those which obtain at Oxford or Cambridge. The very ideal of amateurism set up in the Universities of the two nations differs at the present time to the most significant degree. Indeed, with regard to this point of amateurism it must be said at once, in all seriousness, that the amateur status of the American Universities as a whole could not in this country be considered as holding good. Almost all the more obscure Universities, all in fact who, not enjoying the same prestige as Harvard or Yale, are in the greater need of advertisement, make a general, if not an open, practice of looking out for brilliant or promising athletes of the various kinds, and of making it worth their while to become formally connected with the University, expecting them at the same time to uphold the athletic renown of their Alma Mater. Of such devices Harvard and Yale are in a sense inde- pendent ; but however innocent they may be of any sort of system of free education for athletes or even of free training tables, they do meet as equals and rivals a less purely amateur set of athletic representatives than themselves, and are fortunate indeed if they escajK- all infection from such a widespread system of veiled professionalism. Wiiliin Harvard and Yale themselves the pursuit of athletic sport is taken up in a spirit quite new to an Oxford or Cambridge man in a spirit to which at first sight there is a temjjtation to attach the term "unsportsmanlike." To explain the undoubtedly real differences between the athletic habits of the two countries recourse must again be had to the differ- ences in climate. The greyness of our skies and the dampness of our air ha\e rendered it necessary for I'.nglishmen at all times to indulge in frequent and 68 active bodily recreation for the continuance of both bodily and mental health, while at the same time the equable nature of our climate has usually permitted an unbroken yearly round of these exercises. In this way the growth of all kinds of athletics at our univer- sities has been perfectly natural and spontaneous ; its organization always simple and unfettering. Athletic rivalry, inter-collegiate and inter-University contests have been indirect and quite secondary developments of this universal and necessary physical activity. Hence arises our idea of "sport" in the abstract health, strength, and the passion of strife first of all ; the pen-and-paper records of champions, performances, and scores afterwards and least important. To be sportsmanlike, according to our English conceptions, is to have sufficient sense of humour to conceal an anxiety to win by a philosophical indifference to the result, or, in other fields, to regard the pleasures of the chase themselves as more valuable than the number of the slain. But in the climate of the United States a universal and continual necessity for bodily exercise does not exist. The dry bracing air, however favourable to activity, does not demand it, and the existence in large numbers of well exercised men is not as in England a geographical postulate. More than this, the inequality of the seasons in America renders the indulgence in the various kinds of athletics in a natural form all the year round an impossibility. The severe 69 winter prohibits the outdoor practice of the sports which properly belong to our climate, and the ex- cellence in them which the Americans have attained is only to be earned by arduous labour under purely artificial conditions. The extraordinary elaboration of training methods in America, which seems to imply to an Englishman an excessive and "unsportsmanlike" desire to conquer a rival rather than a natural indul- gence in grateful past-times, is in reality, then, largely the direct result of climatic conditions and of the unhealthy introduction into one country of the games naturally belonging to another. At Harvard and Yale there cannot be said to exist any general practice of athletics by all the members of the University. If a man be considered worthy of a place in any of the University teams he can have exercise enough and to spare. The common run of men, however, have no share in daily exercise and daily sport, for none exists apart from the practice of the University teams. Every team or crew is under the control of a professional trainer or coach, who stands in the same relation to the men as in England a trainer does to a racehorse. For boat crews there is the galley slavery of the winter rowing tanks, the whole period of actual strict training for the Harvard and Yale boat-race extending over six months. All varieties of indoor exercise are employed by football players and by "track" and "field" athletes, as a preliminary to their real practice and training in the 70 open months. The track athletes are in training, with slight intermission, for the whole of the college year. A University team at Cambridge is not formed for the purpose of lowering the pride of Oxford nor of adding to the glory of Cambridge, but because it is a fitting thing that we should measure against similar specimens from Oxford the results of the general and daily physical exercise taken by Cambridge men as a whole. No one can deny that the relations between Oxford and Cambridge in matters of sport are those of the most cordial and friendly rivalry ; but it is difficult to believe that between Harvard and Yale matters are on the same footing. Each has its " trophy room," hung with flags and filled with other emblems repre- senting victories wrested from the other; each sends representatives to meet those ot the other, trained and exercised for that and no other purpose, to come back covered with glory, or to return defeated and there- fore disgraced. A most regrettable result of these too eager, busi- ness-like methods of pursuing sport is to be found in the recent painful disagreement between the athletic departments of Harvard and Yale. For some imagined newspaper insult all contests for the year betwee.'i these Universities are cancelled, and at present the postpone- ment of them is s'uic die. Returning to the American undergraduate himself, 71 it is noticeable that he has very much the same opinions on the relations of study to athletics as prevail with us, A man of good mental powers is admired perhaps more frankly and universally at Yale than at Cambridge. A man, on the other hand, who neglects the duties he owes to the community and to himself by too rigid a confinement to his own room and to his books is subject to the epithet of " greasy grind," a term which seems to be the precise equivalent for '' smug." It is impossible here to describe in any detail the plan of work laid down in the academic course at Yale. At the beginning of the Junior year the classi- fied list of those students entitled to honours is read out, under the name of the Junior Appointment List. This is arranged in eight groups or classes. The first class contains the " Philosophical Orations," and is followed by two lower classes of " Orations." Next in order come a class of " Dissertations," two classes of "Disputes," and two of "Colloquies." Those in the highest two classes are usually voted into the Phi Beta Kappa Society, one of the three junior secret societies of the academic department. In the Senior, graduating, class the same classification is made of the students by their position in general scholarship. In certain courses of study special " one-year " or "two-year" honours are bestowed at the close of the Senior year. The position which a man takes upon his graduation does not depend upon his perform- ances in one final examination alone, but upon the 72 average position he has maintained in class and in successive examinations during his whole career at college. The ordinary routine of undergraduate life at both Harvard and Yale is interrupted at certain seasons by the invasion of the University precincts by an army of the opposite sex, and by a general indulgence in the more frivolous amusements. Two such opportunities occur during each academic year at Yale. The Junior Class in the early part of January give a " Junior Pro- menade Concert," which is held in a large Armoury Hall in the town. Round this function, familiarly known as the Junior " Prom.," and which has come to take the form of a large ball, cluster a group of lesser festivities filling up the rest of the so-called " Prom. Week." To those who know May Week at Cambridge it is superfluous to describe the changes wrought in Yale life by the presence of old graduates and of female relatives in the town of New Haven during the week. The Hall in which the Prom, takes place undergoes a transformation as complete as that seen here in the Corn Exchange every June. The University "light ship " is suspended from the roof as a trophy of the now apparently invariable victory of Yale over Harvard in the annual boat-race at New London, on the Thames river. In the Senior year a very similar series of festivities occurs, but at a different time and under different cir- cumstances. The Senior " Prom." is given in the 73 Alumni Hall a fine building upon the Campus used for gatherings of alumni and for University exami- nations upon the evening of Class Day, which is the first day of the last week of the academic year. Another incursion of friends and relatives, male and female, occurs accordingly at this time, and the general gaiety prevalent during these days derives additional piquancy from its close association in point of time with the disappointments or triumphs of examinations, and with the approaching academic death of the Senior class. For Class Day marks at once the climax and the conclusion of the college life of all the Senior graduating class. During four years of intimate com- panionship the men of one "class" are more to one another than men who are merely of the same "year," and it is on Class Day that this companionship, when on the point of permanent dissolution, finds its most public expression. On the afternoon of this day the Seniors, seated on the Campus in cap and gown (a costume now worn on state occasions by the Seniors), and surrounded by a gathering of their friends and relatives, listen to the reading of their Class History a humorous account of their doings as a class written by one of its wittiest members. After this the whole class marches in a procession to one of the University buildings, against the wall of which they plant their Class Ivy, commemorative of their time, singing at the same time an Ivy Ode composed by a member of the class. 74 It is under circumstances such as these that men of Yale say farewell to their college and to their college friends. At an American University the annual departure of a quarter of the students is even a gloomier thing to contemplate than the "going down " of Cambridge men in June. America affords a larger area of dispersal than England, while the ties between classmate and classmate are closer than the relation between an English undergraduate and his contemporaries. For an American student the time of severance of these ties must form the saddest moments of his life, the sadness of which a wise forethought has enabled him to drown in the hurried gaiety of his last days at college. OXIDE OF MILTON [November 14, 1895] We have received an elegant little book, entitled Paradigger Regagger, the first Volicme of the Okker Fenny Fo^ins, and bearing a dedication to " the Steader and the Spookbags of J. Miltogger." The compiler, who calls himself A. C. T. F., gives us a short but convincing critical preface. He informs us that his series is the first attempt of Oxford students to Oxidise the English poets. Hitherto, his beloved dialect has gone through an early oral stage : now it is resolved to communicate it to literature. His explanation of the enchanting patois is a Calais- Douvres (as Mrs. Malaprop would put it) of ingenious criticism. His authorities are numerous and their testimony is far from obscure. A single instance will suffice. " For the reduplicated ' k ' in the anomalous place-name Okker, compare the Daily Nuggins, col. 23, p. 2065, Jan. 30th, 1876. Chug-Tiiggins, Leader i. 2 I St Xivose, An. xxvi. S. Ignags;er, passim^ 76 We will add a few quotations : Look once more ere we leave this speggins muggins Wugward, much nearer by South-wuggins, behold Where on the Aegagger Shugger a city stands Built nobly, puggins the uggins, and light the sogger ; Agger, the igger of Gregger, mother of arts And eioquagger. Or again, this : See there the olive groggins of Acadagger, Plagger^s retigger, where the Attic bird-bags Trills her thug-warbled noggins the summer luggins ; Lysagger there and paggered Stoggins next. And what better specimen of this charming provincial dialect can we have than this ? Blind Melesigbags, thence Homuggins called Whose poggers Phuggins challenged for his uggins. We recommend this little book to our readers^ attention as a careful and brilliant attempt to give a literary form to a language whose versatile uniformity of expression has perhaps never found an equal. We are glad to see that the next enterprise of these translators will be " The Adonagger, a new translagger from the vulgar original by the Sheller." If it has any of the care and bright limpidity of its predecessor, it will be a credit to its compiler. ARISTOTLE ON THE EAST COAST [June io, 1896] The world divides sea-side places into three kinds East Coast, South Coast and West Coast. There ought to be a North Coast for the sake of symmetry, but there isn't much North Coast, and what there is is cold and boisterous, which ruins its chances, so that it will never have its turn until the Precession of the Equinoxes makes us all Esquimaux which God forbid ! So that we have three kinds, and they indeed are three too many, if we consider their relation to the ideal sea-side place of which Plato speaks. For that rests upon the knees ot the gods, and has but a faint image below, for, applying the doctrine of the mean, we shall find that every sea-side place lies at an ex- tremity, and is therefore an extreme, when it should lie in the middle of everything and be a mean from which we may infer that it should be situate in the Midlands, and therefore that Birmingham is the ideal sea-side place, that is, comes nearest to the ideal, and is a quintessence of Brighton, Scarborough, and Black- pool, not to speak of Margate. This brings us nearer 78 the Eleatic Hen, which, as Pindar says in his bold last-century manner, " is a shy cock," but that egg has been exploded long ago, and the natural result of our deductions is to prove what a shabby theory the doc- trine of ideas becomes in practice, or that there is no ideal sea-side place, which, if we go to Heaven, we shall know some day, but cannot say now. This enquiry should be an inducement to a virtuous life, but does not belong to the present subject, since there are many who live in pursuance of strict virtue without ever going to a sea-side place, and the vicious man can be as vicious at the sea-side as at home ; while, again, there are many who follow virtue at the sea-side with- out ever going inland which is very fascinating, but we must keep to the point. The main head of our discussion is the question, What is the chief end of man ? Epicurus said. Pleasure, and the materialists affirmed that it was either his silk hat or his boots, and that it depended on which cost most. However, I have explained in a former book that Happiness is his chief end, to be attained through means which can be easily enu- merated after begging the question properly according to the just rules of the game, of which this is the first and only principle. Now, how far is the sea-side place a means to that end ? For, if we abandon that ideal paradox, we shall see that a sea-side place is a mean between two extremes, the land and the sea, which are extremes because the land is all land and the sea 79 is all water, which, as Pindar again says, is best, so- that one extreme at any rate is better than the mean, viewed in this light. But Pindar is perhaps a liar, for Pears' Soap lays claim to the same pre-eminence, and physicians and surgeons alike agree in saying that the sea-side is the best, with which I agree, because you can, if you like, combine soap and water anywhere, and with greater advantage on the sea-side than any- where else, which is the best multiplied by three, like a B B B pipe. So that the sea-side, like charity, is the best of the three, and may be regarded as a mean, if you do not look too closely into the composition of the soil and other matters which are mere phenomena, such as drinking-water and cooking-apples. And the next question is, seeing that all sea-side places are a mean, which is the best mean of all the three kinds ? Now, historical investigation tells us that George III. sang hymns at Weymouth, and the First Gentleman in Europe sang ribald songs at the Brighton Pavilion, and that Napoleon admired Torquay, while we know that the Prince of Wales lives near Hunstanton, that the German Empress stayed at Felixstowe, and that Julius Caesar landed at Deal, which isn't exactly the East Coast, but is very like it. Now we can judge royalty according to several methods, by its magnifi- cence, its piety, its length of life, the size of its brain, its drinking capacities, its slothfulness, its artistic taste, its literary power, its State train, or its favourite dish, but we do not see how this can do the question in 80 hand any good. For all these categories hold good at Windsor as well as at Southend : so that we can judge the relative value of sea-side places in this con- nexion by totting up all the categories together, and acknowledging that coast to be first whose patrons get the most marks. But this would be unfair, for it would be to localise character and characterise locality at one and the same time, and you might just as well carry coals to Newcastle or ask a Pythagorean to a bean-feast as do anything of that sort. So, since the standard of royalty fails, let us try that dear old system of begging the question to which I have alluded, for it is much nicer to find one's way out of a maze than to find one's way in, and let us at once declare the East Coast to have the best sea- side place, and therefore to be the best of all. Now, judging from photographs in railway carriages and lithographs on station walls (for my personal ex- perience in this matter is very abstract), everything is in moderation on the East Coast. For every sea- side place there has three parts, a moderate beach, a moderate cliff, and a moderate first-floor, which name we use for want of a better, and all by courtesy. For the beach is no actual beach, but is composed in equal parts of grass and potsherds ; nor is the cliff really a cliff, for you can run up and down the most precipitous parts ; and you can get to the first-floor without going up hill, if you pursue a path circuitous enough. Which is all moderation with a vengeance, and comes very 8i near the ideal, whose chief province is to be as unlike reality as possible. But perhaps words are the real cause of the difficulty. And, further, the houses and the church, as a rule, are built of red brick. Now, whether red brick is a means to happiness, is a difficult matter to decide, and we should enquire whether those who build red-brick houses are the phortic and acolast, or the beautiful and good. Which would be impossible to decide, even for a census officer or an itinerant phren- ologist, although we might gain some information from their tradesmen. But even then we should only know " the part that is less than the whole," as Eucleides sings, and it is certain that good people have lived in red-brick houses, and the only thing we can determine is that red-brick is inferior to one substance, and that is a judicious combination uf gopher-wood and pitch, which is the just and proper material for a house-boat and hardly applies to a sea-side house. So that we are just as far off the end as we were at the beginning, which was a humorous marginal note, but some intelli- gent scribe copied it into the text. In the second place, the East Coast borders on the German Ocean, but it does not follow that the German Ocean is a means to happiness, for some find it so and others not so, as, for instance, the sea-sick, whose wails rise to Heaven off Harwich. But the ordinary man wlio does not fear the sea says that it is very nice ind(*cd, and talks about his sea-legs, which are legs hovering between the ideal and the real. But 82 he would probably like any other ocean just as well if you asked him, which gives us another slap in the face. In a similar manner the bathing machine is an artificial means to the enjoyment of the Ocean, but whether this is an Uranian or Pandemic happiness we should not like to say; and, after all, you find bathing machines at San Francisco and Cape Town, not to mention Aberystwyth, none of which have got anything to do with the German Ocean and the East Coast. Or, if you like your sea to be cold, you will find the German Ocean singularly bountiful in that particular; but, if not, you had better go to Florida or Penzance, where the sea is hot enough to shave in. And, judging the matter purely in the abstract, we do not know whether hot or cold water produces the greater Happiness, but should say that a mean did the trick, which would be lukewarm, and that the extremes should be left to private judgment in spite of the Pope. The ancient mythologists forgot to tell us whether the sea was warm or cold when it cast up Venus, or we might derive some satisfaction from that valuable piece of jetsam ; because the gods may be supposed to have the best of everything, and in that case hot or cold water would be a mean, but between what extremes is another matter, and we must really get on to the next point, and I shall not forget, if I remember, to turn back to this in the tenth volume of this system of ethics, which are really only lecture notes, and have none of the strict coherence of Mr. Herbert Spencer. 83 It is an important fact that the East Coast faces eastwards, a natural state of things which is highly commendable. The map, of course, with a pig- headed perversity, makes some of it point north, but we mustn't always believe the map, unless it is made in Heaven, which seldom happens, unless Charing Cross is Heaven, and that I decline to believe. And, if our senses tell us, by walking or driving, or other casual locomotion, such as falling over an unexpected precipice, in which case our senses would probably be idealised, or, if the tide were up, would pass into the constitution of a red herring, that some of the East Coast faced north- wards, then we must disbelieve our senses and re- member that there is such a thing as the phenomenal, of which we must beware, if it shows us contradictions in terms. For the mean cannot lie, and, if the East Coast, as we have said, is a mean, it must face East and therefore what appears to be North must be East. This settles the question. And now let us consider whether an eastward position is a means to the end of Happiness. For, in the Church, some people say that it is essential to happiness, and others deny it, which has caused great strife and bickerings, and would be a great blow to the eastward position, if we knew whose fault the whole thing was. But we don't, and we don't give any opmion, so that this goes for nothing. Again, the East wind blows towards the East Coast, which is a great advantage in many ways, 84 and especially when no other wind can be got, although this has been disputed by the Aeolists and other me- teorologists, and the Pythia at Delphi once said that an East wind was like an arm-chair in a pig-sty, which would imply a certain aioiria, but might mean a lot of other things, which I leave to others, never being good at oracles myself. And I have sometimes thought that the East Coast was valuable, as bringing us a little nearer to the Eastern Question that is to say, if we came from the west, for it would not benefit us to cross over from Hamburg or the Hook for this pur- pose. But the man who, from deliberate choice or heresy, should settle on the East Coast, should con- sider the matter very deeply. The Eastcoastity of the East Coast, then, depends on these considerations and others which I should like to mention, but cannot waste time over them now. But I should like to say a few words of the Eastcoaster, as very often we may judge a quality by examining a character which seems to exhibit it. But a difficulty arises in the first place, for I have often said before that to trust to the evidence of the senses is bad policy, and I have no evidence other than this of having seen this Oriental. For how often can we say of a man at a sea-side place, to which men come from the ends of the earth for the sake of trade or other purposes, that he was born there or that his parents lived there ? To take an analogy. I have often bought tobacco on the East Coast, which generally 85 comes from Virginia to Bristol or London, where Wills and Lambert and Butler pack it up. And, where tobacco is bought, there must be a vendor to occupy the mean place in the transaction, and how do I know that he has not come with the tobacco from Virginia? And, even if I ask him, I cannot believe him, for I may not trust my ears, which belong to the category of sense, and may lead me therefore into dangerous fallacies. And even if I am so credulous and unphilosophical as to believe him, I cannot go so far as to say that I have seen him, for seeing is usually done with the eyes, and my eyes, for similar reasons, are as untrustworthy as ears, unless I see with the eyes of the soul, which, if well trained, can indeed picture only the ideal East Coaster, for which purpose the person whom my eyes can see or think they see and my ears can hear or think they hear is positively useless. And this case is not limited to tobacconists, but applies equally to clergymen, bankers, jurymen, and the rest. So that to describe the East Coaster is quite impracticable. We are thus driven to the conclusion that the East Coast may be a mere non-existent phenomenon, and this brings us to the question of being, which is very diffK;ult, and has afforded endless speculation to phil- osophers, and has given great custom to the dealers in sand-ploughs. And so we are at the root of everything, which is a very natural and proper conclusion to this priceless meditation, which will probably be my last Z6 for some time to come, as far as I can see, for I am going to abandon philosophy, and take to drinking in my old age. And, if anybody wants to know more about the East Coast, there are valuable guide books, and the Great Eastern Railway issues very cheap ex- cursion tickets, which are of the nature of a phenome- non, and do not include cab-fares. But this is not intended as an advertisement, and you will probably find it all word for word, with one important exception, in my treatise on the West and South Coasts. Which wHl prove very interesting to commentators. A. H. T. HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF [June io, 1896] Dear Sir, Amid the splendid festivities of the Russian Coronation* I have noticed one curious detail, which to the student of manners may perhaps be not the least interesting of its incidents. Since a careless eye, distracted with pomp, is but too likely to pass over it, I ask your permission to set it in the proper light. The papers of Friday, June 5, contained a hst of the illustrious guests who dined at the Coronation Banquet given by the British Ambassador ; Dukes, Grand and otherwise, with Duchesses to match. Princes and Princesses, Baron and Madame, Mr. and Mrs., couples^ in short, of every noble degree, and among them "Count and Countess Woronzoff, Countess Strogonoff, Count and Countess Pahlen," &c., to our great edifica'tion and delight But to those who look beneath the surface, that narrative must suggest one question not easily to be dismissed. Why, in this admirably j^aired assembly, should the Countess Strogonoff have appeared alone, and "where, if not at Tsar Nicolas II. was crowned May 26, 1896. 88 the table, was the corresponding Count ? Where, Sir, I repeat, was Count Strogonoffl It is a question to be asked ; and happily it is a question that can be answered. We possess, it will be remembered, an account, exceptionally picturesque and complete, of the Banquet which celebrated the Coronation of our own august Sovereign. It was written (in verse, as it happens) by the (presumably) late Mr. Barney Maguire, and is preserved among the inestimable records, somewhat inaptly described as Legends, which bear the name of Mr. Thomas Ingoldsby. The author is particular about the position and advantages of the nobleman who on that occasion represented the Russian family with which we are concerned, an ancestor doubtless of the very man, respecting whom the journals of Friday last were so significantly silent. We may rest content ; he was not forgotten nor unprovided for. But there is a custom in that house, apparently hereditary, and of a very pecuhar kind. To the male representative of Strogonoff, the table, at these feasts of ceremony, does not offer an adequate security of satisfaction ; and he has the right to be elseiiolitical opinions of a most incendiary character. There is an interesting little 173 allusion to the Union in a famous skit* entitled The Fall of Prince Florestan of Monaco^ which purports to be written by himself. Rumour, however, asserts that the royal subject of this history never had a more real existence than the famous Mrs. Harris, and persists in attributing the authorship to a person of Cabinet eminence whose name will appear in the following quotation. Prince Florestan went to Eton, and thence to Cambridge, where he endeavoured to saturate his despotic mind in wholesome republican principles. " I had heard at the Union Mr. Seeley defend the Commune, and oppose a motion declaring it innocent because it did not go on to express the * love and affection ' with which that body was regarded by the University. I had supported a young fellow of Trinity when he showed that the surplus funds of tlie Union Society should be applied to the erection of statues of Mazzini in all the small villages of the West of England. A motion which, I believe, was carried, but neutralized by the fact that the Union .Society possessed no sur])lus funds I had, by the way, almost forgotten the most amusing of all the Union e|)iso(les of my time, which was tlie rising of Mr. Ashton Dilke, of Trinity Hall, Sir Charles Dilke's brother but a man of more real talent than his brother, although, if possible, a still more lugubrious speaker to move that liis brother's I)ortrait, together with that of Lord Edniond Fitz- * rublishcd 1S74, 174 maurice, the Communist brother of a marquis and a congenial spirit, should be suspended in the Com- mittee room, to watch over the deliberations of that body, because, forsooth, they had happened to be president and vice-president of the Society at a moment when the new buildings were begun out of the subscriptions of such very different politicians as the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Devonshire, and Lord Powis. Mr. Dilke and his Radicals were some- times in a majority and sometimes in a minority at the Union, and the portraits of the republican lord and baronet went up on the wall or down under the table accordingly Mr. Willimott, the valued custo- dian of the rooms, carrying out the orders of both sides with absolute impartiality." It was some years after the presidency of Sir Charles Dilke that a memorable campaign com- menced concerning the great question whether the Union Society should be open or closed on Sundays. For several years the controversy raged with such fury that old members, settled in London, have been known to come up to Cambridge for the purpose of voting in favour of one side or the other. We have had much difficulty in discovering the various phases through which the contest passed, our difficulty lying not in the scarcity of traditions, but in their amazing heterogeneity. Indeed, had we any pretensions to the proud position of a painstaking historian, our narrative would come to an abrupt conclusion at this 175 point ; to be continued, perhaps, at this lime two or three years hence, when the multitude of rumours might possibly have been sifted. As we do not, how- ever, aspire to any such invidious eminence, we take a cynical delight in the contradictory assertions of trustworthy authorities. It is agreed that the Union used in the first instance to be open on Sundays. Then, says one report, the Dons became afflicted all of a sudden at the secularising tendencies of novels and newspapers perused in shameless publicity. Accordingly, forces were set at work to move the better feelings of the Union to an act of self-denial in the interests of religion. The attempt seemed likely to succeed, when some astute member pointed out that since the authorities were so eager for this reform the Union had better model itself upon the example of these authorities. " He understood," he said, " that there was an institution in Cambridge* containing a library, and frequented by Dons of un- impeachable piety. Now, were the premises of this Society closed upon the Sabbath Day ? They were, and they were not. In plainer language, one half of the door was shut and one half of the blinds were drawn ; while M.A.'s and the light of the sun were admitted through just half the number of apertures which were open to them upon week days." So the Union Society agreed to make a similar compromise between its conscience and its convenience. * Possibly the Philosophical Society ? 176 But another report says that the Union premises were actually closed for a time, and that, though motions were carried from term to term for opening them, the required three-fourths majority could never be obtained. At length a sacrilegious Standing Committee, grubbing among ancient minute books, discovered that the original motion which closed the rooms on Sundays was only carried by a bare majority, and not by a three-fourths. With an eager and too- zealous joy they fastened upon the illegality, and gave orders to the clerks to have the rooms opened as usual upon the Seventh Day. This was done. To their horror they discovered too late that, though in the first case the motion for closing had been carried only by a bare majority, it was afterwards ratified on several occasions by the necessary three-fourths. So these profane men had to stand their trial at the bar of the House ; but as a majority of that impartial assembly were themselves steeped to the lips in pro- fanity, they agreed mercifully to condone the arbitrary action of their officers. But there is still another report of the method by which the consummation of religious liberty was achieved. Majorities, though large, had never been large enough to override the former decision for Sunday closing. There was danger of civil war and intestine strife ; when, at a certain private business meeting, a member of the society solemnly rose, and, in tones which trembled with indignation against an 177 unjust violation of the constitution, drew the attention of the President to the following fact : " By such and such a chapter in the Rules, sub-section number so-and-so, he found that the rooms of the society were to be open daily from a certain hour in the morning to a certain hour in the evening. Now, he had come down between the stated hours to the Society's build- ings a few days before in fact, on the previous Sunday and to his surprise he discovered that the doors were closed, and that there was no sign of life in the premises. He went away for an hour or two, but returning later he saw the same state of things. And he wanted to know by whose authority such a breach of the laws was permitted." The President, rising with equal solemnity, replied, " That he was much shocked and surprised to hear of the experience of the honourable member who had just sat down. He would certainly inquire into the matter, and he would also take care that .such a violation of the rules should never occur again." Thus, finally, by wiles and stratagems of an infinite subtlety the secularising tendencies came to exist once more in full force. So the turbid current of the Union life flowed on without any important deviation from its course ; without receiving any vast and sudden addition to its volume. But if we may pursue our watery metaphor little tributaries had been flowing in steadily as the years went by. The premises were manifestly grow- ing too small for the comfortable accommodation of 178 all the members. Accordingly, about the year i8Si, at the instigation of Mr. Harold Cox, of Jesus, the purchase of the "George" estate was satisfactorily accomplished. Then extensive schemes were periodi- cally mooted ; but, unfortunately, such plans as were submitted always failed to please the wanton and capricious fancy of the terrible, but necessary, three- fourths majority. But at length, in the autumn of 1883, an enterprising Vice-President Mr. Jebb, of Trinity submitted to his constituents drawings which he had himself constructed. These, after great stiTJggles, in which a certain " autocratic circular " played an important part, were finally accepted by the Society. They were subsequently, of course, committed to the professional care of Mr. Waterhouse, who rendered practicable the bold schemes of the amateur; and in a short time scaffolding and dust testified to the fact that building operations had actually commenced. On the fourth ot June, 1884, the foundation stone was laid with much state and pomp Mrs. Ferrers, the wife of the Vice-Chancellor, performing " the conventionalities of the occasion." A metal box, which Mr. Tanner explained contained a copy of the Union Rules, a list of the officers and committee for the present term, a copy of the Cam- bridge Review^ some coins of modern mintage, copies of the Cambridge newspapers belonging to both political parties, and, he believed, a Roman bone was laid in a prepared recess. 179 Lord Houghton, who was one of the speakers upon this august occasion, gave some very kindly and appropriate words of encouragement. The debates, as far as he could conjecture, were carried on very much in the old way "on the old party lines, and he did not know that they could do better as long as they abstained from false representations and ridiculous exaggerations, as long as they did not believe, on the one hand, that Mr. Gladstone was a compound of the most heterogeneous evil qualities of dense stupidity and Machiavellian subtlety ; and, on the other hand, did not represent men like Lord Salisbury and Sir Stafford Morthcote as men entirely ignorant of politics, and totally averse to the material and intellectual well-being of the British people." So amid many benedictions the Cambridge Union Society stretched its ruddy gables westward towering high above the relic of bold Knights Templar, and glancing down upon it with that benevolent mixture of pity and reverence which we might expect from the proud child of a later time who should contemplate some quaintly dressed contemporary of his great- great-grandfather. There has been little of the trumpet blast in the foregoing pages of small talk. Our real ambition, though we concealed it modestly at the beginning, was to act the part of one of those snowy bards of Cymric origin who strike the harp to heroic tones, and, lifting blind eyes to heaven, tell of the great i8o deeds of the departed. Our muse, alas, has chosen to grovel. She has grubbed in musty cupboards, and discussed secret passages of scandalous memory, while the armour stands silent and neglected. But, after all, the gleaming war-gear tells its own tale clearly enough, and does not need a historian. When we gaze upon those portraits which adorn the Union walls, our imagination is fired instinctively to fill in vivid pictures of contests at the Red Lion and in gloomy Green Street, and we believe that the imaginations of other people are truer guides than any words of ours. A COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF 200 YEARS AGO I [February 24, 1886] In an old hook of manuscript, which was ^v^itten by one John Hall, of Kipping, at Thomton-in-Craven, nearly 200 years ago, I have come upon a few pages of a sprightlier and more personal character than the rest. This in itself says little, for most of the book is given up to sermons, sermons by Puritan ministers who had suffered for conscience-sake at " Bartletide," 1662, and whose names have many of them been enshrined in the pages of that John Foxe of the cause, Edmund Calamy. Worthy men no doubt they were, who then witnessed a good confession ; but their sermons are hardly inviting food in this dyspeptic age, and he would be a bold man who would dare to administer them in the most innocent guise to a modem public. But though theologies may change colour with the years, human nature is not very deeply altered, l82 and I have hopes that a few stories which were repeated in college chambers "and in country parson- ages in the seventeenth century may still have power to raise a quiet smile by their quaint and serious wit. The stories are headed " Some hystoricall passages out of Mr. W.'s papers." Mr. W. was Mr. Thomas Woodcock, who had himself been ejected from the Church of St. Andrew Undershaft in London.* He put the stories together as he heard them, and Mr. Hall copied them afterwards in a beautiful minute hand, of which every letter is still legible, into one of his many volumes of sermons. I will begin with one or two stories which throw a light on Cambridge life under the Stuarts. And first, as in private duty bound, I give one of Mr. Woodcock himself in the character of Proctor. It * Palmer, in the Nonconformists' Memorial, gives this account of him: "Mr. Thomas Woodcock, of Kath. Hall, Camb. Born of a genteel family in Rutlandshire. He was a smart disputant and had the universal character of a learned man. He became Fellow of Jesus College and Proctor of the University, which office he managed with great applause, both as to exercises and prudent government. In this college he gave education to more Fellow-commoners than all Jesus College Fellows besides, and rendered it a great and flourishing society. He set up a lecture at Alhallows {i.e., All Saints') Church in Cambridge, where he constantly preached gratis (!) at 4 o'clock on the Lord's-day afternoon, and it was well attended both by scholars and townspeople. After his ejectment, he and Dr. Tuckney lived together in the country ; but, for the sake of his sons, he afterwards went to Leyden. When he returned to England, he settled at Hackney, and first preached in his own house, and afterwards with Dr. Bates, but always gratis, having a good estate. He died in 1695." i83 will be seen that both Proctor and Undergraduate of the seventeenth century had characteristics which distinguish them from their representatives of to-day. The story is headed, " Of Mr. Woodcock," and is this : " He was much given to prayers, and observed God's answer to y"^ ; when he entered upon y"^ Proctor's office, he prayed with David, ' Turn from me reproach and shame ' ; and y*= Lord answered him. In y- collcdg he had a strange imagination y' there were a company of Rakehells in one Corbet's chamber , he got into his chamber by y*^ bed-maker's key ; Corl^et had drawn his sword, and said he would run him through y' came in ; yet Mr. Woodcock entered ; sent y^ rest to their chambers, and after a little talk Mr. W. bad him take the sword by y*^ point and present him with y hilt on his knees to expiate his affront ; he did so, and ever after reverenced Mr. W., who put him not to publique shame, nor spake harshly to him. How forceable are right words ! " Having then heard how Corbet of Jesus encoun- tered the Proctor and .surrendered not his name antl college only but his heart (surely now a very antiijuated jjroceeding), let us hear of the marvellous escape ot Shepherd of Emmanuel. " Mr. Shepherd's eminent delivcranfc. When Mr. Shepherd was at Emnionucl CoUedge he studyed in bed [I believe this custom is quite gone out at Emmanuel], had a wyre candlestick; while he slept y*^ snuff of y'^ candle fell on his ])illow ; burnd and smothred so y' when y<^ bed-maker came 1 84 in y*^ morning, shee was almost styfled, opened y^ winddow and cryed her master was choaked. This awakened him ; y pillow was burned saveing in y^ places where his head and neck lay, not a hair of his head singed." We have seen the undergraduate at play and asleep ; let us take a glimpse at him in the disputations which were so great a part of his life here. Of Mr. Darby, Mr. W. says : "He had y^ best nalurall parts of any pupill he ever had, yet extream idle. [Somehow after this Mr. Darby becomes a very real character to us.] When he was Prevaricator* he was hum'd* at every sentence ; y^ Sophisters caryed him out upon their shoulders, sent him home with six trumpets, &c. [Now our good Proctor thinks it's time for him to intervene.] Mr. W. hasted to him, told him 'Now thou thinks thyself a witt and a brave fellow ; thou'lt be courted to their drunken society and undon.' ' No,' says he, ' I think myself a great deal worse than in y* morning, haveing only showed y'^ I can play y^ fool to please boys,' and he hoped God would keep him from such company. His excelent poem describeing y^ drunken club, printed many years after. * The MS. has " Remoraccator " and "hem'd," probably a miscopy of Mr. Woodcock's MS. The Prevaricator pkyed the part of Devil's Advocate in a disputation, suggesting difficulties beyond those put by the opponent of the thesis. A person with a character for ready wit would be selected for the part. The word "hum'd," as I am assured by an excellent authority, was commonly used in the sense "applauded." i85 shows how much he abhored y""." But he retained his old wit as the sequel shows : " When Dr. Tillotson left Kedditon to come to London, Mr. W. prevailed with S'' Tho. Barnardiston to present Mr. Darby, where he lives yet. Long since he sent him a letter of thanks, and desired, seeing he had got him a live- ing, he would now get him a wife ; with whome he desired not durty mony, but pure vertue, yet in regard vertue was not infallibly certain, he desired looo pounds caution-mony, for vertue should fail." Dr. Thomas Goodwin,* Fellow of Catharine Hall, seems to deserve a place among these representatives of old Cambridge, as an eccentric who apparently combined an extreme of Puritanism with a certain tenderness for his bodily refreshment, and, as is not surprising, was grievously misunderstood. " He prayed," we are told, " with his hat on and sitting. In his travil he caryed blankets, linning, neats-tongiies, claret, &c., in his coach, as Mrs. .A.rrowsmith told Mr. W. when y^ Dr. lay at Trinity College. Then I suj)- pose it was "y' he came to hear Mr. Whitchcot at * Made President of Magdalen College, Oxford, by Oliver Cromwell. He died in 1679, and was buried in IJunltill Fields. According to his epitaph "His writings already published And what are now preparing for publicatir)n The noblest monuments of this great man's praise Will diffuse his name in a more fragrant odour Than that of the richest perfume To fiourisli in those far-divtant ages When this marble inscribed with his just honours .Shall have dropped into dust." 1 86 Trinity Church, when some waggish scollars said he slept all y^ while ; but himself said he could not for- bear going into his chamber and for a long while bewayling y* infelicyty of y^ University, which had such corrupt preachers and preaching in it." We shall turn from these tales of men gone down when we have given to the world, perhaps for the first time, the veracious history of a wrestling match between an Archbishop of Canterbury and a Master of Emmanuel. (Is there really no hope of this sort of thing being revived? Most Reverend Prelate and honoured Master, take this little hint and contribute one fresh sensation to a jaded age.) "Bishop Bancroft was contemporary with Dr. Chaderton, y^ known first Master of Emmanuel Colledge. Cha- derton, having busynes with him when he was at Lambeth, sent in his name. The Bishop dismissed all the company with him, sends for him in, asks him his name if it was Chaderton. He replyed 'Yes.' ' I shall know y' presently,' says he, shuts y doors, puts off his gown. ' If you be Chaderton y" you can wrestle, and I will try one fall ' (as they had oft done at y^ University).* The Doctor flung y Archbishop. ' Now,' says he, ' I know you are Chaderton.' Dis- patches him with handsom kindnes. It was somew' ominous y' y^ Puritan should fling y^ Archbishop." * The Vita Laurentii Chaderton tells how in their early days Chaderton saved Bancroft's life in a "town-and-gown. " See Mullinger's History^ v. 2, p. 477 n. i87 This both Dr. Tuckney* and Dr. Horton told Mr. W., and said they had it from Dr. Chaderton's own mouth. From Cambridge to Oundle is no long journey, and 1 will close this paper with the story of an Oundle physician who seems to have been less of a Puritan than a wit. " Of Dr. Bowls, of Oundle. He was sent for to a captain of y<^ Parliament side, y' had tome some Com- mon prayer-books, who was y" sick of a dissentery. He caused some of y*^ leaves to be boyled in milke, gave it to his patient and it cured him. So he preacht to him y^ evil of tearing so medicinall a book. Being told afterwards y^ they heard he had done a miracle, cured a man with y- Common prayer, 'Yes, I have so.' * But, Doctor, would not any other paper with such ink upon it have done as well ? ' ' No,' said he, ' I put in y' prayer for y*' vissitation of y*^ sick.' This D'' in y*= times of Oliver at their healths and merry meetings would take a crum of bread and swallow it, * Dr. Tuckney was Master of St. John's from 1653 till the Rcstcjr;ilion, whun he was rciilaccd by (iunniti^. Tlii- story is told of him : "In his elections at St. John's when the President accordinj^ to the cant of the times would call upon him to have regard to the ,:;i'(//j', he an-Avered no one sliould have greater ref;ard to the truly f,'odly than himself; but he was determined to cho(jse none hut sc/w/cirs, adtling ' Tiiey may deceive me iu their godliness, they cannot in their sclujlarsliip.' " I'akcr, the Historian of the College, though he counts Tuckney only as Master de fcuto, speaks warmly of the gnod discipline which he kejit, and of the ingratitude with which he was rewarded. saying * God send this crura well down.' Yet he gott nothing when y^ king came in." With which woeful instance of royal neglect we come to a pause. II [March 17, 1886] Any one who pretends to possess new historical material is bound by precedent to upset two or three established reputations, or he is nowhere. In this particular I shall not fail : for on the indubitable testimony of Mr, Woodcock's book, the Royal Martyr becomes a common-swearer, and the so-called Merry Monarch the stem critic of lax theology ! En, tibi, lector : " Part of Dr. Haraond's Sermon before y^ King at Oxford when his case was low and he had this saying [i.e., was addicted to this language:] 'As long as God-dam-rae's leads y Van, and y^ Devil-Confound- rae's brings up y rear, he must needs be routed in all his enterprizes.' At which the K. wept. Told by Mr. Smith, minister of Wadhouse, who was eye- and-ear-witness of both." But our surprise at these ejaculations of a saintly spirit in difficulties is lessened (or heightened) on hearing that the King's spiritual director was given the same way. This is too evident 1 89 from the story " Of Bp. Racket and Bp. Laud. Bp. Hacket told Dr. Boylston, one of y^ prebendaries of Litchfield, y^ Bp. Laud would swear notably, but he once tryed tvith him and did out-swear himy This Dr. Boylston told Mr. Woodcock himself. Tantaene animis coelestibus irae? a simple soul might say. But the subject is so little understood that a really scientific memoir on ' Rudimentary Human Nature in Bishops ' would be both piquant and valuable. " On y= same fashion in Darby pulpit, he is reported to have used this phrase, 'The Devil scald you all,' 7uhich ivas apprehended to be a curser If not a curse, we must admit it was an uncommon form of benedic- tion, which may well have jjuzzled the good people of Derby. How refreshing it is, however, to turn from these martyrs of unclean lips to that bright light and defender of the faith Charles IL ! " King Charles 2nd's speech of Mr. Lamb's Sermon. He began his sermon at Windsor before y*= King thus : ' Faith, Truth and Grace are y*= 3 great Impostors of y* world; Reason is y= Empress of y^ Soul, whose conduct through Theoligy, morality, and policy, I am now to shew you.' The King said after all ended, ' Wliat stuff is tliis? Such stuff as they bring from O.xford ? it's better to catechize and answer two (questions, how we might live well and Dye well.' One y' heard Y' King speake it told Dr. Burnet, he Dr. Bates, and he Mr. W." 190 Mr. Woodcock allows however that this good theologian was not deficient in a certain mundane smartness. Witness the story " Of Seth Ward, Bp. of Sanim. His father was an Attorney at Buntingford in Hartfordshire. He was bred in Sydney College. When K. C. intended to shut up y Exchequer he asked this Bp. if he had no monys there, intending to give him a friendly warning. He said he had none, (fearing y^ King would borrow it). ' But are you sure?' said y^ K. ; 'have you not 30001b.?' 'No,' said he (verba sacerdotis), ' I've not a groat.' The K. knowing it, said, ' Let him goe like a knave and his money with him.' By this he lost his hopes of y^ A.Bp- of Canterbury and 3000 lb. Being chancelor for y^ Knights of Windsor, y K. usually allowed to y^ Chancelor y surplusage of w' he gave for y^ Installments. At 7 years end, ye K. called him for Accompts. He told him he had 30001b. and he would put 2000 more to it and build houses for y poor K's. The K. said * I am a poor K'- I'le have y^ mony myself,' and so he lost 3000 lb. more." When the cat is away, the mice seize a temporary advantage, and it is not surprising that with Bishops such as Seth Sarum,' the ' inferior ' clergy were even more inferior than usual. " Of Dr. Wells of Aldersgate. He was Chaplin to y* Army in Scotland : conformed. Having bid his friends to his child's Baptizing in Aldersgate parish, at 2 a clock y child was very sick, so he Baptized it. 191 [The dbiofifnctit follows]. But when 4 of clock came and y friends y* were invited, (being loath to lose y*^ silver spoons) at y same time he rebaptized it, as y Nurse told Mr. W., both times in his own house. What will not these Latitudinarians doe?" What indeed, Mr. Woodcock? It is a question still hard to answer. Lest we should fancy however that crime goes always unpunished, it is well to read the sad but salutary story which is entitled " Mr. ErowTi's legacy to 35 ministers. He was a Goldsmith in Cheapside, had no child nor near kinsman to be heir to 40 lb. per annum he had in Walthamstow, than a half brother y^ was very wicked. He gave his father-in- law. Col. Anger of Wiltshire and his mother this estate for their lives and after their disease to be sold and divided to 35 ministers. At y*-' funerall Col. Anger said, ' I pray God be mercyfull to us, we shall not live long who have 35 ministers in- gadged to pray for our Deaths.' This was rashly and uncharitably spoken, but within 9 weeks both he and his wife Dyed." The following is also a decidedly edifying anec- dote, as it suggests what is perhaps the supreme advantage of the married state. ""WHicn Mr. Rogers mourned unmeasurably for his wife, some friends chid him and said he had cause to be thankful y' God had taken away such a Thorn in his side as Shee was. ' Oh,' says he, ' shee was a good wife. 192 shee sent me to God many a time when otherwise I should not have gone.' " I have reserved to the end the story which puts the greatest strain on one's creduHty, but when it is seen to rest on the word of an eminent man of science, scepticism would manifestly be out of place. " Dr. Godard* of Gresham Colledge had an Ex- quisite pallat for edibils and potabils, yet he said there were 2 vinteners y' was better y hee : who being to taste wine, they both commended it. ' But,' says y^ one, 'it has a little taste of Brass'; says y^ other, ' It tastes a little of leather.' When y vessill was emptyed, there was found at y bottom a leather point with two brass taggs upon it." G. C. M. S. * John Godard, M.D., was ejected in 1662 from the Warden- ship of Merton College, O.xford. He was Fellow of the College of Physicians, Professor of Physic in Gresham College, and F.R.S. {Nonconformists' .Memorial, v. i. p. 196.) THACKERAY AT CAMBRIDGE [October 19, 1887] Thackeray's works contain some allusions to his Cambridge days, but they are not frequent, like his Charterhouse reminiscences. Thus in his Round- about Papers, wherein he loves to recall the memories of his youth, he writes : " I met my college tutor only yesterday. We were travelling, and stopped at the same hotel. He had the very next room to mine. After he had gone into his apartment, having shaken me quite kindly by the hand, I felt inclined to knock at his door and say ' Doctor Bcntley, I beg your par- don, but do you remember, when I was going down at the Easter vacation in 1830, you asked me where I was going to spend my vacation ? And I said, With my friend Slingsby, in Huntingdonshire. Well, sir, I grieve to have to confess that I told you a fib. I had got ^20, and was going for a lark to Paris, where my friend Edwards was staying.' There, it is out. The Doctor will read this, for I did not wake him up after all to make my confession, but protest '3 194 he shall have a copy of this Roundabout sent to him when he returns to his lodge." But the most interesting allusions to his old Uni- versity are contained in a letter, written 1850, to Mrs. Brookfield, when he was staying in Cambridge with his friend, the Rev. William Brookfield : "Madam, I have only had one opportunity of saying how do you do to-day, on the envelope of a letter which you will have received from another, and even more intimate friend, W. H. B. This is to inform you that I am so utterly and dreadfully miser- able now he has just gone off at one o'clock to Nor- wich by the horrid mail, that I think I can't bear this place beyond to-morrow, and must come back again. " We had a very pleasant breakfast at Dr. Henry Maine's and two well-bred young gents of the Univer- sity, just as we remember them 200 years ago Well, we brexfested with Mr. and Mrs. Maine, and I thought him a most kind, gentle and lovable sort of man, so to speak, and liked her artlessness and sim- plicity, and then we went to fetch walks over the ground, forgotten, and yet somehow well remembered. .... We went to the Union where we read the papers, then drove to the river where we saw the young fellows in the boats, then amidst the College groves and cetera, and peeped into the various courts and halls, and were not unamused, but bitterly melan- cholious, though I must say William complimented me on my healthy appearance, and he, for his part, ^95 looked uncommonly well. I then went to see my relations, old Dr. Thackeray, 75 years of age, per- fectly healthy, handsome, stupid and happy, and lie isn't a bit changed in twenty years, nor is his wife, strange to say. I told him he looked like my grand- father, his uncle, on which he said, ' Your grandfather was by no means the handsomest of the Thackerays,' and so I suppose he prides himself upon his personal beauty. At four we went to dine with Don Thompson in Hall, where the thing to me most striking was the if you please the smell of the dinner, exactly like what I remember aforetime. Savoury odours of youth borne across I don't know what streams and deserts, struggles, passions, poverties, hopes, hopeless loves and useless loves of twenty years ! There is a sentiment suddenly worked out of a number of veal and mutton joints, which surprises me just as much as it astonishes you, but the best or worst of being used to the pen is, that one chatters with it as with the tongue to certain persons, and all things blurt out for good or for bad. " I am going out to breakfast to see some of the gallant young blades of the University, and to-night, if I last until then, to the Union to hear a debate. "What a queer thing it is ! I think William is a little disappointed that I have not been made enough a lion of, whereas my timid nature treml^les before such honours, and my vanity would be to go through life as a gentleman as a Major Pendennis you have 196 hit it. I believe I never do think about ray public character, and certainly didn't see the gyps, waiters and undergraduates whispering in hall as your William did, or thought he did. He was quite happy in some dreary rooms in college, where I should have perished oi ennui thus are we constituted." * * Extract from "Unpublished Letters of Thackeray. "- Scriiner's Magazine, July, 1887. THE GOGMAGOGS [October 25, 1888] It seems to be generally understood that "the Gogmagogs " is a playful appellation bestowed upon our most gigantic hills by the humour of a past generation of undergraduates. The name may have been suggested by the older name current in Eliza- bethan English, which was Gogtnanshill. There is a mention of this name in A Dialogue, by W. Bullein, printed in 1578, and reprinted for the Early English Text Society in 1888. At p. 113 of the reprint we find : " I am fourtie yeres olde, but I did neuer se the like but once, and that was betwene Godmichester [Godmanchester] and Gogmanshille, a little from Cam- bridge, as I traueilcd to Wolpit faire to buye coltes." Here Wolpit is Woolpit in Suffolk, to the east of Bury. Another variation is Hogmagog. Mr. Wm. Worts, in his will, dated 1709, left money "to be applied to the making a calcey or causeway from Emmanuel College to Hogmagog, alias Gogmagog Hills." The Worts Causeway is duly marked in the Ordnance map. 198 It would hardly occur to a reader of Marmion that the original scene of the encounter, from which Marmion's combat with De Wilton is copied, is no other place than our own Gogmagogs. Yet such is probably the case. Sir Walter Scott tells us that he took the story from Gervase of Tilbury, where the story is told of a baron named Osbert, "in the vicinity of Wandelbury, in the bishoprick of Ely." But Sir Walter does not seem to have been aware that the story occurs in the Gesta RomaJiorum, where it is tale No. 155, which in Swan's translation, begins thus : " There is in England, as Gervase tells us, on the borders of the episcopal see of Ely, a castle called Cathubica ; a little below [i.e. beyond] which is a place distinguished by the appellation of Wandlesbury, because, as they say, the Vandals having laid waste the country and cruelly slaughtered the Christians here pitched their camp. Around a small hillock, where their tents were pitched, was a circular space of level ground, enclosed by ramparts, to which none but one entrance presented itself" The story goes on to re- cord the encounter between a knight named Albert, who repaired to the place, accompanied by his squire, and a demon-warrior. The story in Gervase is just the same, only the knight's name is Osbert. Harrison alludes to the same story in his Description of England, ed. 1587, p. 129, col. I, where, speaking of "Geruase of Tilburia," he says : " What a tale he telleth in his De otio imperiali, of Wandelburie hilles, that lie within 199 sight and by south of Cambridge . . . and of a spirit that would of custom in a moone-shine night (if he were chalenged and called thereunto) run at tilt and turnie in complet armor with anie knight or gentleman whomsoever, in that place ; and liow one Osbcrt of Bamewell armed himself," etc. The ordnance map gives the name " Gogmagog Hills " to all the hills in that neighbourhood ; and marks Wandlebury (miswTitten Vandlebury) just to the left of the highest point over which the Hills Road passes. There seem to be remains there of an old camp. It may be doubted whether Wandelhiry is named from the Vandals in the sense in which that word is usually understood. Of course Vandals is due to a Latin spelling of Wandals, or rather IVendels ; and it is rather remarkable that we should take the trouble to consult tlie I^atin language in order to learn hov/ to mispronounce an English word. This IVendel is preserved, not only in tlie A.S. IVcndclsdc, tlie Wcn- del-sea or Vandal-sea, which is our old name for the Mediterranean Sea, but quite correctly in such a name as Wcndlebury (co. Oxford). Wendel is a mere deri- vative of the verb to wend, and is equivalent in sense to " wanderer," which is ultimately from the same root-verb viz., the verb to wind. Wcnddhiry is simply "borough of wanderers," and that is all we are likely to learn of the matter. We should now call such a spot a " camping-out place." 200 Much more might be said as to the legends of Gog and Magog in connection with the neighbour- hood of Cambridge, but this would lead me too far afield. Walter W. Skeat. LETTERS TO LECTURERS I. To DR. VERRALL [October 31, 1889] Dear Doctor Verrai.l, When I first came np to Cambridge, you were, T believe, practising at the bar, and to us freshmen were known chiefly as one of the immortal bracket, Butcher, Page, Verrall, which gave the highest satisfaction to all, with the possible exception of His Grace the Chan- cellor. But it was not to be ; and what the Woolsack lost, Cambridge m general and myself in particular gained by your return here in 1877 ; for I was among those who had the pleasure of being under you as Composition Lecturer, and thereout, I trust, we sucked no small advantage. It is perhaps a little incongruous in me to write a letter to a lecturer whose regular lectures I never attended. Those were, you remem- ber, the troublous times of Set Subjects, and even one of the greatest advocates of that system admitted that any attempt to improve one's mind before the Tripos was inconsistent with Practical Wisdom. So it was 202 at other feet than yours that I learned from Plato that I had a soul, and from Lucretius that I had'nt (at least worth bragging about), and from Aristotle that it belonged to 'another enquiry.' But let me return from this digression and remind you that you have produced an excellent edition of the Medea, and written a Greek play on the lines of the Choephori with occasional plagiarisms from ^schylus. Your studies in Horace have done much to build up the reputation of that person ; and if Aelius was not a bailiff, may we never live to know what a bailiff is ourselves, the University contribution notwithstanding. You wrote on Horace ; there you had the pull over him ; but Horace, though, it is to be feared, a pagan, was a prophet, and there he had the pull over you. For did he not pen those exquisite lines : Splendid Emendax et in omne virgo Nobilis aevum .'' wliich, in the interests of our scientific friends and others who have no Greek, I would paraphrase as a brilliant editor, a B.A. who will live to see his name in the Ca?nbridge Revie^v. And this brings me to tlie gist of my remarks, for a letter to you which did not touch on your emendations would be like a letter to Hamlet with no allusions to his probable succession to the throne of Denmark. Emendations, as the philo- sopher said of desires, are of three kinds ; natural and necessary ; natural and unnecessary ; unnatural and 203 unnecessary. You have shone in the first two classes. In the third ? firj r^euono. Still you will pardon my reminding you that you have admitted to me in black and white that our fragile little friend Xixf] is " very very dead." R.I.P. Again, was it kind in you to suggest (iKons in a well-known passage in Pindar? Till then he stood confessed the champion mixer of metaphors in the world. You might have left that sublime poet his greatest charm. But there is in all your emendations, whether we accept them with joy or pass them by in sorrow, a touch of the Fjfifel-tower ; we revel in the newer view when we have recovered from the stupendous climb. But a change has come over the spirit of your dream. When we heard that you were sitting down before Ogygian Thebes and adding another to the Weeping Seven, our expectations were raised to the highest pitch. Would you echo the words of the impious Kapaneus, " D.V. or not I will sack the city"? No, you forgot the great formula of your party, "As in 1885," and the result is not to say con- servative Primrose Darncs and the Battering Ram is nearer the mark. While we are on the subject of the St/)icfn, I should like to have your candid opinion of the merits of that play. Do you hold with (I think) Mr. James Pa)Ti that it is arrant rubljisli, or with me that the interest is too i)ainfully thrilh'ng? How one checks off the gates on one's fingers, and trembles to think what some exceedingly boastful person is doing 204 outside ! And then the intense relief to learn that Justice is leading a God-fearing man to the safe side of the gate, and that the knowing ones are putting their money on Zeus, Typho being offered in vain. As an examiner your mark-book is Alpine in its scenery, towering heights alternating with yawning abysses. Nought and a hundred are your favourite symbols. While the good man finds in you a patent elevator, the impostor lights on a nether mill-stone. But, as we know, even the author of parts of the so-called Homeric poems sometimes dozes. And this must, I think, have happened to you some ten years ago, when you assigned marks to four elab- orate historical essays which had not a ghost of a fact concealed about their persons. Let me take this opportunity of apologising. " Make brick," said the Examiners. But if you have no straw, and no time to go a-gleaning, what are you to do ? One is in the delicate position of the Plataeans and the Little Question. " What do you know of the reforms of Cleisthenes ? " To answer the truth is inexpedient (as the Trinity scholar found in the matter of the Pelas- gians), while falsehood brings with it an easy detection. Let me further remind you that you have built a house and taken the Litt.D. But neither of these is distinctive now-a-days. I have never seen you in a cope. You are a Home-Ruler and prefer to play whist for love. One of these courses seems to me more commendable than the other. You are not the 205 typical don of romance ; you have managed to hit the happy mean in being hail-fellow-well-met with under- graduates and seniors alike without forgetting that membership of the Senate of this University is per- haps the highest position attainable by man. You are a pleasant companion, have a keen sense of humour, and are, I am sure, of too kindly a nature to take amiss any apparent flippancy in this letter. You have many friends and no enemies, except your partner for the time being. II. To PROFESSOR JEBB [November 14, 1S89] Dear Professor Jebb, In returning this year to Cambridge you did your old University an honour which it cannot easily repay. The University of Glasgow is literally set on a hill ; but the University of Cambridge is, metaphorically speaking, set on a much higher hill, and the Chair of the Professor of Greek occupies as high a place as any in that University. This perhaps is in itself sufficient reward for you. You are probably aware that you have edited three plays of Sophocles, and that your editions of those plays are quite unrivalled. This term, as you know, you are lecturing on the Fhiioctdes, and it is probable 206 that your edition of that play will soon be ready. Meantime you are known as the finest Greek scholar, I suppose, in the world, and your lectures are worthy of your position. But why should you, the Professor of Greek, with an audience such as you can command, choose such an inadequate room in which to deliver your lectures ? Your college hall, the large room of the Guildhall, the Theatre Royal, or the Market Place, with a pulpit erected in the centre, would all be more suitable for your requirements. Indeed the last suggestion merits your attention. What could be more impressive than to see you, our Greek Professor, after the manner of some, no doubt, of those Attic Orators whose works you have edited so well, standing on a /3/;/ia in the open air addressing a multitude of earnest students? At the time of the coronation of the Queen some of the most enthusiastic spectators arrived on the scene of action over-night. The same story applies to your lectures. In spite of this the crowd of those who come to gather up the words that fall from your lips is very great, and this 'gathering up' expresses tolerably what happens at your lectures. All will admit that your voice is as clear as anyone can desire ; still you do not give us the impression of a man lecturing to a large audience ; no, you give us the impression of a man lecturing in a loud, clear voice, it is true, but lecturing to himself. Perhaps this is how it happens 207 that you lecture in the Art Schools ; you have said, or you might have said, " At a certain hour on certain days I shall be reading aloud to myself my edition of the Philoctdcs, so far as it at present goes ; if any members of the University choose to come and look on or listen, they may do so." It is possible that half the members of your class would not recognise you if they met you in the street; for they never see your face, unless they catch a glimpse of it as you enter the room. A lecturer to be perfect, should not only be a fine scholar as you are a quality which very few can hope to attain but they should have something of the actor's art as well. An occasional gesture helps on a lecture ; your audience would like to see you move about, to see you speak to them face to face, and not merely reading aloud. You know how much more attractive a sermon is when preached extempore ; and it is the same with a lecture ; the lecturer is so much more in touch wth his audience. Now, if you went to Mr, J. W. Clark, you might pick up some valuable hints, such as he after long experience with the A. D. C. would be sure to be able to give you. You could of course take your lessons in private ; there would be no need for you to compete with Mr. T^eese ; and you woulfl in time, no doubt, find yourself driven to seek a lecture room twice the size of the Arts School. But to return to the question of your Greek scholarship : one great charm of your work is its 208 thoroughness. Your introductions, your comment- aries, your appendices are models of what such work should be; and then, your command of English is equal to your command of Greek what higher praise can be awarded to it ? and your translations of the plays which you have edited would prove you to be a master of the English language, were you not also the first Greek scholar of the day. We must not of course forget that you are not entering for the first time on Cambridge work ; you have been with us before. It will probably interest you little to hear the story of your life ; but it may not be amiss to remind you that you were Public Orator at this University before you went to Glasgow, for that is now thirteen years ago, so that possibly you may have forgotten the fact. And you may have forgotten how appropriately it came to pass that the first celebrity whom you pre- sented for a degree was a Greek Archbishop. In those days, too, you were a Tutor of Trinity, and in 1862 you had been senior classic, with Mr. C. E. Graves second, and Dr. Jackson third. Of course, too, you won the Porson Prize and the Scholarship of the same name, and the Craven also. Among the latest of the honours that have fallen to your lot, Dr. Verrall has dedicated to you his edition of the Agamemnon which has just been pub- lished, and we cannot do better than here express our concurrence in the respect and welcome which that accomplished scholar offers to you in that dedication. 209 And now, before closing this letter, I would beg you once more to reflect on the advice which has been offered to you. Leave the Arts School and learn to act. III. To PROFESSOR STANFORD [November 21, 1889] Dear Professor Stanford, Of your genius as a composer we have long been convinced ; with your fame as a leading light of the New Scliool of English Musicians we have long been conversant ; but it is only recently that you have discovered yourself to us in the new rok of a University Lecturer. And there, dear Professor, (we say it witli grief) we cannot accord to you that unqualified praise which our devotion to yourself, and admiration of your music, would fain have us mete out to you. Your lectures are marvels of erudition. Facts, dates, and sound criticism are there in unim- peachable array, but in this very strength lies their only weakness. Their massive solidity overwlielms us. Our poor mental digestion is hardly eijual to disposing, ^nt onu sitting, of the tremendous intellectual meal wliith any one of your lectures so lavishly provides. Be the point never so unimportant, you must needs bring to bear on it the whole of your descriptive and critical artillery. Ijang ! bang ! go 14 2IO your hundred-tonners, loaded to the muzzle with hard fact, critical acumen, or the grape shot of epigram- matic sarcasm ; we listen in awe-struck wonderment, and it is only when the smoke of your broadside has cleared away, that we begin to see how much more serviceable small arms would have proved, and how much your elaboration of details causes us to carry away only a confused and hazy impression of the points which you really wish us to remember. Then your hour is up, with half your story untold, and straightway you cast agonised glances at the blandly smiling clock, as though it were to blame, poor thing. We like, however, the refreshing unconventionality of your diction. Some may possibly think it too colloquial. 'A couple of bangs on E flat' (as we once heard you remark) may be forcible, but it is hardly professorial. Nevertheless, we prefer you thuswise ; in these characteristic utterances we see something of that strong personality which has brought you to the front rank of living musicians. And this leads me to another point, in which, not only Cambridge, but England owes you thanks. I allude to your magnificent castigation of that un- speakable entity, the British Musical Critic. You alone have had the courage to cross swords with that aggregation of arrogant dunces who have over-run every branch of musical criticism, and have, till lately, held the fame and reputation of every rising composer at the mercy of their dull stupid pens. 211 When critics turn librettists also, woe betide the luckless composer who dares to choose his own book of words. Others have succumbed, and written down to the level of these self-constituted and self- styled leaders of musical thought. But, Ajax-like, you have defied them, and the verdict of the British public has been given emphatically in your favour. O the consternation you carried into their camp ! How they ponderously sought to annihilate you, and how they lifted up their voice with one accord, and solemnly brayed in futile wrath, as your caustic retorts went home ! Poor Dvorak's one terrible failure was an attempt to write for the British Critic, and Sf. Ludmila was the dreadful result. The Bohemian has since shaken the dust of England from off his feet, having found out when too late, a fact which you had discovered long ago, that the British musical critics are not the British people. A splendid genius like Mackenzie, has no other choice than to set his music to the gniesome libretti with which they provide him. Small wonder, then, that they should bellow forth their indignation against you, since you have persistently declined to make use of their inane ' books.' And then, too, what does Cambridge not owe you for your labours on behalf of musical art in its highest form within her classic walls ? You have succeeded in centralizing scattered musical forces, and as a result, we have the splendid performances of your pet child 212 and nursling, the C.U.M.S., of which you are so justly proud. True, we sometimes find you uneasily restive when you discover any new musical venture which owes not its birth to the C.U.M.S., or when any existing musical organization assumes proportions which seem to menace the older body. But though you are thus addicted to the discovery of musical mares' nests, and do on such occasions play the part of a tornado in hum, let us say, a frock coat, we like you the more, because we know that these little weaknesses are but a proof of your devotion to the cause of good music here. And finally, you have at last induced the Univer- sity to lend its support to the cause of your art. As you truly said, you were the only professor without a fund at his disposal for lectures. You asked the Musical Board for a hundred pounds ; they, however, appraise Cambridge music at half that sum, and have given you js P^'" annum towards the cost of your lectures and concerts. Still, bravely done ; it is some- thing to have roused to action the authorities of a University where, but a generation ago, the tendency among the gravely erudite was to regard music as only fit occupation for fiddlers and foreigners. You, however, have shown the true dignit)-- of your art, and though posterity will chiefly remember you by your fine masculine compositions, they will not \villingly forget your devoted and unsparing labours for the advancement of music in Cambridge. 213 IV. To PROFESSOR MACALISTER [December 5, 1889] Dear Professor Macalister, Your pride at being selected to succeed Professor Humphry was somewhat dashed at first by the dis- covery that you had left the shores of the scented Liffey to dwell upon the banks of a smelling Cam. But even Professorships have their drawbacks ; and you are an Ulster man and a philosopher. They miss you in Dublin too : the dear old whiskied city, where rippling humour and racy wit rainbow the tears in the hearts of its clinging people. Those were fine times when a man was not reckoned a member of Trinity until he had paid the costs of the o'er-night freak at the morrow's unfeeling police-court. You were well known there. For was it not yourself tJiat paid the fine for a penitent and penniless pupil ? And in many an Irish doctory (and where beat there warmer and more grateful hearts ?) glasses are drained with Celtic I'lafi at the mention of Sandy Macalister. The parting brought one specially bitter grief to you. It was not the old Chair of Human and Comparative Anatomy : that was filled with a worthy successor. It was the compulsory relinquishment of the honourable post of chief dissector to the Dublin Zoo. And who has not heard of your navigation of the aorta of that whale ; and of the adventurous travels into the interiors of the seven elephants ? This seminary of Sound Learning 214 whose special colds and sausages have such a national, not to say European reputation, lodges you meanly. It is in the way to make amends. A deal-lined shanty with corrugated top ; the three cracked old stoves that, like veteran gossips, have brought the art of getting much smoke from little fire to five o'clock tea perfection ; the row of basins, the tallowy soap and o'er-hanging taps, flanked by the clammy towels ; the coloured diagrams ; the shelves and boxes ; that high tier of window and the skylights that give copious access to the draughty air ; the skeleton gas-jets in painted array; the stools; and then the stands whereon are laid the dishevelled remains of our unpreened and ungarnished humanity : and we are in the Dissecting Room. Here scalpel in hand you prosect for your lectures and diff"use around an aroma of untiring philanthropy. You labour and teach with the like untrammelled and unresting care. And it is only when sorely pressed that you show the tip of what, were you less good-natured, might be a biting and sarcastic tooth, as you remind us that we are taught not for our own advantage solely, but for the benefit, not to say the safety, of ungrateful and penurious laymen. And your work does not end in teaching us : variations are noted, and abnormalities pickled for the literature and museums of Anatomy. At fifteen minutes to one the first row in the theatre is taken ; at ten minutes to, the second ; at five minutes, the third; and by the time the hour is 215 reached, every tier is taken and loins are girded for the coming lecture. English has dusted the black- boards, and disposed the specimens in requisite array. The door opens, and you are before us. The trencher is deposited upon the cupboard ; the glance at English's display is taken ; the lips are poised for the flowing speech ; your watch marks time with all the damnable iteration of an endless tick ; the head that disdains to have its obelion pilose is thrown into bold relief; the eye selects that student in the farthest seat ; and soon the high tenor tones a(h)scend with 'clearness to the topmost tier. Nor do we forget the rivetting of im- portant utterance with the short emphatic snort. Hand is almost as busy as the musculature of speech ; and a diagram is outlined with the scraping chalks. Say the jaws, and you lecture on the teeth. They are fitted in with skill and deftness, and you conclude by assuring us that ' the wisdom teeth are usually de- veloped in even numbers from eighteen-and-a-half to twenty-five.' But the gala days are those on wliich you enchain us with your calling's story, and remind us that the anatomy of man is an ancient and ro}al subject of study; that the first book whereof '^oe have any record was on this theme; and that its author was a king. The Egyptian papyri are brought out and read by you. We hear of Nebsecht, who called him- self the Lord of Healing, and flourished full 3000 years ago ; and of the potting of that organ that deter- mines the life of the liver. Professor Jebb receives 2l6 an incidental correction. Antigone stabbed herself through the liver, not the heart : the dark black blood shows that. Moreover the hepatic stab was the fashionable suicide in her time. You make us proud of being in the ranks of a profession that never yet lacked learned and unselfish men, and that numbers amongst its teachers you. And the Healing Art de- serves to have for its first chronicler a writer of regal birth ; for its origin, if not coeval with that of man, is coetaneous with that of humanity. But you are versed in more than Egyptian, and German, and proud Physic's lore. In your youth you have seen smoke- dried and sweet-haired maidens sitting in stone, turf- topped shielings at work with rubbing-stones and querns the rotating stone keeping time to the croon- ing of a Gaelic song. And you can remember the cas-chrom in use where the plough was a foreign luxury. You would none the less be sorry to infer that pottery of a rude unglazed kind with diagonal scoring was invariably Celtic. These things you noted in your youth. What may you not see when dandling Time shall have ripened you into a mellow age? You may see a female Vice-Chancellor ; un- wisdom flee our senatorial councils; and the Union illuminated with the electric light ! One of your fellow Professors summarises your versatility in rid- ding himself of troublesome questioners with the formula ' Go to Professor Macalister, he knows cztery- thing.' You have written on Animal Morphology, on 217 Evolutioti in Church History, and on The Inscriptions of Aahmes, and in pretty well all the Journals of the Learned Societies. Your just-published Text-book of Anatomy will bring you lasting fame and heaps of curses. An ex-President of the Antiquarian Society, you now preside over the Medical Prayer Union, and have, I am told, been persuaded to preach. The Universities of Cambridge and Dublin count you among their Doctors. The Royal Society has made you one of its Fellows. You are a member of the Senate of the Royal University of Ireland ; of the University of T)ublin ; and of our own Nurse of Learning. A trained intelligence is brought to the Councils of each. The Archaeological, the Biblio- logical, and the Anthropological and the Anatomical Societies award you high places. Why tell you this ? Because you would never tell it of yourself As an Examiner you are more respected than popular : your standard is apt to be inconveniently high for the slothful and the superficial, and in particular for those, who with open-crawed effrontery challenge a trial on no surer base and underpropping than debilitated tips. And herein you do the State some service. I .shall not tell you with what feelings your pupils regard you, lest like the writer of the Letter to Professor Humphry* I be charged by those who do not know you with what a Cumbrian would call beflatchment, and find that I have l)ut worn my heart upon my sleeve for * Not reijrintcd. 2l8 daws to peck at. In insular politics you are a Unionist; in Imperial, a Federationist. As a critic you give, in my judgment, too lenient and too long a shrift to the pedantic maunderings of the shallow sciolists that cling like barnacles to learning's keel. And of the two you are the scholar, and I the scara- beus, that would have you scrape the bottom. When St. John's made you a Professorial Fellow they did more than make you a sharer in their feasts for the body and their flowings of the soul ; they lustred their Foundation and they honoured you. Near-by you have taken a substantial root. You have built for yourself a commodious dwelling (and would a canny Scot do other ?), a house that has been declared by an architectural authority to be more fitted for the Italian than the English clime. I am told that where you came from the rainfall registers 122; here it is a hundred less. So perhaps our Cambridge air has something of an Italian balminess for you. ' Torris- dale,' however, is undisturbed by the outer skies ; it glows with the warmth of two sunny natures. P.S. Why do you lecture at such a horrid time as I p.m. ? The brain is jaded with the morning's work ; the blood is impoverished by the like cause ; and the stomach is achingly empty. Men should come to such lectures as yours with minds fresh and brains alert (they'll need to have them so) in the earlier stages of the working day. Without fairly recent substantial provender your hearers are physically in- 219 capable of doing either themselves or your lectures justice. Nor can ears be kept by the hour a-stretch when the soul is yearning for luncheon. When I was one of your demonstrators, and the recollection of that association is one of the few oases in a hitherto sandy and befretted life, your younger pupils often asked me if I thought it was really necessary for them to attend your lectures. They understood so little, and they remembered less. And I knew why, and felt sorry for them. I knew they hungered for the flesh-pots. I believe they suffered tortures. I had myself to take sundry snacks of chocolate to keep the wolf away. But I told them to attend, for they would find that, like bread cast upon the waters, something would return again to them. This really is a serious matter. Your pupils are gro7aiiig men. I cannot but think that the fact of the theatre being a borrowed one is accountable for much. I know you to be a humane, considerate and kindly man. When you get into your new quarters bear in mind what I have said. Subject your pupils to no heedless torture. Lecture earlier in the day.* V.-To PROFESSOR SIDGWICK [January 23, 1890] De.\r Professor Sidgwick, ' There is no learned class in England,' said the German Professor complacently, and a trifle didacti- * Professor Macalister lectures now at 12. Eu. C. A'. 220 cally, as he lighted another cigar. ' Pardon me, Herr Professor,' replied his companion. ' We have such a class, and they are known as Prigs!' It was unkind of you, Dr. Sidgwick, so to mystify the worthy man, while you smiled to yourself at the gentle many-sided malice of your remark. And you would have been fitly punished, had you been involved with imperfect German in an hour-long explanation (the dreariest duty of mankind) of the term you had used, and the Nature of the Prig, You would never have got your German to understand. But stop, was it you after all ? In the face of all inner probability I have heard it denied. But until I have the disavowal from your own lips, I shall continue to believe that the humour, the tolerance, the impersonal delight in criticising yourself, your profession, your country and your adversary, all in one breath, the implied condemna- tion alike of all false, arrogant, or misplaced learning, and of PhiHstines who know not false from true, all this must be yours, and yours alone. Your humour is well known to your friends, and is not the least nor the only charm of your conversa- tion. With all honour to the others, I must hold you to be the best host in Cambridge. And even in your books and your lectures, those who know you will find the same qualities, though partly suppressed, and care- fiilly subordinated to your main purpose. Human nature compels me to ask. Why so careful to suppress it? For you know, none better, that we average 221 mortals are apt to find this matter of Moral Phrilo- sophy a tritle dull. It is strong meat for babes. We listen, and we reverence, but sometimes yawn. The epigrams, and the homely illustrations, which you so sparingly allow us, come like sunshine in spring, or a fine day in summer, and leave us with a sense, that but for some perversity in causes which we do not understand sunshine and fine weather might always be there. But though they seldom come, they wished-for come, and such things are best left on the knees of the gods, who know what is for our good. But humour is only the salt of Moral Philosopliy. Your excellence as a Philosopher is best described as an infinite capacity for seeing both sides of the ques- tion. When some (juestion of women's degrees, or what not, was coming to the front, I heard you de- scribe yourself as seated upon the rail. But tliis expressive vulgarism is not nearly expressive enough to hit off the unexampled dexterity of your funam- bulism. Now there 's your Methods of Ethics a won- derful l)Ook. I admire in it especially the skill with which yoti reproduce the method and even the phrases of your master Aristotle, but avoid all the roughness and intolerable obscurity of his style. .So clear and fluent is your language that one reads and reads and fancies that one understands. System succeeds system, and retires shattered from the fray. Criticism suc- ceeds criticism, each more subtle and more cogent than the last. In the play of fence, and luminous 222 disputation we lose sight of the tremendous issues, and rejoice only in the prowess of our champion. But when the field is clear, and only the bruised and breathless fragments of our adversaries are left, we ask, For what have we been fighting, and what have we secured ? In vain we try to recall, all remains misty and perplexed and negative. Then we read again. On each successive reperusal we may fancy to have won some authoritative teaching, but each time the results are different. Then perhaps we glance at the preface. There we find that some audacious pamphleteer has ventured to claim the author for a positive school, utilitarianism or what not. Of him short work is made, and for a moment we fancy that common sense morality is to be set up for our guidance and obedience. But this also turns out to be incomplete. And the author arrives at an inscrutable result, which enables him to transcend both Intuitionists and Utilitarians may I add, Professor Sidgwick, the limits of the human intellect itself? But seriously, there is no one who admires more heartily and more humbly than myself your services in the field of philosophic criticism. Was it not Descartes who said doubt was the necessary starting point of all philosophic investigation ? Your impar- tial studies enable your pupils most effectively and thoroughly to doubt ; and herein, I take it, lies your supreme merit. Cant and authoritative humbug is swept away, and the mind is left free to deal with 223 problems for itself, and arrive at any or no result according to its bent. One of your pupils once rashly asserted, that on Utilitarian principles one could prove anything at will, and you replied * Indeed, Mr. S. It would be interesting to hear you do it.' No one doubts that you could do it. Dr. Sidgwick ; your virtue is, that you have never tried. Where you drop, as in the Political Economy, unwarily into a new doctrine of foreign trade, I cannot think your success is so great as in your pure unauthoritative criticism of all the free and fair traders, individualists, laisser-faire philosophers, academic socialists, hobby-riders, quack-medicine ven- dors, who confuse the science and distract the state. But this being the case, I cannot wonder that your lectures are so sparsely attended, especially by men. For apart from the fact that men are for the most part barbarians, and hate knowledge for its own sake, the few exceptions do not love it for its own sake, but for the sake of the cut and dried formulae which they can write down in their papers. The women come, for they are more apt to mind their book, and more accessible to the sacred sentiments of veneration and of love. But I must make free to doubt if even they understand it all. For if the written word is hard to follow, how nmch rather the spoken utterances ? This being your character as a philosopher, one might fancy that you would be slow and irresolute in 224 action. And so it is in fact, where two plans are each supported by powerful advocates and weighty grounds. But where a new truth is weak and un- noticed we find you in the fore-front of reform. You gave up your fellowship rather than countenance what you held to be a fiction. You lay down your wealth for science, and that a science not your own. You support the higher education of women, perhaps in the hope that they may shame their husbands and brothers out of barbarism. And when you are forced by your position into action which you do not approve, you adopt an attitude of cheerful pessimism, which encourages at once and chastens your less enlightened followers. But though such as I have described you, you are hardly one whom kings or majorities delight to honour. For kings and majorities act after their kind. So much the worse for the University ! What a long letter I have written ! I wish you would write me one equally long, and all about your- self. For though you are the least egotistical of mortals, you must find yourself an interesting study. How impartially you would treat the question what wealth of hidden virtues and amusing faults you might disclose and whatever you might say, one feels sure that you would steer clear both of arrogance and self-depreciation. May my own remarks be equally free from the corresponding faults. A PRIVATE ORATION [February 20, 1890] That I am unaccustomed, O commissioner, to public speaking I cannot indeed assert, having once held the office of Public Orator not without credit, as I conceive, and only the other day being sent as an ambassador to the Bononians, having made a speech to them in a foreign language, and that not instructed by others, but having composed it myself a thing which, no doubt, any one of these men would easily do : but this, as you yourself cannot be unaware, is a private rase ; and though with the private speeches of the ancients I am familiar, if any man is, yet in delivering a private oration I do not claim to be experienced. For I have not, as these men, spent my life in arguing about such mailers as become them, drainage and rates and market-dues and the like, Init, being by nature not a busybody, but retiring, 1 have continued uj) to this time unacquainted with such things. And yet in the eyes of many I seem to 5 226 have lived a not inglorious life ; first of all, having won in the Lesser Porson once, in the Greater Person once, in the Mays three times, and having conquered both in the Craven and in the Tripos ; next, being elected President of the Pitt ; and being appointed Professor formerly among the Glasguensians and now here ; and by other many and brilliant achievements having conferred honour on the town ; for which I deserve rather to be crowned with laurels and to dine in the Guildhall, than losing my suit in the Guildhall, to be deprived even of the laurels that I have by such men as these, O Gods and Earth ! For what is the character of these miserable petti- foggers? You know, I suppose, that the mother of one of them was a bedm 1 bow to your ruling, Sir ; but at the same time I would venture to suggest that I was only following the most celebrated models. I presume they are seeking to proceed under the 15 4th section of the Public Health Act, 'concerning New Streets.' (Read me the law). . . . You see what the law says. Now, the framers of that law never intended that, in order to make a new road, from 25 to 40 feet should be forcibly taken off the garden of Springfield far from it ! For it is mon- strous if, wherever a district is capable of development, people should thereupon exert compulsory powers. T know what my opponents will say that it would be a public benefit. O fine plea ! as if they were not in the most evident way pursuing only their own 227 advantage ! * But, by Zeus, Newnham and Sehvyn and Ridley are entitled to this improvement because they pay so much to the rates.' But, I imagine, they can only claim to share public benefits, not to get private ones. Now, if only people would act with a view to the public interest, is there aught that prevents our countiy from being pre-eminently great? Does she not possess more ships of war than any other state, and according to Tyrtaeus, sufficiency of men and of money also .'' which it is proper to employ in ravaging the territory of her enemies, not, by those that died at Marathon, in razing the gates and cutting down the shrubs of her own citizens. But observe the cunning of these accursed wTetches; who, though it was open to them to produce their children in court, have nevertheless refrained from doing so. Why ? not wishing unjustly to excite your sympathy and compassion ? Very likely you will believe them ! No . but they were afraid lest, by ridiculing the practice, I might make them appear contemptible before you. But, by the heavens, they shall not escape appearing as contemptible as possible ; for, seeing through their design, as though they had brought on an average five children apiece, (which they would gladly have done) I shall deliver just the same the scathing sarcasm I have elaborately prepared not for nothing, by Zeus ! Very well. Sir ; but you 228 will allow me to hand you the sheet containing the whole passage carefully copied out. Having much that I could say to prove the wickedness of these abandoned fellows and the justice of my own cause, I will pass it by, having inadvertently drunk most of the water in my glass. But it is worth while mentioning how much our fathers surpassed them in virtue. For our fathers, when they wished to decorate the Guildhall, placed upon the walls such mottoes as these. In statu quo ; Nolo episcopari ; Cui bo7io ? In puris naturalibus ; and others of the kind. Such were the public inscriptions those noble men thought fit to put up, meaning, I suppose, that they should be a continual exhortation to posterity. But consider how different is the conduct of these in- famous scoundrels : one of whom, not long ago, got three m In that case I had better pass at once to my peroration, merely remarking that in my opinion it ought to have been six. For there are, there are among all people altars of justice and legality and modesty, the most beautiful and holy being in the very soul and nature of every man, while others are set up for all men publicly to honour ; but there are none of shamelessness, or pettifoggery, or perjury, or ingratitude, all of which qualities belong to my opponents. Now, if you are disposed to protect and cherish rogues, I shall have rhapsodised to no purpose ; but if you are disposed to abhor them, then, if possible, condemn them to 229 death for how are they not worthy to perish three times over ? but if not, at any rate by your decision prevent them from treating us as resident aliens, and from acting the housebreaker with impunity. I see no reason to add anything more, as you seem fully to understand what has been said. Pour out the water. ARCHBISHOP BENSON [October 22, 1896] Archbishop Benson was so heartily and entirely a Cambridge man that it is not strange that the Cambridge Review should wish some words about him to appear in its pages. It may also be said that he was as heartily and entirely a Trinity man, the first Archbishop of Canterbury, indeed, whom that great College has given to the Church ; for Whitgift, though he was Master of Trinity, had previously been at half the Colleges in Cambridge. Archbishop Benson's early home at Birmingham was a home of religion and culture. His mother had belonged to a highly respected family of Unitarians. The two great formative elements in his early life, outside his home, were the companionship of his schoolfellows, and the influence, even more than the instruction, of his great schoolmaster Lee, for although the Archbishop never forgot what he owed 231 to Dr. Gifford for his last half year at King Edward's School in Birmingham, his main mspiration and direction came from Lee. From him he learned not only habits of laborious work and the most scrupulous accuracy in scholarship, and the delight in choice words ; but a great love of art and of literature in general, a keen historical sense, and above all, a passionate devotion to the study of the Bible. Lee, the schoolmaster, whose success as such was quite unparalleled, and who failed so strangely as a Bishop, was a man who was often too much overcome by emotion to be able to proceed with a Greek Testament lesson in the Sixth Form ; and it was the same with Benson. To hear him conduct a vir'd voce examination of a class of candidates for Holy Orders during the Em]:)cr Week, in the Epistle of St. James, or the ApocaIy[)SL:, or the Pastoral Epistles, was a wonderful lesson, not only in punctilious grammatical and lexical exactness, but also in the hidden meanings, and in th J pr;u lical appropriation of tlic meaning. Manly and unaffected as he was in his i)iety, the blue eye seldom filled t > become dim, and the clear voice and beautiful firm inoutli to quiver, as he touched a v.-ord that exj)rcs'-((l something of the glory of Christ, or of the inner deeps of true religion. At Cambridge his school friends became also his te;i< )>;-. He read for some time under Liglitfoot as his private tutor; the present Dean of Canterbury, who was two years junior to him, for a while being 232 his fellow pupil. He was the man to make many- friends, and he never forgot them. When he was made Bishop of Truro, he was brought again into contact with one of them whom he had not seen, or had any intercourse with, for many years. He said to one of his chaplains what pleasure it gave him to see him again : ' M.', he said, ' is one of the men whom I have never failed to mention daily in my prayers since we were undergraduates.' But his stay at Cambridge was brief, though his visits afterwards were frequent. He was hurried off to Rugby, and to Wellington, where he made his name. The obituary notice in the Times, and indeed the article in that journal upon his appointment to the primacy, were justly appreciative of the difficulties which he had to encounter there, and of the way in which he surmounted them. It was not the place where tenderhearted laxity would have succeeded; and there was no mistake about it, the discipline of Wellington College was like that of a man-of-war. An admiring pupil writes in the Daily Neivs of October 13, about his old master's severity. It was indeed an appalling sight to see the Master gather his gown about him and cane a liar before the Lower and Middle School. It was the impersonation of wrathful righteousness and truth. Yet, however little the boys might sometimes be aware of it, the same heart was full of the tenderest interest in them all. He loved and honoured the boys. ' Selfishness,' he said once, ' is uppermost in boys of 233 that age (12 or 13), but generosity is very near the surface. Try it ' : and the experiment which he suggested succeeded. There was not a boy in the school whom he did not know. When once a young master complained of an incorrigible boy in a lower form, ' What can you expect of him ? ' he replied. ' He has no father; his grandmother is a rigid Puritan who thinks it a sin to smile on a Sunday, and his mother a follower of Stopford Brooke, who comes home and says, What a blessing it is that we have got rid of that fiction of the Trinity ! ' Amidst all his labours at Wellington, Dr. Benson's heart had always been that of an ecclesiastic. The chapel had been the centre of his thoughts for the school. In his own boyhood he had learned from Lee to study liturgies, and to translate ancient col- lects. An aged relative of his own with whom as a boy he used to stay at York, was alarmed about his future because of his passion for attending the daily choral services. At Wellington he took the greatest pains with the arrangement of the devotional life of the school, its punctual daily prayers in chapel, its carefully prescribed hymns and introits. Without anything that people would call ritualism, all was done in the most decorous and even stately fashion. He loved to trace, as he was frequently justified in tracing, in the lives of good laymen and soldiers who had been at the school the effects of the morning and evening Psalms. He was glad when the time came for him to 234 devote himself altogether to the Church. Much as he loved Wellington 'Who am I,' he said one lovely November morning, returning from chapel, as he gazed over the heath to the Scotch firs upon the round hill near the College, ' Who am I, that I should see Ambarrow every day?' yet he loved Lincoln better. Bishop Wordsworth, on his consecration, had made him his Examining Chaplain and a Prebendary of the Minster. A sermon of his in 187 1 before the Nottingham Church Congress was thought to sound a note of warm and confident Churchmanship which had been wanting in some of the other utterances on the occasion. Not very long after he gave up the lucrative, if arduous, work of a head master, and took up his abode as Chancellor of Lincoln, in the beauti- ful old house which had been attached to the stall since the days of Anthony Bek. It was a delight to him to inhabit and restore that house, with its ancient 'solar,' and the pentacles upon the stone stairs, and to see his children catching from it the love of anti- quities. As Chancellor he was Master of the fabric of the Cathedral, and soon knew every inch of the stately structure, and its history. As he had created Wellington, so at Lincoln he created the Chancellor's Schools for candidates for Holy Orders, and enjoyed deeply the lectures which he gave, not only to the students, but (with his immense capacity for work) to general audiences also. With a pang he refused to become a candidate for the Hulsean Professorship at 235 Cambridge, vacated by Lightfoot's promotion to the Lady Margaret chair, though Westcott and Lightfoot urged him to do so. He felt that he could not leave nor halve his work at Lincoln. Nor was he content only with his Divinity School and his public lectures. He threw himself among the working men of the City below the Hill, who responded with extraordinary eagerness to his advances. No such union between the upper and lower cities had ever been known before. He had a weekly Bible Class for them on a very large scale, composed of members of all the sects as well as Churchmen. He began a system of night schools all over the town, in which his Divinity students, among others, helped him ; and it was an inspiring sight to go round with him from school to school, and see the Lincoln mechanics working away at their scliool subjects, and the manner in which they received one whom they knew to be their genuine friend. He had not long been Bishop Wordsworth's Chaplain, when his old friend and chief at Rugby, Dr. Temple, was nominated to the see of Exeter. Bishop Wordsworth protested against Dr. Temple's consecration, and Dr. Benson felt it to be his duty publicly to bear testimony to the loyal orthodoxy of the Bishop-designate. At the same time he sent in his resignation of his chaj)laincy to the Bishop of Lincoln, who smiled and put it in the fire. For some months after the consecration, Benson was 236 Examining Chaplain to the two Bishops at once. It was an exercise of those conciliatory powers which few men have so well understood how to combine with clear and unflinching maintenance of convictions of their own. In 1877 he was called by the Providence of God to make the new diocese of Truro, cut off from that of his friend Bishop Temple. He held the See for nearly six years. It was the happiest period of his life, although the first year of it was marked by the great sorrow of the death of his eldest son, a most promising scholar, at Winchester. He delighted in Cornwall, and in its attractive people, though he could tell them plainly of their faults, as a pastor should. Those six years were an idyll. All the poetry and romance of his rich nature were evoked, and at the same time the profound spirituality of his religion found in that free atmosphere scope for its utterance, and enthusiastic response from Cornish hearts. The little homely wooden Cathedral became the focus of a life which, as was said by the present Bishop of St. Andrews, whom he chose for an Exa- mining Chaplain, was ' like the Acts of the Apostles.' A good Divinity School, a continuous work of evange- lizing Missions, grew up ; the Diocesan Conference became, probably, the most business-like and the liveliest in England ; a true Council of Honorary Canons was organized ; Retreats for the Clergy were held, and Prayer Meetings for the Laity, for, as 237 Lightfoot bade him in the sermon at his consecra- tion, he made himself a Cornishraan to the Cornish, and a Methodist to the Methodists, that he might gain them. All this, and much else, centred in a living unity round him, as a true Father to the dio- cese ; and the powerful touch of his spirit is testified to all future ages by the truly sublime Cathedral of which he was the inceptor, though the beauty of its adornment was the work of his successor. He knew every parish in his diocese, and it might almost be said that he seemed to know everybody in each parish, with their sorrows and their needs. Wherever he preached he startled the people by telling them facts about the former history of the place of which they were un- aware, and applying the lessons to the present. Often afterwards he would look back upon those days of hope and liberty, and say playfully, ' Depend upon it, we made a great mistake to leave Cornwall.' His great work as Archbishop of Canterbury be- longs to the history of the Church at large, and no attempt can be made here to give an account of it. No life could have been more full of labour. The average number of his daily letters alone was such as to keep himself, two chaplains, and a lay secretary writing hard for many hours of day and night ' The penny post,' he said, ' is one of those ordinances of man to which we have to submit for the Lord's sake.' Besides the care of all the churches, he was unre- mitting in his attendance at the House of Lords, and 238 at the Board of Trastees of the British Museum, and in many other secular duties which his position thrust upon him. Into all these he threw himself wholly, as if he had nothing else to do. Amidst it all he never allowed himself to be torn away from the things of the inner life. Not a day passed without his doing an hour or so of solid work upon the Holy Scripture before joining his family. Besides all his public preaching, he made time throughout the London season to give weekly a Bible lesson to ladies in the Chapel at Lam- beth, the influence of which was profoundly felt. And the wonder was that he scarcely ever appeared to be oppressed by the weight which he had to bear. He had time for everything and cheery words for everybody words which came from his heart. He was never idle, and was always reading new books and old ahke. Cyprian and his age was a subject on which he worked hard whenever he got a spare hour or two generally after bedtime, and it may be hoped that his researches on the subject are in condition to be published.* Brewer's graphic description of Wolsey, in his attention to detail combined with the widest outlook, manag- ing Kings and Popes for great ends, yet particular about the exact shade of his Cardinal's robe and the exact shape of his Cardinal's hat, was equally applicable to Archbishop Benson. To hear him describe a gold ornament from Aegina, just brought to the Museum, They were published in 1897. 239 or the proper way of cutting a lawn sleeve, you would have supposed that he had nothing else to think of. After he had been instructing his coachman (he was a great lover of horses, and, like Cranmer, an excellent rider) in the points by which to tell good oats from inferior ones, ' Lord,' said the coachman to some one else, ' I don't beUeve there ain't nothing that that man don't know.' Full of fun and humour that humour which is allied to the richest vein ot sentiment he loved life, and saw good days, to the very last. Never did God give a more fitting close to the career of a great servant of His. Just returned from a peace- making mission in Ireland, where all received him as he deserved, to the house of Mr. Gladstone, of all men, on a Sunday morning, after receiving the Blessed Sacrament, he knelt again in Hawarden Church to make his confession with the rest, and the last words which he heard on earth were the words of absolution. May the grace of God, which made him what he was, shape others not unworthy to succeed him in the great work. A. J. M. EPILOGUE [February 25, 1897] The years are the years of a Fresher, Since first undergraduate brains "Were big with the pang and the pressure Of fruitful and fortunate i)ains ; With the sign of our shield on her bodice Of cheap and cadaverous blue, She sprang into being, our Goddess, The Cambridge Revieiv. And the depths of the dwellings infernal Were scared at the sound of her laugh, And the heart of the Undcrgrad' s Journal Was jjierced in its orient half; For a season it strove to be bitter, Then, then its illegible page Expired in a tremulous twitter Of impotent rage. 16 242 But our Goddess was throned in the city, The queen of our head and our heart, And her priests were a mighty Committee, And used to attend at the start For she spread as a vine in a hothouse. As the running of Gallican beans. From Magdalene to Pembroke and Pothouse, From Jesus to Queens'. And the songs and the skits and the sonnets Uprose as the flowers from the sod, When the boarded collegiate bonnets Buzzed loud with the bees of the god ; From the head and the hand of the shapers Like leaves of the autumn they flew To the place of the wasting of papers, O Cambridge Review/ Thou wast filled with all science and knowledge, Thou wast novel and nearly unique ; Thine envoys in every College Told tales of the deeds of the week Of anthems and services stately, Of names in the Little-Go list, Of Corpus's Chess Club that lately Had met to play whist. Thou wast filled with the facts of athletics, The boat and the bat and the ball, And the deeds of the modern ascetics Debarred from the dainties of hall. 243 Thou hadst news of Oxonian brothers, And forecasts of oar and of scull, Thou wast witty at times, and at others Undoubtedly dull. Thou hast seen the ephemeral papers That catered for sectional needs ; They have vanished as vortical vapours Blown blue from Baconian weeds ; Time writes not a wrinkle [Chiide Harold) To corrugate thy azure brow ; In fact, it was never apparelled So bluely as now. Though their lays may be lightsome and clever, They last but the life of a leaf; Their entrees endure not for ever, But thou art our mutton and beef They shall pass, they shall pale, they shall perish, Unknown, or but known to a few, While the ages of ages shall cherish The Cambridge Review. We must change as the seasons that vary. We must fall as the leaves that are I^rown, As the facings of classic canary From W Idst n's doctorial gown ; And the feet that outran Atalanta No longer our cinders may crunch, A\'hile the wits that were great on the Granta Are ])unsters in Pioich. 244 For the time of our years is a worm-time, We rust as a moth (so to speak) ; But thou shalt be published in term-time, And thou shalt be sixpence a week. When the veil of the future is rifted, Thou shalt gladden our children anew With thy numbers five hundred times fiftied, Our Cambridge Review! X. J. PALMER, PRINTER, ALEXANDRA STREET, CAMBRIDGE. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY MAGMILLAN AND BOWES, CAMBRIDGE. Now ready with map and 75 illustrations. A Concise Guide to the Town and University of Cambridge In Ft our Walk 'S J By ohn Willis Clark M.A., F.S.A. Registrary of the University Formerly Fellow of Trinity College Price ]s. vet; or in iiiiip c/ofh case tvitli pocket and (I II pi icntc of the Map, 2.s'. net. TIMh:S "All int(lli^,'<:nt visitorH to Carnhriilir'', however Hliort their stay, will Jmj grateful to Mr .1. W. (;i.-irk. the Ke^'istrarv of tlie TniverHitv, for liis exeelleiit Cmirisi: (;,ri,lr li, II,, T'nii, ,i,l ri,h;r<,l,i r,i,'i,l,ri'l-i, ill h',>ir H\.//.-,v, It is not often that tlie casual visitor to a place of jjreat historical ami arcliite<:tunil interest like I anihridKC finils so competent a ,-i,; i-i,n,- as Mr Clark to tell him what he can see and what i.s best wortli scciiK,' in the time at his ilispos^il " .i ri I K \ /!: r M ^ "Mr.l. Willis (lark has written A rVoir/.s,- (;viil, t Camhri(h,]r of unusual excellence, " /'.)//- Y euros J<1J:. An ideal tcuide tK)ok by a former Fellow of Trinity." MASlIIEsrr.l: OrAI:l>IA\. Mr Clarks varied accomplishments raise Ihis little book i|nite out of the cateKory of ordinary jKipular Kuide books." Ai'A l>h:M Y. " In a book of its size tlie information is, of courHe, mucli condensed, but so far as it goes it is e.Tcellent." Belief in Christ and other Sermons. By H. Mon- tagu Butler, D.U., Master of Trinity College. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. SCOTSMAN. "They are plain and vigorous discourses well worthj of consideration beyond the circle of those to whom they were originally addressed." ^ the same Author. "Lift up your hearts" or Words of Good Cheer for The Holy Communion. Pott 8vo. Swete, H. B. On the Bull Apostolicae Curae. A Lecture. 8vo. le. net. In the Shadow of Sinai. A Story of Travel and Eesearch from 1895 to 1897. By Agnes Smith Lewis. With numerous illustrations. Crown 8vo. cloth. 53. net. Sidgwick, Mrs Henry. University Education for Women. A Lecture delivered at University College, Liverpool, May, 1896. 8vo. 6d. Davies, Emily. Women in the Universities of England and Scotland. 8vo. 6d. How the Codex was Found. A Narrative of Two Visits to Sinai, from Mrs Lewis's Journals, 1892 1893. By Margaret Dunlop Gibson. With 2 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. The Book of the Cambridge Review. 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" Many admirers of the late James Kenneth Stephen will be glad to have in one volume Lapsus Calami and other Verses, a complete edition of his verse. Messrs. Macmillan and Bowes, of Cambridge, have thrown together the two volumes known as Laimufi Calami and (iuo Musa Tendis ( and these, with a short sketch of the author's life, and witli the prose that is buried in the pages of the dead ' Reflector ' must now reijresent for us one of the most individual talents of our time." Lapsus Calami, and Quo Musa Tendis. A few copies large hand- made paper left. How to Answer Grrammar and Philology Questions. With hints and Specimens and full Answers to two Examination Papers and Full Index. By E. H. Miles, M.A., King's College. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. SCOTSMAX. "It is a book of riper scliolarsliip tlian tiie usual books of the kind, and cannot fail to prove useful to those to whom it is addressed." Passages from Latin Authors for Translation into English. Selected with a view to the needs of Candidates for the Cambridge l'reviou.s, Local and Schools' Examinations. By E. S. SHL'CK.i5UitGH, M.A. Fourth edition, enlarged and cor- rected. (Jrown 8vo. 2s. A Map prepared l)y the Rev. Edward Coxybeare to i.lustrate his History of Cambridgeshire, giving all the Roman Koads, British Dykes, Religious Hou.scs, Shriue.s, and i'arish Churches. Is. (Jd. net. A History of Cambridgeshire. By Rev. Edward Cony BE ARE, M.A. Coiit'/tts: - -I. Introductory. II. Romano-British Period. III. Anglo-Saxuu Period, 1. IV. Anglo-Saxon Period, 11. V. Norman Peri(xl. \'l. Early lOuglisli Period. \'1I. Periiendicular i*eri(xi. \'ill. Pieforniation I'eriod, 1. IX. Ilcfcjrmation Period, 11. X. .M(jdern I'erind. Index. Ilnml iiiiiih' ixijitr, ^C(j. {onli/ lioO priided)^ hdlj lioxhunjlte, lO.s. 0'/. int. Liiryi; j"'i" >', M"., IihiuIiikkIk jiUjiki' {onlij OO copies printed), ),nl/ Jio.rh.injlu%, L'l.v. /('/. .Marinillau and liowcs iia\e Itoiight tlic remaining copies ot till; two >p((ial i-diiioii.^, and tiicy aild to each Copy tlie .Map of till- < 'ounly jiicpai'fd liy the auliioi' without increa.se of cost. (,l' A l:lil AS. l-iiU of irifcjrMKitioii, i-ll wci^'lictl. :irr:iii).'iMl. and Hifted. aiicl ]iut in i-ucli a way :i- in !" r'-.i'l:ilil'- a- Hell a- l.aii.nl \m adiihralili; t.|MTiiMCM nf what a ( iiimt V l]|.-I'.r\ iiirii i- inraiit lor IIji- K''ii''i''l n:adi;r an wi;ll a.- for thu aiili.|uarv ouKllt to 1>,-.'' I'All.y '/.' \llll<' ' Mr I .,ini,.ari' i- lo 1,.- coriiiratulat.-d on liaviii^ produced a voluiiii- uIj!. Ii 1- at oijri- ilioroiiirii aii'l rradalilr. ' 1/ \.\i II I.-- IIJ; (,l A I: III A S. \\ rill 1-11 in a liwh .and allrarlivc Hlvlr " I liri;ill IIMi:- It in tlir \iry inodi-l of a coiuitv liinlory for the K'<-iMMal rradcr, ,.i,j,| it uould If dillicull to |>rai-<- it l-w,iii| it- di--i-rl Mr < ipiivUcarc uiiitrs to a miiiuti- and ar.Miati- knouli.U'i- of lo- -iitij'.-il a -iiiL'ularlv lii.iil and '|.i''t urc-im- stvli:." /r /:/,/-///./.- ' //.' I I.Al: Till; iKxik JM writtrn in a k'larrHil and llowmK lylu, and i- i II vvortliv of carrful |.<-ru-al," /r /;/,/( 1 1 r I'M 1 1. \ TlMr autlHir has madr ainpb- un.: of the rich inati-riali at Ids (ntniijaiid. and the re-idt i- a iii.;!]ly |.h-a-iiik' ami iii-I nut ive work. lie incrilH (.,ii;:ratidation nrjt only for tlie wi-allh of mfoririat ion he haH won, but al-o for tlie useful uay in whir:h he lias presented it to his re-adern." Cambridge Described & Illustrated Being a Short History of the Town and University. By T. DINHAM ATKINSON; with an Introduction by JOHN WILLIS CLARK, M.A., F.S.A., Registrary of the University, late Fellow of Trinity College. Medium 8vo. with 29 Steel Plates, mid numerous Illustrations and Maps, cloth 21s. net. Also i?i 10 Monthly Farts at 2s. net. The want of a book of this kind has \on^^ been felt, there being nothing between the ordinary small guide-books and such works as the Mejnorials of Cambridge in three, and the Architectu7-al History of the University in four, volumes. The history of the Town is treated with more fulness than it has met with in any other work, and Mr J. W. Clark points out in his Introduction the important bearing that the affairs of the Town have on a right conception of the origin of the University. With regard to the Illustrations, 29 are steel plates by Le Keux and Storer. The 112 Illustrations in the text are chiefly from original drawings by the Author and Mr G. M. Brimelow. The beautiful illustrations of University and College Heraldry are by Mr W. H. St John Hope. In addition to a Plan of the neighbourhood, of the Town as in 1445, and as at present, there is a Block Plan of each College and of the University Buildings, as well as many reproductions from Loggan and other early sources. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. DAILY CHRONICLE. " He has conferred a favour upon all lovers of literature and its early seats by going at much length and with great care into the questions not only of municipality, but of the University and the Colleges. ...A good thing well done." LITER ATU RE. "Mr Atkinson's work throughout deserves the highest praise. He has spared no pains in the collection of material, and tells his story methodically, with great clearness and simplicity." TIMES, "A decidedly attractive volume. ...Le Keux's engravings have the advantage of representing Cambridge as it was more than half a century ago, before recent changes had been carried out." ACADEMY. "His book will be welcomed by all those who de.sire to get, in the compass of a single volume, a comprehensive view of both Town and University. The illustrations throughout the volume are well drawn and excellently reproduced." D.MLY NEWS. "All Cambridge men will be interested in the many quaint and c\irious descriptions of mediajval manners and customs of the University Town which Mr Atkinson has collected. To all with archjeological interests we strongly recommend the volume." CAMISKIDGE: printed HV J. and C. F. clay, at the UNIVKHSITV I'RESS. THE LIBRARY University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 305 De Neve Drive - Parking Lot 17 Box 951388 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90095-1388 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY III AA 000 051 226 9