The eager hours and unreluctant years
As on a dawn-illumined mountain stood,
Trampling to silence their loud hopes and fears,
Darkening each other with their multitude,
And cried aloud, Liberty!
And so he sleeps; but in spite of his great dreams, he is not disappointed when he looks out upon the glorious company of the spires and towers of Oxford. He rises early, and is surprised when he meets only the college cat in the quadrangle, and the gate is[Pg 267] shut. But he returns quite cheerfully to his room, to read Virgil while the dreamy sky is still tender with the parting touch of night.
After breakfast, and some disbursements to porter and scout, he begins to make acquaintances, over a newspaper in the junior common room, or at a preliminary visit to his tutor. With one, he walks up and down High Street: he learns which are the tailors and which are not. With another, he goes out to Parson’s Pleasure, and likes the willows of Mesopotamia, and sees New College Tower: he wants to loiter in the churchyard of Holy Cross, but is scornfully reminded that Byron did much the same. Queen’s College inspires his companion with the remark that Queen in Oxford is called “Quagger.” The Martyr’s Memorial calls forth “Maggers Memugger”; Worcester, “Wuggins”; Jesus, “Jaggers”: and he is much derided when he supposes that the scouts use these terms.
After luncheon, he cannot get free, but must watch football or the humours of “tubbing” on the river. His companions, with all the easy omniscience of public-school boys, are so busy telling him what’s what, that he learns little of what is. And at tea, he is as wise as they, and has the tired emotion of one who has been through fairyland on a motor car.
A week in this style broadens his horizon; his optimism, still strong, embraces mankind and excludes most men. A series of teas with senior men and a crowd of contemporaries fails to exhilarate him. The[Pg 268] shy are silent: the rest talk about their schools; appear advanced men of the world; and shock their seniors, who in their turn dispense tales about dons, and useful information: and he feels ashamed to be silent and contemptuous of what is said. His grace in hall has become so portentous that his neighbour hums the Dead March in Saul by way of accompaniment.
With some misgiving he goes alone to his room, sports his oak—which others so often do for him when he is out—and puts his room in order. His college shield, brilliantly and incorrectly blazoned, hangs above the door. Photographs of his newest acquaintances rest for the time upon his desk. He has not yet learned to respect the photograph of a Botticelli above the mantelpiece, and has tucked under its frame a caricature of some college worthy, with visiting-cards, notes of invitation, a table of work, and his first menu. On the mantelpiece are photographs that recall tenderer things, along with his meerschaum and straight-grained briar. For a minute he is interrupted by a kick, an undeniable shout, a cigar, and behind it the captain of Rugby football.
“Can you play?” says the captain.
“I have never tried,” says the freshman, modestly.
The captain retires, after conferring an indignity in pert monosyllables, and familiarly inquiring after “all your aunts.”
“How do you know I have any aunts, Mr.——?” he inquires.