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 FACES AND PLACES, by H. W. LUCY. 
 
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 In 
 
 (Cambridge (Courts 
 
 . Lehmann 
 
 With Illustrations by zA. C 
 
 Third 
 
 Thousand 
 
 London H. Henry & Co. Ltd, 
 
 93 Saint Martin's Lane W.C. 
 MDCCCXCVII
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. l-'ACiE 
 
 I. OF CAMBRIDGE GENERALLY ....... I 
 
 II. OF FATHERS ..... ..... 7 
 
 III. OF MOTHERS 15 
 
 IV. OF SISTERS 19 
 
 V. OF BEDMAKERS ......... 24 
 
 VI. OF GYPS .......... 28 
 
 VII. OF UNDERGRADUATES . . . . . . . -31 
 
 CAMBRIDGE DIALOGUES. 
 
 I. A MORNING WITH AVERAGE UNDERGRADUATES . . -41 
 
 II. READING HARD 46 
 
 III. GATED 5O 
 
 iv. A TUTOR'S BREAKFAST IN OCTOBER . . . . -54 
 
 V. AMONG THE DONS 57 
 
 VI. THE LITTLE GO . . . . . . . . .62 
 
 VII. AMONG THE ORATORS ' 65 
 
 VIII. AMONG THE WELL-INFORMED 68 
 
 IX. AS OTHERS SEE US 7 2 
 
 X. " A LEETLE DAWG " 76 
 
 XI. AMONG THE NOISY 8 1 
 
 xii. SOME ONE ELSE'S SISTER ....... 86 
 
 XIII. SEEING LIFE IN LONDON ....... 90 
 
 XIV. THE PLEASURES OF TUBBING } OR, HOW WE MANUFACTURE 
 
 OARSMEN 95
 
 v jij CONTENTS. 
 
 , I'AOE 
 CHAP. 
 
 XV. TRAINING FOR THE LENT RACES 1( 
 
 XVI. AT THE BOATRACES IN JUNE 
 
 XVII. AN AFTERNOON WITH THE UNIVERSITY EIGHT . . . 11O 
 
 XVIII. A DRESS REHEARSAL U 5 
 
 XIX. A GREEK PLAY REHEARSAL I21 
 
 TRIPOS PAPERS. 
 
 AGRICULTURE AT CAMBRIDGE 12 7 
 
 THE ATHLETIC TRIHOS I 3 I 
 
 SAVED BY A SIGN . . . '35 
 
 SOME MODERN VERSE H^ 
 
 CAMBRIDGE VERSE. 
 
 REDEUNTIBUS 159 
 
 A BALLAD OF CAMBRIDGE DAY BY DAY '...... l62 
 
 AVE VIR(IDIS) IMPERATOR ! 166 
 
 IN JESUS LANE 169 
 
 THE BROKEN BRIDGE 1 72 
 
 THE NARROWING CAGE 175 
 
 CAMBRIDGE REVISITED . . . . . . . . . l8o 
 
 TO THE MASTER OF TRINITY 184 
 
 AN INTER-UNIVERSITY INCIDENT 1 89 
 
 WELSHED 198 
 
 A BREAKFAST EMBARRASSMENT ....... 2C>4 
 
 ION FILINGS; OR, THE WRECK OF THE FAST CREUSA . . . 207 
 THE END OF TERM . . . . . . . . . -215 
 
 BETTY . . . . . . . . . . . .219 
 
 LITTLE BEN IVANHOE 226 
 
 THE RUNAWAY RHYME 234 
 
 EXEUNTIBUS 237
 
 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF CAMBRIDGE GENERALLY. 
 
 H 
 
 OW shall a 
 man con- 
 struct a definition 
 of Cambridge 
 comprehen- 
 sively embody- 
 . ing every phase 
 of Cambridge 
 life? For to 
 -. some the Uni- 
 ^' versity is the 
 home of Tri- 
 poses and "Poll" 
 Examinations, the 
 manufactory of 
 wranglers, the 
 abiding-place of 
 lectures, and the 
 conferrer of de- 
 grees. Others 
 think of her as the place where physical excellence may 
 w. L.-VIII. i
 
 2 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 be displayed, where races are to be won and " blues " 
 to be acquired by ceaseless labour and rigorous training. 
 In the eyes of some she is a collection of staid and 
 learned men, living lives of scholarly and fruitful leisure 
 in panelled halls, from the walls of which the great men 
 of the past look down upon their dignified and some- 
 times' worthy successors. Others take small account of 
 Dons, and regard Cambridge merely as the home -of 
 perpetual youth youth tempered, it may be, by Proctors 
 and Deans, but not, it would appear, on that account less 
 supreme in the eyes of all intelligent men as well as in its 
 own. Who shall decide between these two views ? Not 
 I, certainly ; though, if I had to make my choice, I might 
 perhaps hint a preference. But since nobody forces me 
 to choose between two extremes, I am fain to pass the 
 question by with the admission that there is truth, but not 
 the whole truth, in both views. For, in fact, Cambridge is 
 a school of life, and of conduct. There, character may be 
 seen in the making, and men equip themselves for the conflicts 
 of maturer years. Amid the stately halls and quiet courts, 
 on the river and in the cricket-field, in the free and genial 
 intercourse of man with man, penetrated as it should be 
 with the spirit of culture and tolerance, qualities can be 
 developed that are of inestimable value to English life. 
 Even the lecture-room and the examination have their uses, 
 independent of what they do for science and scholarship ; 
 for they, too, r are a part of discipline, and, if they did not 
 exist, would have to be invented by undergraduates, who, 
 paradoxical as it may seem, are never so happy as when 
 they are disciplined. For is it not the nature of under- 
 graduates to organise themselves into clubs of all kinds ? and
 
 OF CAMBRIDGE GENERALLY. 3 
 
 is it not the first duty of a club to govern itself by rules, and 
 so to restrict the perfect freedom of its members ? And 
 after all (and here I find myself, in spite of all precaution, 
 preferring one 'of the two extremes) it is the life in little 
 of the undergraduates that gives to Cambridge her abiding 
 charm, her constant freshness. They come from countless 
 homes scattered over the habitable globe : Englishmen from 
 all parts of England, Scotchmen, Irishmen, tall and muscular 
 Australians, New Englanders not a few, here and there an 
 Indian or a mild Japanese, or even a jovial African such 
 is the mixture of races. And of ranks, and pursuits, and 
 opinions, and faiths the variety is infinite. Rich and poor, 
 scholar and athlete, churchman and dissenter, orator and 
 amateur actor ; men who wear the suits of the gaudy, and 
 men who wear the spectacles of the solemn and short- 
 sighted ; embryo philosophers, aspiring metaphysicians ; men 
 who read, or ride, or row, or run ; men who loaf altogether, 
 and are ploughed ; and men who prefer the half-loaf of a 
 " poll " degree to no degree at all, of all these and of all 
 their subdivisions are specimens to be found in Cambridge. 
 But since they are all young, they are for the most part 
 lighthearted ; they can look out upon the larger life without 
 flinching; their natures are not yet warped by failure or 
 soured by disappointment. A sort of gay insouciance is in 
 the air, infecting everybody to such an extent that even a 
 dull man who may be destined in after-life to devastate 
 a whole country-side as a bore sometimes sparkles into 
 amusement at Cambridge, and may be cited as the 
 humourist of a select circle. It is to this spirit, perhaps, 
 that the curious inversion of views which prevails at Cam- 
 bridge is traceable. For there are men who will* treat a
 
 4 7-V CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 course of lectures as a joke, and make the course which 
 they row on the Cam the serious object of existence. They 
 will be heedless of a tutor's words of wisdom, but will listen 
 with a desperate attention to the admonitions of their rowing 
 coach ; they will avoid a chapel without compunction, but 
 no power in the world is sufficient to keep them away from 
 a bump-supper. Such conduct is doubtless highly censurable, 
 but it exists and has always existed, mutatis mutandis, at 
 Cambridge. Indeed, nothing is more striking to a student 
 of Cambridge manners than the permanence both of 
 habits and of types, to which Mr. Whibley has called 
 attention in his book " In Cap and Gown." Here, for 
 instance, are some lines written one hundred and forty 
 years ago that are almost as appropriate to-day as they 
 were then: 
 
 "A dog he unconcern'd maintains, 
 And seeks with gun the sportful plains 
 
 Which ancient Cam divides ; 
 Or to the hills on horseback strays 
 (Unask'd his Tutor), or his chaise 
 
 To famed Newmarket guides. 
 
 ' ' Even in the Proctor's awful sight, 
 On Regent Walk at twelve last night, 
 
 Unheedingly I came. 
 And though, with Wish's claret fired, 
 I brushed his side, he ne'er inquired 
 
 My College or my name." 
 
 We do not carry guns on Midsummer Common nowa- 
 days, nor do we buy claret from Wish. But men still fail 
 to ask a proper permission of their tutors; still do they 
 guide chaises to Newmarket; and still they dread the 
 Proctor's awful sight. Ties, boots, and hats may change
 
 OF CAMBRIDGE GENERALLY. 5 
 
 in shape or in colour, collars may be raised or lowered by 
 inches, coats may vary their pattern, catch-words may die 
 out and be replaced by others, but the undergraduate 
 himself is unchangeable. Indeed, Cambridge may be 
 converted, according to the desires of Mr. Chaplin, into 
 one vast agricultural school, with farmyards in place of 
 College courts, farmers in place of masters, and dairymaids 
 in the shoes (though not in the bonnets) of bedmakers ; 
 but it is safe to assume that even then the breast of the 
 ploughboy will swell with the emotions that used to stir 
 the undergraduate whom he will have succeeded ; he will 
 still look forward with the same inconquerable aversion to 
 visiting the Dean (in his barn), and possibly he will cut corn 
 with the same assiduity as is displayed by the undergraduate 
 of to-day in the case of lectures. Another point, too, must 
 be remembered. Life at Cambridge, being life in little, is 
 naturally short. Our little life is rounded with a degree ; 
 and all experience, as well as all reading, must be concen- 
 trated into the three years, at the end of which the under- 
 graduate becomes a B.A., and vanishes from the scene of 
 his labours and his delights. A study of this life, therefore, 
 of which the type has been the same in all ages, in which 
 all experience is compacted into three necessarily eventful 
 years, ought to be full of profitable lessons. The subject is 
 not difficult ; its very shortness should make it attractive as 
 well as useful to all. Indeed, it has occurred to me that 
 we proceed generally upon a wrong system. Instead of 
 asking young men to profit by the experience of their 
 seniors, and to learn wisdom from their variable and ex- 
 tensive lives, we should compel the seniors to study for 
 their own profit the life and experience of, for instance, the
 
 6 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 average undergraduate. If any word of mine can induce a 
 grandfather, or even a father, to pause in his career, and to 
 realise how much may be learnt from a consideration of the 
 lives of young men, these pages will not have been written 
 in vain. 
 
 And this leads me to speak of fathers the fathers, that 
 is to say, of undergraduates. But a theme so important 
 demands a fresh chapter, and shall have it.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF FATHERS. 
 
 OF fathers there are naturally many varieties, but the 
 father as we hear of him at Cambridge seems to 
 have no variety whatever. Undergraduates, in fact, may 
 differ amongst themselves, but they all appear to unite in 
 the possession of one kind of father an awe-inspiring 
 personage, whom it is not easy to describe. He may be 
 a country clergyman, or a member of Parliament, or a legal 
 luminary, or a merchant prince ; he may be tall or short, 
 stout or thin, dark or pale. These qualities are but as the 
 outer shell, and if we remove them we discover a startling 
 identity of shape and character. The father, then, is to an 
 undergraduate a purse-holder and a dole-distributor, and he 
 is wont to accompany both the holding and the distribu- 
 tion with remarks which grate on the youthful ear of his 
 son. He is much given to sarcasm, which he varies with 
 outbursts of violence. Though he may be, and often is, 
 a kind man, he is constantly credited with a temper as 
 rough as it is unreasonable. He is averse to late hours, 
 and views gardenia button-holes, stalls at the theatre, yellow 
 boot, and new suits of clothes, with a suspicion bred of 
 the knowledge that a prolonged indulgence in them makes 
 serious inroads on an income of which he knows the 
 
 7
 
 8 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 exact limits. In fact, his accurate knowledge of his son's 
 resources gives him a lever which he perpetually uses in 
 the most unscrupulous way. His visits to Cambridge are 
 few, but they require an amount of preparation on the part 
 of the son quite out of proportion to their length. Photo- 
 graphs must be removed from mantelpieces, liqueur bottles 
 have to be hidden, packs of cards have to be disposed of, 
 and, above all, bills that fatal evidence of excess and 
 recklessness have to be concealed. A serious and sober 
 demeanour has to be assumed, and friends are warned that 
 " the old gentleman doesn't like slang." A father may, 
 perhaps, be described as a man who, on the very slenderest 
 foundations, builds up the expectation that his son will 
 devote himself to reading, and who, disappointed in this, 
 takes a mean advantage of his superior position to curtail 
 incomes and diminish liberty. He is, moreover, the last 
 refuge and resource of the destitute; for it is a fact, 
 proved by centuries of experience, that though he is 
 his son's best friend, he is appealed to in money 
 difficulties only after every other appeal has been ex- 
 hausted. All fathers have one method in the treatment 
 of filial bills. They consider them monstrously extrava- 
 gant, and never hesitate to say so. In fact, the most 
 refreshing thing about a father is his extreme frankness. 
 He never tries either to conceal his thoughts or to moderate 
 his language when the defects of his offspring are in ques- 
 tion. Though he is often made painfully aware of the fact 
 that his son is a very young man, he never appears to 
 lose the delusive hope that the experience of an older man 
 may be accepted as a guide. The fact that he has always 
 been older than his son has given rise to the ridiculous
 
 OF FATHERS. 9 
 
 opinion that he was never young. He holds himself to 
 be prejudiced in favour of his son ; his son considers him 
 to be prejudiced in favour of the authorities. His chief 
 mistake would appear to be the idea that Cambridge is a 
 place where learning ought to reign supreme ; his principal 
 fault is unquestionably his absurd reliance on the com- 
 prehensive efficacy of Cambridge Tutors. Those who most 
 frequently abuse the paternal kindness and transgress the 
 paternal authority always speak of him as the governor, so 
 called, of course, a non gubernando. Speaking generally, 
 he is a good man with excellent intentions, placed by 
 Providence in a position for which his son does not think 
 him fully qualified. 
 
 I had written thus far when it occurred to me that it 
 might be well to take the actual opinion of an undergraduate 
 on the subject The knowledge of such a man was likely 
 to be far fresher and more valuable than any I, as a veteran, 
 could pretend to. I therefore consulted an undergraduate 
 friend, who, after considering the matter for a week or so, 
 sent me the following reply : 
 
 " I am glad to have an opportunity of telling you what I 
 think about fathers, for I have studied the question for a 
 considerable period, and I cannot help feeling that the time 
 is ripe for an expression of opinion on the matter. At 
 intervals during the past few years I have noticed in one or 
 other of the daily papers protracted discussions with regard 
 to the proper method of dealing with sons or daughters. 
 The parents ef England have had their say, and the world 
 is no whit the wiser. Gallons of ink and reams of paper 
 have been absolutely wasted. This is a melancholy fact, 
 and the reason of it is not far to seek. The truth is, we
 
 io IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 have hitherto approached the discussion from the wrong side. 
 A moment's calm reflection will show how ridiculous it is 
 for a parcel of elderly gentlemen, with all their prejudices 
 hardened by age, and with many of their tempers impaired 
 by a constant struggle against indigestion and domestic ser- 
 vants, to pretend to give a reasonable and dispassionate 
 judgment on this delicate matter. The remedy is obvious. 
 Let us first make up our minds what we ought to do with 
 our fathers. If we can once settle that, there can be no 
 difficulty about anything else. We are in the heyday of 
 life and vigour ; all our faculties are fresh ; we know a great 
 deal about life; our minds have not been warped by the 
 absurd necessity for making money : in short, we are 
 thoroughly qualified for giving an impartial and a decisive 
 opinion on every question of general interest. On this 
 particular question we are bound to arrive at some deci- 
 sion. We owe it to ourselves. We owe it not less to the 
 thousands and thousands of fathers who only need a few 
 authoritative words of guidance in order to become excellent 
 citizens and reasonable human beings. 
 
 " In saying this, I am not saying more than I can prove 
 by instances that have come within my own experience. I 
 will give you two. 
 
 "The first is an example of severity, seasonably applied. 
 Harbottle was a Trinity undergraduate, gifted with a 
 brilliant capacity for spending money as it ought to be 
 spent. At the end of his second year he found himself, 
 owing, no doubt, to the general depression of trade, con- 
 siderably in debt. He was compelled to reduce his esta- 
 blishment of gyps, and give only four large dinners a 
 term. He also sold, at a great sacrifice, a set of diamond
 
 OF FATHERS. 11 
 
 studs which, he had bought in London, and had always 
 represented as a gift from his best friend. In fact, he 
 pinched himself in many different ways ; and actually went 
 so far as to order four new suits of clothes, in order to 
 prevent his tailor from sending in his bill. Suddenly he 
 remembered that he had a father who was living in affluence 
 in one of the Midland counties, and was wasting his money 
 on greenhouses. His resolution was at once taken. He 
 wrote to his father, and informed him that unless he ceased 
 building greenhouses, and increased his (Harbottle junior's) 
 allowance by ^"1000 a year, all intercourse between them 
 must come to an end, and he would be forced to apply for 
 a popular crossing near Piccadilly Circus. The effect was 
 magical. Harbottle, senior, behaved as a father should. 
 He made over all his possessions to his son, and is now 
 honourably employed as an odd hand at the London 
 Docks. 
 
 "Example No. 2 shows how a recalcitrant father may 
 be conquered by kindness. Mr. Derryman, Q.C., had a 
 magnificent practice at the Chancery Bar. He had also a 
 son at Trinity Hall. The elder man was a teetotaller, the 
 younger was a member of the Hibernian Club. During 
 the last long vacation young Derryman instructed the 
 family cook to mix wine with her jellies, which he adminis- 
 tered to his father by teaspoonfuls at dinner. The two 
 men had hitherto not been on the best terms. When they 
 were last together they drank a magnum of Pommery, and 
 swore eternal friendship. I hear that Mr. Derryman's prac- 
 tice is diminishing ; but as he used always to complain 
 he had too much work to do, he cannot well grumble when 
 it is made easier for him."
 
 12 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Now this, of course, was satisfactory so far as it went ; 
 but it did not go very far. I thought it only fair that both 
 sides should take part in this important discussion, and I 
 therefore sent the above letter to a father whom I know 
 slightly, and asked him to favour me with his opinion on it. 
 I append his reply : 
 
 " I never lived in affluence in a Midland county, nor 
 have I wasted any money on the building of greenhouses. 
 Still, I am by trade a father, and, as I have six sons, of 
 whom four are or have been at Cambridge, I may consider 
 myself to be in a very fair way of business, and may by 
 your indulgence claim a voice in this discussion. If I 
 understood your correspondent rightly, he suggests that we 
 should all be turned into odd hands at the London Docks, 
 or into shocking examples for temperance lecturers. Per- 
 sonally, I should prefer the latter alternative. The life 
 would be variegated, and the dreams, up to a certain point, 
 beautiful. However, we have scarcely got quite so far as 
 that just yet. Let me suggest a few considerations which 
 seem to me to make it highly improbable that we ever 
 shall. In the first place, if our sons mean to undertake 
 our careers, they must also look after our education. They 
 must choose a good private school for their budding 
 fathers, and afterwards select for us with the utmost dis- 
 crimination a good public school where the tone is high. 
 They must be careful not to stint us in the matter of 
 pocket-money, and always to accept with perfect compla- 
 cency the adverse reports from our schoolmasters. Above 
 all, I warn them against complaining of the length of 
 our holidays. The sons whose education now occupies 
 me seem to expect that I should satisfy all these requisites.
 
 OF FATHERS. 13 
 
 When I in turn come to be educated by my sons, I shall 
 expect a similar display of good-nature. But I have not 
 yet exhausted the list. When in due course I proceed as 
 a reformed father to the University, I shall look for a very 
 liberal allowance, and shall require my son-father to take no 
 notice whatever of any complaints from my tutors. If I 
 run into debt, I shall expect smiles and a cheque ; and if I 
 get ploughed in my ' General,' I shall be furious if my new 
 protector takes it in anything but good part. Further, my 
 son will have to play his part thoroughly by going to the 
 city six days in the week from ten till five, by abjuring the 
 Gaiety Theatre, and associating only with thoroughly dull 
 and respectable people. When he comes up to Cambridge 
 to see me, he must call on the Master of the College. 
 When all that has been done, he must settle my career. 
 But stay. Before he does any of these things, he will have 
 to settle his own career. I know he cannot do that. He 
 has often assured me of the fact. I take it, therefore, that 
 fathers may rest secure in their unassailable rights for some 
 time to come." 
 
 There is an unseasonable flippancy in the tone of this 
 letter which impressed me disagreeably ; but, as a matter of 
 fair play, I publish it as it was written. Somehow or other 
 it got noised abroad that I was engaged in investigating the 
 subject of fathers, and a gentleman who is a total stranger 
 to me sent me a long printed circular containing an account 
 of " A Home of Rest for Fathers," an institution I had never 
 before heard of. The following note came with it : 
 
 " SIR, Permit me to call your attention to the accom- 
 panying circular, describing a practical method for dealing 
 with fathers. Two years ago some philanthropic gentlemen
 
 I 4 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 established a Home of Rest for Fathers at Margate. The 
 results have been excellent. Scores of broken-down fathers, 
 who had apparently lost all control over themselves and 
 their sons, and had developed the most distressing symptoms 
 of dander, have been cared for at this institution, and, after 
 a short period of treatment, have been restored to their 
 sons in admirable condition. We divide them into three 
 classes, (i) Violent fathers. These are kept in separate 
 rooms, and are allowed out singly for an hour's exercise 
 in the lanyard under the eye of an experienced keeper. 
 (2) Sarcastic fathers. These all live together. They try 
 their sarcasms on one another, and we find that they soon 
 abandon this painful habit. (3) Ordinary fathers, who 
 plead poverty or object to tailors' bills, or whose money- 
 bags go at the knees. We provide this class with cheque- 
 books, and give them drawing lessons. I shall be happy 
 to supply you with all further information. For terms see 
 circular." 
 
 This sounds admirable. There is a touching description 
 in the circular of a meeting between a convalescent father 
 and his undergraduate sons, but it is too long for quotation. 
 However, having called attention to this practical method, 
 I feel that I have done my best for both parties.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF MOTHERS. 
 
 MOTHERS are, on the whole, a very attractive race. 
 A censor might, perhaps, charge them with an 
 excess of amiable credulity, and an undue tendency to kiss- 
 ing their sons at railway stations ; but these, after all, are 
 faults on the right side. For the credulity causes them to 
 accept with perfect composure every excuse that a son may 
 make for the irregularities of youth ; and no son, however 
 stern, can reasonably object to unbending so far as to em- 
 brace a confiding mother even in public. Mothers are 
 also apt to complain in public that their sons look pale. 
 There is only one way of meeting this, and that is to 
 hint vaguely either at overwork or at financial depletion, 
 caused by the prompt payment of Cambridge debts. The 
 result is generally satisfactory. Mothers, as a rule, have 
 the oddest views with regard to the dress and general ap- 
 pearance of their sons. " My dearest boy," a mother will 
 say, " why do you have your hair cut so short? You' used 
 to look so beautiful as a small boy, with your curls falling 
 over your shoulders. I don't know what made me give 
 in to your father and allow them to be cut off." Mothers 
 often confide to other mothers in whom a strange lack of 
 sympathy is to be noted long stories about the brilliant
 
 16 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 ability and universal popularity of their sons. The other 
 mothers invariably retaliate upon them after a proper 
 interval. From a Cambridge point of view, fathers, though 
 their visits to us are few, and the welcome extended to 
 them is consequently infrequent, belong to all seasons and 
 to every term. Mothers, though they would always be 
 welcome, appertain of right only to the May term. As 
 in fathers there is no variety, so in mothers a 'pleasing 
 sameness is to be noticed. No mother ever viewed with 
 complete disfavour a suspicion of wildness in her son 
 so long as it proceeds no further than a reasonable sus- 
 picion. " Dear Joseph," says the good woman, " is a very 
 nice, quiet boy. I am never troubled about him ; but 
 Fred is so wild, bless him ! I don't know what his father 
 would think if he knew all." And accordingly Joseph 
 proceeds without much further notice through a dull but 
 respectable College career to a good degree and a curacy ; 
 whilst Fred tumbles out of one scrape into another, receives 
 continual gifts of maternal money as a counterpoise to con- 
 stant paternal rebukes, forfeits the esteem of the College 
 authorities, and remains his mother's darling to the end 
 of the chapter. Perpetual ridicule and unceasing refusals 
 have never been known to damp the ardour with which a 
 mother presses woollen comforters and worsted undervests 
 upon her offspring. The fact that she knows little, and 
 understands less, of her son's pursuits never yet caused 
 her to falter in the conviction that she alone can mark out 
 for him the proper sphere of his activity. In general she 
 appoints one son after another in imagination to a bishopric 
 or a Lord Chancellorship ; but this merely shows that 
 mothers are properly sanguine, and sons, as a rule, unfairly
 
 OF MOTHERS. 17 
 
 disappointing. Where a father is severe and storms, a 
 mother is indulgent and weeps. She is always the kindest 
 of women and the staunchest of champions, although some- 
 times in her zeal for her son she overlooks or despises the 
 fact that his father bears any relationship to him. When 
 the paternal Robinson has refused to his son an extra 
 allowance, Mrs. Robinson has been known to declare that 
 " no Robinson was ever anything but near in money matters ; 
 but the Smiths [her own family] were always generous." 
 Nor does Robinson, junior, object, when such a declaration 
 is accompanied by a furtive five-pound note. 
 
 Mothers are gentle and affectionate creatures, easily 
 coaxed and wheedled. It is, therefore, all the more 
 strange that every mother should have an enemy with 
 whom she carries on a bitter and merciless conflict. The 
 name of this hereditary foe is sometimes Sarah Jane, and 
 sometimes Mary Ann, but she is always a family cook. 
 The conflict has raged with varying success for centuries. 
 At one time the cook, more often the mistress, has obtained 
 the mastery, pitched battles have been fought over the 
 weekly books, ambushes ending in a month's notice have 
 been organised, forays have been planned into larders, 
 fearful skirmishes have taken place round the dead bodies 
 of sheep and oxen, and over all the exciting incidents of 
 this secular struggle the family butcher has hovered like 
 a spirit of mischief, inciting the combatants to renewed fury. 
 And yet, wonderful as it may seem, mothers and cooks 
 cannot bear to be separated. I know a mother who has 
 despatched twelve cooks. But the warnings thus given 
 have fallen on deaf ears ; for a thirteenth, heedless of the 
 fate of her predecessors, has now taken up the hopeless fight 
 
 w. L.- vi ii. 
 
 2
 
 1 8 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Having nursed her undergraduate son through the ail- 
 ments of infancy, a mother has generally no confidence in 
 the tender care of a College bedmaker. She never accuses 
 her son of smoking too little, and she is apt to show undue 
 pride when he obtains a first class in the History Special. 
 She is gratefully received at Cambridge in the May term, 
 especially if accompanied by daughters or nieces. And for 
 her part she accepts with kindly condescension the attentions 
 of her son's College friends, not one of whom does she 
 consider to be the equal in beauty, or wisdom, or general 
 fascination of her own darling.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OF SISTERS. 
 
 BROTHERS who have lately passed out of the kilt 
 or knickerbocker stage into the conscious glory of 
 trousers have been known to ask themselves in moments 
 of just irritation whether a sister is really useful, and to 
 answer the question by a prompt and decided negative. 
 A sister might reply by asking why the fingers of her 
 brothers are invariably inky, why their hair is generally 
 guiltless of brush or comb, why their trousers, after a brief 
 period of absolutely straight creases down the front, sKould 
 always decline into patches and fray at the heels, why they 
 should appropriate to themselves the cub's share of jam at 
 the family tea, and many other perplexing questions, the 
 insoluble nature of which drives a sister to dolls, diaries, 
 and despair. 
 
 I was once permitted to inspect a small sister's diary. 
 I hasten to add that this particular sister was not my 
 own. Here are a few extracts taken at haphazard from that 
 sacred receptacle of outraged feelings and frustrated hopes : 
 " Thursday. Tom sed I was a muf and butterfingers, becos 
 I didnt catch a ball he bussed at me. It hurt and wen I 
 cried he sed go to mammy little milksop. Afterwards he 
 gave me the ball wich was my own before, and sed I wasnt
 
 20 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 a bad sort for a girl. He sed he wood get me a new head 
 for my doll with blue eyes to move up and down. Satur- 
 day. Tom broke a window and I told mama it was me, 
 but Tom sed it was him and we are both in a scrape. 
 Tom said I was a reglar brick. I want to be a boy very 
 much becos Tom sais it wood be better but I cant becos 
 I wear a frock. Tom sais try wearing trousers. I shall 
 tomorrow and see what happens." At this point occurred 
 a hiatus valde deflendus in the entries, but subsequent 
 inquiries have convinced me that the interesting experi- 
 ment foreshadowed in the last sentence was not completely 
 successful. 
 
 Yet there can be no doubt the universal voice of brother- 
 hood is emphatic on the point that sisters are very use- 
 ful up to the age of about fourteen as longstops in family 
 cricket. They have a pleasing and plucky habit of stopping 
 the ball with their frocks. During this process they always 
 avert their heads, and the invariable consequence is that it 
 takes them at least five minutes to discover the precise place 
 in which the bashful ball has managed to conceal itself. 
 Thus they protract the game, but not the tempers of their 
 brothers, who during these intervals pass from impatience 
 to fury, and from fury subside into a convinced scorn which 
 is perhaps harder to bear. I don't know why it should be 
 so, but I know it is a fact, that on these occasions brothers 
 are generally personal, horribly personal, in their remarks, 
 and the poor little sister whose chubby face is not as that 
 of a statue may be implored to " Look sharp, little potato- 
 face ! " or, " Now then, dumpy, chuck that ball up ! " It may 
 be laid down as axiom that no sister ever threw a ball 
 straight, but they may all be depended upon to miss catches
 
 OF SISTERS. 21 
 
 with unfailing regularity. Every sister worthy of the name 
 admires and adores her elder brother. Next to him, and 
 almost as unapproachable, she places the family dog, whom 
 she pursues with unrequited affection, while his mind is 
 intent on rats or rabbits, or a scamper at the heels of his 
 boyish masters. Of a much younger brother, however, a 
 sister often makes a slave, and blood-curdling stories have 
 been told of little boys in whom the example of a sister has 
 inspired an unworthy devotion to dolls and their tea-parties. 
 Sometimes, when stung beyond endurance by the assumption 
 that the world and its luxuries were intended for boys 
 who, if everybody had his rights, would have formed the 
 entire population sisters have been heard to retaliate by 
 addressing their tormentors as " pigs." This epithet has been 
 known to shake happy families (happy, that is, beyond the 
 mere menagerie sense) to their foundations. It combines 
 contempt, rage, desperation, and hatred in equal quantities, 
 and when properly pronounced is supposed to have all the 
 shattering effect of an explosive bullet discharged point- 
 blank. But brothers are a callous race, with highly de- 
 veloped powers of derision. Sisters sometimes wear long 
 hair in plaits ; but it is not absolutely necessary to tie or 
 nail these to the backs of chairs. Occasionally, however, this 
 has been done even in the best families, and always with 
 pleasing results. 
 
 Where two or three sisters are gathered together in the 
 company of a brother or two, they generally possess and 
 discuss a secret. A cynical observer has stated that you 
 can always make them happy by tossing them a secret to 
 exercise their teeth on. It is amusing, he says, to watch 
 them giggling away over it until they have gnawed it quite
 
 2 2 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 clean, and then furtively carrying it away to a dark corner 
 to be buried like Ponto's bone and exhumed on the follow- 
 ing day. As a rule, sisters talk much better French and 
 German than brothers. Of this superiority they take an 
 unfair advantage, by carrying on a lively conversation in a 
 foreign language with a girl friend, and in the presence of 
 their brothers, to whom, by the way, their remarks are always 
 supposed to refer. By this method an ordinary brother may 
 sometimes be driven from a room with ignominy. Sisters 
 also shine upon the piano; whereas brothers allow their 
 parents to understand that Greek and Latin have claims 
 which exclude the possibility of music, while permitting a 
 violent devotion to cricket and football. At the same time, 
 no properly constituted brother would admit for a moment 
 any superiority based upon mere excellence in scale-strum- 
 ming. Yet in after-years, when time may have brought 
 dim ideas of the true value of things, brothers often sit at 
 their sisters' pedals, and exact much music from them with 
 a proper sense of humility. It is of the essence of sisters at 
 all ages to know all the weak points of their brothers, I was 
 about to say by heart, but I doubt if this tender word has 
 any place in a statement of the cruelties of sisters. At any 
 rate, it is quite certain that they use this knowledge with an 
 effect which is enhanced by the superior sharpness both 
 of their wits and of their tongues. All this may seem to 
 negative the idea of an adoring and admiring sister ; but it 
 is an incontrovertible fact that in a sister cruelty can coexist 
 with adoration, and admiration does not exclude sarcasm. 
 Let any one who doubts this select a casual sister any- 
 body's will do and hint to her a doubt about the supreme 
 excellence of her brother. The result will probably make
 
 OF SISTERS. 23 
 
 him wish he had been born to-morrow. Sisters are, as a 
 rule, either punctual or unpunctual at breakfast. In the 
 former case they are held up as examples to their brothers, 
 and pour out for them tepid cups of tea; in the latter case 
 they have headaches, and enjoy their luncheons. 
 
 Most undergraduates like to see their sisters at Cambridge 
 in the May term ; for the admiration of a sister by friends 
 reflects honour and glory on her brother. On their side 
 sisters do their best to look as pretty as possible, not, of 
 course, because they want to be admired, but merely in 
 order to please the fastidious taste of their fraternal host. 
 They are apt to grow enthusiastic over the prowess of 
 men who endure without collapsing the rigours of "that 
 horrid training." Yet sisters can go to four big balls on 
 successive nights, and dance energetically through them, not 
 to speak of the flower-shows, concerts, tea-parties, luncheons, 
 and picnics which occupy the days, and never look one 
 penny the worse for all the excitement. 
 
 One of the chief advantages to a poet of possessing a 
 sister is that she can often be made to rhyme with " kissed 
 her." But that, as Mr. Kipling might say, is another's 
 sister.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 OF BED MAKERS. 
 
 A COLLEGE is supposed, by those who are ignorant of 
 Ix its labours and tribulations, to be a modern paradise. 
 Undergraduates presumably are imagined as wandering hither 
 and thither in the free and happy condition of Adam before 
 the Fall. To make the parallel complete, we must suppose 
 Eve to be represented by the light-hearted tribe of bed- 
 makers. The question immediately arises : Has the bed- 
 maker eaten of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of 
 good and evil ? The answer that suggests itself is that, 
 if she finds that fruit in her master's gyp-room cupboard, 
 she will, in all probability, treat it as a perquisite. I say, 
 advisedly, that the answer suggests itself. But the sugges- 
 tion must be scouted. It is true that the bedmaker of 
 fiction is an absorber of the drink of others, and a consumer 
 of food which is not her own. Tradition has handed her 
 down to us as a harpy in petticoats. The bedmaker of 
 fact, more often than not, is bold enough to fly in the face 
 of tradition, and to give fiction the lie. Perquisites, indeed, 
 she has ; but they are the perquisites of bread and butter 
 permitted to her by a custom which has all the force of a 
 law. A bedmaker who refused to accept them would be 
 very properly held to have disgraced her shawl. During a
 
 OF BEDMAKERS. 25 
 
 long experience of bedmakers, I have not known one who 
 would not rather allow a cold leg of mutton or a partially 
 eaten partridge to decay than, by removing it, incur the 
 suspicion of having pilfered. Bedmakers, differing in this 
 respect from the laundresses of the Temple, justify their 
 title by actually making beds. Moreover, they tidy rooms, 
 lay tables, make tea, and, in fact, minister generally to the 
 wants of undergraduates who " keep " in College. 
 
 The bedmaker, in her time, serves hundreds of different 
 masters. Undergraduate succeeds undergraduate on her 
 staircase, and to each in turn she renders the same willing 
 service. She knows better than any one else his little weak- 
 nesses, his vanities, and his freaks. On the whole, she likes 
 him, though she does not make a hero of him until he is gone. 
 How, indeed, can he be a hero in her eyes whom she has 
 watched gloriously drinking champagne in the evening, and 
 finds in bed the next morning in his clothes and boots? 
 Yet, after his departure, when he is no more to her than a 
 name, she dwells fondly on his virtues and his prowess, 
 and relates, with a touch of scorn for the inferiority of the 
 present, the daring deeds of the past. In truth, she is too 
 apt to estimate excellence by the number of dinners given. 
 " Ah, them was times," I have heard her say ; " there ain't 
 nothing like it now. Why, I've seen twenty of 'em all under 
 the table four times a week, and all the furniture bust to 
 bits." And having said this, she has withered me by adding 
 that her present masters were poor creatures, who, in the 
 matter of hospitality, confined themselves to eggs, which 
 they got in by dozens from the country. 
 
 A bedmaker frequently has curious notions with regard to 
 hereditary rank, and I heard one relate a moving story of a
 
 26 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 peer who married a bedmaker's daughter, and, in so doing, 
 " took away the title from his sister, the Duchess, pore 
 dear, and broke 'er 'eart." Yet even amongst bedmakers 
 there are degrees of rank ; for it is well known that in 
 Trinity an Old Court bedmaker considers a Neville's 
 Court bedmaker as a dangerous rival, whereas she looks 
 down upon one from the New Court, and refuses to 
 hold any intercourse whatever with one who makes beds 
 in the Master's Court. Although bedmakers are favour- 
 ably disposed to an extravagant master of rackety tendencies, 
 they are themselves the embodiment of respectable middle 
 age. Their characters are spotless, their complexions 
 shady. They think but little of a reading-man uur'I he 
 obtains a first class, when they bask for a while in the 
 rays reflected from his triumph, and pity their colleagues 
 whose masters have been "ploughed." In general, they are 
 kindly and attentive. If an undergraduate fall sick, he 
 will often find in his bedmaker the most faithful and devoted 
 nurse, though she will take that opportunity of telling him 
 how much he resembles her son William when he had the 
 measles and the dropsy. A bonnet is the badge of all her 
 tribe, and she expects a fee for " hooding " * her master 
 when he takes his degree. Her friendship is, as a rule, so 
 staunch that she will allow no one except herself even to 
 think ill of her master. She often informs him that she 
 spends her life in defending his character. 
 
 A proposal for the abolition of bedmakers has been hinted 
 at in Cambridge. Perish the mere thought ! For, after all, 
 
 * Hooding i.e., the investiture of an undergraduate who has passed 
 his final examination, and is about to take his B.A., degree with the 
 rabbit-skin hood, which he has to wear on this solemn occasion.
 
 OF BEDMAKERS. 27 
 
 bedmakers exert a humanising influence. Their language 
 may not be polished, nor their appearance exactly graceful 
 but there is a sense of comfort in being attended by the 
 gossip-loving, busy, bonnet-wearing old ladies, for which 
 one would willingly sacrifice some of the refinements that 
 make the superior servant of later life so exceptionally 
 insolent and disagreeable. A man is all very well as a 
 gyp; but he can never be to us what a bedmaker always 
 has been. To her the masters who dwell on her staircase 
 are a sort of sons. She pardons their weaknesses, makes 
 allowance for their high spirits, smiles when they prepare 
 booby-traps for her, and adores them when they come into 
 collision with the authorities. For them she draws from 
 the vast storehouse of her experience anecdote after anec- 
 dote, by which she proves conclusively that undergraduates 
 have always been the noblest and best of mankind when 
 they took the advice of bedmakers, and spent their money 
 in the proper quarter. I know many men who would 
 rather be deprived of their boots than of their bedmakers. 
 Many Colleges, too, could endure with equanimity the 
 extinction of Deans, but would rebel against the abolition 
 of bedmakers. No. In this discussion I follow the ex- 
 ample of Lord Beaconsfield in the Darwinian controversy. 
 I am on the side of the bedmakers.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF GYPS. 
 
 LET others quarrel about the derivation, Egyptian or 
 vulturous, of the word " gyp." Those who can watch 
 the owner of the name day by day as he moves about in 
 their midst, brushing their clothes, running their messages, 
 waiting upon them at table, and generally attending to 
 their undergraduate necessities, know him as he lives and 
 breathes, and need not trouble themselves to trace his name 
 back to its source in a manner which would be as offensive 
 to him as it would be profitless to them. The gyp is to 
 the bedmaker a colleague and a complement. Unlike her, 
 however, he is an extra, and must be paid for accordingly. 
 Inasmuch, then, as we all possess bedmakers, and only some 
 of us rejoice in gyps, the latter must be considered the higher 
 and the nobler order of beings, quite apart from their sex. 
 For they are fewer than bedmakers, and therefore, being less 
 common, must also be considered more aristocratic. Yet it 
 must not be inferred that every gyp carries a coronet in his 
 pocket, or possesses the repose which stamps the caste of 
 Vere de Vere. Moreover, as there are dukes and dukes, so 
 in the genus "gyp" many varieties are to be discovered. For 
 one will be a busy, bustling, hard-working, bright-tempered,
 
 OF GYPS. 29 
 
 and light-handed attendant ; another will slouch through the 
 performance of duties, which appear to be as distasteful to 
 him as his manner is to his masters. One will find it 
 possible to look after a dozen masters with satisfaction to all 
 and (it must be added) with profit to himself; another will 
 fail to perform the orders of three. Gyps may be made inti- 
 mately acquainted with generation after generation of folly, 
 extravagance, incompetence, failure, and recklessness, yet 
 they never lose their respectful demeanour, and never seem 
 to abandon the hope, which they share with fathers, that a 
 youth who spends ten minutes a day with his books, and 
 the rest of his time at the club, at Newmarket, or at dinners, 
 may eventually secure high honours in his examination, 
 and be loved of the authorities. It is the mark of a true gyp 
 to take the side of his master against the Tutor or the Dean ; 
 but no gyp ever yet succeeded in repressing a smile of good- 
 natured mockery when he pointed out to his master the 
 fatal missive, announcing to him that the authorities wished to 
 interview him. A good gyp is as secret as the grave. With 
 him indiscretions babbled across a dinner-table, or foolish 
 acts committed at any time by his master, are sacred. Years 
 afterwards he may amuse a new generation by their recital, 
 and thus earn the reputation of one who, having witnessed 
 strange things, is entitled to respect. Speaking generally, 
 the gyp is the handiest, quickest, and best of servants. He 
 lacks the solemnity of the family butler, but he lacks also 
 his pompous incompetence. He is never so artless as the 
 lately imported footman, but he is scarcely ever such a fool. 
 The valets of later life are a greedy, grasping crew. The 
 gyp has a certain esprit de corps a feeling for the College 
 of which he is in some sort a humble member, and for the
 
 3 o IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 young men whom he serves. Tutors have gyps whcr are 
 more tutorial than the Tutors. Deans have gyps, and even 
 Proctors have gyps. But of all gyps this is true that they 
 never refuse a tip, and never seem to grow older by a single 
 day.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 OF UNDERGRADUATES. 
 
 SOMETHING has already been said about under- 
 graduates in the first chapter. In the "Cambridge 
 Dialogues " which follow, an attempt is made to describe 
 them as they live and move and have their being, from 
 generation to generation, in the courts and streets of Cam- 
 bridge. Our little world has been from time immemorial 
 governed by its own little rules of social etiquette. I do not 
 speak now of the attitude adopted by undergraduates to- 
 wards those who are set in authority over them, although 
 the Proctor, the Dean, and the Tutor are special elements 
 in our existence, whetstones, as it were, on which we may 
 sharpen our ingenuity in the invention of excuses, or (if I 
 may vary the metaphor) easy (and often easy-going) bridges 
 to span the gulf between the boy and the man. Too 
 often, indeed, they are treated as fit only to be trodden on 
 and passed over by the heedless feet of undergraduates. 
 Yet in later life these authorities figure largely in the 
 reminiscences of the University man, and many a mild 
 being, whose existence at Cambridge was to all outward 
 appearance a blameless one, may be heard narrating the 
 marvellous tale of how he foiled an army of Proctors and 
 bulldogs on a memorable evening in the glorious past of 
 
 31
 
 3 2 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 his undergraduate days. That is, of course, part of the 
 etiquette of legendary reminiscences. It may be shortly 
 stated thus : Proctors, Deans, and Tutors were intended by 
 nature to be butts. If properly tapped, they may be relied 
 on to supply an interminable stream of anecdote calculated 
 to glorify yourself. 
 
 But the etiquette of undergraduates amongst themselves 
 is even more remarkable. It ordains, amongst other things, 
 that the man who is nineteen years of age and a freshman 
 shall bear himself with a submissive deference towards 
 another who has passed his twentieth birthday, and has be- 
 come, technically speaking, a junior soph. If the latter call 
 on the former and find that he is not at home, he leaves his 
 card, on which, by the way, the prefix " Mr." must not be 
 printed. But the freshman supposing him to be desirous 
 of cultivating the second-year man's acquaintance must 
 call and call until he finds his senior at home. The fresh- 
 man in his first term may accept but not offer invitations to 
 meals, except, of course, to other members of the humble 
 tribe to which he himself belongs. In all matters he is sup- 
 posed to know or to learn his place. At the same time, he 
 is earnestly counted upon to provide laughter for his wiser 
 comrades, by breaking such laws of etiquette as those which 
 forbid a man to wear both gloves and his academical robes, 
 or order him, when he wears a cap and gown and issues 
 forth in a storm of rain, to leave his umbrella in his rooms. 
 All these mysteries and many others the callow lad will 
 discover for himself as the terms flit by, and make him old 
 in the undergraduate's sense of the word. For whereas few 
 men appear to a veteran to be quite equal in point of youth 
 to the freshman, there never yet has been any other man in
 
 OF UNDERGRADUATES. 33 
 
 any other walk of life who more nearly approached both the 
 years and presumable solemnity of Methuselah than does 
 'the third-year man in his last term, when the Tripos or the 
 " Poll " Examination is casting its shadow upon him. He 
 walks about Cambridge with a deep sense of the finality 
 of joy, and of the necessity for selecting a career, and his 
 bearing is weighed down with the responsibilities which 
 remove him far from the idle frivolities of those who are 
 still a year or two younger than he is himself. Afterwards, 
 when he has taken his degree, and gone out to face the 
 world, he will discover, with a shock of astonishment, that 
 he is still young, and capable of enjoyment. 
 
 It is this rapid passage in three years from the greenest 
 extreme of youth to the hoariest peak of age that gives 
 to Cambridge the character of a world in miniature. All 
 sorts and conditions of men are represented at Cambridge. 
 The gentlemen of rank and fashion, who spend money 
 freely, and take, I fear, but little advantage of the learning 
 which the University provides, are popularly known as 
 " bloods " a name which has survived at Cambridge from 
 the epoch of Tom and Jerry. At the opposite pole is the 
 " smug " bearded, spectacled, and eminently respectable. 
 He, on his side, makes no use, if he be a genuine, full- 
 blooded smug, of the many opportunities for innocent 
 social pleasure, of the boat clubs, the cricket clubs, 
 and so forth, but spends his days and his nights steadily 
 in the acquisition of knowledge, and of the prizes that 
 reward it. And between these two extremes come the 
 men who, though they read, do not read exclusively, the 
 rowing-men, the athletes, the cricketers, the orators, and 
 
 countless others, the great and, on the whole, good class of 
 vv. L.- VHL -,
 
 34 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 average men, who both form their own characters and give 
 a character to the Colleges they dwell in. Moreover, we 
 resemble the inhabitants of the larger world in the pos- 
 session of innumerable clubs. At the " Union " the bud- 
 ding orator may expound policies and shatter governments 
 without that blighting sense of responsibility which some- 
 times impairs the efforts of members of Parliament. Our 
 " Athenaeum " is not a literary club, but a somewhat select 
 society of gentlemen, who ride well, dress with taste, and 
 modestly call their club dinners T's. The " Pitt " may once 
 have been a political club. It is now an association of one 
 hundred and seventy undergraduates, who read, write, and 
 converse in comfortable rooms, and have their letters stamped 
 at the expense of the club. Then there are dining clubs 
 (the members of which wear silk scarves across their chests, 
 as badges of their membership, on great occasions), literary 
 clubs, essay clubs, discussion clubs, clubs great, clubs small, 
 clubs select, and clubs quasi-universal a list far too long 
 to be included within the limits of this chapter. 
 
 Let me, however, add a few words about our rowing men, 
 who form perhaps the largest and most important section of 
 our Cambridge middle class. Certainly no other possesses so 
 great a store of tradition, or presents, on the whole, a more 
 definite type from generation to generation. Of rowing 
 men, then, let it be said that it is of the essence of their 
 pursuit that they should be strong, hardy, disciplined, and 
 moderate in all things. Does any carping critic object that 
 bump-suppers are not exactly scenes of moderation? I 
 reply that, after all, rowing men are young, and need some 
 vent for spirits repressed by weeks of rigorous training, and 
 that the revelry, the shouting, the cheering, the waving of
 
 OF UNDERGRADUATES. 35 
 
 arms, and the glittering of eyes are in nearly every instance 
 due to excitement rather than to Bacchus. Indeed, the 
 wiser men amongst the Dons not infrequently encourage 
 these harmless feasts by their presence, and I have more 
 than once seen a bump-supper gloriously celebrated in a 
 College hall with all the chief authorities of the College at 
 the high table, taking their part in the toasts and the 
 general merriment. It is sad that in the glorious company 
 of rowing men there should be failures. Roughly, they 
 may be divided into two classes : (i) The honest but 
 clumsy " corkers," who, after years of patient effort, still 
 find themselves in the third boat of the College, and yet 
 row sturdily and with an enthusiasm which is on a par 
 with their clumsiness ; and (2) the " sugarers," the men, 
 that is to say, who, though they may attain to good style, 
 never do a stroke of honest work in the whole of their 
 rowing career. These are the hypocrites of the oar, and, like 
 other hypocrites, they often deceive even themselves into the 
 belief that they are trustworthy and honourable performers. 
 I have not discovered the origin of the term, but it seems 
 to express fairly enough one who cloys very quickly. But 
 this quality of self-deceit is not confined to the sugarer. It 
 is to a certain extent almost universal amongst active oarsmen, 
 who are apt to exalt their own crews and to depreciate those 
 of their rivals with an ardour that nothing can abate. This is 
 especially noticeable when it comes to a rowing time-tests 
 over the course in practice. After some experience, I am 
 inclined to believe that the following statements on this 
 point are accurate : 
 
 i. That if two crews row a course within ten minutes of 
 one another, the wind is always more violent and the stream
 
 3 6 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 more powerful against the crew in which you yourself 
 
 happen to be rowing. 
 
 ' 2. That it is always right to take off at least five seconds 
 
 from the time shown on your stop-watch when timing your 
 
 own crew, and, by way of compensation, to add them to 
 
 the time shown on the same watch when timing a rival 
 
 crew. 
 
 3. That your own crew is absolutely the only one which 
 ever rows the full course right out or starts at the proper 
 place. 
 
 4. That if your crew is impeded whilst rowing a course, 
 you must allow ten seconds ; but if any other crew is im- 
 peded, you must allow only two seconds. 
 
 5. That if you row a slow course, five's stretcher gave way 
 or his slide came off. 
 
 6. That you could always knock a quarter of a minute off 
 when you row a faster stroke, but that 
 
 7. You never do, as a matter of fact, row a faster stroke. 
 
 8. That your crew always rowed at a slower stroke than 
 the rest. 
 
 9. That you are sure to do a faster time to-morrow. 
 
 10. That your private opinion is that if everybody in the 
 crew did as much work as you do yourself, your crew would 
 be many lengths faster, and 
 
 ii (and last). That you always lose by the steering of 
 your coxswain three lengths, which all other crews gain by 
 the steering of theirs. 
 
 But it is time to let my characters speak for themselves 
 in the " Dialogues." Let me only ask those who may follow 
 them from scene to scene to remember that, if I have not 
 placed Wranglers, and Classics, and Doctors, and Professors
 
 OF UNDERGRADUATES. 37 
 
 exclusively upon my stage, it is not because I wish to 
 ignore their beneficent existence, but merely because their 
 staid and decorous lives do not always lend themselves so 
 readily to my purposes. This is the only extenuation to 
 which I plead guilty. On the other hand, I have set down 
 naught in malice.
 
 CAMBRIDGE DIALOGUES.
 
 CAMBRIDGE DIALOGUES. 
 
 I. 
 
 A MORNING WITH AVERAGE UNDER- 
 GRADUATES. 
 
 SCENE. King's Parade at midday. Some men hurry 
 busily along in cap and gown, with books in their 
 hands; others lounge gracefully in brilliant suits of 
 . clothes, with fox-terriers, smooth or wire-haired, trotting 
 at their heels. A few Dons pace to or from their 
 work with that aspect of preoccupied importance which 
 distinguishes Dons when they find themselves amongst 
 undergraduates. A few denizens of Newnham or 
 Girton are to be seen. An incense of cigarette smoke is 
 in the air. Three AVERAGE UNDERGRADUATES saunter 
 up to Hills & Saunders 1 window, which is filled with 
 the usual assortment of photographic groups. 
 
 IST A. U. Who was that you nodded to just now, 
 Dicky? 
 
 2ND A. U. Oh, that was Gilson. He's captain of our 
 Rugby football team; an extraordinary chap. Nothing 
 seems to tire him. Why, yesterday, after playing footer like 
 a black, he thought he hadn't had enough exercise, so just
 
 42 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 for amusement he ran fifteen times round Fenner's, and had 
 half an hour with the Indian clubs in his rooms to give 
 himself an appetite for dinner ; so he said. He dined at 
 the Caledonian afterwards, drank about two bottles of fizz 
 without turning a hair, and then carried old Dough-face 
 Tompkins and Flapper Barrington to bed. No wonder he's 
 popular. 
 
 IST A. U. No, by Jove ! 
 
 2ND A. U. He's the chap who knocked six policemen 
 down in London last vac. Gave his name to the magi- 
 strate as Browne, and asked him to be particularly careful to 
 spell it with an " e," as there were so many Browns about. 
 
 3RD A. U. (w ith enthusiasm}. What a chap he must be ! 
 I never heard of such infernal cheek. Oh, I say (pointing 
 to photographic group in window), there's the photo of "The 
 Banbury Cakes." Not bad, is it ? 
 
 2ND A. U. What are " The Banbury Cakes " ? 
 
 3RD A. U. What, don't you know ? It's our dining club. 
 Harris, Bloomington, and I started it last year. First we 
 called it " The Triangle," but afterwards we increased our 
 number to ten, and called ourselves " The Banbury Cakes." 
 We dine together every Monday, and one of our rules is 
 that a new member must qualify by eating four Banbury 
 cakes in a minutes. If he can't do it, he gets pilled. It 
 took old Colvin three separate tries to do it, and when he 
 did manage it he nearly had a fit. But then we had to 
 keep it select somehow. Pretty uniform, isn't it ? 
 
 IST A. U. Can't quite make it out from the photo. 
 What is it ? 
 
 3RD A. U. Well, it's a light green swallow-tail coat, with 
 pink facings and brass buttons, a drab waistcoat, white
 
 A MORNING WITH UNDERGRADUATES. 43 
 
 trousers, brown leather pumps with steel buckles, and an 
 orange silk scarf with a Banbury cake painted on it. You 
 two chaps had better come and dine with me on Monday 
 week. We're going to have our first guest dinner, and 
 Colvin's writing what he calls a Carmen Banburiense for 
 the occasion. It'll be great sport. 
 
 IST and 2ND A. U. Rather; I'll be there. 
 
 They saunter on. 
 
 IST A. U. What are you going to do this afternoon, 
 Dicky ? 
 
 2ND A. U. Oh, I don't know. I think I shall slope up 
 to Fenner's, and see what's going on there. What shall you 
 be up to ? 
 
 IST A. U. Well, Buzzard and I are going to walk to 
 Newmarket and back for a bet. Terrell, of the Hall (you 
 know him, the chap that's got a squint like a revolving light- 
 house), he laid his bull-terrier against Buzzard's bull-finch 
 we couldn't get there and back in four hours and a half. 
 It's coming off to-day. You come too, Tommy. 
 
 3RD A. U. Not if I know it. I've got to see the Dean 
 this evening at six o'clock, and I'm going to keep myself 
 quite fresh for that entertainment, I can tell you. He's so 
 devilish sly. Looks at you so meekly over his gig-lamps, 
 and, if you don't look precious sharp, just turns you inside 
 out in a brace of shakes. Why, last term, when I missed 
 the last train from London after our Old Boys' match, he 
 hauled* me as soon as I got to Cambridge next morning. 
 " Ah, good morning, Mr. Wormald," he began ; " I suppose 
 
 * To haul, v. a. ; with substantive, " a haul," the technical term for 
 a summons addressed by the authorities to an undergraduate offender.
 
 44 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 you had a difficulty with your cab-horse last night ? " Al- 
 most before I knew what I was up to, I'd told him my cab- 
 horse fell down dead on our way to the station. " Curious 
 epidemic of death amongst cab-horses," he said, as if talk- 
 ing to himself. " Mr. Barker's cab-horse died yesterday, 
 Mr. Phibson's died the day before that, and last week Mr. 
 Dodsworth's cabman fell off his box in an apoplectic fit. 
 Good morning, Mr. Wormald, good morning : do try and 
 get a warranty with your cab-horse next time ; " and the 
 brute chuckled like a hen over a new egg. I call it 
 rot for a parson to be so 'cute. But I'm going to be even 
 with him. I'm keeping all his hauling notices, and, as soon 
 as I've got fifty-two, I'm going to have them made into a 
 pack of cards. " Mr. Wormald, irregular in his attendance 
 at chapels, is requested to call on the Dean. Signed, O. P. 
 Vincent," will look well on the back of a full hand at poker. 
 What do you think ? 
 
 IST and 2ND A. U. Ripping. 
 
 IST A. U. (with a sigh). I think I'll turn into my rooms 
 and put in half an hour's reading. I've scarcely opened a 
 book this term. My coach tells me I've no earthly chance 
 of getting through if I don't buckle to. Ta, ta ! I'm off. 
 
 [Departs. 
 
 2ND A. U. Ta, ta ! He'll never get through if he tries 
 from now to doomsday. The only way he can manage a 
 Greek play is to learn the crib by heart. I remember he 
 sat opposite me in Little Go, and kept bothering me about 
 his spelling. Wanted to know how many n's there were 
 in "honour," and insisted on spelling Peter with two e's 
 between the P and the t. Will you have a snack of lunch 
 with me, Tommy ? \Yhy, what's the matter ?
 
 A MORNING WITH UNDERGRADUATES. 45 
 
 A benevolent-looking, middle-aged gentleman appears in 
 
 the distance. 
 
 3RD A. U. (with horror}. This is awful ! You may well 
 ask what's the matter. There's the Governor. I wrote and 
 told him not to come up to-day, because I should be busy 
 with lectures and coaches all day ; but the old gentleman's 
 tried to catch me out. Mean of him, coming up like that 
 without notice. I've got half a dozen fellows coming to 
 lunch in my rooms. I must try to get into College in front 
 of him. Lucky he objects to cabs ; useless expense, he calls 
 them. Never can find his way anywhere all the same. 
 Good-bye, Dicky. 
 
 [Departs running. 
 
 Change of scene to rooms on the second floor in the Neiv 
 Court, Trinity. 3RD A. U. discovered with his 
 bedmaker hurriedly clearing his table of lunch for 
 six. 
 
 3RD A. U. That'll do, Mrs. Biffin. Now you go and 
 stand on the stairs, and when these chaps turn up just you 
 tell 'em my governor's in here and my lunch is off. They 
 won't want to come in after that. (Settles down with a pile 
 of books.} 
 
 MRS. B. Yes, sir. (Goes out.} 
 
 Interval of a few minutes. 
 
 A BENEVOLENT MIDDLE-AGED VOICE (outside}. Is Mr. 
 Wormald within ? 
 
 MRS. B. Yes, sir. You'll find him there. 'E's bin read- 
 ing all the morning.
 
 II. 
 
 READING HARD 
 (In a ground-floor room}. 
 
 SCENE. College rooms on the ground floor looking out 
 into the court. Time, 9.15 a.m. The tenant of the 
 rooms, an undergraduate in his second year, has 
 finished breakfast. His bedmaker is clearing away. 
 
 BEDMAKER (finishing a story). But where 'e got to 
 we never knoo. I 'card a week arterwards that they found 
 one of 'is boots in the Lib'ary, and another in 'is tutor's 
 coalscuttle ; but 'owever 'e slipped 'isself through them 
 bars in the middle o' the night is more than I can say. 
 'E's a Counsellor in London now, a very moross man, 
 and makin' no end of money, with a sweet pretty wife 
 and two such dear children. I dessay 'e wouldn't care for 
 many of 'is friends to know this story ; but, Lor', they all 
 carried on in them days, and I don't blame 'em for it (voice 
 on an upper floor shouts in stentorian tones, " Mrs. Groves I ") 
 Ah, let 'im shout. I wonder if 'e thinks I'm a-goin' to 
 run my legs orf for 'im. E's one o' your potted-meat 
 lot. (Voice again, "Mrs. Groves!"} I wonder it don't 
 stick in 'is throat and stop 'is shoutin'. Do you want 
 anything more just now, sir? 
 
 46
 
 READING HARD. 47 
 
 UNDERGRADUATE. No, thank you, Mrs. Groves ; you can 
 sport my oak when you go out ; I'm going to read. 
 
 B. Yes, sir. [Exit. 
 
 The undergraduate sits in his armchair smoking for 
 some ten minutes. Eventually he gets up, stretches 
 himself, fills a fresh pipe, takes up half a dozen 
 books one after another, puts them down again, 
 and finally selects "Kate Coventry* by Whyte 
 Melville. A few moments afterwards his window 
 bursts open, and the head of a friend is protruded 
 into the room. Pantomime with " Kate Coventry, n 
 for ivhich " Lucretius " is substituted. 
 
 U. Halloa, Paddy. What's up ? 
 
 FRIEND. What's your oak sported for ? 
 
 U. I'm reading. 
 
 F. Oh, rot ! I saw you chuck that novel into the corner. 
 Come, let me in. 
 
 U. Sha'n't. 
 
 F. All right ! then I'll come in through the window. 
 (Does so, and verifies his suspicions as to the novel.} Just as 
 I thought. What do you mean by it ? 
 
 U. Well, I was just going to begin when you shoved 
 your ugly head in. I wish you chaps would leave my 
 blessed window alone. This is about the sixth time the 
 catch has been broken this term. Have some baccy ? 
 
 F. Thanks. Now, look here ; I want to talk to you about 
 the boats. We must kick Martin out. You told me he 
 was worth his weight in gold. I'll take it in sovereigns, 
 please, but I won't keep him. I might just as well have a 
 Dutch cheese in the boat.
 
 4 8 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 U. Well, try Bowles then. He's lighter. 
 F. (in a tone of indignant remonstrance). Bowles \ You 
 can't be serious. Why, he's the most perfect sugarer in the 
 club. 
 
 The discussion continues for about twenty minutes, 
 assisted by paper, pens, and tobacco. 
 
 F. (departing). Now mind, you've promised to coach the 
 second boat. Don't you be late. (Exit, forgetting to sport 
 oak. Half an hour passes, devoted to about ten lines of the 
 " De Rerum Natura" assisted by tobacco. A knock at the 
 door. Enter a tout.) 
 
 TOUT. Good morning, sir. I have ventured to take the 
 liberty of calling in order to submit to your notice 
 
 U. (shortly). I don't want it ; I'm very busy. 
 
 T. So I perceive, sir. But really, I don't wish to detain 
 you more than a minute or two. I merely desired to show 
 you for your approval some very beautiful specimens of the 
 engraver's skill (dives into his bag). These are specimens 
 of a work we are issuing in monthly parts, entitled " Master- 
 pieces of Swiss Art." The great Swiss masters of the Middle 
 Ages and onwards are too little known in this country, and 
 we desire to bring their surpassing merits before the culti- 
 vated sections of the public. I have already been honoured 
 with the names of a great many members of your College as 
 subscribers. The price is ridiculously small, only \ \s. a 
 month, including cover and letter-press. This is the number 
 issued this month. 
 
 U. (inspecting it, and forgetting that to inspect is to be lost). 
 Yes, but I really don't care about this sort of thing. 
 
 T. (incredulously). Not care, sir ? (Smiles.) Ah ! I
 
 READING HARD. 49 
 
 perceive you are joking. Your friend Mr. Mallard assured 
 me, and of course I had heard before, that you were well 
 known as a connoisseur. 
 
 U. (to himself}. Curse Mallard ! I'll take it out of him. 
 (Aloud) How much did you say ? 
 
 T. (concealing triumph}. One guinea a month. We shall 
 forward them post free. 
 
 U. Very well, you can put me down for them. 
 
 T. (booking him). I'm very much obliged, sir. I'm sure 
 you will never regret it. \E%it, 
 
 Ten minutes devoted to " Lucretius." Another head 
 appears at the window. 
 
 SECOND FRIEND. What ! reading ? Well, I'm blest ! 
 
 They discuss matters of College interest for nearly half 
 an hour. 
 
 U. Have you seen the morning papers ? 
 
 2ND F. No. Let's go to the Union and look at them. 
 Have you got a lecture to go to ? 
 
 U. Not to-day, but I've read enough this morning. 
 (Shouts) Mrs. Groves ! 
 
 MRS. GROVES (at the door). Yes, sir, comin' (enters). 
 
 U. Oh, lay lunch for two, and take this order to the kit- 
 chens, please. I'm going out. Come along, Black. \Exit. 
 
 MRS. GROVES. Ah, a precious lot o' readin' 'e's got 
 through, I'll warrant.
 
 III. 
 
 " GA TED."* 
 
 S~ CENE. The ante- 
 room of the DEAN'S 
 rooms. Time, 10.30 
 a.m. Four under- 
 gtaduates in acade- 
 ?n ic al robes a re 
 waiting in various 
 attitudes indicative 
 of suspense. A 
 solemn hush pervades 
 the apartment. A 
 faint murmur as of 
 exhortation and re- 
 proach is wafted 
 through the closed 
 door leading into the 
 inner room. 
 
 IST UNDERGRADUATE 
 (ivhispering to a friend). What are you hauled for, Tops ? 
 
 * For the benefit of the uninitiated I may explain that, for various 
 breaches of College discipline, an undergraduate is punished by being 
 "gated" i.e., confined within the walls of his College, or (if he lives 
 in lodgings) within his house, at a more or less early hour, according 
 to the gravity of the offence. Ordinarily, though a man cannot get out 
 after 10 p.m., he is not bound to be in before midnight. 
 
 50
 
 "GATED." 51 
 
 2ND UNDERGRADUATE (a ruddy-faced, cheery-looking little 
 man, in a suit of pronounced checks, and a general air of 
 sporting cheek]. Can't think. Either because I've cut my 
 lectures, or come in late three times, or cut chapels, or 
 smoked in the Court, or something. You never know what 
 these beggars mean to drop on to you about next. What's 
 up with you ? 
 
 IST U. Oh ! chapels. I know it's that. He's got tired 
 of warning me, I suppose, so he's going to make an example 
 of me. He told me he would. Then I got ploughed last 
 term in the General, and the governor wrote a real stiff 
 letter to old Carter, and told him he didn't see what good 
 Tutors were if undergraduates kept on getting ploughed. 
 Carter lost his hair over that, and wrote back to say that " the 
 most zealous efforts on the part of the College authori- 
 ties must fail when matched against the perversity and 
 ignorant recklessness of the young men under their charge." 
 Those were his very words, and he went on to imply that 
 the governor oughtn't to call me away to London so often. 
 That made the governor sit up, because he hadn't asked me 
 away once last term, and then I caught it for deceit. This 
 life's about played out, I think. 
 
 The inner door is opened. A dejected undergraduate 
 
 appears. 
 
 DEJECTED UNDERGRADUATE (passing through). Gated at 
 nine for a week. Look out for squalls. He means busi- 
 ness to-day, I tell you. [Exit. 
 A gyp appears. His face wears an expression of 
 solemn reproval, mixed with contempt. He con- 
 sults a list. 
 GYP. Mr. Hartop next.
 
 52 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 IST U. Ta, ta, Tops. Good luck. 
 
 2nd U. (rising and preparing to move into the torture 
 chamber). Ta, ta. Glad it's going to be over soon. 
 
 He enters the DEAN'S room, and closes the door behind 
 him. 
 
 DEAN. Ah ! Mr. Hartop. Let me see. (Looks through 
 some notes.} Yes, it's a very bad case a very bad case 
 indeed. Mr. Hartop, you have failed to attend a single 
 chapel service during the week. On Monday you came in 
 at half-past twelve, on Tuesday at twelve forty-five, and 
 yesterday at one o'clock in the morning. That would be 
 bad enough if it stood by itself, but it by no means exhausts 
 the list of your offences. Mr. Jobson informs me that you 
 have missed all his lectures during the week, and that when 
 you do happen to attend a lecture your behaviour is not 
 such as to give him any hope that you are profiting by his 
 instruction. What have you to say ? 
 
 HARTOP. I don't know, sir. You've taken me rather 
 suddenly. I didn't mean to stop out late. There's Pottle's 
 got the influenza. I had to sit up with him once. Then 
 fellows get talking and smoking, and time slips away, and 
 it's past twelve before you know where you are. 
 
 D. You mean " where you ought to be " that is, in 
 your College rooms. 
 
 H. Well, sir, perhaps I did mean that. (This he de- 
 scribed afterwards as " humouring the old sportsman"} And 
 as to chapels, I simply can't hit them off. I'm always 
 about five minutes late. It makes me quite unhappy to 
 think of it. Same with lectures. 
 
 D. Mr. Hartop, your excuses are childish. I may in- 
 form you that the question of sending you down has been
 
 "GATED." 53 
 
 seriously discussed by the authorities. However, I pleaded 
 for you on the ground that your faults were due to folly 
 and youth rather than to any incurable wickedness ; and 
 you have been spared. However, I must gate you at eight 
 for a week. 
 
 H. Oh, make it nine, sir. There's a temperance lecture 
 to-morrow I particularly wished to attend. My mother 
 wrote to me about it. 
 
 D. No, Mr. Hartop. I must deprive you for a week of 
 such pleasures as that. Now go. You have just time to 
 get to Mr. Jobson's lecture. 
 
 H. Thank you, sir. I'll go. (Leaves the room, and passes 
 through ante-room, addressing his friend} Eight o'clock for 
 a week. Sickening ! 
 
 IST U. Where are you off to ? 
 
 H. Oh, I'm off with the Drag. Ta, ta. [Exit.
 
 IV. 
 A TUTOR'S BREAKFAST IN OCTOBER. 
 
 SCENE. A large room in College. Bookcases filled with 
 splendidly bound books line the walls ; rare prints are 
 scattered about in frames and in portfolios. Easy-chairs 
 abound. The curtains are of brocade. The wall-paper 
 is of the latest Morris pattern, with a suitable dado. It 
 is 9.20 a.m. Round a large table, which groans with 
 breakfast delicacies, are seated some ten undergraduates, 
 all freshmen, except one, who is in his second year, and 
 has been asked to the freshmen's breakfast to help 
 matters along with a little conversation. The TUTOR, 
 a big man in spectacles, with a hesitating nervous 
 manner, is at the head of the table. 
 
 TUTOR (with a laboured attempt at cheerfulness). Come, 
 come, Piper, you're not eating anything. You really must 
 try these kidneys. I've had them cooked after a special 
 recipe of my own. 
 
 PIPER. Thank you, sir. (A pause.) 
 
 TUTOR (with a dead lift to the second-year man). What 
 about our rowing freshmen, Taylor ? Are they a good lot ? 
 Likely to turn into 'Varsity oars ? Eh ? You know the 
 College looks to you to help it up on the river.
 
 A TUTOR'S BREAKFAST IN OCTOBER. 55 
 
 TAYLOR (a boat-club authority ', conscious of the concentrated 
 gaze of nine silent FRESHMEN). Oh, I think we shall do, sir. 
 We've begun tubbing, of course. 
 
 Another pause. The silence becomes oppressive. A 
 gyp passes round the table pouring out tea. All 
 sip and munch in silence. 
 
 TUTOR (with another desperate effort). By the way, 
 Tozer, how is your excellent father getting on with his 
 great work on " The Parliamentary Institutions of the 
 Sandwich Islanders " ? He was good enough to send me 
 some of his proof-sheets a few months ago. They displayed 
 great research yes, great research. (All look at TOZER, who 
 blushes violently. " Such rot ! " as he afterwards confided to 
 a friend, ''to talk of a chap's governor before a lot of other 
 chaps."} 
 
 TOZER. I think he's getting on all right, thank you, sir. 
 
 Silence again settles down like a pall. 
 
 TUTOR (his final rally). Did any of you visit the British 
 Museum during the Vacation ? I am told they have acquired 
 some wonderful papyrus rolls. 
 
 A FRESHMAN (volubly). Oh yes, sir, they're magnificent ! 
 It was most interesting to watch Professor Carberry un- 
 rolling them. Such a delicate operation. By the way, 
 
 have you seen those new casts at the (Becomes suddenly 
 
 aware of nine silent but sneering gazers ; blushes, stammers, 
 and stops.} 
 
 TUTOR. Will anybody take some more tea ? No ? Well, 
 then, suppose we go into the next room for a few moments. 
 I have an appointment at ten o'clock. (All get up, and 
 enter the second room. They stand about awkwardly. Three,
 
 56 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 who are from the same school, gather together and talk in a 
 whisker.} 
 
 IST WHISPERER. Who's that idiot who talked all that 
 gas about the British Museum ? 
 
 2ND Do. Oh, I don't know. Somebody from a private 
 school, probably. He looks a precious fool. 
 
 3RD Do. Yes, awful. 
 
 TUTOR. Well, I'm sorry we have to separate. Good 
 morning, good morning. [All depart. 
 
 TUTOR. Thank Heaven that's well over ! What a set 
 of senseless dullards ! 
 
 FRESHMEN (on reaching the Court}. Oh my, wasn't that 
 awful ? I never saw such an old stick in all my life. 
 Seemed quite afraid of us all, too.
 
 V. 
 
 AMONG THE DONS. 
 
 SCENE. The Combination Room of a College at about 
 9 p.m. The polished mahogany tables reflect the light 
 from innumerable candelabra of solid silver. Cut-glass 
 decanters gleam with prismatic hues and circulate 
 steadily. Some ten Fellows of all ages are assembled 
 Some are bald and bearded ; others are still in possession 
 of their hair, and still use the razor. Black is, of 
 course, the prevailing colour of their clothes. Young 
 and old are serious in aspect, as befits the responsibility 
 of their position ; but they are also serenely sure, seeing 
 that they have dined, and Fate therefore cannot harm them. 
 A brisk conversation is proceeding. Two of the Senior 
 Fellows, however, sit moodily apart. They are both men 
 of some note, the one having published an edition of 
 Sappho's "Remains" ; the other having discovered a new 
 planet during a recent eclipse of the sun. They are 
 not, however, remarkable for the amenity of their man- 
 ners, and are of little iveight in the society of the 
 Combination Room. A Juvenile Fellow (DULCIMER is 
 his name], who supports an oblong, dusty-coloured head 
 on a pair of narrow shoulders, forming the apex to a 
 feeble body inadequately poised on the slightest possible 
 legs, is delivering himself with immense volubility. 
 
 DULCIMER. Ah ! yes, that's all very well in its way, but 
 
 57
 
 5 8 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 I very much doubt if in the whole range of modern philo. 
 sophical literature you could find a passage that would 
 support your position. I have made it my business to look 
 thoroughly into this matter during the past month or two, 
 and as a result of my inquiries I consider that I am entitled 
 to lay it down as indisputable that, while the axioms of 
 demonstrative sciences are after all only experimental truths, 
 the definitions, as they are incorrectly called, of those 
 sciences are merely generalisations from experience which 
 are not even, accurately speaking, truths at all. Now, the 
 science of Beauty, as we moderns understand it, is not, and 
 never can be, in the true sense of the word, demonstrative. 
 It rests on a much firmer basis, being, indeed, part of that 
 intuitive equipment with which an incalculable period of 
 inherited and constantly increasing development has fur- 
 nished our minds. Of course, we know that Plato is not an 
 authority that ought to be cited by a modern philosopher ; 
 but he had his lucid moments, and his views on Beauty are 
 not without weight even in the present state of knowledge. 
 But for true ethical grace, for a Divine perception of deli- 
 cacy, for the subtle resolution of seeming discords, and 
 for a precious apprehension of the Beautiful in a world 
 mainly composed of hideous phenomena, whom amongst 
 ancients or moderns can we place beside Zola? (Pauses for 
 breath.} 
 
 A MATTER-OF-FACT FELLOW. Well, for my part, I can't 
 see all that in Zola. Mind, I don't deny his ability ; but 
 surely you can't approve his brutal coarseness. His style 
 has always seemed to me a sort of inventory of animalism. 
 
 D. Oh, barbarous ! barbarous ! (He passes his hand 
 wearily over his brow.} The world is ever unconscious or
 
 AMONG THE DONS. 59 
 
 careless of its noblest men. The disposition is the same in 
 all ages, only the method differs. One age poisons with the 
 hemlock, another crucifies, another burns. We moderns 
 slay by neglect or ridicule. Nothing is safe from the 
 debasing contamination of idealism. Who shall contend 
 againsts the hosts of corruption ? (Subsides moodily into 
 a glass of port.} 
 
 M. F. F. But how does all that square with your approval 
 of Plato, the father of idealists ? (No answer.} 
 
 A TUTOR OF THE COLLEGE. By the way, Dulcimer, you 
 should really make an effort to be in time for your Little 
 Go lectures to-morrow. You know you sent some men's 
 names to me last week, and when I hauled them they 
 declared they had been every day, but after waiting half 
 an hour for you they had gone away. It made me appear 
 quite ludicrous ; besides (as an after-thought}, it damages the 
 College. 
 
 M. F. F. Do you know, I think the waiting in Hall gets 
 worse and worse. The waiters do nothing but trip one 
 another up, and spill the soup and the vegetables down 
 one's back. 
 
 D. Yes, and the cooking, too, is quite immodest in its 
 badness. For instance, to-night the Mousse de Volaille 
 was as heavy as one of Bostock's lectures, instead of being, 
 as it ought to be, an ethereal compound of sea foam 
 and maiden's dreams. I'm told they dine far better at 
 Corpus. 
 
 IRREVERENT FELLOW. Oh, maiden's dreams be blowed ! 
 I saw you doing yourself very well on the roast beef and 
 Yorkshire pudding, Dulcimer. 
 
 D. (ivho has perhaps drunk enough port wine}. Now,
 
 60 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 really, that is most unwarrantable in its offensiveness. You 
 know well enough how my appetite suffers from the work 
 I have to do. It is no joke preparing materials for my 
 treatise on the Predication of Parallelism. And yet I am 
 to be taunted because on one day in ten I am able to eat. 
 But I repeat, the cooking in Hall is wicked; nay, more 
 (here his voice rises), it is positively damnable, damnable, 
 damnable ! 
 
 An awkward pause. DULCIMER glares over the 
 rim of his glass at the rest. 
 
 M. F. F. Come, come, my boy ; you needn't look at us 
 as if you'd like our heads served up to you on chargers. 
 Nobody said the cooking was perfect. Let's change the 
 subject. Has any one heard who is likely to get this new 
 Professorship of Synthetic Evolution? I am told Pincot, 
 of Cats, is well in it. 
 
 THREE YOUNG FELLOWS (candidates, suddenly interested]. 
 Oh, Pincot's a perfect fool ! 
 
 M. F. F. So he is ; but that's no disqualification for a 
 Professor. If it were, there might perhaps be a remarkable 
 dearth of candidates. 
 
 Silence of THREE YOUNG FELLOWS. 
 
 ONE OF THE THREE (friend to DULCIMER, after a pause}. 
 I am distressed beyond measure by the terrible condition 
 into which our political life is sinking. All our chief men 
 on both sides are bunglers, subservient to the masses. At 
 such a time, all really able men should come to the front. 
 I have myself sent out for distribution in county consti- 
 tuencies one thousand copies of my leaflet on the Politica 
 of Aristotle 
 
 DULCIMER. That was nobly done.
 
 AMONG THE DONS. 61 
 
 IRREVERENT FELLOW (rising and putting on his gown). 
 Well, well, I'm off to my rooms. Who's for a rubber ? 
 You'll come, Bostock, and you other two and Dulcimer. 
 I'll cut in afterwards. And look here, Dulcimer; don't 
 forget your purse again. You still owe Bostock eight 
 shillings from last week. 
 
 D. (with sulky dignity). Oh, all right; I've got it down in 
 my pocket-book. 
 
 I. F. Yes, but Bostock would like it in his pocket. 
 Come on. 
 
 All rise and file out of the room, dozvn the stairs, and 
 into the Court. Two elderly waiters begin to 
 clear up. 
 
 IST WAITER. Bin talking the same jolly old nonsense, 
 I suppose. They don't drink much either, but (with 
 bitterness] they never leaves a drop in the decanters. Ah ! 
 things was very different twenty year ago. Them was 
 times, if you like. Do you remember that day, Bill, 
 when old Bostock young Bostock he was then come 
 over Parker's Piece in his nightgown ? But there, this 
 College is going on anyhow. They don't know what 'igh 
 living means. 
 
 2ND WAITER. Not one on 'em. 
 CURTAIN.
 
 VI. 
 
 THE LITTLE GO. 
 
 (A Paper on Paley.} 
 
 SCENE. The Corn Exchange during the progress of the 
 Little Go Examination. Time, 3 p.m. Examiners 
 move solemnly about, intent to discover any one using 
 adventitious aid or conversing ivith one of his neighbours. 
 About two hundred men in gowns are seated at long 
 tables. Some are writing frantically others sit with 
 heads buried in their hands others, again, gnaw their 
 pens or look blankly at the ceiling. Every now and 
 then one makes up his mind and his papers, deposits 
 the latter, and retires. Occasionally an examiner 
 swoops, and a candidate departs, trying to look un- 
 concerned. There is a general atmosphere of mystery 
 and ignorance, disturbed only by sneezes, coughs, the 
 blowing of noses, and the scratching of pens. 
 
 IST UNDERGRADUATE (coughing at his opposite neighbour). 
 Ahem ! 
 
 2ND UNDERGRADUATE (after looking round to see that no 
 examiners are near, in a whisper). What's up ? 
 
 IST U. (also whispering}. What's that Paley said about 
 a watch ? 
 
 2ND U. Oh, you know ! watch and machinery, some- 
 62
 
 THE LITTLE GO. 63 
 
 body finds it ; can't think who made it. Must have been 
 somebody. Twig ? (Sees examiner looming?) Look out. 
 
 Both write earnestly for five minutes. 
 
 IST U. (writes). "So if a man found a watch in the 
 street, he would immediately open it to discover the maker's 
 name, and would then restore it to its owner." ( Whispers 
 half to himself, half to 2ND U.) That doesn't sound quite 
 right. Strictly moral proceeding though, so I suppose it'll 
 do. How are you getting on, Jack ? 
 
 2ND U. I've done four questions. Nuisance getting 
 nothing about the allegations. I've got 'em on a small bit 
 of paper pinned into my handkerchief. 
 
 IST U. (eagerly}. By Jove ! have you ? Lend me your rag, 
 like a good chap, will you ? They're one of my questions. 
 
 2ND U., after taking observations, drops his handker- 
 chief under the table, and kicks it across. IST U. 
 picks it up. 
 
 IST U. Thanks, awfully; you're a ripper (sneezes, and 
 prepares to blow his nose). O Lord ! You've gone and 
 pinned in St. Paul's first journey by mistake. 
 
 2ND U. Frightfully sorry. Can't be helped. What's 
 Paley's argument against Hume ? 
 
 An examiner has silently taken his stand behind 2ND U. 
 The IST U. observes him, and remains apparently 
 absorbed in his writing. 
 
 2ND U. (whispering a little louder). Be a good chap, and 
 tell me about Hume, or write it down and shove it across. 
 (Feels into his breast pocket; produces a slip of paper.} Never 
 mind ; I've got it here.
 
 64 AV CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Examiner pounces. We draw a veil over the painful 
 scene that follmvs. 2ND U. departs, red and 
 defiant. 
 
 IST U. (to himself, with a sigh of infinite relief}. Phew ! 
 that was a near thing. (Reads the next question on his 
 paper, and ponders. We put his thoughts into words.} The 
 nature of the case the nature of the case ? Curse my 
 memory ! Oh yes ! that must be it. ( Writes} " When 
 Paley mentions the nature of the case he refers, of course, 
 to the workmanship of the watchcase previously men- 
 tioned." What's the next question ? The argument from 
 experience ? Oh ! I know. ( Writes} " The argument 
 from experience was used by Hume ; but twelve men of 
 known probity upset it by showing that miracles were 
 antecedently incredible." Thank goodness, that's done ! 
 (Folds up his papers and leaves ; meets a FRIEND outside.} 
 
 FRIEND. Hullo ! How have you done ? 
 
 IST U. Ripping. Floored the whole paper.
 
 VII. 
 
 AMONG THE ORATORS. 
 
 SCENE. An ordinary College room. Time, 7. 15 p.m. on 
 a Tuesday. The owner of the rooms, a shining light at 
 the debates of the Union Society, is standing in the 
 centre of the room, ivith one hand carelessly thrust into 
 the breast of his coat. He is declaiming aloud. 
 
 UNION LIGHT (to himself, referring to a MS.). I thought 
 I hadn't got that last sentence. I must try it again. Let 
 me see. Oh yes. " Sir, I have done," no, that won't do ; 
 the other side always cheer that. I must try something 
 else. " Sir, the warning hand of the clock shows me that 
 my allotted time is almost spent," that's much better, 
 " but before I sit down, I may perhaps be allowed to sum 
 up what I have said. I have proved to demonstration that, 
 under the present ruler of Monaco, freedom has pined and 
 prosperity has languished. I have shown how the inha- 
 bitants groan under the oppression that prevails. I have 
 made it clear that we, and we alone, are pointed out to be 
 their deliverers. To us they appeal. Shall that appeal be 
 in vain ? I cannot doubt what the answer will be. Too 
 long have the tyrants triumphed. They have struck at the 
 keystone of Freedom's arch. When the crash comes, they 
 will find that by sitting upon the safety-valve they have only 
 
 W.L.-Vlll. 65
 
 66 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 secured their own destruction. Their exploded fragments 
 will be scattered over the earth ; they shall be crushed 
 beneath the wreck they caused ; and Liberty shall once 
 more raise her head and smile upon the world from the 
 ruins." There, I think that will fetch 'em. (A loud knocking 
 at tJie door.} Halloa ! who's there ? 
 
 FRIEND (without}. What have you sported your oak for? 
 Let me in, like a good chap. (U. L. opens with reluctance. 
 F. enters.} Are you doing a read ? 
 
 U. L. No, not exactly. Fact is, I've been snoozing in 
 my armchair. These cold days are so tiring. 
 
 F. Yes, they are, awfully. But, I say, aren't you going 
 to the Union to-night ? Boffin's sure to be in grand form 
 with his motion about the establishment of a protectorate 
 in Monaco. Shall you speak ? 
 
 U. L. No ; I don't think so. I don't know much about 
 the subject ; and then, I've had no time to prepare anything 
 at all. So I'm certain not to speak. 
 
 F. Oh, you'd better speak all the same. If you don't 
 Boffin will have it all his own way, and that'll make him 
 more stuck-up than ever. Jefferson, who's down to oppose 
 him, is no good at all. Why, last term, when they had that 
 motion about throwing dead cats into the Cam, he absolutely 
 broke down just as he was trying to prove that, on the whole, 
 he preferred a dead cat to a water-lily. Besides, he made 
 such an awful fool of himself at the last business meeting. 
 Compared George Moore to the Prophet Isaiah. Too 
 ridiculous ! 
 
 U. L. (alloK'itig himself to be persuaded}. Well, let's go, 
 anyhow ; but I'll see about speaking when we get there 
 (furtively pockets MS.}. Come on.
 
 AMONG THE ORATORS. 67 
 
 They depart. We change the scene to the Union. 
 Time, 9 p.m. UNION LIGHT has just risen, and 
 caught the President's eye. 
 
 U. L. Sir, it was not my intention to address the House 
 to-night. I have not prepared what I have to say. But I 
 cannot sit still and give the assent of silence to the tissue of 
 absurdities which the honourable proposer has tried to foist 
 upon the House. . . . {Loud cheer s. And so he proceeds for 
 twenty minutes up to the glozving peroration that ive have 
 already heard him recite.} 
 
 U. L. (concluding}. . . . Shall once more raise her head, 
 and smile upon the world from the ruins. (Thunders of 
 applause as U. L. resumes his seat,} 
 
 ADMIRER (on the next seat}. Well done ! Do you mean 
 to say you prepared nothing ? 
 
 U. L. Not a word ! Ask Johnson ; he was with me. 
 
 FRIEND. Yes, that's right. I had to drag him here from 
 his rooms. 
 
 ADMIRER. Splendid !
 
 VIII. 
 AMONG THE WELL-INFORMED. 
 
 SCENE. The Smoking Room of " The Pythian" a London 
 Club much frequented by young men. Time, 10 o'clock 
 on an evening towards the end of the second week in 
 January; in fact, a day or two before the beginning of 
 term. Half a dozen past and present Cambridge men 
 have been dining together, and have just settled themselves 
 on armchairs round the fire. The waiter has brought 
 in a tray of coffee and liqueurs. 
 
 IST UNDERGRADUATE (the host}. Three Benedictines, 
 one brandy, and two Kiimmels. That's right. Black 
 coffee all round ? 
 
 2ND UNDERGRADUATE. Milk for me. 
 
 IST U. Right. Now what shall we do ? We spent such 
 a lot of time upstairs, and it's so late, that I vote we sit 
 tight here and smoke and talk. What do you say, Armour ? 
 
 ARMOUR (who has been doivnfrom Cambridge a year, and 
 has spent the time in travelling). Oh yes ; let's sit here and 
 talk. It's so pleasant to get back to a real English Club 
 and be among one's own friends for a bit. I'm all for 
 
 staying here. 
 
 They agree to stay. 
 
 IST U. (to 2ND U.). When are you going up, Barty ? 
 
 63
 
 AMONG THE WELL-INFORMED. 69 
 
 2ND U. Oh, on Friday or Saturday probably on Satur- 
 day. I've got a dance on Friday. 
 
 3RD U. I'm off to-morrow. 
 
 A pause. 
 
 IST U. (to 3RDU.). Did you have good sport in Ireland, 
 Billy ? 
 
 3RD U. Yes, ripping ! Any amount of woodcock. 
 They're frightfully easy to shoot after a bit. But it's rather 
 a bore being in such outlandish places. I missed all the 
 newspapers, and the consequence is I'm regularly fogged 
 about what's going on. By the way, what's this joke about 
 a fire-escape ? I hear everybody talking about it. 
 
 IST U. (laughing heartily). What ! you don't mean to say 
 you don't know that ? 
 
 3RD U. 'Pon my word, I don't. I wish you'd tell me. 
 
 IST U. Didn't you read about Tim Healy having to 
 scoot down a fire-escape to get away from Pope-Hen- 
 nessey's mob at Kilkenny ? 
 
 3RD U. No. 
 
 IST U. (oracularly). Well, that's it. 
 A pause. 
 
 IST U. (to 2ND U., an earnest political speaker at the 
 Union). Have you heard anything about the Hartlepool 
 election, Barty? You're generally in the way of picking 
 up hints about these things. 
 
 2ND U. (pleased at this tribute to his political importance). 
 Well, no, I haven't heard much. But I met George Phil- 
 pot ; he's Member for some place down there, and he thinks 
 things are going on all right. 
 
 IST U. Do you know this chap, Furness, who's standing 
 as a Gladstonian ?
 
 70 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 2ND U. I fancy I met him once some years Ago. He 
 does all those parliamentary pictures in Punch. Devilish 
 smart fellow. 
 
 IST U. (doubtfully). Is that the same ? I thought his 
 name was Harry. 
 
 2ND U. (cornered, but lying gallantly). Ah, that's only his 
 nom de plume. His real name's Christopher. He's a large 
 shipowner down there. 
 
 3RD U. By the way, where is Hartlepool ? 
 
 2ND U. Oh, come, you must know that. It is a deuced 
 big shipping place in one of the Midland counties. 
 
 3RD U. Of course, of course ; I remember now. But 
 (puzzled) how do they get ships there ? 
 
 2ND U. By canal, of course. 
 
 A pause. 
 
 IST U. (to ARMOUR, the traveller). I hear you shot no 
 end of big game in India, Armour. Now tell me, is that 
 old story we always hear about boa-constrictors swallowing 
 buffaloes a true one ? 
 
 ARMOUR (promptly, his reputation at stake). As true as 
 that I'm sitting here. It's the most horrible thing to see 
 one of these brutes lying torpid with a dead buffalo inside 
 him, the horns sticking out of his beastly mouth. I shot 
 several like that. 
 
 UNDERGRADUATES (in chorus). By Jove ! 
 A pause. 
 
 3RD U. (to IST U.) Have you ever shot an owl ? 
 
 IST U. No ; why ? 
 
 3RD U. Oh, because owls swallow mice whole, that's all. 
 
 IST U. Oh, rot ! I don't believe that. Do you, Barty ? 
 
 2ND U. No, that's pure drivel. They couldn't do it.
 
 AMONG THE WELL-INFORMED. 71 
 
 3RD U. (obstinately]. But they do. I'll lay you a sov. 
 it's a fact. 
 
 A pause. 
 
 3RD U. Who's this chap, Rudyard Kipling, that every- 
 body's talking about ? 
 
 2ND U. (vaguely}. Oh, he's one of the fellows on the 
 Pall Mai! Gazette. Does all the interviews, I believe. 
 
 3RD U. Of course, I remember now. 
 
 They sit and swoke, and discuss current topics till about 
 11.30, when they separate. 
 
 IST U. (to 2ND U.). You're going to read the first paper 
 next week at the Essay Club, aren't you, Barty ? What's it 
 about ? 
 
 2ND U. It's on " The Ignorance of the Lower Classes." 
 
 IST U. Good ! Mind you give it 'em hot.
 
 IX. 
 AS OTHERS SEE US. 
 
 SCENE. The Commercial Room of the Rutland Arms 
 Hotel, Newmarket, during the off season. Time, 1.30 
 p.m. There are present three UNDERGRADUATES. Two 
 of them have walked over from Cambridge, and conse- 
 quently look hot, tired, and hungry. The third has 
 come by train, and looks brisk and cheerful. They are 
 sitting at the table, waiting for their luncheon. 
 
 IST UNDERGRADUATE (testily). I wonder if this blessed 
 luncheon's ever coming ! I'm faint with hunger. 
 
 2ND UNDERGRADUATE. So am I. What fools we were to 
 walk ! 
 
 3RD UNDERGRADUATE (who has come by train, pleasantly}. 
 Aha ! I knw how it would be. None of your gas about 
 fine exercise for me when there's a train handy. Why, I 
 started 
 
 IST U. (with decision}. Oh, you shut up and be blowed ! 
 We've heard quite enough of your confounded train. 
 
 3RD U. (conciliatory}. All right, Jack, keep your hair on. 
 Oh, here's luncheon. Wrong again. Who the deuce are 
 these two ? 
 
 72
 
 AS OTHERS SEE US. 73 
 
 Enter two COMMERCIAL TRAVELLERS. They divest 
 themselves of their coats and hats, and walk up 
 the room as if it belonged to them. 
 
 IST C. T. (to his friend). Three rough-lookin' young 
 customers, those are. I wonder where they come from ? 
 The landlady told me she'd asked them to go into the 
 Commercial Room. Well, I suppose we must do the 
 polite. (To the three) Mornin', gentlemen. 
 
 THE THREE (together and very distantly). Mornin'. 
 
 IST C. T. (to the three). Now, what shall we order for 
 you three gentlemen ? 
 
 THE THREE (surprised}. What? 
 
 IST C. T. What shall we order for you ? What'll you 
 eat for your lunches ? Just say the word. 
 
 3RD U. (pale ivith astonishment aud indignation ; how- 
 ever, he restrains himself). What are you to order for us ? 
 Oh, thanks, we've ordered our own food. 
 
 IST C. T. Oh, very well, that saves trouble. (To his 
 friend). Now then, Mr. Smithers, I move that you take the 
 chair. That's agreed. 
 
 2ND C. T. Thank you, Mr. Calcoe, for doin' me the 
 honour. (He takes the seat at the head of the table, 
 then rises and addresses the IST C. T.) Mr. Calcoe, I beg 
 to move that you be Vice-Chairman. Any opposition from 
 my young friends ? (The three are speechless with amaze- 
 ment^) None, so that's nem-conned. 
 
 IST C. T. I'm obliged for the honour, Mr. Chairman. 
 (Takes seat at bottom of table. The waiter enters with lunch. 
 He puts it down, and prepares to go.) Hi, there ! Robert, 
 stop a bit. What's your tipple, gentlemen ? (Jocosely) 
 Give your orders ; the waiter's in the room. No hangin'
 
 74 /A r CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 back. Lor' bless you, you don't know what you can do till 
 you try. 
 
 IST U. (coldly). We generally order our own drink, 
 thank you. 
 
 IST C. T. Oh, do you? well, you won't to-day, that's 
 all, 'cos it isn't the custom of the Commercial Room. 
 You didn't know that ? (Encouragingly) Never mind, you 
 can't know everythink all at once at your age, of course. 
 Shall we say beer ? Right ; beer it is. Waiter, beer for 
 these gentlemen. Mr. Smithers and me will drink Apolli- 
 naris ; it keeps the mind clearer. 
 
 The COMMERCIAL TRAVELLERS now talk to one 
 another along the table, ignoring the three UNDER- 
 GRADUATES. 
 
 2ND C. T. How did you get on in Cambridge, Mr. Calcoe ? 
 IST C. T. Thank you, Mr. Smithers, toll-loll. But 
 there, it's a dull sort of dead-alive place. 
 
 2ND C. T. Ah, that it is. Nothing going on : no 
 enterprise that's what I've always said. Why, I do better 
 in a twopenny-halfpenny village ; and so do you, I warrant. 
 IST C. T. That's true enough. There's too many of 
 these undergraduates about the place. Parcel o' boys I 
 call 'em, and nobody to look arter 'em to keep 'em in 
 order. Just think of allowin' such goings-on as they had 
 last night at a respectable house like the " Lion." There 
 was a lot of 'em all dining together, and roaring out songs 
 as hard as they could bust, and dancing and kicking up 
 such a shine as you never heard in all your days. You 
 didn't come in till it was over, I know, Mr. Smithers ; but I 
 had a good mind to go up there and bundle the lot of 'em 
 home to bed.
 
 AS OTHERS SEE US. 75 
 
 IST U. (in a whisper). Why, Phil, he's jawing about 
 the Caledonian dinner. Did you ever hear such frightful 
 cheek ? 
 
 IST C. T. Yes, I met one of the young sparks in the 
 courtyard, with a bit of silk ribbon tied across his shirt, 
 and I passed the time of day with him quite civil ; but he 
 only laughed at me and called me names. So I says to 
 him, "Look here," I says, "my young jackanapes. You 
 give me any more o' your airs and I'll knock your 'ed orf." 
 Lor', you should have seen him tremble and turn tail. If 
 he'd said any more to me, I'd a-done it too. 
 
 IST U. (whispering to 3RD U.). Why, Dick, that must be 
 the chap you said you'd knocked down with one blow. This 
 is quite a different story. 
 
 3RD U. (purple). I'm sick of all this rot. Let's get this 
 over and go. 
 
 During the rest of the meal the COMMERCIAL 
 TRAVELLERS continue' to exchange depreciatory 
 reminiscences of Cambridge. The three UNDER- 
 GRADUATES sit in angry silence. At last they 
 prepare to depart. 
 
 IST U. Waiter, bill, please. 
 
 WAITER. Oh, that'll be settled, sir. 
 
 IST C. T. Oh, of course. That's the custom of the 
 room. We're proud to have entertained you as our guests ; 
 ain't we, Mr. Smithers ? 
 
 2ND C. T. Certainly, very proud. Good day to you, 
 gentlemen.
 
 x. 
 
 "A LEETLE DAIVG." 
 
 SCENE. Malcolm Street on a weekday morning. Out of 
 a first-floor windoiv two UNDERGRADUATES in blazers 
 are gazing at the passers-by, occasionally exchanging 
 salutations with their friends. They are leaning well 
 out, their elbows resting upon the cushioned ivindow-sill. 
 Both are smoking pipes. To them approaches a DOG 
 FANCIER, carrying under one arm a pug puppy, under 
 the other an inaccurate imitation of a St. Bernard 
 puppy, whilst he drags along by strings two unwilling 
 fox-terrier puppies, who spend most of their time in 
 endeavouring to strangle themselves round lamp-posts, 
 or in getting themselves trampled on by passing under- 
 graduates. The FANCIER is dressed, after the manner of 
 his tribe, in an ancient and decayed checked suit with 
 a tail coat ; a red handkerchief is wound round his 
 throat ; his battered pot-hat is cocked jauntily upon his 
 head. He stops under the windoiv we have mentioned. 
 
 DOG &NC\K^(comprehensively,toboth UNDERGRADUATES). 
 Good mornin', my Lord. 
 
 IST UNDERGRADUATE (distantly). Mornin' (resumes his 
 conversation with his friend}.
 
 "A LEETLE DAWG.* 77 
 
 D. F. (returns to the charge). Nawsty weather we've been 
 'avin' lately. 'Ard work for a respectable pore man to get 
 'is livin' in weather like this. (Receives no answer. Sets 
 down the St. Bernard puppy, which immediately rolls off the 
 pavement into a puddle. It scrambles up again.} 
 
 D. F. (apparently addressing St. Bernard puppy}. Ah ! 
 you set there, my beauty, and get that coat o' yourn dry. 
 Bless your 'eart, you don't mind a bit of a bath no more 
 than (vaguely) any of us does. But there, you're a haristo- 
 crat, you are, and you knows when you've come to your 
 proper place. Jim Topper was right when 'e told me 
 yesterday (correctively) no, 'twarn't yesterday ; 'twas the 
 day afore that there warn't nothin' but haristocrats in 
 this 'ere street. "Bill," 'e says to me, "you mark my 
 words, there ain't nothin' but lords in Malcolm Street. 
 Why," 'e says, " the Proctors won't let even a barrinet live 
 in Malcolm Street, not if 'e ain't the son of a dook. I'm 
 right," 'e says ; " you go and see for yourself." Well, 'e is 
 right. O' course 'e is. Never was wrong yet, warn't Jim. 
 (To one of the fox-terriers] 'Ere, you leave orf a-gnoring your 
 string. (To the UNDERGRADUATES) That there dawg's got 
 a set o' teeth I never see the like of afore. Why, 'e'd eat 
 'isself out of 'Olloway Jail, 'e would, and back again, too, 
 for the matter 'o that. Any o' you young lords want to 
 buy a prime, thoroughbred, pedigree dawg ? 
 
 2ND U. No ; go away. 
 
 D. F. (sadly}. Right you are, my lord ; I'm agoin' fast 
 enough. Pore old Bill don't want to be told twice. But 
 there, I says to myself as I come along 'ere, " Bill," I says, 
 speakin' to myself, " them there two young lords is bound 
 to know a good dawg when they sees 'im. There's a look
 
 7 8 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 in their eye," I says, " that seems to go right through yer. 
 It's no use a-tryin' to deceive them ; they knows the points 
 of a dawg, and I needn't waste my breath in tellin' 'em. 
 They ain't like some I've met rare swells, too, they was ; 
 why, you could a-made them take any mongrel; but that 
 game won't do 'ere," thinks I ; no more it won't, and I 
 ain't agoin' to try it. 'Owever, good mornin', my lords, 
 I've got to meet a gent in Trinity College, and I can't 
 miss 'im (picks up the St. Bernard, and prepares to shuffle off]. 
 
 IST U. (to his friend}. That's not such a bad dog, after 
 all, Tom ; that near-side terrier. He's got the proper 
 markings, and capital ears. Tail a bit too long, perhaps ; 
 but nothing out of the way. 
 
 2x0 U. (knowingly and critically}. No, he's not a bad un 
 at all. But I'm rather taken with that St. Bernard. He 
 ought to have a splendid head when he grows up, and he 
 carries his tail beautifully. Let's call the rascal back. We 
 needn't buy the dogs, of course ; but there's no harm in 
 finding out the price. 
 
 IST U. Right. (To the retreating FANCIER) Hi ! 
 The D. F. returns with alacrity. 
 
 D. F. Did you call me, my lord ? 
 
 IST U. What do you want for that fox-terrier that one 
 with the black spot at the root of his tail ? 
 
 D. F. What, this 'ere dawg, my lord ? (Holding up the 
 puppy.} Ah, I don't think I can sell 'im. I should break 
 my 'eart if I d to part with that dawg. 'E's the very 
 picter of his mother, Tearaway o' course you've 'card of 
 Tearaway. (UNDERGRADUATES nod dubiously.} Ah, she was 
 a real good un. Took three first prizes; and as for rats, 
 why, I've knowed 'er polish off close on three dozen in a
 
 "A LEETLE DAIVG." 79 
 
 minute rare big rats they was, too; none 'o your 'alf- 
 starved mice, but prime fighters. At Newmarket last 
 year First Spring Meeting it was I remember seein' you 
 two gents there on a spankin' four-in-'and well, two 
 markises got a-bettin' about 'er, and one of 'em laid t'other 
 a thousand to six hundred, in golden soverings, she 
 wouldn't kill more nor fifty rats in a minute and a 'alf. 
 But 'e lost 'is money, 'e did, and t'other give me ^5. No 
 (zvith determination}, I can't bear to part from this one ; 'is 
 mother's dead now, got run over by a tandem, and this is 
 the only one I've got left. 
 
 IST U. Oh, rot ! Just you name a price. 
 
 D. F. Well, it's wonderful 'ow all the clever ones pick 
 'im out. Look 'ere, my lord, I'll tell you what it is. Just 
 to oblige you, you shall 'ave 'im for ,10. 
 
 IST U. ,10 be blowed ! 
 
 D. F. Ah, but 'e's worth more nor that much more. 
 'Owever, as times is 'ard, I'll say $ and an old suit o' 
 clothes. 
 
 After a little more wrangling the bargain is concluded 
 for 2 and the suit. 
 
 D. F. (to 2ND U.). Now, my lord, you'll never 'ave such 
 another chance. Your friend's took the little un. You 
 ought to 'ave the big un. (Exhibits St. Bernard} There's 
 a 'ead for you, and double dew-claws too. If it wasn't for 
 that patch of white on 'is back I'd ask 20 for 'im. 'E's 
 champion-bred. 
 
 2ND U. I'll give you $. 
 
 D. F. That's what I call 'eartless. But, there (in an 
 access of generosity], you're a real sportin' gent. Chuck in 
 a couple of 'andkerchiefs and 'e's yours.
 
 80 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Bargain concluded. The UNDERGRADUATES come 
 down ; pay the agreed sums ; the suit and hand- 
 kerchiefs are handed over. They go up again 
 with their dogs. 
 
 IST U. I think we got 'em cheap. Let's ring for the 
 slavey, and tell her to wash them ; they're in an awful 
 
 mess. 
 
 He rings. The servant appears and takes away the 
 
 dogs, with orders to wash them. 
 
 SERVANT (coming up again, twenty minutes afterwards, with 
 the two puppies). I've washed 'em, sir, and a pretty mess 
 they was in. This one (pointing to the terrier) was all over 
 black spots, with a big black splotch near 'is tail ; but 'e's 
 quite pure white now. I 'ope I 'aven't 'urt the other, but 
 two of 'is claws dropped off 'is 'indlegs. Give me such a 
 turn; but when I come to look, they was only tied on with 
 cotton. Shall I lay your lunch, sir ?
 
 XI. 
 
 AMONG THE NOISY. 
 
 SCENE. The smoking-room of a Cambridge club. Twelve 
 o'clock has just struck. About a dozen men of all sorts 
 and sizes are sitting on armchairs and sofas, or leaning 
 gracefully against the mantelpiece. Some zvear a com- 
 plete suit of dazzling checks ; others affect a soberer style 
 in coat and trousers, redeemed, however, by a brilliant 
 waistcoat. Their hats are brown, so are their boots. 
 Their ties fall from their lofty collars in cascades, 
 broken only by their jewelled pins, and not always 
 strictly confined within the ample limits of their waist- 
 coats. The boy in buttons has just staggered in with 
 a tray of lemon squashes, brandies-and-sodas, etc., 
 which have been eagerly seized and gulped down. The 
 morning papers are littered about the room. A small, 
 pale man is sitting on the table, and holding forth at the 
 top of his voice, amidst roars of laughter from the rest. 
 Three quiet men, two of them in caps and gowns, are 
 sitting at the side tables, and endeavouring to compose 
 their thoughts to the writing of letters. 
 
 SMALL PALE MAN. I tell yer, it was rippin' simply 
 rippin'. There were four of us in it me, Tommy Tosspot. 
 w.Lvni. si g
 
 2 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Bobby Buster, and the Guffin. First \ve dined at Bmvet's, 
 and a rare old hay we made of the place. The head waiter 
 said, on the whole, he preferred his hat to the soup-tureen 
 as a head-covering, but Tommy jolly soon mopped him up. 
 The Guffin thought some one was making faces at him in 
 the looking-glass, so he let fly an empty bottle at his own 
 bally image. Over went the show. Head waiter inter- 
 fered. It was one for his nob, and two twos with our heels 
 in no time, I tell yer. In the market-place we saw a 
 Johnnie comin' along in a cap and gown, with a pile of 
 books under his arm. What the deuce did he mean by 
 being out late with a cap and gown ? Books, too ! Bah ! 
 He seemed a quiet chap ; but we bally soon played scissors 
 to grind with him. Bobby made play in front, the Guffin 
 tripped him up, and over he went like a blooming old 
 ninepin. I picked up his books and put 'em in the fountain. 
 He looked rather lopsided without 'em ; so we tossed him 
 in, too, to look for 'em. Policeman came up ; wanted to 
 know who was kicking up a shine. Tommy said we were 
 all on the law-and-order job, but there was a dangerous 
 fellow in the fountain damaging the town property ; ought 
 to be collared. Policeman went for him, and had him off 
 to the lock-up in no time. (Roars of laughter, interspersed 
 with approving comments from the company.') Well, it was 
 forrard again into King's Parade. Guffin rang a bell as 
 if he was trying his strength. Landlord came out in his 
 nightcap, but the Guffin twitched it off; told him the Vice- 
 Chancellor hated nightcaps. 
 
 ADMIRING FRIEND. Good old Guffin ! 
 
 S. P. M. (continuing). Somebody shouted out, " Proc- 
 tors 1 " Guffin, Bobby, and I made off; but Tommy got
 
 AMONG THE NOISY. 83 
 
 left, and the Proctor nabbed him. Tommy began to howl ; 
 said three rude men had gone for him as he was walking 
 with his little sister. " Boo-hoo ! where's my little sister?" 
 and all that. Proctor visibly affected. Bulldogs sobbing like 
 children. Tommy got off ; at least, that's Tommy's story. 
 Two OR THREE. Tommy's the boy for the Proctors. 
 S. P. M. The Dean didn't much like our being late, 
 though. I'm gated at nine for a week, and so are Tommy 
 and Bobby. Guffin got off as usual. Said he was studying 
 King's Chapel under the moonlight, and got so fascinated 
 he couldn't remember the time. The Dean only said he'd 
 better study his own chapel a little more from the inside, 
 and did nothing. 
 
 SEVERAL ADMIRERS. Guffin, you take the bun all round. 
 THE GUFFIN (a tall, sandy-haired yoiith with an eye- 
 glass). Oh ! it's easy enough to rot the Dean when you 
 know the trick. 
 
 At this point the door is thrown violently open. A 
 short gentleman with a smooth cherubic face is 
 projected through it on to the sofa as from a 
 catapult. Alarums, excursions. Loud laughter 
 from the lavatory. The HON. THOMAS TOSSPOT 
 for it is none other picks himself up, pulls him- 
 self together, and shakes a diminutive fist at his 
 projectors. 
 
 THE HON. T. T. Curse those Johnnies ! they seem to 
 think a chap's made of indiarubber. It's no catch, I tell 
 you, to get your face rubbed with a rough towel, and then 
 be chucked a best on record over this sofa. By the way, 
 Guffin, what price is Mustard Plaster to-day? 
 
 IMPORTANT YOUTH (breaking in). Oh, rushed up to three
 
 84 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 to one. I know all about him. I met a fellow yesterday who 
 knows the first cousin of one of the boys in that stable, and 
 he told me they'd all got their shirt buttons on Mustard 
 Plaster to win, and Grampus one, two, three. 
 
 THE GUFFIN. That ain't good enough for me ; I shall sit 
 tight and look on for a bit. They tell me Mustard Plaster 
 did a very shaky trial yesterday (brings out a portentous book 
 bound in silver ; and becomes absorbed in if). 
 
 THE HON. T. T. Well, I don't know how you chaps 
 feel. I've got a switchback going on inside my head ; and 
 as for my tongue, why, you could wipe your boots on it. 
 This life's killing me. My old guv'nor wrote to me this 
 morning ; all the usual business. Hoped the family name 
 would be still further adorned by my academic triumphs, 
 those were his words, upon my honour, and recommended 
 me not to read more than eight hours a day at present. 
 O Lord ! that comes of having a third wrangler for a 
 guv'nor. Why, I haven't touched a book for a month. I 
 shall have to turn on a coach soon. (A profound melancholy 
 settles upon him at this awful prospect?) They tell me 
 Divinity is as easy as anything else for a special. I'll have 
 a shot at that. 
 
 S. P. M. (suddenly). Gad ! I haven't had my breakfast 
 yet. Simply couldn't face it this morning ; but I'm coming 
 on, I think. Could do a bit of lunch soon. I say, whom 
 shall we draw for lunch ? 
 
 THE GUFFIN (with animation). Oh ! I know ; there's old 
 Fladgate ; he's always boring everybody to feed with him. 
 Hasn't got bad fizz either. Let's try him. Here, you, 
 Bobby, run round and let the beggar know we'll be with 
 him, Lord, how he'll wriggle with joy !
 
 AMONG THE NOISY. 85 
 
 THE HON. T. T. Yes, and tell him not to have more 
 than two entrees and three sweets, 'cos we're all a wee bit 
 chippy this morning, and we don't want him to order too 
 much. 
 
 THE GUFFIN (lighting his tenth cigarette). This place is 
 getting infernally hot. I can't stand it any more. Who's 
 for an airing ? I'm off. Ta, ta, Tommy ! 
 
 The GUFFIN moves away ivith much clatter, folloived 
 by all the rest except TOMMY, who remains pro- 
 strate on the sofa, with a " Sporting Life." A holy 
 calm falls on the smoking-room. The silence is 
 broken only by the scratching of three pens. 
 THREE QUIET MEN (devoutly). Thank Heaven ! 
 CURTAIN.
 
 XII. 
 
 SOME ONE ELSE'S SISTER. 
 
 SCENE. College Rooms. Time, 9 a.m. on any day about 
 the middle of May. Two UNDERGRADUATES are 
 breakfasting. A BEDMAKER makes fitful appearances. 
 
 IST UNDERGRADUATE (in difficulties with his spirit kettle}. 
 I can't get this confounded thing to work. I've burnt 
 every finger on both hands, and singed off every eyelash 
 I ever had ; but I can't make it boil. You have a try, 
 Jimmy. 
 
 2ND UNDERGRADUATE. What do you want to do ? 
 
 IST U. Why, to pull out the wick and make a bigger 
 flame, of course. Then perhaps it'll boil some time before 
 next year. 
 
 2ND U. All right ; hand it over (he tinkers at it). What 
 on earth made you give up fires so soon ? It's as cold as 
 December. There, that ought to do now. (The lamp is 
 lighted ; immediately flames over, and burns a hole in the 
 cloth.} 
 
 IST U. (ungratefully). There, I told you how it would 
 be ! (Shouting) Mrs. Gri-i-i-mes ! 
 
 Enter BEDMAKER after an interval. 
 
 B. Yes, sir. Did you call ?
 
 SOME ONE ELSE'S SISTER. 87 
 
 IST U. Oh, Mrs. Grimes, take this blessed kettle away 
 and make it boil anywhere, and then make my tea. I can't 
 do anything with it. 
 
 B. Lor', sir, it's easy enough when you know how. 
 Why, dear me, there's a nasty great 'ole you've made in 
 your best tablecloth too. You oughter 'a kep' a plate 
 under it. Such a danger as it is too. Why there, I 
 remember my pore uncle, jest arter e' come in from 'is 
 work one evenin' ; 'e was a-settin' at 'is tea, and 'appenin' 
 to drop a match on the floor set the whole 'ouse a-fire, and 
 never 'ad no 'air on his 'ed arterwards till he died. Many's 
 the time 'e says to me, " Maria," 'e says, " don't you never 
 play no tricks with matches. Look at me," 'e says, " 'ale and 
 'earty as ever a man was up to the age of sixty-two bating 
 three months, and now not a 'air to my 'ed, which was all 
 along o' them dratted matches. Ah, you may well call 'em 
 matches," 'e says ; " I'd like to match the man what made 
 "em." I'll be back directly, sir. \Exit. 
 
 IST U. opens a letter and reads it. His looks become 
 gloomy. 
 
 2ND U. What's up, Reggie? 
 
 IST U. Here's my mother writing to say that, as she 
 has never been to Cambridge, she thinks this term would 
 be a good opportunity for a visit, and will I let her know 
 the best days for coming, and get rooms and take tickets 
 for the balls. 
 
 2x0 U. Why, your mother surely doesn't mean to go 
 to the balls alone ! 
 
 IST U. (testily). No, of course not. That's the worst of 
 it. She says (reading), " Angela and I shall enjoy ourselves 
 immensely. Naturally, my dear Reggie, I don't care about
 
 88 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 balls, but Angela loves them, and as she will have a new 
 dress from Miss Ast's she is sure to look lo ' (stops 
 abruptly). There it is. I wonder who the dickens put 
 the idea into Angie's head ! I kept the whole thing as dark 
 as I could, and did my best to put her off the scent. Did 
 you ever hear them say anything about coming up in May 
 when you were staying with us last vac., Jimmy ? 
 
 2ND U. (blushes guiltily}. N-n-o, not exactly. I think 
 I did hear your mother say she hoped to come up to see 
 you in your new rooms some day, as she was particularly 
 anxious to see how you had arranged the brackets she had 
 given you. 
 
 IST U. Oh, she's said that kind of thing for a long 
 time without coming. And last May I really wanted them 
 to come, but they wouldn't hear of it. I'm sure Angie's 
 at the bottom of it all. 
 
 2ND U. But why don't you want them? 
 
 IST U. Well you're the last man that ought to ask me 
 that. I've got to row, and I must do some reading, and 
 I don't care about dancing, and it takes up a frightful 
 amount of time to look after rooms and all that. I'll write 
 and put them off. 
 
 A pause. Re-enter BEDMAKER with tea. 
 
 B. There, sir, I've made your tea ; but that 'ere dratted 
 kettle's pretty nigh burnt my left thumb in two. I can't 
 abide them new-fangled things. [Exit. 
 
 2ND U. (pulling himself together). Look here, Reggie, 
 I don't mind looking after rooms and tickets and all that. 
 I'm fairly on in my reading, and as I'm not rowing I could 
 easily manage to take your people about a bit, if you 
 can't do it.
 
 SOME ONE ELSE'S SISTER. 89 
 
 IST U. My dear old chap, I couldn't think of giving 
 you such frightful trouble. 
 
 2ND U. Oh, I should enjoy it, I assure you. I don't 
 mind the trouble a bit. I told your sister that I (breaks 
 off suddenly, on the point of giving himself away, and ends 
 irrelevantly] didn't mean to row this term. 
 
 IST U. (suspiciously}. What did you tell her that for? 
 Did you say anything about her coming here? 
 
 2ND U. (eagerly). Not a word. Why should I ? But 
 of course, if they come, I'll do what I can for them. 
 
 IST U. (after reflecting for a time}. Well, Jimmy, if 
 you really don't mind lending a hand, I think it might be 
 managed. But it'll be rather a bore. 
 
 The breakfast ends. 2ND U. departs. 
 
 2ND U. (to himself in the court ; throivs his cap into the 
 air). Chuck her up. That's ripping. Whoo-oop ! Must 
 prevent my own people from coming, though.
 
 XIII. 
 SEEING LIFE IN LONDON. 
 
 SCENE. The Bristol Restaurant; 8 p.m. Four under- 
 graduates BARNACLE, GROBY, PHILPOT of Trinity, 
 and DALBY of Trinity Hall have just seated themselves 
 at one of the tables near the windows. They are spotlessly 
 arrayed, their white ties being of the latest butterfly 
 pattern. There is a large gathering of diners of both 
 sexes, all in evening dress, with the exception of one 
 family party of foreigners, who are staying in the 
 hotel. These, however, in spite of their defective tenue, 
 seem to be enjoying themselves, the men having tucked 
 their napkins into their collars to enable them to eat 
 without injury to their waistcoats. A waiter approaches 
 the undergraduates. 
 
 WAITER. Vill you take tick soup or tin, sare ? 
 
 GROBY. What's " tick soup " ? Here, Dolly, you've been 
 to the Paris Exhibition, and understand French. Just you 
 talk to the beggar. 
 
 DALBY. Right. (To the waiter) Gassong, nous voulong. 
 Oh, dash it ! We'll have some haw douvers first, and go on 
 with bisque. 
 
 WAITER. Yes, sare ; any vine, sare ? 
 90
 
 SEEING LIFE IN LONDON. 91 
 
 DALBY. Yes, send a wine card. 
 
 Wine-butler approaches, bearing a wine card, his 
 chain of office round his neck. 
 
 DALBY. Now, what'll you fellows drink ? 
 
 PHILPOT. Oh, "boy," of course. Let's start with a 
 magnum. 
 
 DALBY. Of course, we'll drink " boy " ; but what sort ? 
 Pommery, or Heidsieck, or P.J. ? 
 
 PHILPOT. P.J. for me. Good old P.J. ! 
 
 BARNACLE and GROBY. Yes, of course, we must drink P.J. 
 
 DALBY. Very well; waiter, let's have a magnum of P.J. 
 in ice. (To his friends) It's the devil's own price, you 
 know ; but it's no good bothering about price when you 
 dine at a shop like this. 
 
 PHILPOT. No, by gad ; d n the expense ; that's my 
 
 motto. 
 
 BARNACLE and GROBY. And mine too. I hate mean 
 
 chaps. 
 
 They begin dinner. 
 
 BARNACLE. What have you been up to all day, Dolly ? 
 
 DALBY. Oh, I don't know. I slept till eleven. Should 
 have gone on sleeping, I daresay, if the governor hadn't 
 come in and lost his hair. Said he couldn't make out the 
 young men of the present day : nothing but sleep in the 
 morning and extravagance all the rest of the day. Wanted 
 to know what I meant by chucking my boots outside into 
 the passage for him to trip over on his way to breakfast. 
 I suppose I must have done it, but can't make out why I 
 did it. Governor ended by saying he wouldn't have his 
 house treated like a hotel, and I must come down in time 
 for breakfast. Said I was setting a shocking example to
 
 92 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 the younger members of the family and the servants. So 
 (ivith a deep sigh] I've got to play the early-bird trick for a 
 bit. What have you been doing, Phil ? 
 
 PHILPOT. Nothing much. Bought some new ties this 
 afternoon. (Sips his champagne, sips again, sniffs.} Oh, I 
 say, confound it, you know; this wine's corked. 
 
 They all sip and sniff, and shake their heads ominously. 
 BARNACLE. Let's call the waiter ; pst, waiter ! 
 
 A waiter comes up. 
 
 PHILPOT (his courage oozing). This wine's not right, you 
 know, waiter. I'm sure it's corked. 
 
 Waiter tastes ; he smiles a confident but pitying smile. 
 WAITER. No, sare, it's not corked ; only very dry. It 
 is a brut wine ; de best in de cellars. 
 
 [Hurries to another table. 
 
 GROBV, BARNACLE, and DALBY. I told you so, Philpot. 
 You're always so blooming cunning. 
 
 PHILPOT (annoyed}. Why, you all thought it was corked 
 yourselves a moment ago. 
 
 The dinner proceeds. Another magnum is called for 
 and broached. The four begin to get flushed and 
 slightly iiproarious. 
 
 FOREIGN GENTLEMAN (at a neighbouring table to his ivife). 
 Regarde moi ces gaillards, Anastasie, comme ils boivent. 
 Rien qu' a les voir on se sent devenir gris. 
 
 GROBY. There's that stout old French lady filling you, 
 Ogle. No (solemnly, and with deliberation} : I mean, ogling 
 you, Phil. 
 
 PHILPOT. Let's drink her health (is restrained with diffi- 
 culty by BARNACLE). Here, I say, waiter, where's that ice 
 pudding ? We can't wait all night ; and let's have some
 
 SEEING LIFE IN LONDON. 93 
 
 old brandy, good old brandy, with it. Where shall we go 
 afterwards ? 
 
 BARNACLE (slightly morose}. Settle it for yourselves. 
 All I say is donappealtome, 'cos I doncareakick. Who'll 
 dringabumper ? Here, Dolly, you must. I drink " Death to 
 Trinity Hall ! " Ha, ha ! tha's good ! 
 
 DALBY (slightly serious}. All ri', donmakesharow. " Down 
 with Trinity ! " I'm on (they drink bumpers}. 
 
 PHILPOT (pulling himself together, and articulating dis- 
 tinctly}. Wai-ter, bring us my bill, be-cause we have made 
 an appoint-to-pointment (laughs feebly} to be at 'lambra. 
 
 Bill of 'about j is brought. They toss with sovereigns 
 who shall pay. BARNACLE'S sovereign rolls under 
 the table. " Waiter, you may have that,' says 
 DALBY. The waiter picks it up, and pockets it. 
 The lot falls on GROBY, who insists on paying 
 with four five-pound twtes, though the waiter 
 hints that two ivill be enough. They light cigar- 
 ettes, roll out of the room, laughing, enter cafa, 
 and are driven to the Alhambra, which they enter. 
 They walk up and down the promenade. 
 
 DALBY (who, by the way, stands five feet Jive in his pumps, 
 and wears an eyeglass}. What was that the chucker-out 
 said to me ? Wha's he mean ? How dare he ? I shall 
 challenge him with the bare knuckles, Queensberry rules, 
 for ^500 a side. I'll teach him to bully me. I'll tell him 
 I'm Sandow. Sure to fetch him. Where's ole Phil, dear 
 ole Phil ? I can't bear to soose light, that is (with dignity} 
 to lose sight ole Phil. (Shottts} " Phil, Phil ! " 
 
 Loud cries of hush from the promenaders.*
 
 94 
 
 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 BARNACLE. Shtup ! You're getting 'toxicated, dreadfully 
 'toxicated. Lesgoway. Too hot here. 
 
 They walk downstairs, and meet GROBY and PHILPOT 
 at the bottom. All four go out. They attempt to 
 sing " Ask a Pleeceman." They eat oysters at 
 a. bar, and leave hurriedly. They walk along 
 Piccadilly. 
 
 A CABMAN (to DALBY). 'Ere you, sir, leave go o' my 'oss. 
 
 DALBY. All ri'. I only want to kiss him on the nose 
 
 on the middle of his nose. Mother always told me must 
 
 be kind to dumb ani (breaks off; glares at PHILPOT). 
 
 Annie ? Who said Annie ? Who dared to mention lady's 
 name this time of night? All ri', Bobby, we'll pass away. 
 
 They pass : so does the time. At 12.30 a.m. a limp 
 shape, bearing a distant but dissipated resemblance 
 to the spruce and spotless DALBY, is helped by the 
 cabman out of a four-wheeler at the door of a 
 mansion in Belgrave Square. 
 
 DALBY (faintly, sitting on the doorstep}. Where's my 
 hat ? Front door's all upside-down. Goobye, everybody, 
 goobye. 
 
 Four-wheeler drives off, with BARNACLE hanging out 
 
 of the window, weeping. 
 ***** 
 
 NEXT MORNING. 
 
 MAJOR-GENERAL DALBY, V.C. (at the family breakfast- 
 table, to MRS. D.). Adolphus is late again. This is quite 
 intolerable. 
 
 MRS. DALBY. I knocked at his door, dear ; but he told 
 me he had got such a bad headache, he thought he must 
 have caught the influenza. Better let the poor boy sleep,
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF TUBBING ; OR, HOW 
 WE MANUFACTURE OARSMEN. 
 
 SCENE. The boat-yard of a considerable College Boat Club. 
 Time, 2.30/.;. on an October day. About a dozen fresh- 
 men in brand-new boating uniforms are standing about 
 in forlorn and listless attitudes. As a rule, their uniforms 
 look about a size too large for them. They have a cold 
 and unhappy appearance. Two or three talk together 
 in undertones. Others stand solitary. The boatman 
 and the boy bustle about with boat-hooks, occasionally 
 launching a tub or pulling another to land. Five 
 second or third-year men, also in uniforms, are chatting 
 and laughing together. They are part of the cnw of 
 one of the College Trial Eights. On the balcony of the 
 boat-house are more freshmen, leaning over the rail and 
 looking with interest at nothing in particular. At the 
 windows figures of semi-nude rowing men appear and 
 disappear. On the river the usual confusion of boats 
 bustles up and down. One of the College captains 
 comes down the stairs and approaches the freshmen 
 below. He is a small tnan, but important. He rowed 
 bow in a lower boat of the College last May, am/, being 
 
 95
 
 96 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 still in an official sense a new broom, he tries to sweep 
 the freshmen very clean. They gather round him with 
 a faint reneival of interest. 
 
 COLLEGE CAPTAIN (reading from a list). Hobson ! Bar- 
 field ! Cripps ! Why, where the deuce have they all got 
 to ? I never saw such a slack lot. 
 
 FRESHMAN (timidly). I think they went away five minutes 
 ago. They said they'd been waiting half an hour and 
 couldn't stop any longer. 
 
 C. C. (with infinite scorn). Oh ! that's it, is it ? I 
 suppose they all expect to be shoved into the 'Varsity 
 Eight right off. I say (shouting up to the balcony}, 
 Naylor ! 
 
 NAYLOR, the first captain, appears from a window. 
 He wears a light blue cap. A shiver of respectful 
 awe goes through the throng. 
 
 NAYLOR. What's up ? 
 
 C. C. Why, three of these blooming freshmen have 
 gone off without a word. What shall I do ? 
 
 N. Do ? Why, take the next on the list, of course. 
 What else do you want to do ? (Re-enters room, annoyed. 
 A faint laugh from the crowd.) 
 
 C. C. Well, anyhow, I call it confounded cheek. (Reading 
 again) Savage ! 
 
 SAVAGE. Here. 
 
 C. C. Borrodaile ! 
 
 BORRODAILE. Here. 
 
 C. C. Right you are. I'll take you two. Get in and try 
 your stretchers.
 
 THE PLEASURES OF TUBBING. 97 
 
 SAVAGE, a tall, thin man of about six feet two, and 
 BORRODAILE, a stout freshman of about five feet 
 four, enter a tub, the former at bow, the latter at 
 stroke. They sit down, and look helplessly at their 
 feel. Bow has his feet against his stretcher and 
 his knees up to his chin ; stroke sits ivith his legs 
 extended, and the points of his toes against the 
 stretcher. 
 
 C. C. (standing in the ster?i). Oh! that'll never do. You 
 must change seats. (They do so without leaving the boat. 
 As they pass one another bow trips over his seat and falls 
 headfirst against his captain, whom he precipitates backivards, 
 falling on the top of him). 
 
 SAVAGE, (feeling that his last chances of success as an oar 
 have vanished). I'm awfully sorry. I hope you're not hurt. 
 C. C. (recovering his wind). Clumsiest thing I ever saw. 
 You're only fit for a barge. Now, then, get hold of your 
 oars. Shove her off, Tom. Now mind you attend to me 
 both of you. Forward. Get forward, bow. Good heavens J 
 you haven't moved an inch. 
 
 S. (purple in the face with the strain, and gasping). I 
 can't get further. It's no good. I'm trying like 
 blazes. 
 
 C. C. (patronizingly). Well, never mind. We all begin 
 like that. You'll do better in time. Oar flat on the water, 
 stroke. You needn't hold it up in the air like a railway 
 signal. When I say "row," be careful to get a good grip 
 of the beginning, and swing back with a hard kick off the 
 stretchers. (A freshmen's tub from another College bears 
 down upon them.) Look ahead, sir ! Look ahead there ! 
 (Bang! Mutual apologies. Extrication). Just like those 
 
 W.I..-V1H. 
 
 7
 
 9 8 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 beastly corkers. Always running into somebody. They 
 want the whole river to themselves. Forward ! Are you 
 ready? Paddle. (They paddle.} Bow, you're digging; 
 stroke, you mustn't bend your arms so soon swing back 
 more. You're both digging awfully. Sit up sit up ! 
 Finish longer. You must finish it out. Bow, you're 
 feathering under water : take it out clean. Hands away. 
 Pooh ! you're as slow as an excursion train. Swing steadily. 
 Stroke, you're tumbling about like an old sack. Oh, this 
 is awful ! Easy all. (They easy.) Really, you know, if you 
 can't do better than that, it's no use coming down at all. 
 Sit up, both of you, when you're easying. Bow, you really 
 must (A long explanation. It is emphasised and illus- 
 trated by gestures, such as dt awing the hands in to the chest, 
 and darting them out as if at an enemy.} There, now, you 
 see what you ought to do, don't you ? 
 
 Bow (doubtfully). Yes. 
 
 Appearance of a UNIVERSITY OAR tubbing two Trial 
 Eight men. He nods to the COLLEGE CAPTAIN. 
 
 C. C. (pleased). When are the Trials going out ? 
 
 UNIVERSITY OAR. As soon as I get back. (To his men) 
 Paddle on. 
 
 C. C. (to his freshmen}. That's Pollard. He's strong 
 as a buffalo; but as to form he's no good at all. Looks 
 more like a bumboat woman than anything else when he's 
 rowing. 
 
 STROKE (rashly). Are you rowing in the Trials ? 
 
 C. C. (nettled}. No, not exactly. I believe my name 
 was sent up. (Sternly) Forward, ready, paddle. (The 
 process already described is repeated. Finally they turn, and 
 after several adventures they reach home}.
 
 THE PLEASURES OF TUBBING. 99 
 
 C. C. (landing). That was a bit better. Now, then, are 
 there any more ready ? Next lot come on. 
 
 Bow (to STROKE). What was that he said about puffing 
 out my chest ? 
 
 STROKE. I don't know. In fact, I didn't understand a 
 word he said. Did you ? 
 
 Bow. Not a word.
 
 XV. 
 
 TRAINING FOR THE LENT RACES. 
 
 SCENE. A room in College. A fire is burning in the 
 grate ; an oil lamp and four candles are the illuminants. 
 On the walls hang two boating groups (photographs, 
 that is, of men with bare legs and fixed expressions], 
 three cheap engravings, one expensive one which dwarfs 
 the rest, two coats of arms (School and College} on tin, 
 and two works of art due to the immature pencil of the 
 tenant of the rooms. There is a bookshelf, half the 
 shelves of which are empty ; the other half is filled 
 with ten yellow-backed novels (favourite author, Hawley 
 Smart}, five volumes of the Badminton Library, " Mr. 
 Sponge's Sporting Tour," TodhunteSs Algebra, a 
 Latin Dictionary, a Greek Lexicon, a " Gradus ad
 
 TRAINING FOR THE LENT RACES. lot 
 
 Parnassum" and a feiv others similar in character. On 
 a 'sideboard are two three-handled pewters. A carved 
 wood letter-rack, and a ditto for pipes, are fixed near 
 the writing-table. A large table, loaded with glasses 
 and dishes containing oranges, figs, prunes, and raisins, 
 occupies the centre of the room. Ten undergraduates, 
 the crew of the Lent boat, with their cox and their 
 captain, are seated round it. It is eight o'clock, and 
 they have just come from Hall in a state of repletion. 
 Two decanters (claret and port) are being passed round. 
 
 CAPTAIN OF THE CREW (sternly^ to a heavy man). Ah ! 
 would you ? I knew you'd be at it, Jollop, so I've had my 
 eye on you. I told you you might have half a glass of port 
 extra all round because you did a fair course, and there you 
 go and fill your second glass to the brim. I won't stand 
 it. It's perfectly disgraceful, breaking training in this way 
 every day. I wonder you don't keep strict for your own 
 sake. How can you ever expect to take an ounce off those 
 thirteen stone of yours if you keep on swilling port like 
 that? 
 
 JOLLOP (meekly}. Well, I didn't mean to do it ; but 
 there, I clean forgot about its being only half a glass extra. 
 
 CAPTAIN. Very well ; but don't let it happen again. 
 How do you feel to-night, Plaister ? 
 
 PL/ ISTER (who is sitting on a cushion}. Oh, a shade 
 better ; but it's awful work, rowing like this. ( We omit all 
 medical details^ I think I've got another one coming on 
 the other side. 
 
 CAPTAIN. Ah ! I made sure of that when I saw you put 
 away your third helping of beef last night. Where it all
 
 102 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 goes to I don't know. You don't seem to rise in weight a 
 bit. I say, Brownlow (in a stage-aside to his neighbour), 
 don't you think we had better put in Plugger at once ? 
 
 PLAISTER (alarmed). Oh, I shall be all right to-morrow. 
 I only had two helps of chicken and two plates of stewed 
 fruit and rice to-day. 
 
 CAPTAIN. Well, I'll give you another chance. Now 
 then, Jollop, you've had quite enough figs ! Hand over the 
 dish to me, and don't eat anything more. 
 
 JOLLOP (furiously}. Well, all I can say is, I think it's 
 a jolly shame. I'm not allowed to touch a drop of liquor ; 
 I can't eat a crumb without the whole crew jumping down 
 my throat ; and then I'm expected to do fifty times as 
 much work as any one else just because I weigh a few 
 pounds more. Hadn't you better train me on groundsel 
 at once ? I know what'll happen. I shall get stale. 
 
 DIMINUTIVE Cox. All right, Jumbo, old man. Keep 
 your shirt in. Did they take his bottle away, then, and 
 mustn't he eat figs ? (Ducks to avoid an orange aimed by 
 JOLLOP'S hand. The orange explodes against the wall behind. ) 
 Lord ! one might think you'd been brought up with an Aunt 
 Sally show, you're so careful not to hit. (Ducks again. 
 Same result.} Come, come, don't begin to rag yet. 
 
 CAPTAIN. I say, did any of you fellows see those corkers 
 in the Boniface boat trying to get over the course to-day ? 
 I clocked them beautifully. They're slow all over the 
 course. Never got above thirty-three, and their five 
 sugaring awfully the whole way. I never saw such a 
 wretched devil in all my life. He oughtn't to be allowed 
 to live. However, you fellows can't help bumping them 
 with him 'and that miserable stroke in the boat. There
 
 TRAINING FOR THE LENT RACES. 103 
 
 never was a Boniface man yet that pulled his shoestrings. 
 Why they put Hammond in the 'Varsity last year / never 
 could make out. I'd engage to do more work w r ith my little 
 finger ; but then (Bitterly) they never look at a man's work 
 nowadays. If you can't hold on with your outside hand 
 you're nobody. Pass me the port, Cox. (Consoles himself c .) 
 
 JOLLOP. Oh, the Boniface men are not such awful stiff uns 
 as the Somerset lot. Their stroke's got a back as round as 
 Plaister's face, and four keeps on wagging his head like a 
 Chinese mandarin. They all feather hard under water, and 
 their two constantly takes one hand off his oar to scratch his 
 beard. And then the voice of the chap who coaches them. 
 Why, you can hear it from Baitsbite to the Bridge, and 
 such perfect rot, too. Always " Sit up, sit up ; more work, 
 more work : four, mind the time ; don't lug with your arms." 
 
 DIM. Cox. Yes, I heard him shouting that yesterday. 
 Two bargees were standing on the bank, and the one said to 
 the other : " D'ye hear that, Bill ? He bain't to pull wi' 
 his arms. Be he to pull with his bloomin' nose, I wonder ? " 
 
 CAPTAIN (with surperiority). Ignorant fools ! Well, you 
 won't be bumped by Somerset, I fancy, not as long as 
 they're coached by that fool. By the way, I noticed that 
 seven in the Boniface boat wasn't rowing to-day, and Bill 
 told me he's got the mumps ; and their four got bally- 
 ragging last night, and the whole crew fell on him, and 
 precious nearly broke his back. I saw 'em do it, and I tell 
 you he looked bad when they smoothed him out. I don't 
 think he'll go on long. 
 
 THE CREW. Hurrah ! that's splendid. 
 
 A FRESHMAN (to the CAPTAIN). Do you mind passing the 
 claret ?
 
 104 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 CAFFAIN. No, I'll be blowed if I do. You've had as 
 much as you want already. I tell you what it is : all you 
 freshmen are getting too confoundedly uppish. It's " pass 
 me this " and " bring me the other " all day long. Why, 
 last term two of 'em had the cheek to tell me they'd been 
 waiting half an hour to be tubbed, and they didn't mean to 
 spend the whole afternoon kicking their heels about, and off 
 they went. I don't know what the club's coming to. 
 PLAISTER. How did the 'Varsity go to-day ? 
 CAPTAIN. Oh, fairly well. But they can never go 
 properly as long as Piddock remains in the boat. In the 
 first place, he does no work. I could pull him round if I 
 rowed with a kitchen fork. Then, he's got about as much 
 idea of watermanship as a tailor has of riding. I was 
 speaking to the President to-day, he often consults me, 
 and I told him what I thought of the whole business. I 
 think there'll be a change soon. They want a man in the 
 place who can really work and sit a light ship. Then they'll 
 cover some water. 
 
 JOLLOP. I say, where do we breakfast to-morrow ? I 
 think it's your turn, Cox. Whatever you do, have enough 
 squish. I only got about enough this morning to cover a 
 threepenny piece. 
 
 DIM. Cox. I can't cater for squish-devouring elephants. 
 You must really bring your own pot, Jollop. 
 
 Another orange. The Cox returns it. Others join in 
 the fray. Two silent men begin without any 
 warning to struggle for an armchair, the legs of 
 which, after a gallant resistance, collapse with a 
 crash. Down go the two strugglers. Four others 
 hurl themselves on the top of the heap. Shouts,
 
 TRAINING FOR THE LENT RACES. 105 
 
 clouds of dust in fact, a bally-rag, which only 
 subsides, after ten crowded minutes, into exhaus- 
 tion. 
 
 JOLLOP (panting, from the wreck of the armchair). There's 
 nothing like a good old bally-rag to pull you together. I 
 feel twice as fit. I think I could just manage a bit of reading 
 now. So good-night, Plaister. (Picks himself up, selects the 
 best cap and gown, and departs.} 
 
 THE REST (in succession). Good-night, Plaister. Mind 
 you get out into the backs in good time to-morrow, and no 
 drink on the sly. 
 
 PLAISTER (the owner of the rooms'). Never fear. Good- 
 night, everybody. Well, thank Heaven, they're gone at last ! 
 What'll the governor say when he hears they've smashed 
 the armchair he gave me ? (Sports his oak.] I'm as dry as 
 a lime-kiln. I'm sure that must be bad for me. (Opens a 
 cupboard, produces a bottle of soda, and opens it.} I hope 
 nobody heard the cork go off. Never mind ; here goes. 
 (But on this scene of horrible depravity we must draw a veil.}
 
 XVI. 
 AT THE BO AT RACES IN JUNE. 
 
 SCENE. Ditton Corner. The Second Division boats have 
 raced past about five minutes ago. The excitement has 
 subsided. Undergraduates, with fathers, mothers, sisters, 
 cousins (their own and those of their friends}, are 
 assembled on carriages, on fool, and in boats waiting 
 for the First Division race. Photographers, professional 
 and amateur, are doing a brisk business on both sides 
 of the river. Punts of an antiquated build are plying 
 from side to side. 
 
 ON THE WATER. 
 
 A MOTHER (in a boat with two sons, a daughter, and a 
 friend of the sons). Algernon, are you sure we are safe here ? 
 The boat rolled quite dreadfully when the crews raced by 
 
 just now; I really think we had better (To gentleman in 
 
 next boat, who is attaching the rowlocks of the hvo boats to 
 one another] Oh, pray be careful, I know our boat cannot 
 possibly bear more weight. 
 
 IST SON (under his breath). All right, mother, all right. 
 Don't fidget so much ; we're as safe as a house here. (To 
 approaching boat} Look ahead, sir ; look ahead ; there's no 
 
 106
 
 AT THE BOATRACES IN JUNE. 107 
 
 room here. (Crash.} Here, Leslie, shove her off. (They 
 shove the invaders off.} 
 
 MOTHER. There ; we've sprung a leak. I knew it would 
 happen ! 
 
 2ND SON. No, mother, we're quite sound so far. You 
 sit tight, and you'll be as right as the Bank of England. 
 
 MOTHER (to daughter). Oh, Mabel, look there, isn't that 
 Mrs. Quallett with her two frights of daughters ? No, no, 
 not there. Standing up in that carriage at the back with a 
 red parasol. Well, I must say I wonder she cares to take 
 her girls about at all. 
 
 MABEL (with a faint appearance of interest}. They 
 certainly are not pretty. (Resumes her conversation with 
 friend.} 
 
 PHOTOGRAPHER (on tow-path side to croivd generally, in 
 confidential tone). Now then, ladies and gentlemen, just 
 one moment, please. Quite still ; only one moment. 
 
 MOTHER. Oh, we're being photographed. Mabel, do 
 smile. Algernon, take your hat off. Leslie, turn your 
 full face to the camera. (To friend} Mr. Dockett will 
 hold on to the post, I'm sure. There. 
 
 P. (still appealing to crowd, most of whom neither see nor 
 hear him}. Now, all of you perfectly still while I count 
 five (removes cap} one, two, three, four, five. Thank you, 
 ladies and gentlemen. 
 
 ON THE TOW-PATH SIDE. 
 
 CAPTAIN OF CREW (to RUNNING, ENTHUSIAST). Have you 
 got all your men organised, Jack ? 
 
 RUNNING ENTHUSIAST. Yes, I've got eight of them posted 
 all the way from Grassy to the finish. I shall start with
 
 io8 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 you, and hand the rattle on to Bellamy, who will pass it to 
 Wilkins, and so on. One turn means you're gaining, two 
 turns you're within a length, and if it's kept going con- 
 tinuously you'll know you're half a length off and gaining 
 still. 
 
 CAPTAIN. Who has got the bell ? 
 
 R. E. Soulsby. He's half-way up the Long Reach. 
 
 CAPTAIN (with the needle* upon hint). Right, I must be 
 off, and get into the boat. What was that you said ? Let 
 me see, I've forgotten something. Where's my beeswax ? 
 Now do be careful about the rattle. Keep it going. 
 
 R. E. You've got the needle. 
 
 CAPTAIN. /? Never was less nervous in my life. I saw 
 the Trinity men just now, though, pale as sheets and 
 quivering like aspens. Now then, where are stroke and 
 six ? Confound them ! They're never in time. I wonder 
 what the dickens they can be up to ? Oh, and there's 
 two actually running. What a fool he is ! Seven, for 
 heaven's sake, don't put your hoof through the boat. 
 Five, is your oar all right ? (And so forth.} 
 
 IN THE DITTON PADDOCK. 
 
 PRETTY COUSIN (to non-rowing man). Oh, how grand it 
 must be to row, and make ever so many humps every day ! 
 But the other poor men must feel very sad; I am quite 
 sorry for them. I wish you'd explain it all to me again, 
 Bertie. 
 
 BERTIE (a shade perplexed ; he seeks to gain time]. It's 
 rather dull to go all over it again, you know. Besides, it's 
 not very easy. I fancy most of the men rowing don't quite 
 
 * " The needle'' i.e., nervousness.
 
 AT THE BOATRACES IN JUNE. 109 
 
 understand it themselves. (Receives no encouragement, and 
 has to phtnge.} Well, you see, all the crews start in a certain 
 order, and when one makes a bump they go up and the 
 others go down, and so on all through, and it goes on for 
 four nights, and they all start a certain distance apart, 
 
 and (Sees succour from an unexpected quarter] Look out, 
 
 Netta, there's a fly just going to settle on the back of your 
 neck. 
 
 P. C. Oh, do keep it off ! Thank you so much. Here 
 comes a boat. What pretty colours ! How thin thai little 
 man near the point of the boat looks ! They do row beau- 
 tifully, don't they, Bertie? (And so forth.} 
 
 A FATHER (to his son). In my time we never had half 
 such a crowd to look at us, but you young fellows nowadays 
 can do nothing without applause. Why, I remember in 
 '60 ( Becomes reminiscent. ) 
 
 AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHER (on the tow-path}. Just once 
 more, if you please, quite still. Now then one, two, three, 
 four, five. Thank you.
 
 XVII. 
 
 AN AFTERNOON WITH THE UNIVERSITY 
 EIGHT. 
 
 s 
 
 CENE I. The yard of the Goldie Boathouse. Time, 3.15 
 p.m. on any day in February (the year is absolutely 
 immaterial}. Tubbing has just ended, but the light ship 
 is not yet launched. The crew have apparently been 
 severely talked to in the tubs, for their faces are as 
 long as their nether garments are short. They are 
 wandering about the yard in groups. The COACH and 
 the PRESIDENT are holding an animated conversation 
 apart. The boatman is tinkering at the boat. Two 
 reporters for sporting papers are also present. 
 
 COACH (to PRESIDENT). Well, there it is. I tried him in 
 every way, but I couldn't make him work. I really think it's 
 useless going on with him. However, I told him and all 
 the rest of them too, for the matter of that that it was 
 probably their last day in the crew. That may wake them 
 up a bit. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Yes, there's nothing like frightening them. 
 What work shall we do to-day ? 
 
 C. Some long pieces of paddling, and one or two short 
 bits of rowing on the way down.
 
 AFTERNOON WITH UNIVERSITY EIGHT, in 
 
 P. What do you think of a Bridge to Bridge ? 
 
 C. (who likes his own way). Well, I think I wouldn't go 
 farther than the Willows to-day if I were you. 
 
 P. All right. We'll get out now. (To the crew) Now 
 then, Eight out. 
 
 The Eight is launched. COACH and reporters cross in 
 the grind. The latter having noticed the prevail- 
 ing depression, have made the following mental 
 note for their reports: "Some startling changes 
 in the order of rowing may be looked for in a day 
 or two." 
 
 SCENE II. On the Opposite Bank. 
 A croivd has gathered to watch the start. 
 
 IST ROWING MAN (to another in rowing costume). Hal- 
 loa ! Aren't you rowing to-day ? Why, I thought you were 
 safe. 
 
 2ND ROWING MAN (gloomily). Oh, nobody's safe now. 
 I suppose (with bitterness) my back wasn't round enough 
 to match with the rest of them. I've got to run down to 
 Baitsbite. He told me I should probably not be wanted, 
 but I'd better go, as they might want to make a change, 
 and the run would do my legs good. Why doesn't he run 
 a bit himself, then ? 
 
 UNDERGRADUATE (to his mother, whom he has escorted to 
 the river). There, mother, that's the President, getting in 
 now. 
 
 MOTHER (in a tone of disappointment). Why, he doesn't 
 look such a very big, strong man, after all. You're quite as
 
 ii2 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 big as he is, John. Why don't you put on your pretty row- 
 ing coat and go and row with them ? 
 
 U. I don't know, mother. They haven't seemed parti- 
 cularly anxious for my company, you see. That's one 
 reason. 
 
 M. That's absurd. You ought to tell them you are 
 willing to row ; otherwise they can't know. 
 
 U. (humouring her). Of course ; but it isn't jeally much 
 fun, you see, and it wastes a lot of time. 
 
 COACH (who has by this time mounted his horse, and ridden 
 up, impatiently to the creiv). Come along, come along ! I 
 never saw such a lot of carpenters. There's always some- 
 thing to prevent us getting started. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Four's stretcher has got wrong. 
 
 C. Four as usual. He's always got something wrong. 
 
 Four feels that his death-warrant has been signed. At 
 length the boat is shoved off, and a start is made. 
 
 C. (riding alongside and shouting vigorously). More 
 beginning all through the boat. Four, you're late. More 
 beginning ; get those shoulders on to it. Two, don't bucket. 
 Steadily forward, all of you. That won't do. More be- 
 ginning, all of you. (He leans foru'ard in his saddle, and 
 shouts more and more vigorously, until his words to the un- 
 initiated sound something like this) Si-i-i-ixyaroarwashoute 
 ndmemberwhatoldyountubwhadevilginningsidehand. Easy, 
 Cox ! (Cox takes no notice : no cox ever does.} EASY, Cox ! 
 (No notice.) EASY, COX ! ! ! (They easy.) 
 
 C. (furiously). Look here, Cox, it's not a bit of use 
 my roaring myself hoarse if you won't listen ! I wish you'd 
 attend to me.
 
 AFTERNOON WITH UNIVERSITY EIGHT. 113 
 
 Cox (meekly). I didn't hear you. 
 
 PRESIDENT (sternly). Shut up, Cox ! 
 
 COACH (to crew). That was a shocking bit of paddling. 
 No life about it at all. Now, just listen to me. I must 
 have that beginning more marked all through. Just let me 
 see you really try. And your hands are as slow as (simile 
 fails hint) as slow as anything. Four, sit up when you're 
 easying, and don't talk. I might just as well talk Russian 
 if you're all going to chatter in the boat. (To enthusiast 
 who is holding on to his stirrup leather) That fellow, four, 
 is breaking my heart. He won't do a thing I tell him. 
 
 They proceed in this manner to Baitsbite, where they 
 disembark. 
 
 SCENE III. At Baitsbite. 
 
 COACH (dismounted. He seizes one of the crew. The rest 
 look on with assumed cheerfulness, not knowing whose turn 
 may come next.) This is what I want you to do. (He 
 thumps him in the ribs, strikes him on the back, works his 
 arms like pistons, and chucks him under the chin to make him 
 hold his head up.) You see it's perfectly easy. 
 
 ONE OF THE CREW (dubiously). Ye-e-s, I see. 
 They re-embark after a time and return. 
 
 SCENE IV. Back at the boathouse. 
 
 COACH. That was a little better, that last piece ; but it 
 was far too sluggish still. 
 
 Concluding sentences of report in sporting paper on the 
 following morning : 
 
 "The crew returned in four pieces, thus concluding a 
 iv. L.-VIII. g
 
 H4 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 capital afternoon's work. The improvement shown was 
 ' most satisfactory, and ought to give great encouragement to 
 the supporters of the light blue ' banner.' It is rumoured, 
 however, that some startling changes may be expected to- 
 day or to-morrow."
 
 s 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 A DRESS REHEARSAL. 
 
 CENE. The theatre of the Amateur Dramatic Club 
 during a dress rehearsal of the burlesque of " Crazy 
 Cornelia; or, Livy the Loafer and the Lost Latch- 
 key." Time, 9.30 p.m. On the stage is COR- 
 NELIA (represented by a muscular member of the 
 Rugby Union Football Club) in a flowing Roman 
 garb, with a sage-green sash tied tightly round the 
 place where a waist ought to be. CORNELIA'S figure 
 is ample ; she wears a blonde wig, and has an air of 
 coy feminine grace which suits ill with a pair of sinewy 
 arms and large hands. She reclines upon a couch on 
 the O. P. side. In the body of the house is a miscellaneous 
 collection of members, some dressed for their parts as 
 senators, gladiators, maidens, Roman mashers, Roman 
 lictors, consuls, and the plebs, others in English evening 
 dress. A stout member of the Club is asleep on a bench. 
 The STAGE MANAGER, in tights, as MARCUS CURIUS 
 ELASTICUS, is superintending matters. He is terribly 
 harassed, and but for the fact that he wears a close- 
 cropped wig would unquestionably tear his hair. The 
 band is present, and rouses the STAGE MANAGER to fury 
 by its futile struggles with the music. The audience is 
 
 "5
 
 ii 6 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 mostly smoking. Boys in buttons appear now and then 
 with lemon squashes. An old member of the A. D. C., 
 a rising light of the London stage, is present. 
 
 STAGE MANAGER (to CORNELIA). Now then, Toltimore, 
 wake up. " Drowned in a cask of musty Massic wine," is 
 your cue. Do be a bit brisker, and for heaven's sake 
 remember you haven't got a moustache, and don't keep on 
 stroking your upper lip. 
 
 POLTIMORE. All right, I'll shave it to-night. Now then, 
 where's the prompter ? How do I begin ? 
 
 S. M. Oh, bother that fellow Eykin ! where is he ? Here 
 (shouting), Eykin, Eykin! (Enter EYKIN /TW the further 
 room.} What on earth do you mean by sloping off like 
 that ? You must stick to your prompting to-night. Now 
 then, Cornelia. 
 
 CORNELIA (rising}, 
 
 He's gone and never cast a look behind ; 
 
 He might at least have stayed with me and dined. 
 
 When next the rascal ventures to propose, 
 
 His ears shall tingle with my Roman noes. 
 
 S. M. Oh, that'll never do ! You're drawling it out just 
 as if you were proposing a resolution at a temperance 
 meeting. You must put more point into it. Try it again. 
 
 POLTIMORE (with a sigh of resignation}. All right. How 
 do you like this ? (Repeats the lines with a tremendous 
 emphasis on "ears" and "noes."} 
 
 S. M. That's better, but you needn't roar like a bull. 
 (To the old member) What do you think, Battersby ? 
 
 BATTERSBY (conscious that his words carry weight, and that
 
 A DRESS REHEARSAL. iij 
 
 he is expected to make a smart suggestion}. Yes, that wasn't 
 so bad; but when Florence St. John played the part she 
 put her thumb to her nose at that last line. It's a splendid 
 bit of business. (Everybody laughs heartily?) 
 
 IST SUPER (in a whisper to a friend]. By Jove, wasn't 
 that good ! He's a devilish clever fellow, that Battersby. 
 I hear Leslie offered him twenty pounds a week to go on 
 tour. 
 
 2ND SUPER. Did he take it? 
 
 IST SUPER. No, he stood out for thirty. Quite right, 
 too. 
 
 ZND SUPER. Rather. 
 
 S. M. . Where's Talboys ? He's got to enter directly. 
 Oh, there you are. Why, dash it, you're smoking ! I told 
 you no smoking on the stage to-night. Chuck that cigarette 
 away directly. 
 
 TALBOYS, in the character and dress of LIVY THE 
 LOAFER, enters just as CORNELIA says, 
 
 But soft ; who comes ? 
 
 S. M. (to LIVY). Of course, as usual, you've entered too 
 soon. You must give Cornelia time to finish what she's 
 got to say, and get behind the curtain. Try it again. 
 
 CORNELIA, 
 
 But soft ; who comes ? My husband, I'll be bound ; 
 I'll bound away where I shall not be found. 
 
 Skips, trips over her dress, and falls heavily. Roars 
 of ecstatic laughter from everybody. 
 
 S. M. (in a state of stony and sarcastic gloom}. Poltimore, 
 that's the third time you've fallen over your clress. Do
 
 nS IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 try to remember you're not playing Rugby football. Talk 
 about bringing the house down, indeed ! 
 
 POLTIMORE (flushed and angry}. Well, you'd come a 
 cropper if you'd got ten yards of skirts trailing about your 
 legs; but if you don't like the way I play the part, get 
 somebody else. I'm sick of it, I can tell you. 
 
 BATTERSBY (casting oil on the troubled waters). Come, 
 come, don't talk like that. You'll do it all right with a bit 
 of practice. 
 
 CORNELIA tries again, and succeeds in gliding behind 
 a curtain without a fall. Enter LIVY THE 
 LOAFER. 
 LIVY, 
 
 Ha, ha ! the bird has flown ; but oh, dear me ! 
 The pretty poppet's been a-drinking tea (sniffs violently). 
 Bacchus ! what's this ? to call it tea were wrongin' it, 
 It looks like tea, but (drinks) tastes like something 
 
 strong in it. 
 
 I'll call old Marcus Marcus, ho ! come here, 
 And taste Cornelia's latest ginger beer. 
 
 Enter S. M. (MARCUS CURIUS ELASTICUS). 
 MARCUS, 
 
 Who calls me ? Loafing Livy, by the powers ! 
 How do, old pal ? We haven't met for hours. 
 What say you, since the evening is advancing, 
 If we beguile it with a little dancing ? 
 
 Strike up, band ! What are you all staring at ? Strike 
 up, and be d d! And play it a little less like a dead 
 march this time.
 
 A DRESS REHEARSAL. 119 
 
 The band begins a lugubrious air, intended for a 
 Roman breakdown. The S. M. dances. His 
 legs go into extraordinary contortions. He 
 dances beautifully. Everybody applauds. 
 
 S. M. (still dancing}. Quicker, music ! quicker, you 
 bald-headed bunglers ! There, that'll do. (Stops, panting, 
 but triumphant.} Now, then, change the scene, and let's 
 have the Plebs on. Plebs ! Plebs ! Where have you all 
 got to ? 
 
 SUPERS troop in. The scene is changed. 
 
 S. M. Where are Blenkinsopp and Smethurst? Not 
 come, haven't they ? Well, then, they needn't come again. 
 I chuck them. Now, Plebs, don't stand about like wax 
 figures. Look cheerful. (The whole PLEBS put on an ex- 
 pression understood to mean cheerfulness.} Let's have the 
 song. Music, music ! late, as usual. 
 
 [ As this song is typical not only of the grievously anti-popular character 
 of our modern burlesques, but also of their painful anachronisms, 
 we give it at length. Btit Burns and Tillett forbid that we should 
 pledge ourselves to agreement with its sentiment s.~\ 
 
 SONG, "THE POPULAR PLEBS." 
 
 Oh, we are such a pleasing and popular lot, 
 For the blooming patricians we care not a jot ; 
 We mean to do jolly well just as we like, 
 And if other means fail, why, we'll go on the strike. 
 Out on the strike, and as for our ca-ike, 
 We'll eat it and have it while out on the strike. 
 We shall all have a kerridge and never use kebs, 
 This portentously pleasing and Popular Plebs.
 
 120 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Let the Senate beware, for a trodden worm turns, 
 With a sting in his tongue at the teaching of Burns. 
 Be it ours to praise labour the rest of our lives, 
 While we leave all the work to our daughters and wives. 
 Daughters and wives, like bees in their hives ; 
 Oh ! it's nuts to be worked for by daughters and wives. 
 We can let the poor spiders, our women, spin webs, 
 But the flies are devoured by the men of the Plebs. 
 
 The bakers, the 'busmen, the drivers of cars, 
 They shall feed upon oysters and smoke their cigars ; 
 And we all shall wear kids, so that nothing shall soil 
 The delicate' hands of the children of toil. 
 Children of toil, the sunshine would spoil 
 The complexions and skins of the children of toil ; 
 So, if forced out to labour, we'll all become rebs. 
 And make mankind bow down to the Popular Plebs. 
 
 Our patience is ended, the word has gone forth 
 
 That the Plebs must be rich as a Rothschild or North ; 
 
 Drinking fizz by the gallon and bathing in beer, 
 
 We will live like a lord with a million a year. 
 
 Million a year ! won't it be queer 
 
 To do nothing all day for a million a year ! 
 
 The flood-tide is with us, and so, till it ebbs, 
 
 We will all shout hurrah for the Popular Plebs. 
 
 S. M. (pleased at last). Capital, capital ! That'll fetch 
 'em, or I'm a Dutchman. It's a shade rough on the 
 Radicals ; but you must have it like that in burlesque. 
 The audience expects it. I think we've done enough for 
 to-day. Mind you all turn up to-morrow at five. Come 
 along, Battersby. [Exeunt omncs.
 
 XIX. 
 
 A GREEK PLAY REHEARSAL. 
 
 SCENE. The theatre of the A. D. C. on a November after- 
 noon during a rehearsal of the "Ion " of Euripides. 
 ION and CREUSA are on the stage. The former wears 
 a double-breasted coat, the latter a Norfolk jacket. In 
 the right centre of the auditorium, which is clear of 
 seats, with the exception of a couple of chairs, is the 
 grand piano, at which is seated the COMPOSER of the 
 incidental music. The chorus of DELPHIC ELDERS, 
 the Maidens, Attendants, and various actors are scattered 
 about the room, some in dittoes, others in heavy boots 
 and knickerbockers for football. They ivear numbered 
 tickets, suspended by blue ribbon from their necks like 
 prize cattle. STAGE MANAGERS (Dons) abound in all 
 parts of the room. The CONDUCTOR of the orchestra 
 is seated at the thin end of the grand piano. A buzz 
 of animated conversation prevails. 
 
 IST STAGE MANAGER (sadly}. Oh, Creusa, Creusa, how 
 often am I to tell you not to come on with a cigarette ! 
 Throw it away directly. 
 
 CREUSA (throwing it away}. So sorry ; I honestly forgot 
 I was smoking. Let me see ; how do I begin ?
 
 122 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 IST S. M. The stage direction is that your demeanour 
 is one of profound sadness, and that as you approach the 
 temple your eyes fill with tears, but as a matter of fact 
 you were laughing most of the time. You must do your 
 entrance again. 
 
 CREUSA exit, and re-enters solemnly with a look of 
 Cimmerian gloom on her expressive features. 
 
 IST S. M. That's better ; but I think you walk rather too 
 fast. 
 
 2ND S. M. I'm not so sure of that. You'd better walk 
 more towards the front of the stage, though. 
 
 3RD S. M. Surely not. Still your head ought to be 
 turned more to the right. 
 
 An animated debate ensues amongst the STAGE 
 MANAGERS ; amateur advisers offer suggestions, 
 which are scouted. 
 
 IST S. M. (suddenly). I have it (dashes on to the stage, 
 seizes CREUSA'S head in both hands, and bends it violently back- 
 ward and to the left, CREUSA offering a -very faint resistance). 
 There, that's your position while Ion addresses you. 
 Please don't forget. 
 
 The rehearsal proceeds. 
 
 IST DELPHIC ELDER (in football dress at the back of the 
 Auditorium to 2ND DELPHIC ELDER similarly attired). I say, 
 we shall have to slope if they only get on at this rate. I 
 had no notion it would last so long. Come on. 
 
 2ND D. E. (dubiously}. I daren't; they've got their eyes 
 on us. 
 
 IST D. E. Well, you must, that's flat. You don't sup-
 
 A GREEK PLAY REHEARSAL. 123 
 
 pose we're going to play Pembroke without you. They've 
 all got their backs turned ; now's our chance. 
 
 The two DELPHIC ELDERS furtively take off their tickets 
 and slink from the room. 
 
 2ND S. M. (to one of the actor son the stage), avrov, please, 
 not avrov. Do be careful. 
 
 THE ACTOR (stung beyond endurance}. I said avrov. I 
 couldn't have done it more distinctly if I'd had a pair of 
 bellows inside me blowing out h's. 
 
 2ND S. M. (unfeelingly). Well, remember it next time 
 then. 
 
 The rehearsal proceeds. The CONDUCTOR of the orchestra 
 discusses musical points elaborately with the 
 CHORUS. 
 
 CONDUCTOR (turning round suddenly}. No talking, please. 
 (Finds too late that he has addressed two STAGE MANAGERS. 
 Awkwardness} 
 
 i ST S. M. We must have a thymele (a thymele is arranged 
 with two chairs). 
 
 CON. Come along, Chorus ; it's your turn now (the 
 CHORUS troops on to the stage, and then down the steps, and 
 circles round the chair-thymele, singing, it must be admitted, 
 admirably}. 
 
 CON. (beating time, with enthusiasm}. Bravo, my boys, 
 
 that's the way ! You must (At this point the IST S. M. 
 
 dashes at awkward DELPHIC ELDER and seizes him by both 
 arms. } 
 
 IST S. M. Lift your arms up properly, for heaven's sake ! 
 and don't move them as if your elbows were tied down to 
 your sides. Besides, when you all stand still, I fancy it
 
 124 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 would be better to stand in couples leaning against one 
 another, or with your hands on one another's shoulders. 
 (Two DELPHIC ELDERS carry out these instructions by lean- 
 ing back to back, and forming an acute angle. The rehearsal 
 proceeds.} 
 
 IST S. M. Curtain up for Act II. Now then, Maidens, 
 Maidens, mind you're ready. 
 
 The curtain draws up, revealing an actor on the steps 
 of Apollo's temple, with a briar-wood pipe in his 
 mouth. In the foreground, on the O. P. side, sits 
 one of the Maidens in a complete and becoming suit 
 of dittoes, and perusing the " Illustrated London 
 News." The rehearsal proceeds. 
 
 IST S. M. (to ACTOR). No, no ! rest your head on his 
 right shoulder, and throw some tears into your voice. 
 
 THE ACTOR. I thought I'd chucked a whole bucketful into 
 it that time. As to my head, I've always had it on his left 
 shoulder up to now. 
 
 The STAGE MANAGERS consult. The CONDUCTOR and 
 COMPOSER hum airs to one another. The actors 
 light cigarettes. One of them executes a pas seul. 
 The Maiden continues her interrupted perusal of 
 the " Illustrated" 
 
 MEMBER OF THE A. D. C. (to CREUSA). I'm going to 
 have some tea. Shall I order some for you ? What will 
 you eat with it ? 
 
 CREUSA. Thanks, I'll have buns. 
 
 M. OF A. D. C. (to boy in buttons}. Tea and buns for 
 two as quick as possible.
 
 TRIPOS PAPERS.
 
 AGRICULTURE AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 \_A University Syndicate was recently appointed to consider a letter 
 which Mr. Henry Chaplin, the Minister of Agriculture, had ad- 
 dressed to the Duke of Devonshire, the Chancellor of the University, 
 with reference to the teaching of agriculture at Cambridge. The 
 Syndicate reported, inter alia, in favour of the establishment of an 
 Agricultural Tripos. The following is suggested as an examination 
 
 AGRICULTURAL TRIPOS. 
 WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, June \~$th, 1894, 14. 
 
 i. Gentleman, apothecary, ploughboy, thief. 
 
 (a) Quote in full the context of this line, and prove 
 by Grimm's law that the order of the words 
 implies or does not imply a moral and physical 
 superiority. 
 
 ((3) If a cherry tart contains x x 64 cherry stones, 
 divisible equally amongst sixteen persons, all 
 wearing double-breasted coats, and three of 
 them being short-sighted, prove in detail that 
 (x x 64) 8 = a county jail, using the full 
 text of the above quotation as a basis for your 
 calculations. 
 
 (77) State the correct method for the conveyance of 
 cherry stones through a straight line measured 
 from mouth to plate. What is the utmost 
 
 127
 
 128 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 number that may be thus disposed of at a time, 
 it being assumed that ladies are present and 
 that all mouths are of equal size? 
 
 2. Who were Guano and Silo? What other famous 
 Peruvians do we read of in history ? 
 
 3. A field of wheat is bounded on two sides by a 
 wattle fence, and on the two others by posts and rails. It 
 contains '076 poppies to the square yard. There are nine 
 million poppies in it. State the size of the field in metres, 
 and calculate accurately in hectolitres the amount of meal 
 derivable from it after a wet summer. 
 
 4. State Chaplin's formula for the extraction of roots 
 from a square foot of arable land. Can this be applied 
 to corns ? State in each case what implements should be 
 used, and the precise portion of the foot on which the 
 operator should begin. 
 
 5. A is an orchard, B an apple tree containing C, a 
 boy ; D is the owner of A, holding , a whip. Prove by 
 the application of E to C that the initial velocity of C out 
 of A varies directly as the number of applications, and that 
 the number of possible applications varies inversely as the 
 velocity of C, it being assumed that D is stationary at the 
 foot of B. 
 
 6. " Gin a body meet a body 
 
 Comin' through the rye." 
 
 Continue the quotation, and state fully why rye should 
 have been selected for the experiment. If you substitute 
 swedes for rye, how would the problem be affected, the 
 duration of a kiss varying as the resistance of the second 
 body ? 
 
 7. If A (an examiner) working five hours a day can
 
 AGRICULTURE AT CAMBRIDGE. 129 
 
 plough twenty-six Tripos men, how many Poll men, 
 working three hours a day, without coaches, on a fixed 
 allowance of fresh milk and soda, will be required for the 
 formation of a first class in the Law Special, the general 
 hardness of the papers set varying directly as the failure of 
 the candidate to floor them ? 
 
 8. A is a tow-path horse ; B is a rowing coach. What 
 
 n 
 
 are the chances that -^ will result in A B ? Prove by 
 
 examples, with names and dates. State a theory by which 
 B may be maintained in rowing shorts and in a state of 
 stable equilibrium on the back of A, the stable of A being 
 in the opposite direction to the progression of the boat 
 coached by B. 
 
 9. Analyse the productiveness of a College grass-plot in 
 fines, it being assumed for the purpose of this question that 
 no porter has more than one eye, and that every under- 
 graduate crosses the grass three times every term. 
 
 10. If a common dish containing two boiled cabbages 
 can go round four rowing undergraduates, state how many 
 rods, poles, or perches will go round the waists of six 
 University Professors : 
 
 (a) At the beginning of term. 
 
 (b] At the end of term, allowance being made for 
 
 Feast Days and Combination-room port. 
 
 11. "I bain't no scholard, zur." 
 
 " They turmuts doan't get the better of we." 
 Assign these remarks to their dialectical districts of 
 England. 
 
 Can you give any reason why a Yorkshire peasant (in 
 
 novels) should speak the same variety of English as a 
 w. L.-VIIL
 
 130 JN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Somerset ploughboy ? Give instances, with the names of 
 the authors. 
 
 12. Prove by Callaby's * tables that the projection of 
 a fox-terrier on any given rabbit = Callaby 2 + (under- 
 graduate 25.) + something for drinks. 
 
 * Callaby, the Cambridge dog-fancier. Cf,, 
 
 " Struck at Brown's the dashing hazard ; 
 
 Or, more curious sport than that. 
 Dropped at Callaby's the terrier 
 Down upon the prisoned rat." 
 
 C. S. C., Verses and Translations.
 
 THE ATHLETIC TRIPOS. 
 
 [/ understand that it is in contemplation to establish an Athletic Tripos, 
 and thus to recognise the status of those whose physical attainments 
 have hitherto constituted a bar to their academic distinction. By a 
 stroke of good luck I have obtained a copy of one of the proposed 
 papers. It appears to be a sort of General Knowledge paper.} 
 
 THURSDAY, June "jth, 1894,9 I2 - 
 
 T. A sporting reporter is describing a high jump of major 
 axis 5 feet 8, and of eccentricity x, with a radial velocity of two 
 feet over a freely poised bar. Prove by Jennings's system 
 of convoluted curves that the certainty of inaccuracy in the 
 reporter is greater than the chances of ultimate clearance, 
 where the moments of inertia are greatest at an elevation of 
 5 feet 5. 
 
 2. A, a hundred yards blue and a member of the 
 Athenaeum, has dined at a given club, T.* Prove that his 
 subsequent condition can be represented by the formula 
 | Cs O + V + E + R = A 6s. &/. + B 6- S. If he runs 
 up a smooth conical hill, show that he will make the ascent 
 most quickly by adopting a spiral path, and that the angle of 
 inclination of his body at any instant to the horizon is un- 
 certain. Estimate accurately a force P.J. (cuvee reservee), 
 as expressed in tangential aberrations, where the attractive 
 
 * The dinners of the Athenaeum Club (at Cambridge) are called T's.
 
 132 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 force of the surface of the hill is to the resistance of the 
 body as 3 to i. 
 
 3. A is a small man. B is a large hammer. Apply A to 
 B, and estimate the probabilities of A describing circles 
 round B, B remaining fixed. If A is suddenly thrown by B 
 through a parabola of eighty feet, what are the chances that 
 A will become (i) A + blue, (2) A + black and blue ? 
 
 4. A Rugby football blue breaks one bone every week in 
 a term of two months. An Association football blue in the 
 same period loses five front teeth and the exterior angle of 
 his chin. State the effect on their mothers, and prove that a 
 figure S. M. J. W* intercepting a man X running quickly 
 
 collar-bone 
 
 will result in X -f doctor's bill ntl) . 
 
 2 
 
 5. Write short histories of (a) golf shop, (b} football 
 shop. If three golfers and three football players meet A, 
 a senior wrangler, at luncheon, what are the chances that 
 A will insert a word edgewise ? State carefully a correct 
 system for the feeding of Association " forwards " on a penny 
 a day paid in advance. 
 
 6. The animals A and B are supposed to be rowing 
 freshmen placed in your hands for examination in tubs. 
 Write a short account of their structure as revealed by your 
 dissection of their remains, giving reasons for the curve 
 of their spinal columns, and estimating the length of their 
 stroke by the shortness of your temper. 
 
 7. If the diet of A, a man in training, is represented by TT 
 to infinity + O. D. V. (the wind, B, being neglected), prove 
 that the probability of A becoming A B is greater than 
 the probability that A will be happy at the Railway Bridge. 
 
 * Mr. S. M. J. Woods, of Jesus College.
 
 THE ATHLETIC TRIPOS. 133 
 
 8. A is an oarsman rowing in a Lent boat. B is another 
 oarsman who is not rowing. Calculate the attractive power 
 exercised by a movable female figure C on two points /, /, 
 revolving in the head of A. Apply the two points /, /, 
 constantly to the figure C, and prove that a force D N, 
 constantly applied by a coach to /, /, will, or will not, result 
 in the substitution of B for A. 
 
 9. In a certain crew, X, 
 
 A, a bald stroke, is round-backed, 
 
 B, a knock-kneed bow, is blind, 
 C is deaf, 
 
 D is dumb, 
 
 E has a stiff leg, 
 
 /''has only two toes on his left foot, 
 
 G has a tennis-elbow, 
 
 H has only one arm, and the coxswain steers with his 
 teeth. 
 
 In another crew, Y, which comes immediately after X, 
 the bodies are normal. What probability is there that in a 
 bumping race the order X Kwill be maintained, the time in 
 X being variable and the initial velocity of stroke 22 ? 
 
 10. Prove that, if the feet of three rowing men be drawn 
 from a fixed point after a bump-supper, the bodies will lie 
 on a plane surface under a given table, and that, if C 2 be 
 taken to represent the visual power of each, any fixed point 
 will appear as a double point. 
 
 11. State Muttlebury's formula for the covering of a six- 
 inch blade. Is it lawful to shoot a bucketing* sugarert sitting ? 
 
 * To bucket (of an oarsman) i.e., to rush forward instead of swinging 
 steadily, 
 f A sugarer i.e., an oarsman who does no work in a boat.
 
 134 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 12. A perfectly rough sphere of any mass is rolling on 
 the upper surface of a sliding seat ; the boat is rolling on the 
 surface of the water, and the spectators are rolling with 
 laughter on the surface of the bank. Express mathematically 
 the language of the rest of the crew. State any theory you 
 have formed as to the proper maintenance of the front stops 
 of sliding seats with sufficient power to resist a thirteen-stone 
 freshman, moving through space at the rate of one hundred 
 miles to the minute.
 
 SAVED BY A SIGN. 
 
 A STORY OF ALGEBRA. 
 
 WE live in a terribly utilitarian age. In the great 
 question of education, theorists who ask " Will 
 it be useful in after-life?" have come to the front, and 
 the advocates of culture, for the sake of culture, are 
 looked upon with suspicion as visionaries, who propose to 
 impair the commercial supremacy of England by devoting 
 the youth of the country to the perpetual grinding of gerunds, 
 and the manufacture of inferior Greek iambics. Generally 
 speaking, I cannot say I have much sympathy with these 
 so-called reformers. I am not, I confess, called upon in the 
 course of my professional duties to conjugate malo, or 
 /3Aojo-Kw; but, on the whole, I look back with some satisfaction 
 upon the long hand-to-hand struggle which I carried on for 
 many years with these and similar words ; and I should be 
 very sorry to know that any boy of the present day would 
 be forced to do without the mental and physical discipline 
 which, I flatter myself, I acquired from the contest. Even 
 algebra has been attacked. Indeed, my friend Harefield, a 
 self-made pillar of the Stock Exchange, said to me, quite 
 graveJy, the other day, that the ignorance of his two sons 
 was so great that he had felt himself compelled to forbid 
 
 '35
 
 136 AV CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 them to add any more unknown quantities to their present 
 stock ; and he had therefore written to the head-master of 
 Harrow School, where the boys are pursuing their studies, 
 requesting him to eliminate x and y from their curriculum. 
 
 Now. the simple story I propose to tell refers to algebra, 
 and it shows conclusively that is, if my authority, a blame- 
 less clergyman of the Church of England, may be believed 
 that a knowledge of the elementary rules of that science 
 may prove of the highest practical value in the ordinary 
 affairs of every-day life. At any rate it once saved the 
 Rev. Henry Bull, the present vicar of Sand Craven, in 
 Yorkshire, from the miserable consequences of his own 
 youthful folly, reconciled him to his father, and enabled 
 him to start in life, free from debt and with a clear 
 conscience. 
 
 The Reverend Henry Bull and I were at Cambridge 
 together a good many years ago. I purposely leave the date 
 vague, in order that the characters of my story may not be 
 identified. We were members of the same college, rowed 
 three times together in our college boat, " kept " together 
 during our last year in the same lodgings in Jesus Lane, 
 and read with the same coach for the Mathematical Tripos ; 
 in fact, we were as intimate as two men could possibly be. 
 I was ambitious to be a wrangler; but the examiners, to 
 their eternal disgrace, preferred to place me amongst the 
 senior optimes. Bull was also ambitious, but in a different 
 way. He knew that by a course of steady reading he 
 might manage to scrape through, and the one object 
 of his desires was to secure the wooden spoon which 
 an immemorial tradition has always assigned to the last 
 man in the tripos. He succeeded, but not without a
 
 SAVED RY A SIGN. 137 
 
 tremendous struggle with a Downing man. Unfortunately 
 for his prospects, the Downing man, in a fit of absence of 
 mind, managed to do one problem correctly in the second 
 part of the examination, whilst Bull was successful in giving 
 incorrect solutions of all. The result was that the Downing 
 man was last but one, and Bull secured the wooden spoon. 
 Bull was a very popular man, and the scene of enthusiasm 
 when he took his degree is still remembered. His friends 
 bought an enormous wooden shovel, on one side of which 
 they emblazoned somewhat roughly, it must be admitted 
 the arms of his college. On the other was painted a 
 massive bull elephant with his trunk in the air. This was 
 a delicate allusion to his nickname. Owing to his great 
 size and strength, he was always spoken of and addressed 
 as " the Bullephant," whilst the tones of his voice in 
 coaching boats had procured for him the sub-title of " the 
 trumpeter." As Bull, blushing all over his jovial face, 
 advanced to receive his degree from the Vice-Chancellor, 
 a regular storm of cheers burst forth, and the shovel, in 
 spite of a feeble protest from the Proctor, was dexterously 
 lowered by a string from the galleries. The hero of the 
 day, on his return journey, cut the string, shouldered the 
 shovel, and marched with it triumphantly out of the Senate 
 House. Since that time he and I had scarcely met. I was 
 called to the Bar, and plunged head first into text-books and 
 pleadings. Bull was ordained, became a naval chaplain, 
 and for many years knocked about on one foreign station 
 after another with Her Majesty's ships. It was therefore 
 with a sense of pleasant surprise that, about a year ago, 
 I received from him a letter telling me that he had left 
 the Royal Navy, had married, and had lately been presented
 
 138 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 to the valuable living of Sand Craven. He added, that he 
 wanted to renew his old friendship with me, and, in the 
 kindest way, asked me to fix my own date for visiting him 
 in his new home. " If you can come in September," the 
 letter went on, " bring your gun, as the Squire here will 
 give us a day at his partridges. I've got a capital lot of 
 old Audit, and two pairs of boxing-gloves. I weigh over 
 fifteen stone now, but I'm still game to have a round with 
 you. Only you mustn't tell my parishioners. Now, mind 
 you come." 
 
 I promptly accepted, and on the evening of a day early 
 in last September duly arrived at Sand Craven station. 
 The old Bullephant met me with his dog-cart, and our 
 greeting was warm. His three stone of extra weight and 
 a crisp brown beard made his appearance more massive 
 and imposing than ever; and when he trumpeted his wel- 
 come and slapped me on the back, I was forced to tell him 
 that a prolonged course of work at the Bar had rather im- 
 paired my muscular powers. Mrs. Bull, a small but lively 
 Yorkshirewoman, received me cordially. The dinner was 
 simple, but excellent ; and when we adjourned afterwards 
 to the Vicar's den to continue the discussion of ancient 
 rowing shop, and to settle once and for all the question 
 whether or not our old friend Bateson really used to pull 
 his weight in our College Eight, I felt a good many years 
 younger than I did when I left London. 
 
 This pleasant impression was increased by the aspect 
 of the room. On all sides were objects which recalled my 
 college days. How well I remembered the Homeric bear- 
 fight which had ended in the temporary flattening out of 
 that most comfortable of easy-chairs ! I flatter myself that
 
 SAVED BY A SIGN. 139 
 
 on that occasion my activity prevailed over the weight of 
 the Bullephant, and I ventured to tell him so ; but he only 
 laughed, and hinted that he was ready to begin the return 
 match at once if I felt inclined. On the walls were hung 
 photographs of rowing groups, an oar or two which a grate- 
 ful boat club had presented to him as trophies of many 
 bumps, whilst a corner cupboard with glass doors was filled 
 with an array of cups of all kinds, the prizes of aquatic 
 prowess. But the chief decorative object was the old 
 wooden spoon, which hung over the fireplace. Round it 
 were arranged some half-dozen engravings and photographs, 
 and I was amused to see on a closer inspection that they 
 were all portraits of mathematical celebrities. Sir Isaac 
 Newton, Dr. Routh, Dr. Colenso, Professor Cayley, and 
 Mr. Isaac Todhunter were all there. 
 
 " That's rather a curious setting for a wooden spoon," I 
 remarked. " Why, one would think you worshipped mathe- 
 matics here, instead of writing your sermons." 
 
 " That's just it," said the Vicar. " I do worship mathe- 
 matics ; they've been the best friend I ever had at least, 
 algebra has." 
 
 " Best fiddlesticks ! " I laughed irreverently. " To hear 
 you talk a man might believe you had been senior wrangler, 
 instead of wooden spoon." 
 
 " That's got nothing to do with it," retorted Bull. " Now, 
 look here, I'll prove what I said. I've never told the story 
 to any one since it happened ; but I'll tell it to you now, and 
 you shall judge for yourself." 
 
 "What story?" I asked. 
 
 " The story of how algebra got me out of one of the 
 worst scrapes I ever was in. You won't believe it, perhaps,
 
 HO IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 but it's true all the same. And look here," he added, 
 " don't try to give any of your rationalistic explanations of it 
 when you've heard it. I prefer to let it remain where it is." 
 
 " Right you are, Bullephant," I said ; " fire away. I'm 
 prepared to believe anything you say without question or 
 explanation. Let's suppose for a moment or two you're 
 speaking ex cathedra." 
 
 Whereupon the Vicar cleared his throat, and began 
 thus : 
 
 "Of course you remember our last October term at 
 Cambridge. We were both supposed to be reading par- 
 ticularly hard for the tripos in January. I don't know so 
 much about the reading. I know we rowed in the Fours, 
 and a precious hard race we had of it too. If the other 
 chaps had only steered as badly as we did, we might have 
 beaten them. Well, what I'm going to tell you occurred in 
 the week after the race. I never was a good hand at 
 reading at night ; in fact, after 8 p.m., mathematics used 
 always to send me to sleep, and I had made up my mind 
 that, although the beastly tripos was so near, I wouldn't 
 refuse any invitations to dinner if I got them. You worked 
 harder and sat tighter, I know ; but then you had a good 
 chance of a first, and I hadn't, which made all the difference. 
 There was a fellow called Lewthwaite in the year below us. 
 Do you remember him ? " 
 
 " What, the Lewthwaite who came such a frightful cropper 
 soon afterwards on the turf ? " I asked. 
 
 " That's the man. I had been at school with him, and 
 although he rather professed to be a ' blood ' at Cambridge, 
 chucked his money about, and did a good deal of silly 
 gambling, I never could help liking the chap. Of course
 
 SAVED BY A SIGN. 14! 
 
 he was weak ; but we're none of us as strong-minded as we 
 might be, and there was something very attractive about 
 Lewthwaite a pleasant kind of devil-may-care, reckless way 
 of looking at things that made him one of the best com- 
 panions going. I never saw very much of him, but we 
 were always friends to the last. Well, on this particular 
 occasion Lewthwaite was giving a big dinner, and asked me 
 to come. I knew they'd play cards afterwards ; so I stipu- 
 lated that I should be allowed to go shortly after dinner, as 
 I didn't want to gamble. A few days before I had had to 
 write to my father, enclosing a statement of my financial 
 position, which showed an excess of liabilities over assets to 
 the tune of about ^80. The governor had written back a 
 pretty stiff letter (he generally did) ; but he was as good an 
 old fellow as ever walked, and he enclosed a cheque for the 
 amount, and asked me to settle all my bills directly, and 
 send him the receipts. I had intended to do it that very 
 morning, and had cashed the cheque. Something, however, 
 prevented me, and the consequence was I had got ^80 in 
 notes in my breast pocket. Rather like drying a keg of 
 gunpowder by the fire, you'll say, my going to a gambling 
 party in such a condition. Perhaps it was. But in any 
 case I went, and I don't think I ever enjoyed a dinner 
 more in my life. Poor old Lew knew how to order just 
 the right dishes; his champagne was first class, and his 
 cigars excellent. I was just out of hard training, and I can 
 tell you I didn't stint myself 
 
 "You never did, old chap," I interposed. "Do you 
 remember our bump-supper after our first May races ? " 
 
 " I remember somebody who had to be put to bed ; but 
 I was one of those who carried the corpse on that occasion,
 
 142 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 so perhaps you'd better shut up. Any way, I enjoyed myself 
 thoroughly at Lewthwaite's dinner ; and when the cloth was 
 cleared and the cards were produced, I wasn't at all in a 
 humour for going away. For some time I sat smoking, 
 and watched the rest playing. They played a game we 
 used to call " Bank " (I fancy it's much the same as trente 
 et quarante), and at first the stakes were small. Soon, 
 however, they grew reckless, and large sums of money and 
 I.O.U.'s passed rapidly from hand to hand. I don't know 
 how it was, but I got excited, my good resolutions vanished, 
 and almost before I knew what I was up to I found myself 
 at the table staking away with the best of them. I won, 
 I lost, and won again ; but in the end, to make a long story 
 short, I lost every penny of the ^80 with which I ought to 
 have paid my bills. After that, I had the good sense to 
 stop, and pretty miserable I felt too. Lewthwaite chaffed, 
 and tried to cheer me up. ' What does it matter ? ' he 
 said ; ' after all, it's only a question of mathematics. When 
 you came here you were Bullephant ; now you're Bullephant 
 minus eighty. You'll soon get used to it.' However, I 
 wasn't in a mood for chaff, and directly afterwards I went 
 away. I didn't feel very lively the next morning. I daresay 
 you remember how we quarrelled about the buttered eggs. 
 I still think you had more than your fair share ; but let that 
 pass. The bills had to be paid somehow, but how the 
 thing was to be done was more than I could imagine. 
 
 " I called myself a blockhead, a fool, an idiot, all the 
 abusive names I could think of; but that didn't seem to 
 help matters. I swore I'd never touch another card which 
 was salutary, but failed to bring back my ;8o. At last, 
 after thinking it over in every way, I made up my mind to
 
 SAVED Y A SfGN. 143 
 
 write home and make a clean breast of it. I did so, and 
 waited miserably for the answer. In two days it came. I 
 scarcely like to think of that letter even now. You know 
 my father could lay the lash on pretty severely when he 
 liked. Well, on this occasion he surpassed himself. I was 
 a disgrace, he said, to the family a weak-minded fool, 
 without any purpose in life. I had committed an act which 
 did not fall far short of the kind of dishonesty that brought 
 unfortunate clerks to prison. For his part, he didn't intend 
 to let me go on in a career of reckless extravagance that could 
 only end in my ruin and his ; and he intended, therefore, 
 to take me away from Cambridge at once, before I had 
 gone any farther. And so forth ; you know the kind of 
 thing. He ended by announcing his intention of coming 
 up to Cambridge on the following day to tell me in person 
 what he thought about my conduct. 
 
 " Next morning, sure enough, he turned up. The inter- 
 view was the most unpleasant one I ever had with the dear 
 old man. He sat down in that armchair you're sitting in 
 now, and for about half an hour he let me have it straight 
 from the shoulder. I had very little to say for myself. I 
 knew I had played the fool, and deserved everything he 
 said of me ; but I couldn't help remonstrating, and trying to 
 make him believe I was not so black as he painted me. 
 But it was all useless. I pleaded to be allowed, at least, to 
 stop and go in for the Tripos, so as to get my degree. It 
 was hopeless. At last something I said irritated him beyond 
 endurance ; he thumped his fist on the table, raved like 
 a father in a play, and told me to get myself ready to go 
 down with him that very day. In fact, he had lost his 
 temper just as completely as I had lost my ^J8o. I sat
 
 144 ?N CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 silent for some time, and I needn't tell you that my reflec- 
 tions were hone of the most cheerful. ' Henry Bull minus 
 ;8o,' I thought to myself, 'is evidently no match for father 
 minus temper,' and I made some feeble joke to that effect 
 aloud as I rose to go upstairs and pack up. As I did so, 
 my eyes were curiously attracted to the old wooden brackets 
 that were fixed upon my wall ; there were four of them 
 carved with the College and University arms. The next 
 moment I nearly startled my father out of his wits by a 
 loud yell of triumph ; I dashed at him, wrung his hands, 
 and literally danced for joy. I had discovered a way out of 
 all my difficulties. This was it : The sight of those brackets, 
 coupled with the making of that poor little joke, had brought 
 to my mind by some queer process of association, which I 
 can explain only on the ground of a direct interposition 
 of Providence, one of the simplest elementary rules of 
 algebra. Todhunter states it thus in his ' Algebra for 
 Beginners ' : 
 
 " ' When an expression within a pair of brackets is pre- 
 ceded by the sign , the brackets may be removed if the 
 sign of every term within the brackets is changed.' 
 
 " Now, of course ' Henry Bull ^80 ' was an algebraical 
 expression of two terms, and ' Father temper ' was an- 
 other. I had the brackets ready to my hand ; but where 
 were the two minus signs to put in front of them? For- 
 tunately, my genius was equal to the emergency. There 
 were in the fireplace two beautifully straight pokers, 
 evidently designed by nature to be minus signs. Here, 
 then, I had all the apparatus for a marvellous experiment. 
 It remained only to act. ' Pater,' I "said, ' I know I've 
 been a fool. Let me implore you nevertheless to grant me
 
 A STORY OF ALGEBRA. 145 
 
 one last request.' The old man was evidently moved by 
 my tremendous earnestness. 
 
 " ' Well, yes,' he said, ' I will, if it doesn't take long. 
 What is it ? ' 
 
 " ' Do exactly as I ask you for the next five minutes. I 
 sha'n't beg you to let me stop here or anything of that sort. 
 All I want you to do is to stand absolutely still where I 
 place you on this floor.' 
 
 " My father sneered, hinted I had gone mad, and added 
 that such folly could have the effect only of making him 
 more angry. Eventually, however, he consented, with a bad 
 enough grace, and stood stock still, fuming and fretting, 
 where I posted him. What do you think was my next 
 move ? I first took down two brackets, placed them on the 
 floor, one on each side of my father, got a poker from 
 the fireplace, and laid it longitudinally in front of one of the 
 brackets. Next I placed the other two brackets on the 
 floor about a yard apart, laid the second poker in a similar 
 position, and placed myself inside the brackets. The 
 result may be represented in this way " 
 
 Here the Vicar stopped, wrote something on a piece of 
 paper, and handed it to me. This was what I read : 
 
 (Henry Bull 80) 
 (Father temper], 
 
 " Well," I said, "what next?" 
 
 " What next ? " shouted the Vicar scornfully. " Can't you 
 see ? From where I stood I reached to the bell and rang 
 it. When the landlady came into the room, she gave 
 a start of astonishment at seeing my father and me in 
 
 this curious position. She evidently thought we had been 
 W.L.-VIIL , .
 
 146 
 
 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 fighting with the pokers. I reassured her, and asked her 
 to be good enough to remove the brackets from my father. 
 After some hesitation she did so. The effect was magical. 
 The thunder-cloud vanished from the dear old fellow's face, 
 and a celestial smile took its place. By the removal of the 
 
 brackets the minus sign, which had been inside the brackets, 
 was converted into a plus sign, and he had become, according to 
 the rule, Father -f temper. I was overjoyed at the brilliant 
 success of the first part of my experiment. ' Don't stir, 
 pater,' I cried, as the old man, beaming with happiness, 
 prepared to embrace me ; ' it's not finished yet. Now,' I 
 continued, addressing the amazed landlady, ' oblige me by
 
 SAVED BY A SIGN. 147 
 
 taking away these other brackets too.' As she did so I saw 
 my father's hand travel quickly to his breast pocket. The 
 moment the removal was completed the hand travelled 
 down to mine, and, as I'm a living vicar, pressed into it 
 eight crisp ,10 Bank of England notes. By the removal of 
 the brackets the necessary algebraical consequence had followed 
 in my case too, and I had become 
 
 Henry Bull + 80." 
 
 Here the Vicar paused, and looked at me curiously. 
 
 " Well," he said, " have you anything to say ? " 
 
 "Only this," I answered, not without some show of 
 triumph, "that both your father and yourself would be 
 absolutely useless, unless you went through life preceded 
 by pokers or minus signs of some sort, you must see that 
 yourself." 
 
 " I had foreseen that," replied Bull. " My father and I 
 seized our pokers, and, holding them out in front of us, walked 
 straight off to the jeweller's in the market-place, where we 
 purchased two tiny bars of gold. Here is mine," he went 
 on, pulling out a long gold chain which he wore round his 
 neck. Sure enough, there was attached to it a little bar of 
 gold, which imagination might interpret into a minus sign. 
 
 " I wear it night and day. My dear father, who main- 
 tained his angelic temper to the last, ordered his to be 
 buried with him. Strangely enough, since that eventful day 
 
 I have never had less than ^80 on deposit at my bank." 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 There is the story. I have told it as nearly as I could re- 
 member in the Vicar's own words. Cynics may scoff; but I, 
 who know the simple, guileless character of the Reverend 
 Henry Bull, can only believe implicitly every word he said.
 
 SOME MODERN VERSE. 
 
 AN ESSAY IN POETICAL CRITICISM. 
 
 ENGLISH poetry is entering upon a new epoch. The 
 verse that delighted our fathers, and their fathers 
 before them, has lost its savour; and the bewildered public, 
 beset by a howling mob of poetasters, asks in vain, " Where- 
 with shall it be salted ? " In order to endure for all time, 
 poetry must present the hopes and fears, the sympathies 
 and the passions, the hatreds aye, and even the prejudices 
 of the particular age in which it is produced. All that is 
 fair, and precious, and unutterable in the inarticulate yearn- 
 ings of the great heart of man, must find its voice in the 
 burning words of the poet. To him a higher than human 
 insight reveals the glowing realms of Passion, the enchanted 
 haunts of Desire, and the deep-hued regions of Eternal 
 Truth. With him wanders the handmaid Imagination ; 
 his steps are on the clouds ; his eye outshines the sun in his 
 splendour ; the chains of earth fall from his soaring limbs ; 
 and thus he passes, girt round with celestial glory, from 
 height to height, until at the last he is joined to Homer and 
 Milton, to Alfred Austin and Robert Buchanan, and all the 
 immortal throng who wait his coming. 
 
 We have offered these remarks in order to make our 
 position with regard to poetry and the poets quite clear. 
 We have said that a new epoch is opening before us ; the
 
 SOME MODERN VERSE. 149 
 
 poets of the past appeal to us no longer. We believe that 
 Mr. Swinburne still has his admirers in the nurseries, from 
 which his later muse has drawn much of her inspiration ; 
 echoes of Lord Tennyson are still heard in seminaries for 
 young ladies, or in the effete verse of occasional lyricists ; 
 Mr. Browning is much discussed (we dare not say read) by 
 the society named after him ; and Mr. Ignatius Donnelly 
 lives to prove that all interest in Shakespeare has not died 
 out amongst a certain academic clique. But for the dawn- 
 ing epoch we must have a fresh race of poets. Be it ours 
 to perform the true function of the critic, the vicegerent in 
 the present both of fame and of posterity, and to introduce 
 to the world some of those whose voices shall make sweet 
 and musical the years that are to come. 
 
 "A MASQUE OF LIFE AND OTHER POEMS." 
 
 BY ALURED CARDEW. 
 
 Mr. Cardew is the laureate of despair. He dwells in a 
 gloomy abyss of passionate despondency. To him life 
 presents itself as a series of mournfully hopeless struggles 
 against the decrees of a relentless avdyKr). Man is but a 
 wretched simulacrum, beaten down and crushed by the 
 encompassing hosts of his destiny. Vain is his ambition, 
 vain his every effort. Torn by unfulfilled yearnings, buf- 
 feted by the storms of his own desires, he is driven help- 
 less through a realm of terror to his fate. As Mr. Cardew 
 finely says in the poem which gives its title to his volume : 
 
 What are thousands of years (though the sound be sublime) 
 On the fathomless, limitless ocean of time ? 
 They are drops, and no more, and so puny and small 
 That they fret not the placid expanse as they fall.
 
 150 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 And how vain are their storms, and their glitter how vain, 
 
 Once absorbed into darkness and silence again ! 
 
 And we, giddy atoms, who flit in a day 
 
 Out of naught into life, and from life to decay ; 
 
 Who beat, soaring upward and up in the void, 
 
 Feeble wings for a moment, and then are destroyed ; 
 
 Who are aimlessly tossed, as in vain we aspire, 
 
 Out of hope to despair, from despair to desire 
 
 And so forth, in a grand strain of unconsoled pessimism. 
 Mr. Cardew develops his philosophy further in his series 
 of sonnets on " Life." Take this for example : 
 
 To live ! yea, what is life ? A sleep, a dream 
 A bubble, rainbow-hued, a passing smile ; 
 A vision, a forgetting, and a gleam 
 As of a clouded sun, that strikes awhile 
 Bright shafts from out the darkness on an isle 
 Of golden shadows, scattered by the breath 
 Of merciless tempests o'er the ocean, Death. 
 
 Our readers will no doubt remark that Wordsworth has, 
 by a process of proleptic imitation, embodied some of 
 Mr. Cardew's ideas in his much overrated " Ode on Inti- 
 mations of Immortality from the Recollections of Early 
 Childhood." But Mr. Cardew has his lighter moments. 
 We cannot refrain from quoting in full another of Mr. 
 Cardew's sonnets, though in this also he strikes a note of 
 bitter regret and unavailing struggle : 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH. 
 
 Stay as thou art ; be ever sweet and fair. 
 Must the grim harrow of the cruel years 
 Mark the clear brow I gaze at ? Sordid care 
 And the pale shadow of the world's despair 
 Surely can never claim thee, nor the tears
 
 SOME MODERN VERSE. 151 
 
 Dim the pure light of those entrancing eyes ! 
 Yea, but as summer ends the flower shall fade, 
 The flush of passionate beauty wanes and dies : 
 Vainly we murmur, and in vain upbraid 
 The Fates, who slay the puppets they have made. 
 Hour follows hour ; we think to reach the prize ; 
 Darkness enfolds us ere the goal is won. 
 Lovely thou art ; yet, ah ! the moment flies, 
 The vision passes swiftly : day is done ! 
 
 There is a pathetic sense of incompleteness about this for 
 which it would be difficult to find a parallel. We have said 
 enough, however, to show that Mr. Cardew is no ordinary , 
 poet. 
 
 "EROS AND OTHER ODES." 
 
 BY HARRIET FANSHAWE. 
 
 We regret that space does not permit us to give many 
 extracts from Miss Fanshawe's stirring odes. They display 
 an extraordinary power and unconventionality. There is 
 no mawkish prudery about Miss Fanshawe. Her " Ode to 
 a Soiled Dove " and her " Invocation to Aphrodite " are 
 perhaps the most striking examples of her genius. There 
 is also much that is precious in the weird " Song of the 
 Unchained Passions," with which she concludes this 
 charming volume. Miss Fanshawe is perhaps too much 
 influenced by Mr. Swinburne, the Mr. Swinburne, that is, 
 of many years ago, before he had been weaned from the 
 roses and raptures to a poetic contemplation of babies and 
 a passionate denunciation of the Irish. Indeed, she dedi- 
 cates to Mr. Swinburne the first-fruits of her muse in the 
 following impressive sonnet :
 
 152 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 TO ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 The Sundawn breaks towards a kindling star 
 Eastward with laughter and tempestuous spears, 
 Where shadows are not shadows ; orient tears 
 In music break the barren twilight's bar, 
 Defiant of the dusk and glad, but far 
 A man's word bids them vanish. Years on years 
 Tremble, but all the heaven yearning hears 
 Cloud splendour from the rain where shadows are, 
 And fires the mist and slays it. Hand in hand, 
 Keen as the sea's thrill, lo ! they smile and stand 
 In triumph, and the heaven is all one rose, 
 Whence laughing love dissolves our twilight land. 
 Westward the sun sinks ; all the orient glows, 
 And hearkens eastward to the frost and snows. 
 
 Miss Fanshawe occasionally rises to a sublime height of 
 rhythmic passion. Take, for example, the following won- 
 derful lines from her " Invocation to Aphrodite :! : 
 
 But the haggard-eyed Horror has reft thee and cleft thee in 
 
 twain with the fire 
 Of the passionate pith of her pulse, and thy bosom grew great 
 
 with desire. 
 Storm tossings and tempests were on thee ; thy breath was the 
 
 blast of the wind, 
 And the shock of the ocean was round thee to shiver and shatter 
 
 and bind. 
 Thou art ravished and ruled by the Thunder ; thy voice is the 
 
 seed of the air, 
 And the night of thy coming is light on the famishing face of 
 
 despair. 
 Thine eye is the luminous lightning ; thine hair is the mountainous 
 
 mist, 
 Made fair by the fury of love in their hearts who were clasped 
 
 not nor kissed.
 
 SOME MODERN VERSE. 153 
 
 And there falls from the wings of thy glory nor shadow nor help 
 
 from on high, 
 But a terror that smites us and bites us with fear and desire of 
 
 thine eye. 
 
 Such power as these lines display is given to few. Yet 
 we would warn Miss Fanshawe not to let her Pegasus bear 
 her too far or too fast. 
 
 "THE SPIRIT OF DEMOCRACY: A DRAMA IN FIVE 
 ACTS." 
 
 BY OTHO FITZURSE. 
 
 Mr. Fitzurse is cast in a different mould from the poets 
 we have hitherto mentioned. His drama, The Spirit of 
 Democracy, is an embodiment of fervent strivings after an 
 equality and a perfection which seem to us (we say it with 
 all respect for Mr. Fitzurse's evident sincerity and remark- 
 able gift of expression) to be absolutely unattainable. Mr. 
 Fitzurse disdains the ordinary fetters of the acting drama. 
 Clouds, Spirits, and Symbols are the characters of his play. 
 They declaim in rhymed odes. Blank verse is the exception. 
 We must suppose, of course, that the author never intended 
 his play to be presented on the stage. We quote some 
 parts of the opening, supposed to be chanted by a Chorus 
 of Mountain Spirits : 
 
 Oh, awake, and arouse you from sleeping, 
 
 All ye that have vowed to be tree, 
 For a roar like a whirlwind is sweeping 
 
 The measureless tracts of the sea. 
 Enthroned on the pinions of morning, 
 
 O'er the earth that its clangour has stirred, 
 It is whirled, and the voice of its warning 
 
 In Tempest and Tumult is heard.
 
 154 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 O ye for whom life was a playtime, 
 
 A season of endless delight, 
 Whom the labonrless hours of the daytime 
 
 Led on to the sleep of the night ; 
 Whom the children of earth, with their sorrow, 
 
 Passed by to be mixed with the dead ; 
 But " perchance we can heed them to-morrow," 
 
 Ye murmured, and turned not your head. 
 
 In a perfume of drowsy caresses, 
 
 'Mid the echoes of laughter and song, 
 In a network of odorous tresses 
 
 Immeshed ye have dallied too long ; 
 In vain in the nethermost places 
 
 Of earth shall ye shelter your fears ; 
 Pale terror shall reign in your faces, 
 
 And life shall grow salt with your tears. 
 
 We draw particular attention to the sixth line of the 
 second stanza. "To be mixed with the dead" is not 
 perhaps an elegant expression, but it is bold and successful. 
 Boldness and ingenuity, too, characterise the last line of the 
 third stanza. The drama closes with a striking scene, in 
 which the Spirit of Democracy challenges to deadly combat 
 the assembled Monarchs of the Earth, and in the conflict 
 that ensues slays them. The hypercritical might note it as 
 a defect that the chief part on the side of the Monarchs 
 should be assigned to the King of Spain, who is, after all, 
 only a tender infant in real life ; but the lapse of time will 
 remove this slight blemish. We have space only for a few 
 lines from the Spirit's stirring challenge : 
 
 Come forth, come forth in your mailed might, 
 
 Banded bandits, who wear a crown ; 
 
 Too long in your pride have ye trampled down 
 The wretched millions who toil in night.
 
 SOME MODERN VERSE, 155 
 
 Your doom is uttered, your fate decreed, 
 Robbers and murderers, one and all : 
 Cowards and skulkers, you hear me call, 
 
 While you slink away and you pay no heed. 
 
 And so on for thirty stanzas, at the end of which the insults 
 of the Spirit succeed in luring the Kings, headed by him 
 of Spain, from their fastness to their death. The con- 
 cluding line is tremendous in its concentrated force. We 
 quote it : 
 
 KING OF SPAIN. My wealth, my wealth ! the night comes on ; 
 I die ! (Dies.) 
 
 "SPRING ZEPHYRS." 
 
 A COLLECTION OF LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 BY ALFRED WORDSWORTH SMITH. 
 
 The " Spring Zephyrs " of Mr. A. W. Smith are instinct 
 with grace and culture and fire. Mr. Smith is catholic in 
 his choice of subjects. The function of the poet, as he 
 conceives it, is to point out beauty where the dull eye of the 
 world sees none. We select, as a remarkable example of 
 Mr. Smith's curious felicity, the opening verses of the poem 
 entitled 
 
 TO A FLEA. 
 
 Boundless bounder, sleepless leaper, 
 Cunning crawler, crafty creeper, 
 
 Force concentred in a speck ; 
 Dauntless darter, busy biter, 
 Unappeased, relentless fighter, 
 
 Who can stay thee, who can check ?
 
 I 5 6 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Vainly man doth strive to pin thee, 
 Vainly try from blood to win thee, 
 Sure a human soul is in thee 
 
 Sinful soul of one long dead. 
 With unresting iteration, 
 Prisoned thus in expiation, 
 Torturing in desperation 
 
 As itself was tortured. 
 
 The whole poem is a noble example of the power of true 
 genius to pierce the veil, and to overcome the barriers of 
 a defective sympathy. Men are, after all, only grovellers, 
 whose eyes are fixed on sordid earth. Mr. Smith has 
 assigned to himself the glorious duty of raising his fellows 
 to higher things, and right nobly he fulfils it. 
 
 Here this most inadequate notice must end. Enough, 
 however, has, we trust, been said to show " those whose 
 hearts " (if we may borrow a happy phrase from Miss 
 Fanshawe) " are fain for music," where they can find it in 
 rich abundance.
 
 CAMBRIDGE VERSE.
 
 REDEUNTIBUS. 
 
 (JANUARY.) 
 
 /^"^AMBRIDGE again ! and once again 
 V_^ The spacious courts, the ancient halls, 
 The daily tramp of eager men, 
 The nightly hush of hoary walls ; 
 
 The sacred lawns of shaven grass, 
 
 The echoes of the narrow street, 
 The shout, the laugh, the clinking glass, 
 
 The haunts where youth and pleasure meet ; 
 
 The hazy commons filled with life, 
 The crawling river thick with boats, 
 
 The ceaseless, ardent, friendly strife, 
 The coloured flash of scarves and coats ; 
 
 The youths too careless of their fate, 
 
 The Dean's reproach, the Proctor's frown, 
 
 The Porter prowling at the gate, 
 The sober suits of cap and gown j 
 
 159
 
 160 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 The talk of books, of sport, of wine, 
 
 While hearts are warm, though winds be cold, 
 
 The friends whose life is part of mine, 
 The loyal hands I love to hold ; 
 
 All this is Cambridge ; and I hear 
 
 The cheerful frolic and the din 
 Of those who sped the parting year, 
 
 And brought the new with laughter in. 
 
 Yet, O you third-year man, beware ; 
 
 Read while you can ; turn night to day ; 
 A brooding blackness fills the air, 
 
 For you the Tripos waits in May. 
 
 And, O ye freshmen, safely past 
 
 The terrors of the Little-Go, 
 The changing terms will fly too fast, 
 
 Though here and there the days be slow. 
 
 Like you I smiled and quaffed my ale, 
 And scorned like you the far exam. ; 
 
 Yet here I tremble and grow pale, 
 
 And ghost-like haunt the winding Cam. 
 
 Beshrew the writing on the wall ! 
 
 I know the hateful words by heart 
 " The smile must fade, the light must fall ; 
 
 Too soon the best of friends must part."
 
 REDEUNTIBUS. 161 
 
 So, Jones, my gyp, bestir thyself 
 One glowing night from work I steal 
 
 Go fetch me from my gyp-room shelf 
 The bottles with the yellow seal ; 
 
 And lay my cloth for five or six ; 
 
 To-night we meet once more and dine, 
 And sink the Tripos and its tricks 
 
 And all our cares beneath the wine. 
 
 w.L.-vm. it
 
 A BALLAD OF CAMBRIDGE DAY BY DAY. 
 
 "Cambridge undergraduates have many privileges." London Paper. 
 
 T T T ELL, yes, we have many diversions ; 
 
 V V We manage things well on the Cam ; 
 We have picnics and balls and excursions, 
 
 Tittle-tattle and tea-cakes and jam. 
 We can ask pretty cousins to dinner, 
 
 And our visitors cannot but choose 
 To admire (though our purses grow thinner) 
 
 Our size and our taste in " menoos." 
 But stay, I am asked to remember 
 
 Such jaunts are more fit for the May ; 
 So I'll sing you in dreary November 
 
 The song of our labour and play. 
 
 When we've risen and finished adorning 
 
 Our persons, and broken our fast, 
 In lectures the whole of the morning 
 
 Of course is religiously passed. 
 There are learned discourses by Cayley 
 
 (Much too clever, dear reader, for you) ; 
 There are dismal discussions on Paley, 
 
 Designed as a help to Part II. ; 
 And though some keep their lectures by sleeping, 
 
 The cunning ones, wakefully wise,
 
 A BALLAD OF CAMBRIDGE DAY BY DAY. 163 
 
 Use the time to advantage by peeping 
 At the girl with the pretty blue eyes. 
 
 Behold, in a tub or a funny, 
 
 With a back that is shaped like a D, 
 An oarsman it's fifty to one he 
 
 First learnt how to row on the sea ; 
 And he sighs, as he lugs, for the ocean, 
 
 And stirs up the Cam to its dregs, 
 And he opens his eyes at the notion 
 
 Of propelling a boat with his legs. 
 Yet such is the stuff of our oarsmen, 
 
 Who train on a chicken or chop, 
 And indulge though they know that it bores men 
 
 In a technical chatter called " shop." 
 
 But for those who see no joy in bumping, 
 
 And who promptly and flatly refuse 
 To row, but take pride in their jumping, 
 
 We have Fenner's to give them their blues. 
 They may vie with each other in skying 
 
 The hammer or putting the weight ; 
 They can get disappointed in trying 
 
 To run at a marvellous rate ; 
 And the time is so carefully reckoned 
 
 That even so little as less 
 Than the poor little fifth of a second 
 
 May make or may mar a success. 
 
 When the evenings grow darker and darker 
 In the season of lamp-light at six,
 
 1 64 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 On the Piece that is named after Parker 
 
 The footballer dribbles and kicks ; 
 But his comrade who yearns for the tougher, 
 
 More play-as -you-please sort of game 
 (And the scrummage is certainly rougher) 
 
 At Corpus must look for the same, 
 Where, whilst he is striving to run in, 
 
 Or succeeds in a beautiful " hoof," 
 The ladies of Newnham see fun in 
 
 The play, as they watch from the roof. 
 
 We have youths who by tailor and hatter 
 
 Are dressed and adorned to the nines 
 Here is one who is rash in the matter 
 
 Of grass-plots and lectures and fines. 
 He dines, and at times he gets mellow ; 
 
 He has wonderful waistcoats, and suits, 
 Checked with green or with red or with yellow, 
 
 Which is likewise the hue of his boots. 
 Then he " drags " and jumps fences unheeding, 
 
 And returns all bespattered with mud ; 
 For he much prefers riding to reading, 
 
 Our pride and our envy the " blood." 
 
 Just observe our loquacious debates-men 
 
 (Will their eloquence never run dry ?) ; 
 They are all of them embryo statesmen, 
 
 Or bishops in dittoes and tie. 
 There are fiery young spouters from Ulster 
 
 The land that no foe shall enslave ; 
 How they make the blood boil and the pulse stir 
 
 With their praises of Balfour the brave !
 
 A BALLAD OF CAMBRIDGE DAY BY DAY. 165 
 
 And they all wander far from the motion ; 
 
 While an ardent but limited band 
 Spend their time in expressing devotion 
 
 To the Old Parliamentary Hand. 
 
 We have freshmen good gracious, how many ! 
 
 To console us for those who are down ; 
 They have little experience, if any, 
 
 As they swagger in cap and in gown ; 
 And their notions are really the oddest 
 
 And the most incorrect as a rule, 
 But they are not too shrinkingly modest, 
 
 For each man was a genius at school ! 
 Yet whether he's dull or he's clever, 
 
 There isn't a freshman but can 
 Teach his grandmother tricks, as for ever 
 
 The boy disappears in the man. 
 
 So here you have Cambridge summed up, sir 
 
 Our mirror of manners and men, 
 Our beehive of coaches and pups, sir, 
 
 Where the gates are all locked after ten ; 
 Where we read, or we row, or we revel, 
 
 Cut chapels and visit the Dean, 
 Devote our exams, to the d 1, 
 
 And think only freshmen are green ; 
 Where every man swears by his college, 
 
 And we all hope with patience to be 
 Possessed of those hall-marks of knowledge, 
 
 Hood, bands, and a B.A. degree.
 
 AVE VIR(IDIS) IMPERATOR ! 
 
 TO THE FRESHMEN. 
 
 OYOU who come freshly, while autumn is turning 
 The leaves that were green into scraps that are 
 brown, 
 To the fountain of wisdom, the temple of learning, 
 
 The haunt, in a word, of the cap and the gown, 
 How the weary old grey-beards must note with surprise 
 The ring of your laughter, the light in your eyes ! 
 
 Advance without fear, for these courts are your Mother's, 
 For the sons who have left her our Cambridge is sad ; 
 
 Yet shall we who remain give you greeting as brothers ; 
 You are come to replace them advance and be glad. 
 
 And forget not, O men, in the freedom and joy 
 
 Of your newly-made manhood the hopes of the boy. 
 
 We have much to delight you the field and the river 
 (Though the scoffers say Camus foots slow* in a drain) ; 
 
 We have books for the thinker and feasts for the liver, 
 Who is coloured (with scarves), while the thinker is 
 plain. 
 
 We have tutors to guard us, and deans who can gate, 
 
 And the price of a proctor is still six-and-eight. 
 
 * Cf. Lycidas. 
 166
 
 AVE VlRtJDIS) IMPERATOR! 167 
 
 We have clubs where the lad who but lately sucked toffee 
 May recline if he likes at the close of the day, 
 
 While he sips his Chartreuse as a chasse to his coffee, 
 And attempts, greatly daring, to colour a clay ; 
 
 And it's oh for that lad when he staggers to bed 
 
 With a clay-coloured face and a pain in his head ! 
 
 We have halls where they feed us and halls for debating ; 
 
 We have bedmakers robed in a bonnet and shawl ; 
 We have chapels and here let me help you by stating 
 
 That a chapel, when " cut," often ends in a " haul." 
 And I beg you will master, since learning is cheap, 
 The mystical, manifold meanings of " keep." 
 
 We have coaches galore to rebuke us for " bucket " ; 
 
 We have smugs, we have bloods Trinitatis e Coll. ; 
 And the man who of tripos grows weary can " chuck it," 
 
 To be coached which is usual and ploughed for the 
 
 poll. 
 
 Yet we mostly succeed, and on paying a fee 
 Wear the skin of a rabbit and take our degree. 
 
 We have " grinds " for our wranglers, and " funnies " for 
 
 scullers ; 
 We've a drag for our horsemen, and Claspers for 
 
 crews ; 
 
 And for those who love lightning and dote upon colours 
 We have blazers, five hundred, from which they may 
 
 choose. 
 
 But we robe after dark, lest the best of the. game 
 Be the proctor's who asks us our college and name
 
 1 66 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 We have problems, alas ! that are stiff as our collars, 
 With a flavour of TT to the n th minus one ; 
 
 And to those who would emulate Pindar our scholars 
 Dr. Jebb is a sample can show how it's done. 
 
 But at times the high gods who o'er papers preside 
 
 Send a lady from Newnham to chasten our pride. 
 
 So advance and be welcome ; we greet you delighted ; 
 
 And oh ! be not tired of your freshness too soon ; 
 The age that you ask for will come uninvited, 
 
 Like the thief in the night or the tripos in June. 
 And we envy, who pause and regret and grow grey, 
 The joy of mere living that stirs you to-day.
 
 IN JESUS LANE. 
 
 BY A VETERAN. 
 
 DEAR Lane, thou art not passing fair, 
 Thou art not always passable, 
 Yet to be with thee I could spare 
 
 Much else ; dear Lane, I love thee well. 
 
 I see thy well-known sights again, 
 And stray as once I used to stray 
 
 Amid the ceaseless stream of men 
 Who fill thy pavement every day. 
 
 The dogs of every sort and size, 
 
 Still masterless I see them sit 
 And contemplate with anxious eyes 
 
 The stucco temple of the Pitt. 
 
 And though I strive I may not miss 
 That tout who still saluteth me ; 
 
 O venal smirker, tell me this 
 Were it not better not to be ? 
 
 Thou art so mean and void of sense, 
 
 And all the day thou lingerest 
 Unsnubbable in hope of pence 
 
 For thee some easy death were best. 
 169
 
 1 70 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Close by the cabmen jest or swear, 
 A rough, untutored, jovial throng ; 
 
 Their noisy laughter fills the air ; 
 
 They like their jests both broad and long. 
 
 And while the drivers gaily laugh, 
 The bony horses, bent and worn, 
 
 Stand heedless of their masters' chaff, 
 
 And droop their heads and munch their corn. 
 
 I see the linen-suited cooks, 
 A balanced box on every head 
 
 Men cannot live alone on books ; 
 With chops and steaks they must be fed. 
 
 The Lane hath all its ancient stir 
 Dogs, dog-carts, undergraduates, 
 
 The polo-men with boot and spur, 
 The rowing-men who talk of weights. 
 
 O long and quite unlovely Lane 
 
 Of lodging-houses, row on row, 
 What though thy face of things be plain, 
 
 A world of beauty dwells below ! 
 
 Again I see thy common bricks, 
 
 And scan each well-remembered door 
 
 Of 25 and 26, 
 Of 37 and 34. 
 
 The doors dissolve ; I seem to hear 
 The voice of friends ; unaged I trace, 
 
 Behind the bricks that disappear, 
 Some young and unforgotten face.
 
 IN JESUS LANE. 1 7 1 
 
 Such scenes doth memory enact 
 
 For those whose hair is turning grey ; 
 
 Then ruthless brings them back to fact, 
 Rings down the curtain, ends the play. 
 
 Yet oft I tempt her to repeat 
 
 Her part, and make the present fair, 
 
 By changing all the busy street, 
 Its sights and sounds, to what they were, 
 
 When twice twelve years had yet to go 
 
 Ere the slow century had its fill, 
 And I was like the rest who row 
 
 Or ride or read in Cambridge still. 
 
 Yea, if some god restored the past, 
 
 And bade me live my life again, 
 I would not change from first to last 
 
 The hours I lived in Jesus Lane.
 
 THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 
 
 I KNEW a Trinity scholar once, 
 A Trinity scholar of high repute ; 
 With a conical head, and thin, straight hair, 
 
 And a face that was foolish beyond compare- 
 A face, in fact, like the face of a dunce, 
 And a stare like the stare of a senseless brute ; 
 And when I beheld him, I thought, " It's plain 
 He's a hulking lout with an idiot's brain." 
 
 I was doubly wrong, for the man had two 
 Two brains joined by a bridge between ; 
 One he used as a threshing-floor, 
 The other he kept as a sort of store. 
 
 172
 
 THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 173 
 
 And every fact that he stored was true, 
 Cleared of its husk and bright and clean ; 
 
 And he labelled and packed and arranged them all 
 
 Ready for use at a moment's call. 
 
 And whenever he wrote his pen ran fast, 
 Like a ship with a favouring wind behind ; 
 And he finished his papers and went away 
 AVith a sneer for the rest who were forced to stay. 
 And many an envious look we cast 
 At the wonderful man with the matchless mind, 
 Who, whatever the subject, beat the lot, 
 And romped in first in a common trot. 
 
 Then a medical congress came by train, 
 
 Armed with cephalo-microscopes ; 
 
 And they prodded him here and tapped him there, 
 And shaved his occiput bald and bare ; 
 
 And wrote of his singular double brain 
 
 In dogmas as certain as any pope's. 
 
 And they each described (in an interview) 
 How little the rest of the congress knew. 
 
 So matters progressed, till one May-week, 
 When the double-brained man was reading hard 
 
 He came on a problem of arc and line, 
 
 And he threshed it out and he sifted fine, 
 And loaded it up, and, so to speak, 
 Started his truck for the further yard, 
 
 And it rumbled along, till suddenly, hey 
 
 Presto ! the bridge betiveen gave way. 
 *****
 
 i;4 /A' CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 And except for his bridge, the man's the same 
 Just what he was ere the bridge went crash ; 
 And one of his brains is as full of tips 
 As the Docks in London are crammed with ships. 
 But now he's a fool, and he puts the blame 
 On the ponderous problem that caused the smash ; 
 For the bridge being shattered beyond a doubt, 
 There's no way of getting his knowledge out. 
 
 System on system and plan on plan, 
 Packed and docketed, there they lie ; 
 
 All the philosophies, A to Z, 
 
 That split the commonplace, one-brained head ; 
 Schemes to explain the descent of man, 
 Or fit him to scale the starry sky. 
 
 And no ray pierces the brooding gloom, 
 
 Where the dust lies thick in the silent room. 
 
 So there's the story ; it's true, I know 
 
 True and clear as the noonday sun ; 
 And it's quite a respectable story too, 
 Which is more than most are, however true. 
 
 And the moral is this : Though your work be slow, 
 
 And your brain, like mine, be the usual one, 
 You have much more chance of a double first 
 Than a two-brained marvel whose bridge is burst.
 
 THE NARROWING CAGE. 
 
 THIS is the tale of an ancient Don ; 
 I remember him well some years ago, 
 So well that I seem to see him now, 
 With his drooping head and his furrowed brow, 
 As he paced in the shadows where no ray shone 
 With a dragging step that was dull and slow, 
 And eyes that looked not to left or right, 
 But were fixed on the ground and shunned the light. 
 
 His back was bent and his beard was grey, 
 And the hair on his head was sparse and long ; 
 
 His boots were worn and his coat was frayed, 
 
 And his bones seemed thin as a razor-blade ; 
 And wherever he went on his dismal way 
 He froze the hearts of our youthful throng, 
 
 And after he passed the very air 
 
 Seemed choked and dead with a dead despair. 
 
 And often at night, when the lights shone out 
 From many a room in the dim old Court, 
 Hither and thither, from wall to wall, 
 From Hall to Chapel, from Chapel to Hall, 
 
 175
 
 i?6 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 The bent, gaunt figure would move about, 
 While the Dons, his fellows, were drinking port ; 
 And he muttered and sighed, and sighed again, 
 Like a spirit of woe in a world of pain. 
 
 The man was learned, had written books, 
 And a German professor had come from Bonn 
 With a huge brown beard and a small black box, 
 Containing a brush and a few odd socks ; 
 And he skilfully baited his Teuton hooks, 
 And angled for notes from the ancient Don ; 
 But he failed, and just as he came he went 
 With his temper gone and his money spent. 
 
 Now this is the tale : he had once been young 
 
 Young, God save us, as you or I ; 
 
 And his crisp, close curls had a golden hue, 
 And his laugh was light and his eyes were blue ; 
 
 And he moved with a jest on his careless tongue 
 
 Through a crowd of adorers, his head raised high, 
 In the chorus of praise that his friends would sing 
 " You are strong and beautiful ; reign as king." 
 
 Wisdom's precipice high and sheer 
 
 Firm with unfaltering feet he scaled ; 
 Prizes and triumphs, great and small, 
 Honours and wreaths he grasped them all : 
 
 What should he have but a great career, 
 
 The man who could reach where others failed, 
 Destined to soar on the wings of fame 
 To a summit crowned with a deathless name ?
 
 THE NARROWING CAGE. 177 
 
 He felt, he knew that the world was his 
 His, if he willed, to the farthest strand : 
 
 The earth beneath and the sky above, 
 
 Eloquence, learning, statecraft, love 
 All that has been and all that is, 
 He held it all in his hollow hand ; 
 
 The limitless spaces deep and still, 
 
 All were his for his soul to fill. 
 
 The blood coursed fast through his throbbing veins 
 
 In a fever of high exultant mirth ; 
 
 And he cried in his joy, " I can rise as far 
 As the glittering peaks of the morning star ; 
 
 I can reach deep under the wind-swept plains, 
 
 And pluck at the heart of the patient earth ; 
 Courage, beauty and youth divine, 
 And the strength of a host in arms are mine." 
 * * * * 
 
 The world wagged on and the years rolled by ; 
 Others struggled from day to day ; 
 
 And he who had flashed for a moment, bright 
 
 As a star that falls on a winter night, 
 Fading fast as it cleaves the sky, 
 Wore in darkness his life away ; 
 
 And of all the crowd who had hailed him great 
 
 Few had a thought for his dreary fate. 
 
 And he ? Well, this is the tale they tell : 
 He rose one day, and the world seemed dim, 
 And he paced through the busy Cambridge street 
 With slow, dull, faltering, weary feet ; 
 W.L.-VIII. 12
 
 178 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 And all at once for he saw it well 
 There in the distance in front of him, 
 Dark and frowning, and steep and tall, 
 Some one had raised a barrier-wall. 
 
 And he turned in horror and hurried back ; 
 
 And, horror of horrors ! a wall stood there, 
 At the point where his walk had been begun 
 Hiding the face of the friendly sun. 
 
 And the sky at the noontide hour was black, 
 
 And faster he hurried, and grew aware 
 That men had vanished, and all alone 
 He was caught and caged in a square of stone. 
 
 You laugh, for the walls, you say, were dreams, 
 
 Bodiless phantoms born to fade : 
 
 Yes, but dreams that a mind could feel, 
 Built of granite and bound with steel ; 
 
 And truth was gone, like the last faint gleams 
 
 Of a day that wanes and is lost in shade ; 
 And the desolate square became a den 
 Filled with the cries of hopeless men. 
 
 And day followed day : like a ghost distraught 
 
 He moved in his rusty, tattered gown ; 
 And his eyes grew dull and his body thin, 
 As the walls crept closer and closer in < 
 
 Closer in on the victim caught 
 
 In a narrowing cage that pressed him down ; 
 Till at last they gripped him on every side 
 In the shape of a coffin and so he died.
 
 THE NARROWING CAGE. 179 
 
 This is the tale that was told to me ; 
 And carefully, just as I heard it told, 
 
 This tale of the ancient Don I knew, 
 
 Just as I heard it, I tell tjo you. 
 You and I took a low degree ; 
 The flights we attempt are rarely bold. 
 
 So I hope we may reach a humdrum age, 
 
 Nor perish at last in a closing cage.
 
 CAMBRIDGE REVISITED. 
 
 A MAN is as old as he feels, no doubt ; 
 I thought so at least till yesterday, 
 Forgetting that time and a wife and gout 
 Turn smooth to wrinkled and black to grey, 
 
 Till yesterday, when I went to dine 
 
 With Harry, the son of Dick, my friend ; 
 
 We were freshmen together in '59, 
 And supposed that our youth could never end. 
 
 We both wore gloves with our cap and gown, 
 And umbrellas, too, in showery weather, 
 
 And on Guy Fawkes day we challenged the town, 
 And gave and received black eyes together. 
 
 We both cut chapels and stayed out late : 
 I wonder if Dick can still play loo ? 
 
 Could he climb, I wonder, the New Court gate, 
 As I blush to confess it we used to do ? 
 
 We both bought wine and cigars (on tick), 
 And both with our money were far too free ; 
 
 And the Dean was often " at home " to Dick 
 He was just as often " at home " to me. 
 
 180
 
 CAMBRIDGE REVISITED. 
 
 181 
 
 And one great evening, I call to mind, 
 
 When Proctor and bull-dogs gave us chase, 
 
 Dick was noisy (we both had dined), 
 
 And they ran us down in the Market Place. 
 
 But oh, what a race we had of it first ! 
 
 Petty Cury, Parade, and forrard again, 
 Through Senate House Passage, and then with a burst 
 
 Into Trinity Street through Trinity Lane. 
 
 How gay were our songs in the days gone by ! 
 
 Chorus on chorus," The Hunting Day," 
 And "The Whiskered Captain" whose glance was sly, 
 
 And " Auld Lang Syne " and " The Vicar of Bray." 
 
 And Phyllis was always " our only joy," 
 The maiden who never failed to please ; 
 
 And we sang to her often, wanton or coy, 
 In a charming assortment of varied keys.
 
 1 82 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 And some of us sang of a bob-tailed mare, 
 With a curious chorus of " dooh dah day," 
 
 And some of the maiden with golden hair, 
 And old John Peel with his coat so gay. 
 
 And some sent " Bowling " up to the sky, 
 Poor Tom Bowling whose heart was soft ; 
 
 I would that our voices had reached as high 
 As the soul of Tom when it went aloft. 
 
 We trifled a little with x and y, 
 
 And we dabbled in Greek, and with shame I own 
 That Dick wrote dates on his cuff, whilst I 
 
 Took some pages in from our old friend Bohn. 
 
 But Dick's a Lancashire rector now, 
 
 And he lives a sober and solemn life, 
 With a face as grave as a Proctor's bow, 
 
 And a barren glebe and a fruitful wife. 
 
 And I well, I am the fool who thought 
 
 That the years could vanish and leave no sign 
 
 On the veteran Master of Arts who bought 
 His cap and his gown in '59. 
 
 For yesterday, as I paced again 
 
 Through the grey old Court where the fountain plays, 
 I felt that the decades had passed in vain, 
 
 And had left me as young as in other days. 
 
 Then I dined with Harry (I love that boy, 
 
 For his face, God bless him ! is just like Dick's), 
 
 And I did my best to seem to enjoy 
 
 His brut champagne and his courses six.
 
 CAMBRIDGE REVISITED. 183 
 
 And the raw young jokes of his five young friends 
 They laughed quite heartily too at mine ; 
 
 What a fund of laughter an old joke lends ! 
 And mine were older than Harry's wine. 
 
 But at last, when the lads were growing mellow, 
 
 I opened the door and prepared to go, 
 And (I heard it plainly), " A good old fellow," 
 
 Said one to the other ; " but, Lord, how slow ! " 
 
 And all in a moment the vision vanished, 
 
 And I, who was young when I climbed the stair, 
 
 Crept dismally down with my fancies banished, 
 A wrinkled fogey with grizzling hair. 
 
 And I said to myself, as I passed the gate, 
 "What boots it to show to these careless boys 
 
 That a man can be young at forty-eight, 
 
 When he steps less briskly and makes no noise ? " 
 
 Yet time will avenge me, my young disdainer ; 
 
 You will know why I cling to my youthful past, 
 When the pitiless years that make all things plainer 
 
 Shall have placed you too on the shelf at last.
 
 TO THE MASTER OF TRINITY. 
 
 A CONGRATULATORY ODE ON THE BIRTH OF HIS SON 
 (1889). 
 
 DR. BUTLER, may I venture without seeming too 
 officious 
 
 To congratulate you warmly on a birthday so auspicious ? 
 
 The event is surely worthy that I, too, should raiso my voice 
 at it, 
 
 And proclaim as best I may that, like all others, I rejoice 
 at it. 
 
 I am late I own it humbly, but from censure crave immu- 
 nity; 
 
 I should have wished you joy before, but lacked the oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 And you, too, fair young mistress of our ancient Lodge at 
 Trinity,* 
 
 Though to the usual natal ode my rhymes have small 
 affinity, 
 
 Though good wishes from an unknown friend may savour 
 of temerity, 
 
 Yet accept both them and my excuse for wishing them 
 sincerity. 
 
 * Mrs. Butler (then Miss Agneta Ramsay) was Senior Classic in 
 1887. 
 
 184
 
 TO THE MASTER OF TRINITY. 185 
 
 And the son ! with two such parents this small member of 
 
 our college 
 
 Must be, unlike the ruck of us, a paragon of knowledge ; 
 Armed cap-a-pie with wisdom like the goddess in the 
 
 stories ; 
 
 A human sort of letters which we term humaniores ; 
 A kind of tiny scholiast who'll startle his relations 
 With his luminous suggestions, and his subtle emendations ; 
 A lexicon in arms, with all the syntax grafted in on him ; 
 A Gradus ad Parnassum, full of epithet and synonym ; 
 A Corpus Poetarum, such as classics love to edit, he 
 Will furnish, let me hope, a bright example of heredity. 
 Though no doubt he'll be a stoic or a modern Pocahontas 
 (This allusion is TL (3dpf3apov) when cutting his oSovras ; 
 Yet if he when his teething time approaches should to cry 
 
 elect, 
 
 He will cry, I am persuaded, in the purest Attic dialect. 
 If a keen desire for nourishment his baby face should 
 
 mottle, 
 He will think " nunc est bibendum " not, like others, " pass 
 
 the bottle." 
 Before he doffs his long-clothes, and while scarcely fit to 
 
 wean, he 
 Will be game to tackle Schliemann on the treasures of 
 
 Mycenae ; 
 
 And although his conversation must be chiefly esoteric, 
 Yet I warrant, if the truth were known, he often talks 
 
 Homeric ; 
 Then, whilst others merely babble, he will whet his infant 
 
 senses 
 On a new and striking theory of Greek and Latin tenses.
 
 1 86 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 He'll eschew his india-rubber ring, vote picture-books 
 
 immoral, 
 
 And prefer an hour with Tacitus to rattle or to coral. 
 He will subjugate hexameters and conquer elegiacs, 
 As easily as Rajah Brooke made mincemeat of the Dyaks ; 
 And in struggles with alcaics and iambics, and the rest 
 
 of it, 
 I will lay a thousand drachmas Master Butler gets the best 
 
 of it. 
 
 And whatever Dr. Jebb may think, he'll look a small potato 
 Should he dare to take this infant on in ^Eschylus or Plato. 
 Then (forgive me if I mention but a few amongst his many 
 
 tricks) 
 He will call his father "genitor," his mother "alma 
 
 genetrix," 
 At an age when other babies stutter "Pa" or "Ma" or 
 
 " Gra'ma " ; 
 He will solve oh, joy! the mystery and sense cf the 
 
 digamma ; 
 He'll discover by an instinct, though the point is somewhat 
 
 knotty, 
 
 That in certain cases TT/JOS is used, in other cases TTOTI. 
 He will know the proper case for every little preposition, 
 Will correctly state a certainty or hint at a condition. 
 Latin prose will be a game to him ; at two he'll take a prize 
 
 in it, 
 With no end of Ciceronian turns and lots of quippe qui-s 
 
 in it. 
 
 With the ablatives so absolute they awe you into silence, 
 And such indirect narrations that they wind away a mile 
 
 hence ;
 
 TO THE MASTER OF TRINITY. 187 
 
 With the sentences so polished that they shine like house- 
 maids' faces, 
 All the words both big and little fixed like features in their 
 
 places ; 
 With the moods all strictly accurate, the tenses in their 
 
 sequences, 
 
 And a taste so truly classical it shudders at infrequencies; 
 With some cunning bits of tam-s and quam-s, and all the 
 
 little wily sets 
 
 Of donec-s and of qiiamvis-es, of dum-s and quin-s and scilicet-s. 
 All the imperfections rubbed away, the roughness nicely 
 
 levelled off, 
 Like a sheet of burnished copper with the edges neatly 
 
 bevelled off. 
 In short,, go search all Europe through, you'll find that in 
 
 Latinity 
 
 Not a soul can hold a candle to our Master's son in Trinity. 
 Then he'll write Greek plays by dozens not such models of 
 
 insipid ease 
 (Robert Browning, grant me pardon) as the dramas of 
 
 Euripides ; 
 
 But lines that roll like thunder, yEschylean and Titanic, 
 With a saving touch of Sophocles, a dash Aristophanic. 
 Not an accent will be wanting, no false quantity will kill a 
 
 line; 
 There'll be no superfluous particles like ye to merely fill a 
 
 line. 
 Then if asked to choose a story-book this prodigy will nod 
 
 at us, 
 
 And demand the Polyhymnia or the Clio of Herodotus. 
 ' At three he'll take a tripos class in Aryan mythology,
 
 188 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 And at four confute all Germany in Roman archaeology ; 
 
 And if Teuton rivals should indite huge quartos to sup- 
 press him, oh ! 
 
 I'll back this cyclopaedic child, this English duodecimo. 
 
 And, bless me ! how his cheeks will glow with infantine 
 elation, 
 
 Should he catch his parents tripping in a classical quota- 
 tion ! 
 
 He'll be, in fact, before he's done with pap-boat and with 
 ladle, 
 
 The critic's last variety the critic in the cradle. 
 
 So a health to you, good Master ; may the day that brought 
 this boy to you 
 
 Be through the years a constant source of happiness and 
 joy to you. 
 
 May he have his father's eloquence, be charming as his 
 mother, 
 
 And when he grows to wield a bat play cricket like his 
 brother. 
 
 I looks towards you, Dr. B., and Mrs. Butler too, sir ; 
 
 The infant prodigy as well, let's drink it in a " brew," sir. 
 
 Take of champagne a magnum, drop some Borage (that's 
 the stuff) in it, 
 
 With a dash of Cognac, lots of ice and seltzer, quantum 
 snff. t in it ; 
 
 And we'll drain this simple mixture ("simple mixture" 
 sounds Hibernian), 
 
 And in honour of the classic babe we'll fancy it's Falernian.
 
 AN INTER-UNIVERSITY INCIDENT. 
 
 [/ 1890 there arose a dispute between the Presidents of the Cambridge and 
 Oxford University Boat Clubs {Messrs. Muttlcbury and Nickalls) 
 with reference to the date of the boatrace. Mr. Nickalls was (not, 
 perhaps, quite accttrately) ttnderstood to have declared in an official 
 letter that Cambridge wanted to get the best of everything, because 
 they were this year " a poorer lot than usual." The quarrel raged 
 for a few days ; but ultimately a date was fixed, and shortly 
 aftenvards Mr. Nickalls and Mr. Rowe, of the O. U. B. C., 
 visited Cambridge. The formal reconciliation was celebrated at a 
 banquet (see No. 2).] 
 
 I. 
 
 THE QUARREL: "A POORER LOT THAN USUAL." 
 (WITH ALL PROPER APOLOGIES TO MR. NICKALLS.) 
 
 STREW your heads with dust and ashes, O ye sons of 
 sedgy Cam ; 
 Let your speech be meek and humble as the baa of bleating 
 
 lamb ; 
 Let your bloods go robed in sackcloth and be careless of 
 
 their boots, 
 
 You're "a poorer lot than usual," rather lower than the 
 brutes. 
 
 Fiery Nickalls wrote the letter, fiery Nickalls, fine and 
 
 large, 
 And his frenzied eye flashed fury as he sat within his barge.
 
 igo IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 " Long enough have we submitted ; now the time has come 
 
 to strike ; 
 Shall ' a poorer lot than usual ' settle all things as they 
 
 like? 
 
 " I, the winner of the Wingfields, of the Diamonds winner 
 
 too, 
 Who at stroke, or six, or seven am the mainstay of the 
 
 crew ; 
 I, whom friends call Guy or Luney," it was thus the chieftain 
 
 spoke, 
 "Of 'a poorer lot than usual ' will not tamely bear the 
 
 yoke. 
 
 ' Nay, my brothers of the Isis, let us write to them and say 
 They shall trample us no longer in the old familiar way ; 
 And the banner of our Boat Club, as it flutters in its pride, 
 By ' a poorer lot than usual ' shall no longer be defied." 
 
 So he wrote it, and he signed it in the Presidential chair, 
 And he folded and addressed it, and he posted it with care ; 
 And the heedless postman bore it, little recking of the 
 
 frown 
 Of " a poorer lot than usual " who reside in Cambridge 
 
 town. 
 
 Then the captains all were summoned, those who study 
 
 " stinks " at Caius, 
 Those who wear the blue of Pembroke, or in Magdalene 
 
 loll at ease, 
 Those from Trinity and Downing, John's and Christ's and 
 
 eke the Hall, 
 Came, " a poorer lot than usual," at the Secretary's call,
 
 AN INTER-UNIVERSITY INCIDENT. 191 
 
 From Emmanuel of the Lion, from St. Catherine's of the 
 
 Wheel, 
 
 From Sidney and St. Peter's with the Crosskeys for a seal, 
 And from Jesus trooped the captains, where they own the 
 
 Dean of deans 
 (Not "a poorer lot than usual"), and from Corpus and 
 
 from Queen's. 
 
 Came the pious youths of Selwyn and the brawny men of 
 
 Clare, 
 And the Kingsmen trimmed with violet, who had heard of 
 
 the affair ; 
 And the baby boys of Cavendish came riding in their 
 
 " pram," 
 With " a poorer lot than usual " both of lollipops and jam. 
 
 And they sat in solemn conclave, there within the panelled 
 
 hall, 
 Where the golden names of oarsmen gleam and glitter on 
 
 the wall ; 
 Mighty Muttle read the letter, lord and master of the 
 
 crews, 
 In " a poorer lot than usual " of socks and shorts and shoes. 
 
 Then they looked at one another as they heard it with 
 
 dismay, 
 
 And one said, " This is awful," and another, " Let us pray " ; 
 Till at last rose one and murmured, and his fingers, as he 
 
 rose, 
 Were " a poorer lot than usual "extended from his 
 
 nose.
 
 192 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 " Thus," he said, " I answer Nickalls of the boast so loud 
 
 and big ; 
 
 Let him mount, and, if he likes it, ride to Putney on a pig. 
 Let him go to Bath or blazes, go to Jericho and back, 
 Or 'a poorer lot than usual ' place his head within a sack. 
 
 " But when next he writes to Cambridge let him try another 
 
 plan ; 
 Manners cost no more than twopence, and 'tis manners 
 
 makyth man. 
 
 And, O Muttle ! if you meet him, tell him plainly face to face 
 That 'a poorer lot than usual' mean to beat him in the race." * 
 
 II. 
 THE RECONCILIATION: OXFORD IN CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 [ Ode written in celebration of the visit of Mr. Guy Nickalls and Mr. 
 Reginald Rowe to the banks of the Cam. At the date of the visit 
 which is here celebrated the two University Eights were manned 
 by the following crews: OXFORD: bow, W. F. C. Holland; 
 No. 2, H. E. L. Puxley; No. 3, R. P. P. Howe; No. 4, C. St. J. 
 Hornby; No. 5, Lord Am f thill ; No. 6, C. F. Drake; No. 7, 
 G. Nickalls; stroke, W. A. L. Fletcher. CAMBRIDGE: bow, C. S. 
 Starrs ; No. 2, /. M. Sladen ; No. 3, E. T. Fison ; No. 4, /. F. 
 Rmvlatt; No. 5, A. S. Duffield ; No. 6, S. D. Muttlebury ; No. 7, 
 G. Francklyn ; stroke, G. Elin.~\ 
 
 OH ! sadly flows the Isis, full sadly go the crews, 
 And the Blue-aspiring oarsmen all have yielded to 
 the blues. 
 Through hall and quad and college sweeps the universal 
 
 moan, 
 " Give Guy and Reggie back to us ; we cannot row alone." 
 
 * Which, however, they failed to do, by a length.
 
 AN INTER-UNIVERSITY INCIDENT. 193 
 
 To Iffley drift the " loggers," as slow as any hearse ; 
 
 For while the men forget their form the coach forgets to 
 
 curse ; 
 And bow, who screws most painfully, forgets to murmur 
 
 " Blank," 
 As the cox forgets his rudder-strings and runs into the 
 
 bank. 
 
 Tom Timms, the genial boatman, sits droning mournfully ; 
 Sadly he hums the hymn " For those in peril on the sea." 
 (Yet think not that I mock his grief that faithful servant 
 
 Timms 
 Is better with his boathooks than he is at chanting 
 
 hymns.) 
 
 Black Holland of the elbows, who was never known to fail 
 With tea and buttered muffins, or with Phoenix cakes and 
 
 ale, 
 
 Unfed he sits in Vincent's, and o'er his brooding brow 
 Hangs sorrow like a thunder-cloud that tough and tidy 
 
 bow. 
 
 And Puxley droops in Corpus, the Janus of the oar, 
 With one face fixed to look behind, another fixed before ; 
 Drake and our Lord of Ampthill, too, a proud columnar 
 
 pair, 
 Like Stylites on his pillar, stand abandoned to despair. 
 
 And St. John Hornby mopes with them ; and Fletcher of 
 
 the House, 
 Who strokes the crew, is silent as the quiet, proverbial 
 
 mouse. 
 W.L.-VUI. 13
 
 194 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Yea, all the crew are sorrowful, like dogs bereft of bone, 
 And sigh for Guy and Reggie, for they cannot row alone. 
 ***** 
 
 But Guy has hastened Cam ward ; he leaves them to their 
 
 sighs, 
 
 And Reggie Rowe goes with him, curly Reggie of the eyes 
 Reggie the slim and supple, the pride of all the Eight, 
 Who never left his bed too soon, and never yet rowed 
 
 late. 
 
 See how our Muttle greets them ; his childlike smile is 
 
 bland, 
 That heathen Cantab, Muttle, as he shakes them by the 
 
 hand: 
 " Now, welcome both to Cambridge ; first lunch, and then 
 
 away 
 To watch ' the poorer ' Hem ! I mean the crew at work 
 
 to-day." 
 
 And soon, their luncheon ended, they issue forth again, 
 Speed past the gates of Sidney, and turn down Jesus Lane ; 
 Then, ploughing through the common, leave Cambridge 
 
 streets behind, 
 And come oh, marvel ! to the Cam, and cross it in a grind. 
 
 Then swift is launched the Clasper; young EJin sits at 
 
 stroke 
 
 Young Elin, who treats chemical explosions as a joke ; 
 And Francklyn swings behind him swing, swings, until 
 
 you feel 
 He means to knock his freshman's face full tilt against the 
 
 keel.
 
 AN INTER-UNIVERSITY INCIDENT. 195 
 
 Muttle at six is " stylish," so at least the Field reports ; 
 No man has ever worn, I trow, so short a pair of shorts. 
 His blade sweeps through the water, as he swings his 
 
 14-10, 
 And pulls it all, and more than all, that brawny king of 
 
 men. 
 
 Duffield in spectacles comes next, who hides his lip in 
 
 hair ; 
 And Rowlatt, fair and square at four that is, in fact, four 
 
 square ; 
 
 Next Fison, skilled in sculling, stout Sladen plugs at two, 
 And Storrs sits gracefully at bow ; and there you have the 
 
 crew. 
 
 But oh ! what thinks Guy Nickalls, who at Oxford doth 
 
 preside, 
 The while he rides his tow-path steed with Reggie at his 
 
 side? 
 
 What thinks he of our river ? And what, do you suppose 
 What means that hasty handkerchief he presses to his 
 
 nose ? 
 
 Nay, Barnwell Pool is bright and clear, and Camus, flowing 
 
 free, 
 Sweeps drainage, dogs, cats, tallow, soap, full swiftly to 
 
 the sea. 
 Guy cannot curse our stream ; yet, ah ! what means that 
 
 muttered d n ? 
 Perchance a blessing lurks therein ; he cannot curse the 
 
 Cam!
 
 196 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 What thinks he of the rowing ? What thinks he of the 
 
 strength ? 
 Thinks he his crew is smarter, or that ours prevails in 
 
 length ? 
 Thinks he that odds on him are right, and odds on us 
 
 absurd ? 
 Whate'er he thinks, he keeps it dark, and utters not a 
 
 word. 
 
 So sit up, and row your smartest, who fain would wear the 
 
 Blue; 
 Grip hard the clean beginning, then squarely row it 
 
 through ; 
 
 Out with your hands like lightning, and let the finish ring 
 Sharp as a church clock striking one ; then slowly, slowly 
 
 swing. 
 
 No need, O gallant Hutchinson, to rate your crew to-day ; 
 Oxford rides watching on the bank ; they know it and obey ; 
 And even Muttle, scant of praise, is forced to say, " Well 
 
 done ! " 
 While eight oars strike the Cam at once, eight bodies move 
 
 as one. 
 
 And, now the work is over, the rival chieftains sit 
 
 And talk of friendly nothings in their armchairs at the 
 
 Pitt; 
 
 And yet methought I marked a shade of sadness on the face 
 Of Nickalls, as he thought upon the coming Putney race. 
 ***** 
 
 But oh ! that merry evening the clash of knives and forks, 
 The sparkle of the wineglass, and the popping of the corks ;
 
 AN INTER-UNIVERSITY INCIDENT. 197 
 
 And the walls and rafters echoed and re-echoed to our cry, 
 As we drained our brimming bumpers to Reggie and to 
 Guy. 
 
 So here's a health to Oxford men ; there came a storm of 
 
 late, 
 But our sturdy friendship weathered it, nor foundered on a 
 
 date ; 
 And, when the furious race is past, again we'll meet and 
 
 dine, 
 And drink a cup of kindness yet for days of auld lang syne.
 
 WELSHED. 
 
 A REMINISCENCE OF NEWMARKET. 
 
 * I S HERE were once three merry freshmen who to New- 
 JL market would go ; 
 So they went and hired a dog-cart, since they meant to 
 
 cut a dash ; 
 And they all looked very knowing, while the ostler said, 
 
 "So ho!" 
 
 And they thought, " We'll drive the beast ourselves," for 
 freshmen are so rash. 
 
 And they packed a luncheon-basket, which might well have 
 
 fed a troop ; 
 There was lobster, there was chicken, there was salad, 
 
 there was ham, 
 And some shapes of cream and jelly, which got melted into 
 
 soup, 
 
 And a mayonnaise of salmon, and some little ribs of 
 lamb. 
 
 And a cake as full of currants as is Callaby's of dogs, 
 
 As brown as leaves in autumn, or a fashionable hat, 
 And as large as some one's swagger, or the hills they call the 
 
 Gogs, 
 
 Which are mountainous in Cambridgeshire, since Cam- 
 bridgeshire is flat.
 
 WELSHED. 199 
 
 They took glasses, plates and dishes, mustard, pepper, 
 
 knives and forks ; 
 But they took (and, very strangely, it was " no one's bally 
 
 fault ") 
 Not a single screw or lever that might serve for drawing 
 
 corks, 
 
 Which sometimes stick like leeches ; and they quite forgot 
 the salt. 
 
 And they took, besides some soda, just a dozen of " the 
 
 boy," 
 Neatly packed in straw and labelled, and some cognac 
 
 " very old " ; 
 For, without a dash of brandy, cream and cake are apt to 
 
 cloy; 
 And the winds that blow at Newmarket are often very cold. 
 
 And they started in the morning with a clatter down the 
 
 Lane : 
 There was Tom to hold the ribbons ; there was Dick to 
 
 wave the whip ; 
 
 And Harry held a posthorn, which he puffed into in vain, 
 So he cursed it very handsomely, and wiped his bleeding 
 lip. 
 
 There were lots of others going : there were some who went 
 
 in flys; 
 There were two who drove a tandem, which was voted 
 
 very grand ; 
 And some dozen tooled their dog-carts, and I noted with 
 
 surprise 
 A very cheerful party on a spanking four-in-hand.
 
 200 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 But Tom and Dick and Harry were the very, very pick, 
 In the most extensive overcoats that ever yet were 
 
 worn. 
 " This is something like," said Tommy ; " I believe you," 
 
 answered Dick; 
 But Harry answered nothing, being busy with the horn. 
 
 And they reached the classic Heath at last, and stopped 
 
 beside the course, 
 Taking tickets here and tickets there, and shelling out no 
 
 end; 
 
 And a ragged, dirty gentleman attended to their horse, 
 " Which," he said, " I'll do for yer jest as if I was yer 
 friend." 
 
 Then they saw a knowing party in a striking yellow hat, 
 Who said, " I'm the only tipster ; come and bet with 
 
 Uncle Ike ; 
 Here you are the field a pony." Whispered Tommy, "What 
 
 is that ? " 
 
 " Well, my lord, I'll go a monkey, or I'll bet you what 
 you like." 
 
 But they all declared for Surefoot " Good old Surefoot 
 
 takes the cake ! " 
 Posthorn Harry went a fiver, Dick and Tommy put in 
 
 ten, 
 And their Uncle Ike assured them, as he pocketed the 
 
 stake, 
 
 That when the race was over they would find him there 
 again.
 
 WELSHED. 201 
 
 Then they watched a lot of races, and they drank a deal of 
 
 fizz, 
 Which is bound to make you happier with every glass 
 
 you drain ; 
 And Dick said, " This is rippin' ; " and Tommy, " This is 
 
 biz ; " 
 
 But Harry blew that posthorn he had posthorns on the 
 brain. 
 
 And new the gallant racers came tearing by the stand, 
 
 And "Surefoot, for a million ! " was the universal roar. 
 And up went Surefoot's number, and Dick grasped Tommy's 
 
 hand ; 
 
 But Harry, smiling feebly, said he wished he'd backed 
 Le Nord. 
 
 But Dick and Tommy left him, and they ran a merry 
 
 race 
 
 To find their Uncle Ikey ; and they ran it " on the flat." 
 But Ike was non inventus ; he had vanished from the place, 
 With the freshmen's golden sovereigns, and his striking 
 yellow hat. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I should scarcely dare to mention all the words the couple 
 
 used 
 To express their indignation on the green and classic 
 
 Heath. 
 And they told the tale to Harry ; but he merely seemed 
 
 amused, 
 
 As he tried to drink a bumper with the posthorn in his 
 teeth.
 
 20*2 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Alas for all their merriment, their laughter, and their 
 
 glee ! 
 Oh, how gloomy and ferocious were these freshmen, and 
 
 how blue ! 
 " We've been welshed," said Dick to Tommy ; " I told you 
 
 we should be." 
 
 " No," said Tom, " that observation was addressed by me 
 to you." 
 
 At eve they started homeward, and underneath the seat 
 Lay Harry, with the posthorn, and dreamed he still was 
 
 rich ; 
 And they took the road in angles, they had drunk their 
 
 brandy neat, 
 
 And at last they spilt the dog-cart, horse and all, into a 
 . ditch. 
 
 Then Dick and Tommy trudged it, with Harry propped 
 
 between ; 
 The horse, with half a shaft attached, raced homeward to 
 
 his stall ; 
 And they staggered into college, but were spotted by the 
 
 Dean, 
 
 And as sure as fate next morning there arrived the fatal 
 haul. 
 
 Thus they lost their ready money, got three headaches, 
 
 smashed a trap, 
 
 Which was charged for, I am certain, at a most tremen- 
 dous rate ;
 
 WELSHED. 203 
 
 And although they boasted loudly that they didn't care a 
 
 rap, 
 
 They were crushed by being gated, all the three of them, 
 at eight. 
 
 So that's what comes of racing. O ye who read this 
 
 tale! 
 Though Newmarket be tempting, take my warning and 
 
 refrain. 
 You are better here in Cambridge with your bread and 
 
 bottled ale 
 
 Than with yellow-hatted uncles there and dozens of 
 champagne.
 
 A BREAKFAST EMBARRASSMENT. 
 
 An UNDERGRADUATE addresses HERBERT JIGGIXS, his gyp, 
 son to BELLA JIGGINS, his bedmaker. 
 
 OH ! Jiggins, Herbert Jiggins, why tarry you so late ? 
 Come, set my clothes in order, for the clock is 
 striking eight. 
 
 The pious, matutinal crowd has left the chapel door 
 A quarter of an hour ago ; you should have come before. 
 
 What shall I have for breakfast, O gentle Jiggins, say ; 
 Suggest, I beg of you, a dish untried before to-day. 
 Let it be simple ; what care I, so it be tasty too ? 
 But, Jiggins, look you well to this : it must be something 
 new. 
 
 Last night I had a great idea nay, Jiggins, do not frown ; 
 
 With pencil unprovided, how could I jot it down? 
 
 This morning I have lain awake and racked my weary 
 
 brain 
 To summon back that lost idea, but racked it all in vain. 
 
 What boots it, Herbert Jiggins, with aspect all too bland, 
 To come to me with pencil and with paper in your hand ? 
 At dinner thoughts of dishes fit for breakfast come in 
 
 troops, 
 But when ordering my breakfast I can only think of soups.
 
 A BREAKFAST EMBARRASSMENT. 205 
 
 The time is passing quickly say, say, what shall it be ? 
 I cannot bear to write again the name of Kedgaree. 
 I would not pain you, Jiggins ; but fish, and eggs, and rice 
 Compounded into one are far too filling at the price. 
 
 Prate not to me of kidneys ; I solemnly have vowed 
 That never on my table more shall kidneys be allowed ; 
 And never more, I trust, shall my digestion be upset 
 By kidneys, plain or devilled, or beskewered en brochette. 
 
 Once on a time, when life was fair, when youth with hope 
 
 was bright, 
 
 The plump and comely sausage was a vision of delight ; 
 But now a senior soph am I ; though it be split and brown, 
 The sausage of my early love can only raise a frown. 
 
 In curries I have steeped myself I'll steep myself no more ; 
 My soul detests the very thought of eggs fried " a Faurore" 
 With whiting I will toy no more; though other food should 
 
 fail, 
 He may devour, for I will not, his own insipid tail. 
 
 Now, by St. George, no longer may our breakfast be delayed ; 
 So, Jiggins, let your mother be summoned to our aid. 
 Her fairy foot is on the stair ; I hear her liquid voice ; 
 Go, Jiggins, call your mother to assist us in our choice. 
 
 Come hither, pretty Bella nay, do not start away ; 
 
 You must ere this have finished with " them other men " 
 
 to-day. 
 A murrain on " them other men " ; I wish them to the 
 
 deuce ; 
 
 Whenever you would leave me, they are always the excuse. 
 *****
 
 206 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 But stay yes, yes, I have it ! For your kitchens what 
 
 care I, , 
 
 Whilst Bella's fork and Bella's spoon can all my wants 
 
 supply ? 
 For Bella will not frown upon the youth who humbly 
 
 begs 
 He never begged in vain before for toast and buttered 
 
 eggs.
 
 ION FILINGS ; OR, THE WRECK OF THE 
 FAST CREUSA. 
 
 A TOTALLY, VERRALLY* NEW VERSION. 
 
 [The "/<? '' of Euripides was performed at Cambridge in November 1890. 
 The scheme of the following burlesque was suggested by Mr. T. A. 
 Bertram, of Caius College, who played the part of the Therapon in 
 the original.} 
 
 ' Characters. 
 
 HERMES A god-brother. 
 
 ION A god-son, JUNIOR DEAN. 
 
 CREUSA Married to XUTHUS. 
 
 XUTHUS Married to CREUSA. 
 
 PAIDAGOGMAGOG . . . Not in the Lexicon. 
 
 THERAPON A Reporter. 
 
 ATHENA ..... An Ex-machinist. 
 CHORUS OF BEDMAKERS. 
 
 SCENE. The Chapel Court of a college at the University of 
 Delphi. 
 
 [The eminently pleasing plot of the Ion may be thus stated : Xuthus 
 and Creusa, King and Queen of Athens, distressed at their long continued 
 childlessness, determine to make a journey to Delphi to consult the 
 oracle of Apollo. It happened that, eighteen years before her marriage 
 with Xuthus, Creusa had borne a child to Apollo. The child she had 
 abandoned, trusting to the god to take care of his offspring. Thinking 
 the visit to Delphi a good opportunity for learning the fate of the child, 
 she comes in advance of her husband, intending to inquire of the oracle. 
 
 * In a preface to the acting edition. Dr. Verrall propounded a new 
 and almost revolutionary theory of the inner meaning of the Ion.
 
 2o8 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 As a matter of fact, Apollo had deputed Hermes to take the babe to his 
 own shrine at Delphi, where he had been reared by the Pythian priestess 
 as a priest of the temple, under the name of Ion. Creusa applies to Ion 
 on her arrival, unconscious that he is her own son ; but he refuses to put 
 the question, considering it an insult to his patron deity. Shortly after 
 Xuthus arrives ; on inquiring of the oracle, he is told that the first 
 person he should meet on leaving the temple would be his son. The 
 first person he meets is the young priest Ion. After some doubt and 
 hesitation the pair decide to submit themselves to the declaration of the 
 oracle. Xuthus, conjecturing that Ion is the result.of one of the amours 
 of his youth, warns him against divulging anything to Creusa, and 
 proposes to take him to Athens, ostensibly as his adopted son. What 
 had passed is, however, revealed to Creusa by one of the servants stand- 
 ing by. Incited by the Paidagogos, an old family servant, she lays a 
 plot to poison Ion at a banquet. The plot is providentially foiled, and 
 the poisoning of the wine is detected by the sudden death of one of 
 the temple doves who had supped it. The Paidagogos is seized, and 
 betrays the plot. These incidents are announced by the Therapon, a 
 slave, to the servant of Creusa. Creusa herself rushes wildly upon the 
 scene, pursued immediately by a furious mob, with Ion at their head, 
 demanding her death. At this point the Pythian priestess appears, and 
 produces a cradle and swaddling clothes, in which Ion was originally 
 brought to Delphi by Hermes, from which it appears that Ion is really 
 the son of Creusa. This being the dignus vindice nodus, Athena 
 appears ex machina, explains the mystery, and directs Ion to proceed to 
 Athens with Xuthus and Creusa as their son.] 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Enter HERMES hurriedly. Finding no one present to stop him, 
 he sings. 
 
 HERMES. 
 
 I BROUGHT the baby upon the scene, 
 Here in the Temple hollow, 
 To a priestess, who promised the boy to wean, 
 To brush him, and wash him and keep him clean, 
 And teach him the trade of a Junior Dean 
 At the shrine of his pa, Apollo.
 
 ION FILINGS. 209 
 
 Now his mother's conduct in laying him out 
 
 Was, considering all things, clever ; 
 Of that there is no manner of doubt, 
 No probable, possible shadow of doubt, 
 
 No possible doubt whatever. 
 
 Of course you know, since your wits are keen, 
 
 That Xuthus wasn't his father, 
 
 Though he married his mother and made her queen 
 (Of his heart), and was gulled like a freshman green, 
 And the Oracle's conduct is rather mean ; 
 You agree with me, don't you ? rather ! 
 Her pledge of affection was up the spout, 
 
 But he couldn't remain for ever 
 And now that I've told you the plot, no doubt 
 You'll stay and express no manner of doubt, 
 
 No possible doubt whatever. [HERMES exit whistling. 
 Enter on the prompt-side /on, the JUNIOR DEAN. 
 He proceeds to prepare the steps of the Chapel for 
 Morning Service. 
 
 JUNIOR DEAN (sings). 
 There are many gay professions, some there are who 
 
 wear a sword 
 And a uniform of scarlet and no end of pretty lace ; 
 
 There are others who make money out of nitrates, and afford 
 To keep a stud of horses and (at times) to win a race. 
 
 There are some who join the multitude of literary prigs, 
 And the logs they roll are larger than ever yet were seen, 
 Whilst some millions read in chambers or haunt the 
 
 Courts in wigs ; 
 
 But give me the gay profession of a jolly Junior Dean. 
 W.L.-VIII. I4
 
 210 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Hauls and notices, gates at nine, 
 
 Tricks that the freshmen try on ; 
 But they never escape this eye of mine 
 
 So they call me the cold grey Ion. 
 
 Step-dance by JUNIOR DEAN, who is suddenly inter- 
 rupted by the entrance on the O. P. side of CREUSA, 
 closely veiled and fashionably dressed. He hurriedly 
 resumes his sweeping. 
 
 CREUSA. Ahem ! 
 
 JUNIOR DEAN (with affected surprise). Have you been 
 here long, madam ? What can I do for you ? You want 
 to inquire of the Oracle, I presume ? 
 
 CREUSA (nervously). Well yes that was the idea. 
 
 JUNIOR DEAN. Will you kindly come this way, madam, 
 to the office ? Mind the step, please. All applications 
 have to be entered in the book. 
 
 CREUSA (aside). O Earth and Gods ! How terrible ! 
 
 JUNIOR DEAN (ivriting in the book). Here is the form, 
 madam, (i) Nature of application. 
 
 CREUSA (hesitates). Er er it was about a child 
 
 JUNIOR DEAN (quickly). Quite so, quite so. No marriage 
 lines, of course (writes). (2) Name of applicant. 
 
 CREUSA. Perhaps I ought to explain. I am applying 
 on behalf of a friend a dear friend. 
 
 JUNIOR DEAN. That is usually the case. 
 
 CREUSA (sighs deeply). The name is Creusa. 
 
 JUNIOR DEAN. Creusa ! Hum ! the name seems familiar. 
 (3) Name and profession of father, if any. 
 
 CREUSA (with an efforf). Name Apollo; profession 
 god.
 
 ION FILINGS. 211 
 
 JUNIOR DEAN (horror-struck}. Madam, madam, surely 
 you are distraught ! It would be as much .as my place is 
 worth to make that entry. (Rises from his placed) I am 
 afraid we must close this very painful interview. (As he 
 bows CREUSA off R. XUTHUS enters Z.) 
 
 XUTHUS. Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless 
 
 Dean 
 
 Got all his fathers so uncommon mixed ? 
 Whether at Barnwell or at Chesterton, 
 Or where the oozy Cam laves Magdalene bridge, 
 I know not ; yet I know the dreadful tale, 
 My shame, my son, my tardy recompense. 
 Read it in Bohn no, Verrall, he's the last. 
 But soft, he comes. 
 
 ION. What can I do for you ? 
 
 XUTHUS. Come to my arms, my boy, my beamish 
 boy ! 
 
 ION. Pray let me tell you, sir, you're on the grass. 
 
 Comic business between XUTHUS and ION, who ts t 
 however, eventually induced to accept XUTHUS as 
 his father. 
 
 Song XUTHUS. 
 
 Now let us to the banquet go I've ordered lots of boy ; 
 We'll drink to our relationships with bumpers and with joy, 
 For I have found my offspring, and you have found your pa ; 
 But one point I insist on is you mustn't tell your ma. 
 
 We'll have fifty dozen oysters plucked from out their native 
 
 dells, 
 And I will eat the inward parts, while you can suck the 
 
 shells.
 
 212 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 The epicures consider shells more succulent by far ; 
 You can use them for a grotto, but you mustn't tell your 
 ma(r). 
 
 We'll have ortolans and lobsters too, and cream and water 
 
 ice, 
 
 Some salmon and asparagus and anything that's nice, 
 Some bananas and some mangoes too, which always taste 
 
 of tar ; 
 You'll find you can't digest them, but you mustn't tell your 
 
 ma(r). 
 
 Exeunt dancing. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE as before. CHORUS OF BEDMAKERS, all talking 
 together. Enter suddenly THERAPOX, his notebook and 
 pencil in his hand. 
 
 Song THERAPOX. 
 
 O ladies, here's a pretty go as will run to more than a 
 column, 
 
 And set the inspectors at Scotland Yard all looking remark- 
 ably solemn ; 
 
 As good a brutal murder 'tis as ever I set eyes on, 
 
 The victim being a Junior Dean, while the instrument was 
 pison. 
 
 CHORUS OF BEDMAKERS. 
 
 We've got cold shudders all down the back, 
 And hope the detectives are on the track, 
 And pine for the cap and the gallows black, 
 And the block what the murderer dies on.
 
 ION FILINGS. 213 
 
 THERAPON. 
 
 It's all very well for you to talk ; but how can the headsman 
 foller 
 
 When the victim's a-sittin' and cockin' snooks on the altar 
 of Apoller ? 
 
 But I've wired my copy to the Evening Star, with details 
 most distressing, 
 
 And a small excursus on the chance of the criminal con- 
 fessing. 
 
 CHORUS OF BEDMAKERS. 
 
 Be sure to put in plenty of gore, 
 And huming hair by the pound or more, 
 Found on the poker or stuck in the door, 
 And you shall receive our blessing. 
 
 THERAPON. 
 
 But the Dean escaped without losing a hair, or of horrors 
 
 you should be soon full ; 
 But what can you do without no blood, and here there was 
 
 never a spoonful ? 
 The pisoned cup got spilt, you see, and a highly trained 
 
 torn-tabby 
 Lapped for a second, and then expired with a smile on its 
 
 face like a babby. 
 
 CHORUS OF BEDMAKERS. 
 
 There's instinc' for yer in the cat ; 
 Our Persian's just such another as that, 
 And the pore thing oughter be buried at 
 St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey.
 
 214 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Enter CREUSA hurriedly, pursued by ION, pursued by 
 XUTHUS, pursued by PAIDAGOGMAGOG, pursued 
 by ATHENA. They run three laps, ATHENA 
 coming through her men at the Orchard corner, and 
 winning by a middle-sized head and neck. 
 
 ATHENA. Now stay your impious hands and sort yourselves. 
 I am Athena ; I will put you right. 
 Sons, pick your fathers ; fathers, choose your sons ; 
 Creusa shall be mother to the lot, 
 And every man shall be the other's aunt, 
 And every mother's son his father's pride. 
 So, you are settled ; prompter, quick, ring down. 
 (To the audience) And if you're bored and meditate revilings, 
 Blame Waldstein and not me for " Ion Filings." 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 * Dr. Waldstein stage-managed the production of the " Ion."
 
 THE END OF TERM. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF A HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED TRAGEDY. 
 
 Characters. 
 AN UNDERGRADUATE. 
 
 A BEDMAKER. 
 
 Two GHOSTS OF DUNS. 
 
 SCENE. A college room; time, u a.m. The UNDER- 
 GRADUATE is seated at a table littered with documents 
 of a bilious nature. 
 
 T TNDERGRADUATE. Eight pounds for boots, and 
 *<-J two pound ten for ties, 
 Wine fourteen pounds, twelve more my tailor's bill, 
 Five pounds for sporting prints, and for cigars 
 Six pounds, and four pound ten for cigarettes. 
 Great Scott ! they total up to fifty-two. 
 The problem is to make that total fit 
 With three pound three, my balance at the bank. 
 It can't be done ; well, who the dickens cares ? 
 I don't, that's flat ; they'll have to wait again.
 
 216 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Enter BEDMAKER. She strikes an attitude and 
 sings. 
 
 BEDMAKER. I know what 'e's after, I've seen 'im before, 
 
 And I very much fear 'e's bound for the dogs. 
 There's a line of duns comin' up to 'is door 
 
 As long as from 'ere to the Gogmagogs. 
 When a gent is broke 'e must sport 'is oak 
 (It may be sport, but it isn't fun), 
 Through the slit they come popping like water that's 
 
 dropping, 
 The 'orrible bills of the 'eartless dun. 
 
 But I must say this 'e's never been near, 
 
 And when 'e's got money 'e makes it spin. 
 But what can you do at the end of the year 
 
 For a gent as doesn't know 'ow to win ? 
 'E's bound to 'ave debts if he goes and bets, 
 For you can't back 'orses for nothing, that's plain ; 
 And the coin leaves your pocket as fast as a rocket, 
 If you drive a tandem and drink champagne. 
 
 UNDERGRADUATE (to the BEDMAKER.) Say, have you done 
 
 as I commanded you ? 
 Is my oak sported ? Hush, what sound is that ? (A 
 
 murmur without}. 
 
 BEDMAKER. They're usin' awful language ; can't you hear ? 
 UNDERGRADUATE. I hear a word that seems to rhyme 
 
 with Cam. 
 Give me my bread-knife ; let the mongrels in. 
 
 BEDMAKER (falling on her knees). No, no, sir ! let me 
 
 beg you, not again ;
 
 THE END OF TERM. 217 
 
 Last term you murdered two ; let that suffice. 
 Their mouldering bodies lie beneath the grass 
 There, where the Junior Dean is wont to cross 
 In coming from the gateway to his rooms. 
 I buried them myself at dead of night, 
 Since when they haunt me, and their ghostly forms 
 Come to me crying " Vengeance ! " Woe is me ! 
 Dead duns seem worse than living creditors. 
 
 UNDERGRADUATE. Out on you for a coward, Mrs. Perks ! 
 To think that two dead duns should crush you so. 
 I, that am made of sterner stuff than you, 
 Am not affrighted by such children's tales, 
 For, being duns, the two deserved to die. 
 
 Blue fire. Ghosts of two DUNS enter to slow music. 
 They point menacing hands at the UNDERGRADU- 
 ATE and BEDMAKER, ivho seek the shelter of the 
 table. 
 
 DUNS. We are the ghosts of two who foully died ; 
 We come for vengeance on our murderer, 
 And on the false and bonnet-wearing dame 
 Who lured us to our doom, and buried us. 
 They sing mournfully. 
 
 It's very hard to die so young, and go away and dwell 
 In a meadow, though they tell us it is made of asphodel. 
 We were always firm, but gentle ; we had gained a wondrous 
 
 skill 
 
 In extracting tardy payment for a tradesman's little bill, 
 With an air which told our victim that we wouldn't go 
 
 away 
 And return, as he requested us, upon another day.
 
 2i8 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 We could wait upon a staircase ; we could hang about the 
 
 gate ; 
 
 We knew all the artful dodges of the undergraduate. 
 But in spite of all our ardour we are dead and doomed and 
 
 done, 
 Wretched dwellers in a meadow where we never see the 
 
 sun. 
 
 In the country we inhabit we are treated with disdain ; 
 Duns are rather at a discount on the fair Elysian plain. 
 For a ghost has no expenses, wears no patent-leather 
 
 boots, 
 Never smokes a fine Havannah, drinks no wine and buys 
 
 no suits. 
 Dress is sadly out of keeping with a ghost composed of 
 
 air; 
 
 Such a body needs no money to maintain it in repair. 
 And our thoughts are like our language, very sad and very 
 
 strong, 
 As we move without employment through that inexpensive 
 
 throng. 
 We have come to you for vengeance, you who doomed us 
 
 to the post 
 Of a bill-less, never-dunning, unappreciated ghost. 
 
 The GHOSTS seize the UNDERGRADUATE and the 
 BEDMAKER, execute a wild dance, and disappear 
 in red fire. 
 
 C/ETERA DESUXT.
 
 BETTY. 
 
 
 
 Fragment of an Agricultural Play, not to be performed in the grounds 
 of Downing College, circa A.D. 1925. For explanation see the 
 Agriculttiral Tripos paper on page 127.] 
 
 Characters. 
 
 DR. GEORGOS . . The Vice-Chancellor. 
 
 GILES . . . Senior Bucolic in the last Tripos. 
 
 HODGE . . . An Undergraduate Ploughboy. 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PROFESSOR OF AGRICULTURE. 
 
 BETTY . . . A Milkmaid, beloved by DR. GEORGOS. 
 
 KATE . . . A Cow. 
 
 Chorus of Heads of Houses, Dairy-maids, Farmers (B.A. and M.A.), 
 and Undergraduate Farm-hands. 
 
 SCENE. A Farm in Cambridge, on the site of the Old Court 
 of Trinity. On the right a Dairy {formerly the Chapel} ; 
 on the left a Silo. Background of fields, barns, hay- 
 stacks, etc. Horses and cattle munch peacefully. The 
 Chorus are dressed in smock-frocks, of course. 
 
 Song HEADS OF HOUSES. 
 Air " A-hunting we will go." 
 
 THE sheep are safely in the pen, 
 The pigs are in the sty ; 
 The grey goose and the Dorking hen (fas) 
 Are feeding in the rye. 
 219
 
 220 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then a-milking we will go, 
 A-milking we will go, etc. 
 
 " The wind," says Jill, " is in the east ; 
 
 Good Jack, I pray you stay : 
 'Tis neither fit for man nor beast ; 
 
 You cannot milk to-day." 
 
 Chorus. 
 But a-milking we will go, etc. 
 
 Jack merely answers, " Hold your row ! 
 
 Such fears I laugh to scorn ; 
 'Tis mine to milk the old dun cow, 
 
 Who shakes her crumpled horn." 
 
 Chorus. 
 So a-milking we will go, etc. 
 
 " Old cow," says Jack, " I know your tricks "- 
 
 A Proctor bold is Jack ; 
 Then down he sits ; the old cow kicks, 
 
 And Jack lies on his back. 
 
 Chorus. 
 But a-laughing we will go, etc. 
 
 Song THIRD YEAR UNDERGRADUATE FARM-HAND. 
 
 I'm a jolly agriculturist ; I leave my bed at five ; 
 
 I'm as busy as the busy bee who buzzes in a hive. 
 No chapels now have terrors ; no Proctors grimly frown 
 
 If I drive the cattle home at eve without a cap and 
 gown.
 
 BETTY. 221 
 
 Those Proctors checked our fathers, but they only stand 
 
 and smile 
 
 If they see me kiss a milkmaid as she sits upon a stile. 
 I walk the grassplots boldly, for no porter ever stops 
 A man who knows the ins and outs of rotatory crops. 
 
 GIRTON GIRL. In me behold a dairy-maid who makes 
 
 you whey and curds. 
 FRESHMAN. In me behold a freshman who is good at 
 
 scaring birds. 
 THE PROFESSOR. And, lo, in me a doctor, who provides 
 
 for all your needs 
 
 By a practical analysis of feeding-stuffs and seeds. 
 I can talk of entomology, and throw a subtle charm 
 O'er the insects and the other pests that plague you on 
 
 a farm ; 
 
 Any ailment in your heifers I can diagnose and cure, 
 And I always keep varieties of every good manure. 
 All the useful information on diseases I impart ; 
 Geology and chemistry, I know them both by heart. 
 I am famed for physiology and shine in hygiene ; 
 For nutrition and digestion I've invented a machine 
 If for systematic botany a farmer comes to me, 
 I can teach him all the dodges of the great cegramine ; 
 Which is much as though a tutor, when his pupils want 
 
 to pass, 
 Should dismiss them from his presence, saying grandly, 
 
 " Go to grass." 
 I've two hundred sturdy students, wearing hob-nails in 
 
 their boots, 
 Who know all the little differences in all the kinds of 
 
 roots,
 
 222 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Who tell one sheep from another by the patter of his 
 
 feet, 
 By the noise he makes in munching, by his plaintiveness 
 
 of bleat ; 
 And if they don't behave themselves I smile a cunning 
 
 smile, oh ! 
 And since flesh is nothing more than grass I gate them 
 
 in the silo. 
 
 IST BLUE. I got my blue for ploughing, 
 2ND BLUE. And I got mine for sowing ; 
 
 Chorus. 
 Which is better than our fathers, who got their blues for 
 
 rowing. 
 
 3RD BLUE. My father got his blue for golf, 
 4TH BLUE. For running mine, and leaping ; 
 
 But we, the gods be praised ! got ours for ploughing fields 
 and reaping. 
 
 Enter slowly the Vice- Chancellor, DR. GEORGOS, lean- 
 ing upon the arm of GILES, the Senior Bucolic. 
 The DOCTOR is plucking the petals of a daisy,* 
 
 D. G. Yes, no, yes, no, yes, no, yes, no, yes, no. 
 (Sighs deeply, throivs .away daisy.} 
 
 'Twas ever thus she loves me not at all ; 
 Sweet Betty loves me not ; ah ! woe is me. 
 What boots it to be learned and to know 
 The changes of the seasons, or to learn 
 The lore of soils, the meaning of the roots, 
 The ways of oxen and the wiles of sheep ? 
 
 * A manifest imitation of Goethe's Fawt. Eu. W. L.
 
 BETTY. 223 
 
 To drive the team afield, to speed the plough ? 
 Sure ignorance were best, like theirs who lived 
 By reading Greek or solving x and y 
 In the dim past. What say you, friendly Giles ? 
 
 Song GILES. 
 
 Air "I'm off to Philadelphia." 
 I was born in Cherryhinton, 
 Where the roses have a tint on, 
 
 Which is like the hue that suits our Betty's cheek well ! 
 But I left that little village, 
 Came to Cambridge, took to tillage, 
 And was senior in the Tripos with no equal. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 With my hoe upon my shoulder 
 
 Sure there's no man could be bolder, 
 When I leave my bed so early in the mornin' ; 
 
 With the fruit from my allotment, 
 
 And potatoes for the pot meant, 
 And the fields I get my turnips and my corn in. 
 
 Enter BETTY. The V.-C. gasps convulsively. 
 
 BETTY (aside). 'Tis the Vice-Chancellor ; I'll speak him 
 fair. 
 
 (To DR. G.) Oh, Doctor, I am weary ; tell me why. 
 I find no comfort in the lowing kine, 
 No comfort in the frisky little lambs, 
 No comfort in the sainfoin or the swedes. 
 Say, is this love, good Doctor, is it love ? 
 
 Enter HODGE. BETTY Mushes.
 
 224 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Strange that my heart should always go pit-pat 
 When Hodge appears ; but Hodge is passing fair. 
 He is a blood ; his friends have told me so. 
 And blood will tell ; mine tells upon my cheeks. 
 Oh, fickle blood, and far too fickle Hodge ! 
 
 Song THE V.-C. 
 
 Oh, gentlemen, all give ear to me, 
 
 The Chief of the University ! 
 
 By toiling hard with the spade and hoe 
 
 I got a degree some years ago. 
 
 They promoted me first to be Junior Dean ; 
 
 I minded the dairy and kept it clean. 
 
 I soon became tutor and milked the cow ; 
 
 As examiner next I worked the plough. 
 
 And now that I'm Master and live in a lodge, 
 
 I dote upon Betty, who dotes on Hodge. 
 ALL. Master, v,-e pity much thy mournful fate. 
 DR. G. I thank you ; leave me, friends ; the hour 
 grows late. 
 
 Each in your happy homes eat beans and bacon, 
 
 Drink quarts of cider I stay here forsaken. 
 
 All go. The MASTER ponders. To him approaches 
 KATE, the old cow. She rests her head on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 DR. G. (starting, visibly affected ). What, Kate ? Thy 
 
 moist but sympathetic nose 
 Assures me that thou lov'st thy master well. 
 (He patshcr] Weep not for me, though I am sore of 
 heart,
 
 BETTY. 225 
 
 Thy tears are vain ; can they bring Betty back ? 
 Yet do I thank thee, Kate, that thou dost grieve. 
 Now seek thy stall ; the night is falling fast. 
 
 KATE departs sadly. DR. G. resolves on suicide. He 
 mounts upon the edge of the silo, and prepares to 
 plunge. 
 
 Ye green and slimy depths, I come, I come ; 
 Since Fate has willed it so, Georgos comes. 
 
 He plunges. Curtain. 
 
 \_For the rest of this play consult future numbers of the 
 " Cambridge University Reporter"^ 
 
 W.L.-V1II, 15
 
 LITTLE BEN IVANHOE. 
 
 The only acting version of the opera of " Ivanhoe" music by Sir 
 Arthur Sullivan, libretto by Mr. Julian Sturgis, produced at the 
 Royal English Opera House in 1890.] 
 
 Characters. 
 
 SIR W. S. BRIAN GILBERT. ^ 
 
 . Knights Jem plan. 
 DE BRACY J 
 
 CEDRIC DAVIES . A Saxon. 
 
 WILFRED BEN DAVIES, of Ivanhoe His son, alias " Little Thirty- 
 foot Round.'' 
 REBECCA MAC!NTYRE. 
 ROWENA PALLISER. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 The curtain is down. SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN and MR. 
 D'OvLY CARTE advance to the footlights singing. 
 
 SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN and MR. D'OvLY CARTE 
 
 (together]. 
 
 GOOD public, pray attend to us ; we've summoned you 
 to see 
 
 An opera performed as every opera should be ; 
 An opera from Walter Scott, with many coats of mail, 
 Where the caitiff knights go under, and the virtuous 
 prevail ;
 
 LITTLE BEN IVANHOE. 227 
 
 With trumpets and with challengers who blow until they 
 
 " bust," 
 
 With massive piles of masonry that crumble into dust ; 
 With a Saxon maid of high degree, a Jewish maid of 
 
 low, 
 
 And a dauntless Desdichado, hight Sir Wilfrid Ivanhoe ; 
 With a king in sable armour, and a sturdy Friar Tuck, 
 And a heavy father, Cedric, who is down upon his luck ; 
 With a band of Saxon outlaws, who come skipping through 
 
 the trees 
 
 In fact, an English opera, as English as you please. 
 And as for Mr. Gilbert, who has left us in a huff, 
 Why, we've had to do without him, and we've done it well 
 
 enough. 
 And, just to show our scorn of him, we've called the beggar 
 
 Brian, 
 And we've put him in the playbill as a Templar Knight of 
 
 Zion. 
 
 Oh, in spite of all his bluster, he shall catch it very hot, 
 Far hotter than he caught it at the hands of Walter 
 
 Scott ; 
 He shall die in dreadful torments, while we chuckle in our 
 
 sleeves, 
 When we see him overwhelmed at last by slow recitatives. 
 
 MR. JULIAN STURGIS, suddenly advancing and in- 
 terrupting. 
 
 One word about this opera, you never would have heard 
 
 of it, 
 Unless these two had asked my help, I wrote it, every word 
 
 of it.
 
 2 2 8 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 In rhymes of every sort and size no man could well be 
 
 patter ; 
 I merely thought I'd tell you, but 
 
 SIR ARTHUR (testily}. It really doesn't matter. 
 
 MR. J. S. I say the words are very good. 
 
 SIR ARTHUR (conciliatory}. Well, well, they might be worse ; 
 But in right-down English opera who cares about the verse ? 
 And now, my gallant orchestra, we'll make the public glow 
 With a true-born British fervour to the strains of Ivanhoe. 
 
 SIR ARTHUR sits down in conductor's seat; MR. 
 STURGIS and MR. D'OvLY CARTE withdraw. 
 The curtain rises. 
 
 ACT I. 
 The Hall of Rotherwood. Saxons carousing. 
 
 CEDRIC. Oh, I am regular Saxon thane, 
 With a flowing bowl and a flowing mane ! 
 I banished my son some years ago, 
 Little Ben Davies, of Ivanhoe. 
 But the Normans thieve and the Normans thrive 
 And there's scarcely a Saxon left alive ; 
 So I often pray I may see him again, 
 Robin-a-bobbin a bouncing Ben. 
 And I wish I had never remarked " outside " 
 When he asked Rowena to be his bride ; 
 But praying's in vain, and wishing's worse, 
 When a father has once pronounced his curse. 
 
 Knocking without. Enter GILBERT and DE BRACV. 
 
 How now, my Saxons ? Cry " was hael " and " skoal," 
 And bring me local colour in a bowl.
 
 LITTLE BEN IVANHOE. 229 
 
 Chorus of Saxons. 
 
 Skoal, was hael, 
 
 Normans in mail, 
 We'll give you a taste of our quality : 
 
 Who's afraid 
 
 Of a Saxon maid 
 In a dress that is not decollete ? 
 
 GILBERT (to DE BRACY). The meaning's dark ; but oh, the 
 
 maid is fair, 
 
 And rich, I warrant me, beyond compare. 
 We'll capture them, this slavish Saxon crew : 
 What say you, Bracy ? 
 
 DE BRACY. I say, " Done with you." 
 
 IVANHOE (disguised as a palmer}. I'm a holy, hooded 
 
 palmer ; but those who use their eyes 
 Will very quickly prove me an impostor. 
 Though tradition seems to force a man to don a slight dis- 
 guise 
 When he loves a lady madly and has lost her. 
 
 I'm as stout a little warrior as ever spilt his gore 
 
 At the taking of a fosse or palisado ; 
 But an unforgiving father showed me sternly to the door, 
 
 And I'm consequently dubbed, The Desdichado. 
 
 I am come to claim Rowena, and to melt that parent's heart, 
 
 And for Norman knights I do not care a filbert. 
 By the eyeglass of Sir Arthur, and the beard of D'Oyly Carte, 
 I'm the very man to take it out of Gilbert. 
 
 Defies GILBERT, who defies him. Sensation, recitative, 
 and curtain.
 
 236 IN CAMBRIDGE COtJRfS. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Ashby-de-la-Zouch. A tourney. PRINCE JOHN in the chair. 
 Enter I VANHOE on horseback in full armour. The horse 
 jibs and backs. 
 
 IVANHOE (in tones of annoyance, plainly heard through his 
 
 helmet}. Gee-woa, and stop your backing; you must 
 
 fully understand 
 
 If you back me any farther we shall spifflicate the band. 
 And I rather think the orchestra would play another tune, 
 If we flattened out the flautist, or abolished the bassoon. 
 Just imagine Gilbert's triumph, if by any dire mishap 
 He should see us flounder backward into poor Sir Arthur's 
 
 lap. 
 Why, the Prince and all are laughing ; I shall ride no more 
 
 to-day. 
 Quick, varlets, job him in the mouth, and take the brute 
 
 away. 
 
 Dismounts. Fights GILBERT on foot. Defeats him. 
 Triumph, fainting-fit, and curtain. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. A room in Torquilstone. IVANHOE asleep on sofa. 
 Enter REBECCA. 
 
 REBECCA. Why has my loved one laid him down 
 In a green-silk Liberty dressing-gown ? 
 It fits like a glove to his fair round form, 
 And I trust that it keeps my loved one warm.
 
 LITTLE SEN IVAN HOE. 231 
 
 He is " pale and weak," but he isn't thinner, 
 Which says a lot for the dungeon-dinner. 
 Who wouldn't sleep, if he had the choice, 
 To the echoing notes of a maiden's voice ? 
 So I'll sing him a song of a fount that springs, 
 A curious song, which is sung with wings. 
 For my love is just like a slender roe, 
 As swift, as wild, and as good to go. 
 And oh ! if you doubt what I say, just look 
 At Sturgis's words in the printed book. 
 
 IVANHOE aiuakes. He rubs his eyes, starts up, gasps, 
 presses his hand to his side, and falls back again, 
 and so on da capo. 
 
 IVANHOE. Oh ! I quiver and I tremble, 
 
 And I very much resemble 
 An agitated jelly or a salmon on a slab. 
 
 And I hear a sound of battle 
 Which is rather like the rattle 
 
 Of an army of policemen, or an ancient four-wheel cab. 
 I would rather go to Mecca, 
 Part for ever from Rebecca, 
 
 Who is quite the neatest, sweetest little Jewess I have seen, 
 Wear a formidable bustle, 
 Or be worsted in a tussle, 
 
 Than be crushed by falling towers in my dressing-gown of 
 green. 
 
 Starts up, gasps, and falls backivard, an example 
 imitated by the walls. Enter KING RICHARD 
 and Saxons. Flames. Triumph,
 
 232 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 SCENE II. The Preceptory. REBECCA at the stake. 
 Templars. 
 
 BRIAN GILBERT. Friends, I am weary, weary of the world, 
 Weary of wickedness that doesn't pay, 
 Weary of raging when no mortal cares, 
 Wear of scowling while Ben Davies smiles. 
 Fate and Sir Walter fashioned me for sport 
 And foil to Ben, and I have played my part. 
 And now I know my time is come to die, 
 Where can I fall ? A good front-fall were best, 
 Prone, like a shattered chimney on the boards. 
 I see the place But soft ! Ben Davies comes. 
 
 Enter suddenly BEN DAVIES, armed cap-a-pie. 
 
 BEN. Villain, defend thyself! Thine hour is come ! 
 
 BRIAN. Ha ! say'st thou so, most massive warrior ? 
 Yet, ere I fight, be this my last request : 
 When I am dead, oh ! fall not thou upon me ; 
 I would not be a pancake when I die ! 
 
 They fight. B RI AN falls as per agreement. Triumph . 
 Enter KIXG and followers. 
 
 Chorus. Now hail to King Richard the Lion ! 
 
 And hail to brave Ben and his sword ! 
 Brave Ben, who has beaten bold Brian, 
 
 And made him as stiff as a board. 
 Rebecca fades out of the story, 
 
 Rowena must marry our Ben ;
 
 LITTLE BEN IVANHOE, 233 
 
 So give glory to Arthur, and glory 
 
 To Sturgis, the Knight of the Pen. 
 Give glory to those who have played it ; 
 
 And, last but not least, ere we part, 
 Praise the house and the man who has made it 
 
 And paid it Your health, Mr. Carte ! 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 THE RUNAWAY RHYME. 
 
 HUMBLY DEDICATED TO ALL WOULD-BE LAUREATES. 
 
 I ONCE sat astride on a runaway rhyme ; 
 He was bitted and bridled and saddled with care ; 
 I had tightened the girths and had ventured to climb, 
 Heart in mouth, to the saddle, determined to dare. 
 Then, his eyes flashing fire and his nostrils all blood, 
 He was off with a rush like a river in flood. 
 
 I spoke to him softly, I tugged at the rein, 
 
 Lay back, braced my shoulders to master his mouth ; 
 
 But he forced his head down, and went scouring the plain 
 With the speed of a swallow that flies to the south. 
 
 And behind, far behind, echoed faintly the sounds, 
 
 Where the quarry lay hiding, of horn and of hounds. 
 
 I had tracked it at eve, all intent to rehearse 
 
 The delights of the morrow, through brushwood and brake ; 
 I had thought never quarry was fitter for verse, 
 
 Made my plans for its capture, all night lain awake. 
 And at break of the day, with my crop going crack, 
 Spurred and booted I went and unkennelled the pack.
 
 TtiE RUNAWAY RHYME. 433 
 
 Then I mounted old " Hack-rhyme " and ambled along 
 I knew all his tricks and his paces by heart 
 
 Till we came to the covert, and there 'mid the throng 
 One steed topped the others ; the sight made me start. 
 
 For a voice seemed to whisper, " If manhood endures, 
 
 That's the horse you must hunt on ; be bold, he is yours." 
 
 I was down in a moment ; I stood by his side 
 
 While he tossed his thin head in desire of the run. 
 
 " That horse," said the voice, " is the horse you must ride ; 
 He could carry you straight from the earth to the sun. 
 
 He was fashioned of fury and fire in a day " 
 
 Then I lingered no more, but was up and away. 
 
 The forests, the rivers, the fields, that I knew, 
 
 Rushing forth like a tempest, he left them behind; 
 
 Took the fences and brooks in his stride as he flew, 
 Unabashed and unchecked in the heart of the wind. 
 
 And he crashed and he thundered regardless of me, 
 
 Till I heard as we galloped the roar of the sea. 
 
 Yes, the sea was in front, and again and again 
 I fought with the devil whose back I bestrode. 
 
 My strength was as water ; I struggled in vain ; 
 On, on, ever onward we rattled and rode ; 
 
 Till at last, on a sudden, he stopped and stood stiff 
 
 As a statue of stone on the edge of the cliff. 
 
 And I ? Like an arrow I sped through the air, 
 And the waves as I fell seemed to rise with a leap, 
 
 Till they claimed me and clasped me, and down in despair, 
 With a curse on all riding, I sank in the deep.
 
 256 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Then I knew nothing more till I woke on the sand, 
 Where the purposeless ocean had flung me to land. 
 * * * * * 
 
 So now I am cautious ; one ride is enough 
 
 On a rhyme which, thank goodness, I never saw since. 
 They may jeer me and flout me and dub me a muff; 
 
 Though my withers be wrung, I contrive not to wince. 
 For I fain would ride safely, and vowed that next time 
 I would rather ride prose than a runaway rhyme.
 
 EXEUNTIBUS. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE: DECEMBER. 
 
 FAREWELL ! for already the fly and the hansom 
 Are chartered to whirl you rejoicing away ; 
 And Dewberry, Warwicker, Matthew, and Ransom 
 
 Have asked you politely (in writing) to pay. 
 And you see with surprise the increasing amounts 
 Of those frequently rendered, forgotten accounts. 
 
 And your gyp, as he packs your portmanteaus and boxes, 
 Suggests that the soles of your boots are " wore 
 through " ; 
 
 And he hints that the state of your trousers and socks is 
 " Well, scarcely the thing for a gent, sir, like you." 
 
 But rather than put them for good on the shelf 
 
 He will sacrifice pride and will wear them himself. 
 
 And your bedmaker tells you the marvellous story 
 How her masters of old were so wonderful free, 
 
 That they finished each term and departed in glory 
 " With a pound, which I never 'ad arst 'em, for me." 
 
 And she adds, which is plain, that by common consent 
 
 " A gent up at Cambridge is allus a gent." 
 
 237
 
 238 IN- CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 Old Cerberus smiles with a mildness quite foreign 
 On the bold ones who venture to walk on the grass ; 
 
 While he stands at the gateway and pockets his florin, 
 And allows even jokes against porters to pass. 
 
 For porters, I note, though their natures be firm, 
 
 Relax like the rest at the end of the term. 
 
 There are tips for the bootblack, the cook from the 
 
 kitchen, 
 
 The boy who runs errands, the tout from the Lane, 
 Till you wish yourself safely at Stortford or Hitchin, 
 
 And address them in language less polished than 
 
 plain. 
 
 But, bless their kind hearts ! they object not a jot, 
 And you'll find in the end that you must tip the lot. 
 
 Then your tutor bestows his tutorial blessing, 
 Though he begs you to read on a regular plan ; 
 
 And, his voice growing cordial, he ends by expressing 
 His regards to your father, " that excellent man." 
 
 Yet somehow that excellent father looks black 
 
 When the tutor encloses his bill in the vac. 
 
 And your Dean, the grim tyrant, the truculent gater, 
 Refrains, smiling gently, from useless advice ; 
 
 And avoids, like a skilled conversational skater, 
 Such subjects as hauls, which are very thin ice. 
 
 For, your exeat signed, he may whistle in vain 
 
 When you've taken your ticket and left by the train.
 
 240 IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 And it's hey for our homes, for our fathers, our mothers, 
 For the sisters who drag us to concerts or balls, 
 
 For the horse and the gun that suit some, while the other? 
 Spend their time in a club and their money on stalls. 
 
 Farewell ! when the time and the money are spent, 
 
 May we all meet at Cambridge again in the Lent. 
 
 Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury,