Oxford Days; or, How Ross Got His Degree

by F. E. Weatherly

“5. Euclid, Books I. and II.; or Algebra, to Simple Equations.

“Fees.

“(a) To the University at Matriculation 2l. 10s.

“(b) To the College, as caution-money 30l.[2]

“Room-rent varies from 10l. to 16l. per annum. This does not include furniture, which must be taken at a valuation from the previous tenant; 25l. is an average valuation-price. China, glass, linen, plate, and household necessaries must all be procured. It is wiser to bring plate and linen. The rest may be purchased from the ‘scout’ (servant) apportioned to the rooms. For this, say 10l. The immediate payments, therefore, amount to 2l. 10s. + 30l. + 10l. = 42l. 10s. The payment for the furniture must be made early in term; and the establishment charges, tuition fees, expenses of board and rent, are paid terminally.”[3]

So Paul’s was chosen, and a letter of application forwarded to the Master;[4] and Frank, who was then at home for the Easter vacation, commenced polishing up his work in view of the approaching examination. On Easter Tuesday he left home by an early train, with a note to Mr. Wodehouse in his pocket. That gentleman entertained him at dinner with a long list of examination stories, and about nine o’clock marched him off to the Clarendon Hotel, where, with a word to the landlady, he left him, nervous at the thought of the morrow, but conscious of his own dignity and the near approach of the manhood which is supposed to date from matriculation.

It was with some difficulty that Frank preserved his self-composure in the presence of the waiters, as he sat at breakfast in the “Clarendon” coffee-room. He did not particularly enjoy his meal, and, in obedience to Mr. Wodehouse’s injunctions, left at half-past nine to make his way to Paul’s. After one or two mistakes, he succeeded in finding the college gates. His anxiety as to his next step was set at rest by the sight that met him. About a dozen boys (to be called men after matriculation) were hanging about the Lodge, in various typical conditions of mind and body—some completely at their ease, chatting unconcernedly; others standing nervously alone. Most wore black coats and chimney-pot hats—the costume that only a few years ago was rigorously insisted on. A few through ignorance, or in obedience to the spirit of the day, wore defiantly light suits and bowler hats. Frank, to his great delight, found a school-fellow whose coming up had, like his own, been hurriedly decided in the vacation. The two friends had not much time for conversation, for in a few minutes a respectable middle-aged man, whom they knew afterwards to be the Porter, said, “You are to walk this way, gentlemen, please,” and conducted them to the College-Hall. It is a fine old place, with dark oak panels, coloured windows, portraits, and coats-of-arms; and to the boy up in Oxford for his first visit, and that visit so solemn a one as matriculation, there is an unspeakable charm, and a novelty sobered into grandeur, about everything. How the grave faces of the college founders and celebrities looked down upon the wondering eyes! Bishop and knight, king and duchess—there they stared! How the light streamed through the coloured windows! Who could tell? Perhaps one day, Frank thought, when he was a rich man, he might have that one vacant window filled, or some of his descendants might present to the college a portrait of Sir Francis Ross, attired in wig and gown, one of Her Majesty’s—or rather, perhaps, His Majesty’s—judges, if not Lord Chancellor.

He started abruptly from his dreams, and came back to the first rung on the ladder that was leading to such prospective fame. There before him stretched three lines of tables and benches down the length of the hall. Across the end, on a slightly-raised daïs, ran another table, where the handsome chairs indicated beings superior to undergraduates. It was, in fact, the High table, where the Master and Fellows dined, and any resident Masters of Arts who cared to do so.

This morning it was devoted to the more serious purposes of examination. Ten ink-bottles, fifteen blotting-pads, fifteen sheets of white paper printed, with a few sheets of blue paper and two or three quill pens lying by each: that was the fare this morning—“the feast of reason” that was in such strong contrast to the “flow of soul” that would grace the table at six o’clock that evening.