Oxford Days; or, How Ross Got His Degree

by F. E. Weatherly

“I don’t think we’ll discuss the question any further,” answered Crawford. “You want to marry Rose, I know, as quickly as possible. Well, my opinion is that you’ll do it a great deal more quickly by reading Law than by writing poetry.”

Frank was silent. There was truth in what Crawford said, he knew; but he could not help writing poetry. And whether he will ever be a known poet, ever succeed in charming the hydra-headed public, or not, he certainly had one requisite in a maker—spontaneity. Rose, of course, considered him a poet in the highest sense of the term. In fact, she cared for no poetry but his, which speaks volumes for her affection, but little for her powers of criticism. But if lovers are to be critics, Love may as well go to Mr. Critchet, and be operated on for cataract.

Term, with all its activity, was passing quickly. Every day till two o’clock Frank devoted himself to his work. From two till five he rowed, or practised at the butts. From five till six he usually spent at the Union, reading the papers or magazines. Dinner at six. He did not do much work in the evening, for various reasons—chiefly, because he was too lazy—excusing himself because he thought his eyes were weak; and partly because of various engagements. On Tuesday evening there was either a regular Apollo lodge-meeting, or a lodge of instruction. Monday, the Paul’s Debating Society. Wednesday, the practice of the Philharmonic, a somewhat different form of excitement from the usual undergraduate amusements, owing to the presence of a large number of ladies. Thursday, the debate at the Union, in which he usually took part. Friday and Saturday had no definite fixture; but then there was always something in the shape of nondescript entertainment at the “Vic.,” or concert at the Town Hall or Corn Exchange; or else there was a friend to be asked to dinner in Hall, or an invitation to dinner to accept. Altogether, his evening work never amounted to more than one hour on the average.

One evening, seeing a large poster announcing a performance by “the great Bounce,” he turned up the narrow little passage which leads from Magdalen Street to the “gaff” that is dignified by the name of theatre. Here, by permission of the Very Reverend the Vice-Chancellor, and his Worship the Mayor—a permission always necessary and always publicly announced—entertainments of every description, as long as they are not stage plays, are performed. Conjurors, mimics, ventriloquists, mesmerists, Tyrolese singers, Japanese acrobats, music-hall singers of every grade and degree, display themselves before a crowded audience of undergraduates. But anything so demoralizing as a play of Shakespeare or other healthy author is strictly forbidden. The authorities doubtless have their reasons, but it is somewhat hard to imagine what those reasons can be. An occasional concert is given in the Town Hall or Corn Exchange, to which of course ladies can go; but from the entertainments in the “Vic.,” good, bad, or indifferent, they are absolutely debarred. And in very, very few instances do they miss anything worth seeing.

The first person whom Frank recognized on entering was Monkton, who was sitting in a stage-box, or at least in what does duty for a stage-box. He was dressed in a somewhat startling costume of ginger-colour check; a bright crimson necktie; his hat well on the side of his head; an enormous cigar in his mouth, which he appeared to be sucking rather than smoking. Between his knees, a gigantic bull-dog, whose efforts to plunge upon the stage or into the orchestra he was with difficulty controlling. Another man sat with him, dressed, if it were possible, in louder style than he; and from the tone of their voices they appeared not a little pleased with themselves and with the impression they were creating. The theatre was crammed from floor to ceiling; the University element decidedly predominating; the town being represented by a gallery full of that peculiar style of cad and cadger for which Oxford seems so famous. The smoke from pipes and cigars was far too thick to allow of recognition except at a very short distance; and Frank was much relieved to find that Monkton did not “spot” him.

We need not describe the performance. The vulgar, strutting, swaggering comique, who supplies in fancied wit what he lacks in voice; the booming tenor, who yells “Tom Bowling” to give respectability to the entertainment; the brazen-throated “lady vocalist,” who disdains to be called a singer, and who certainly doesn’t deserve the title, are all too wearisome and sickening to merit notice, but for the lamentable fact that they are patronized by the undergraduate because the University authorities refuse to sanction anything better.

The entertainment had not proceeded very far before Monkton had attracted the notice of the “star” of the evening, who, seeing that he had the audience on his side, commenced, in the spoken portion of his performance, to chaff “the gentleman in ginger.” Monkton’s position was too prominent for him to venture to respond; perhaps, too, he was not good at repartee. At all events, he drew back out of sight as far as possible, contenting himself with allowing his dog to put his forefeet on the cushion of the box and to growl an answer to the chaff.

The next performer happened to be a young lady not quite so much at her ease as is usual in these persons. She was evidently frightened at the dog; and Monkton, seeing his opportunity, made the brute growl and spring forward as near the singer as possible. There were loud cries of “Turn him out!” The singer stopped in the middle of her song, burst into tears, and ran off at the wings. The manager came forward and expostulated. By this time the gallery was infuriated. Then Monkton let the dog go, and with a bound he cleared the orchestra and leapt on the stage. The manager, in evident trepidation, rushed off. The orchestra seized their instruments, and hastily began to decamp; some one in the confusion turned out most of the gas; and at that moment a cry of “Proctors!” was heard.

It was by the merest chance that the Senior Proctor happened to be passing, and hearing the unusual disturbance, and the shouts which were evidently not shouts of applause, came in. He sent two of his men to one door, and he himself with two waited at the principal exit. There they took everybody’s “name and College,” giving directions as to the usual call on the following morning; and then, when the theatre was emptied, sent for the manager, and learned the facts of the case. Monkton had, of course, made his way out with the rest, with no further notice from the Proctor than they; but his time was to come.

There was a great crowd at nine the next morning at the Senior Proctor’s rooms. The men went as a matter of form, hardly expecting to be fined for going to an entertainment sanctioned by the University, and simply anticipating an order to attend before the Vice-Chancellor for an investigation of the fracas of the preceding evening. Monkton appeared with the rest; and from the way in which every one gave him the cold shoulder he saw pretty clearly that no one would screen him. At twelve o’clock he received an official notice to answer before the Vice-Chancellor to the charge of setting and inciting a bull-dog, with intent to do bodily injury, and so forth.