The way in which I left Oxford was characteristic of the rest. One of my rusticated friends, Anderson of Oriel, had proposed that we should leave with a splurge—"go up from the land with a soar." There was now no need for the furtive tandem behind Worcester College. It was driven boldly up to the college doors. My bag and baggage were stowed away in it, and with a cantering leader and a high-trotting shaft-horse, which unfortunately went over the beds of the best flowers, we started from the High Street by the Queen's Highway to London, I artistically performing upon a yard of tin trumpet, waving adieu to my friends, and kissing my hand to the pretty shop-girls. In my anger I thoroughly felt the truth of the sentiment—
"I leave thee, Oxford, and I loathe thee well,
Thy saint, thy sinner, scholar, prig, and swell."
Alfred Bates Richards, Dick's college mate, wrote in after years: "It is a curious reflection at school for any boy or any master, 'What will become of the boy? Who will turn out well? who ill? Who will distinguish himself? who will remain in obscurity? Who live? who die?' I am sure, though Burton was brilliant, rather wild, and very popular, none of us foresaw his future greatness, nor knew what a treasure we had amongst us."
[1] He began and wrote the "Career of R. F. Burton," printed by Waterlow, and brought it up to 1876. We deeply regretted him.—I. B.
[2] Richard always said that if all Catholics were like Dr. Newman, nearly every thinking person would become Catholic.—I. B.
[3] I can remember, in later years, Richard going to see him, and when he was so old he had almost to be supported, gazing at him with affection and moist eyes.—I. B.
[4] How often I have heard him regret that he did not do this, and I can testify that at the bottom of his heart he loved Oxford, but he could not obey his father, and also carry out the destiny for which he was best fitted and obliged to follow.—I. B.