The whole business is, in fact, an illustration of that passion for tawdry display and vulgar ostentation in which the great American Republic seems to have gone not one but about a million better (or worse) than the parent stock. I sincerely hope that the supply of marriageable peers and American heiresses is now exhausted, and that we may hear no more of these international engagements.
I spoke last week of the undergraduate in relation to his dog. This week I should like to say a few words of the undergraduate in relation to his clothes. It seems to be generally imagined that the undergraduate is addicted to dressing himself out in the smartest possible clothes for his daily stroll along King's Parade or the High. Nothing can be further from the fact. The error is probably due to those splendidly inaccurate descriptions of university life with which novel readers have been of late perplexed. From these it might be supposed that the undergraduate was in the habit of changing his clothes some six times a day merely for purposes of display, and of reserving his very smartest suit for the daily visit that he pays to the gorgeous gambling-hells which are, as we all know, to be found by the score in the suburban districts of Oxford and Cambridge.
As a matter of fact, the average undergraduate is, in matters of dress, the simplest of mankind. His great ideal is comfort, and as old clothes are naturally more comfortable than new, it is quite a common sight to see great Blues, presidents of clubs, shining lights of the river, the field, or the schools arrayed in Norfolk jackets, in trousers on which at least two winters have laid their defacing hand, and in shirts which, though of an immaculate cleanness, show evident signs of wear and tear in the cuff department.
It must be remembered that the ordinary undergraduate only wears the clothes of civilisation for about half of every day. During the rest of the time he is to be found in the garb most appropriate to his athletic pursuits. In the case of a rowing man, these extend only to within six inches of his knees, and spectators have been heard to wonder how such large and heavy frames can be supported on so melancholy a deficiency of calves. I don't know how it is, but it is a fact that if a rowing man stands more than seventy-two inches in height, the girth of his calves will not exceed some ten inches.
If in writing thus of undergraduate dress I have destroyed a cherished illusion, I can only express my regret; but I have a strong feeling that the truth should be at last made to prevail, even against the inexactitudes of university novelists.