Here I left my window, and, making a hasty toilet, joined a group of undergraduates, who were now collecting round the dean and bursar. I cast my eyes round the quadrangle, and was delighted with the success of our labours. There had been a heavy shower in the night, and the frogs were as lively as they could be on so ungenial a location as a gravelled court. In every corner was a goodly cluster, who were making ladders of each other’s backs, as if determined to scale the college walls. Some, of more retiring disposition, were endeavouring to force themselves into crevices, and hiding their heads behind projections to escape the gaze of academic eyes; while a few active spirits seemed to be hopping a sweepstakes right for the common-room door. Just as I made my appearance, the Principal came out of the door of his lodgings, with another of the fellows, having evidently been summoned to assist at the consultation. Good old soul! his study of zoology had been chiefly confined to the class edibles, and a shower of frogs, authenticated upon the oaths of the whole Convocation, would not have been half so interesting to him as an importation of turtle. However, to do him justice, he put on his spectacles, and looked as scientific as anybody. After due examination of the specimen of the genus Rana which the bursarstill held in captivity, and pronouncing a unanimous opinion, that, come from where he would, he was abona fidefrog, with nothing supernatural about him, the conclave proceeded round the quadrangle, calculating the numbers, and conjecturing the probable origin of these strange visitors. Equally curious, if not equally scientific, were the undergraduates who followed them; for, having strictly kept our own secret, my friend and myself were the only parties who could solve the mystery; and though many suspected that the frogs were unwilling emigrants, none knew to whom they were indebted for their introduction to college. The collected wisdom of the dons soon decided that a shower of full-grown frogs was a novelty even in the extraordinary occurrences of newspapers; and as not even a single individual croaker was to be discovered outside the walls of ——, it became evident that the whole affair was, as the dean described it, “another of those outrages upon academic discipline, which were as senseless as they were disgraceful.”
I daresay the dean’s anathema was “as sensible as it was sincere;” but it did not prevent our thoroughly enjoying the success of the “outrage” at the time; nor does it, unfortunately, suffice at this present moment to check something like an inward chuckle, when I think of the trouble which it cost the various retainers of the college to clearit effectually of its strange visitors. Hopkins, the old butler, who was of rather an imaginative temperament, and had a marvellous tale to tell any one who would listen, of a departed bursar, who, having caught his death of cold by superintending the laying down of three pipes of port, might ever afterwards be heard, upon such interesting occasions, walking about the damp cellars after nightfall in pattens,—Hopkins, the oracle of the college “tap,” maintained that the frogs were something “off the common;” and strengthened his opinion by reference to a specimen which he had selected—a lank, black, skinny individual, which really looked ugly enough to have come from anywhere. Scouts, wives, and children (they always make a point of having large families, in order to eat up the spare commons), all were busy, through that eventful day, in a novel occupation, and by dinner-time not a frog was to be seen; but long, long afterwards, on a moist evening, fugitives from the general proscription might be seen making their silent way across the quadrangle, and croakings were heard at night-time, which might (as Homer relates of his frogs) have disturbed Minerva, only that the goddess of wisdom, in chambers collegiate, sleeps usually pretty sound.
The “business of the stays,” however, bid fair to supersede the business of the frogs, in the dean’s record of my supposed crimes; and as I fullyintended to clear myself, even to his satisfaction, of any suspicion which might attach to me from the possession of such questionable articles so soon as our theatre closed for the season, I resolved that my successful defence from this last imputation would be an admirable ground on which to assume the dignity of a martyr, to appeal against all uncharitable conclusions from insufficient premises, and come out as the personification of injured innocence throughout my whole college career.
When my interview with the dean was over, I ordered some luncheon up to Leicester’s rooms, where, as I expected, I found most of my own “set” collected, in order to hear the result. A private conference with the official aforesaid seldom boded good to the party so favoured; the dean seldom made his communications so agreeable as he might have done. In college, as in most other societies, La Rochefoucauld’s maxim holds good, that “there is always something pleasant in the misfortunes of one’s friends;” and whenever an unlucky wight did get into a row, he might pretty confidently reckon upon being laughed at. In fact, undergraduates considered themselves as engaged in a war of stratagem against an unholy alliance of deans, tutors, and proctors; and in every encounter the defeated party was looked upon as the deluded victim of superior ingenuity—as having been “done,” in short. So, if a lark succeeded,the authorities aforesaid were decidedly done, and laughed at accordingly; if it failed, why, the other party were done, and there was still somebody to laugh at. No doubt, the jest was richer in the first case supposed; but in the second there was the additional gusto, so dear to human philanthropy, of having the victim present, and enjoying his discomfiture, which, in the case of the dons being the sufferers, was denied us. It may seem to argue something of a want of sympathy to find amusement in misfortunes which might any day be our own; but any one who ever witnessed the air of ludicrous alarm with which an undergraduate prepares to obey the summons (capable of but one interpretation)—“The dean wishes to see you, sir, at ten o’clock”—which so often, in my time at least, was sent as a whet to some of the assembled guests at a breakfast-party; whoever has been applied to on such occasions for the loan of a tolerable cap (that of the delinquent having its corners in such dilapidated condition as to proclaim its owner a “rowing man” at once), or has responded to the pathetic appeal, “Do I lookveryseedy?”—any one to whom such absurd recollections of early days occur (and if you, good reader, are a university man, as, being a gentleman, I am bound in charity to conclude you are, and yet have no such reminiscences, allow me to suggest that you must have been a very slow coach indeed)—anyone, I say once more, who knows the ridiculous figure which a man cuts when “hauled up” before the college Minos or Radamanthus, will easily forgive his friends for being inclined to laugh at him.
However, in the present case, any anticipations of fun at my expense, which the party in Leicester’s rooms might charitably entertain, were somewhat qualified by the fear that the consequences of any little private difference between the dean and myself might affect the prosperity of our unlicensed theatre. And when they heard how very nearly the discovery of the stays had been fatal to our project, execrations against Simmons’s espionage were mingled with admiration of my escape from so critical a position.
The following is, I apprehend, a unique specimen of an Oxford bill, and the only one, out of a tolerably large bundle which I keep for the sake of the receipts attached (a precaution by no means uncalled for), which I find any amusement in referring to:—
——Hawthorne, Esq.,ToM. Moore.s.d.2 pr. brown jean corsets.82Padding for do., made to order.26——106Recd. same day, M. M.
Very much surprised was the old lady, of whom I made the purchase in my capacity of stage-manager,at so uncommon a customer in her line of business; and when, after enjoying her mystification for some time, I let her into the secret, so delighted was she at the notion, that she gave me sundry hints as to the management of the female toilet, and offered to get made up for me any dresses that might be required. So I introduced Leicester and his fellow-heroines to my friend Mrs Moore, and, by the joint exertions of their own tastes and her experience, they became possessed of some very tolerable costumes. There was a good deal of fun going on, I fancy, in fitting and measuring, in her back parlour; for there was a daughter, or a niece, or something of the sort, who cut out the dresses with the prettiest hands in the world, as Leicester declared; but I was too busy with carpenters, painters, and other assistants, to pay more than a flying visit to the ladies’ department.
At last the rehearsal did come on. As Hastings, I had not much in the way of dress to alter; and, having some engagement in the early part of the morning, I did not arrive at the theatre until the rest of the characters were already dressed and ready to begin. Though I had been consulted upon all manner of points, from the arranging of a curl for Miss Neville to the colour of Diggory’s stockings, and knew the costume of every individual as well as my own, yet so ludicrous was the effect of the whole when I entered the room,that I threw myself into the nearest chair, and laughed myself nearly into convulsions. The figure which first met my eyes was a little ruddy freshman, who had the part of the landlord, and who, in his zeal to do honour to our preference, had dressed the character most elaborately. A pillow, which he could scarcely see over, puffed out his red waistcoat; and his hair was cut short, and powdered with such good-will that for weeks afterwards, in spite of diligent brushing, he looked as grey as the Principal. There he stood, his legs clothed in grey worsted, retreating far beyond his little white apron, as if ashamed of their unusual appearance—
“The mother that him bare,She had not known her son.”
“The mother that him bare,She had not known her son.”
Every one, however, had not been so classical in their costume. There was Sir Charles Marlow in what had been a judge’s wig, and Mr Hardcastle in a barrister’s; both sufficiently unlike themselves, at any rate, if not very correct copies of their originals. Then the women! As for Mrs Hardcastle, she was perfection. There never was, I believe, a better representation of the character. It was well dressed, and turned out a first-rate bit of acting—very far superior to any amateur performance I ever saw, and, with practice, would have equalled that of any actress on the stage. Her very curtsy was comedy itself. When I recovered my breath a little, I was able to attend to the dialogue whichwas going on, which was hardly less ridiculous than the strange disguises round me. “Now, Miss Hardcastle” (Marlowloquitur), “I have no objection to your smoking cigars during rehearsal, of course—because you won’t do that on Monday night, I suppose; but I must beg you to get out of the practice of standing or sitting cross-legged, because it’s not lady-like, or even bar-maid like—and don’t laugh when I make love to you; for if you do, I shall break down to a certainty.” “Thornhill, do you think my waist will do?” said the anxious representative of the fair Constance. “I have worn these cursed stays for an hour every evening for the last week, and drawn them an inch tighter every time; but I don’t think I’m a very good figure after all—just try if they’ll come any closer, will you?” “Oh! Hawthorne, I’m glad you are come,” said Savile, whom I hardly knew, in a red wig; “now, isn’t there to be a bowl of real punch in the scene at the Three Pigeons—one can’tpretendto drink, you know, with any degree of spirit?”—“Oh! of course,” said I; “that’s one of the landlord’s properties; Miller, you must provide that, you know: send down for some cold tankards now; they will do very well for rehearsal.” At last we got to work, and proceeded, with the prompter’s assistance, pretty smoothly, and mutually applauding each other’s performance, going twice over some of the most difficult scenes,and cutting out a good deal of love and sentiment. The play was fixed for the next Monday night, playbills ordered to be printed, and cards of invitation issued to all the performers’ intimate friends. Every scout in the college, I believe, except my rascal Simmons, was in the secret, and probably some of the fellows had a shrewd guess at what was going on; but no one interfered with us. We carried on all our operations as quietly as possible; and the only circumstance likely to arouse suspicion in the minds of the authorities, was the unusual absence of all disturbances of a minor nature within the walls, in consequence of the one engrossing freak in which most of the more turbulent spirits were engaged.
At length the grand night arrived. By nine o’clock the theatre in Savile’s rooms was as full as it could be crammed with any degree of comfort to actors and audience; and in the study and bedroom, which, being on opposite sides, served admirably for dressing-rooms behind the scenes, the usual bustle of preparation was going on. As is common in such cases, some essential properties had been forgotten until the last moment. No bonnet had been provided for Mrs Hardcastle to take her walks abroad in; and when the little hair-dresser, who had been retained to give a finishing touch to some of the coiffures, returned with one belonging to his “missis,” which he had volunteeredto lend, the roar of uncontrollable merriment which this new embellishment of our disguised friend called forth, made the audience clamorous for the rising of the curtain—thinking, very excusably, that it was quite unjustifiable to keep all the fun to ourselves.
After some little trial of our “public’s” patience, the play began in good earnest, and was most favourably received. Indeed, as the only price of admission exacted was a promise of civil behaviour, and there were two servants busily employed in handing about punch and “bishop,” it would have been rather hard if we did not succeed in propitiating their good-humour. With the exception of two gentlemen who had been dining out, and were rather noisy in consequence, and evinced a strong inclination occasionally to take a part in the dialogue, all behaved wonderfully well, greeting each performer, as he made his first entrance, with a due amount of cheering; rapturously applauding all the best scenes; laughing (whether at the raciness of the acting, or the grotesque metamorphoses of the actors, made no great difference), and filling up any gap which occurred in the proceedings on the stage, in spite of the prompter, with vociferous encouragement to the “sticket” actor. With an audience so disposed, each successive scene went off better and better. One deserves to be particularised. It was the second in the first act of thecomedy; the stage directions for it are as follows: “Scene—An alehouse room—Several shabby fellows with punch and tobacco; Tony at the head of the table, &c., discovered.” Never, perhaps, in any previous representation, was themise en scèneso perfect; it drew three rounds of applause. A very equivocal compliment to ourselves it may be; but such jolly-looking “shabby fellows” as sat round the table at which our Tony presided, were never furnished by the supernumeraries of Drury or Covent Garden. They were as classical, in their way, as Macready’s Roman mob. Then there was no make-believe puffing of empty pipes, and fictitious drinking of small-beer for punch; every nose among the audience could appreciate the genuineness of both liquor and tobacco; and the hearty encore which the song, with its stentorian chorus, was honoured with, gave all the parties engaged time to enjoy their punch and their pipes to their satisfaction. It was quite a pity, as was unanimously agreed, when the entrance of Marlow and Hastings, as in duty bound, interrupted so jovial a society. But “all that’s bright must fade”—and so the Three Pigeons’ scene, and the play too, came to an end in due course. The curtain fell amidst universal applause, modified only by the urgent request, which, as manager, I had more than once to repeat, that gentlemen would be kind enough to restrain their feelings for fear of disturbing thedons. The house resolved itself into its component elements—all went their ways,—the reading men probably to a Greek play, by way of afterpiece; sleepy ones to bed, and idle ones to their various inventions; and the actors, after the fatigues of the night, to a supper, which was to be the “finish.” It was to take place in one of the men’s rooms which happened to be on the same staircase, and had been committed to the charge of certain parties, who understood our notions of an unexceptionable spread. And a right merry party we were, all sitting down in character—Mrs Hardcastle at the top of the table, her worthy partner at bottom, with the “young ladies” on each side. It was the best tableau of the evening; pity there was neither artist to sketch, nor spectators to admire it! But, like many other merry meetings, there are faithful portraits of it—proof impressions—in the memories of many who were present, not yet obliterated, hardly even dimmed, by time; laid by, like other valuables, which, in the turmoil of life, we find no time to look at, but not thrown aside or forgotten, and brought out sometimes, in holidays and quiet hours, for us to look at once more, and enjoy their beauty, and feel, after all, how much what we have changed is “cœlum non animum.” I am now—no matter what. Of my companions at that well-remembered supper, one is a staid and orthodox divine; one a rising barrister; a third a respectable country gentleman,justice of the peace, “and quorum;” a fourth, they tell me, a semi-Papist: but set us all down together in that same room, draw the champagne corks, and let some Lethe (the said champagne, if you please) wash out all that has passed over us in the last few years, and my word on it, three out of four of us are but boys still; and though much shaving, pearl powder, and carmine, might fail to make of any of the party a heroine of any more delicate class than Meg Merrilies, I have no doubt we could all of us once more smoke a pipe in character at “The Three Pigeons.”
Merrily the evening passed off, and merrily the little hours came on, and song and laugh rather grew gayer than slackened. The strings of the stays had long ago been cut, and the tresses, which were in the way of the cigars, were thrown back in dishevelled elegance. The landlord found his stuffing somewhat warm, and had laid aside half his fleshy encumbrance. Every one was at his ease, and a most uproarious chorus had just been sung by the whole strength of the company, when we heard the ominous sound of a quiet double-rap at the outer door.
“Who’s there?” said one of the most self-possessed of the company.
“I wish to speak to Mr Challoner,” was the quiet reply.
The owner of the rooms was luckily in no moreoutrécostume than that of Sir Charles Marlow; and having thrown off his wig, and buttoned his coat over a deep-flapped waistcoat, looked tolerably like himself as he proceeded to answer the summons. I confess I rather hoped than otherwise that the gentleman, whoever he was, would walk in, when, if he intended to astonish us, he was very likely to find the tables turned. However, even college dons recognise the principle that every man’s house is his castle, and never violate the sanctity of even an undergraduate’s rooms. The object of this present visit, however, was rather friendly than otherwise. One of the fellows, deservedly popular, had been with the dean, and had left him in a state of some excitement from the increasing merriment which came somewhat too audibly across the quadrangle from our party. He had called, therefore, to advise Challoner either to keep his friends quiet, or to get rid of them, if he wished to keep out of the dean’s jurisdiction. As it was towards three in the morning, we thought it prudent to take this advice as it was meant, and in a few minutes began to wend our respective ways homewards. Leicester and myself, whose rooms lay in the same direction, were steering along, very soberly, under a bright moonlight, when something put it into the heads of some other stragglers of the party to break out, at the top of their voices, into a stanza of that immortal ditty, “We won’t go home till morning.”Instantly we could hear a window, which we well knew to be the dean’s, open above us, and as the unmelodious chorus went on, his wrath found vent in the usual strain—“Who is making that disturbance?”
No one volunteering an explanation, he went on.
“Who are those in the quadrangle?”
Leicester and I walked somewhat faster. I am not sure that our dignity did not condescend to run, as we heard steps coming down from No. 5, at a pace that evidently portended a chase, and remembered for the first time the remarkable costume which, to common observers, would indicate that there was a visitor of an unusual character enjoying the moonlight in the quadrangle. When we reached the “thoroughfare,” the passage from the inner to the outer quadrangle, we fairly bolted; and as the steps came pretty fast after us, and Leicester’s rooms were the nearest, we both made good our retreat thither, and sported oak.
The porter’s lodge was in the next number; and hearing a knocking in that quarter, Leicester gently opened the window, and we could catch the following dialogue:—
“Solomon! open this door directly—it is I, the dean.”
“Good dear sir!” said Solomon, apparently asleep, and fumbling for the keys of the college gates—“let you out? O yes, sir—directly.”
“Listen to me, Solomon: I am not going out. Did you let any one out just now—just before I called you?”
“No, sir; nobody whatsomdever.”
“Solomon! I ask you, did you not, just now, let awomanout?”
“Lawk! no, sir—Lord forbid!” said Solomon, now thoroughly wakened.
“Now, Solomon, bring your light, and come with me; this must be inquired into. I saw a woman run this way, and if she is not gone through the gate, she is gone into this next number. Whose rooms are in No. 13?”
“There’s Mr Dyson’s, sir, on the ground-floor.”
Mr Dyson was the very fellow who had called at Challoner’s rooms. “Hah! well, I’ll call Mr Dyson up. Whose besides?”
“There’s Mr Leicester, sir, above his’n.”
“Very well, Solomon; call up Mr Dyson, and say I wish to speak with him particularly.”
And so saying, the dean proceeded up-stairs.
The moment Leicester heard his name mentioned, he began to anticipate a domiciliary visit. The thing was so ridiculous that we hardly knew what to do.
“Shall I get into bed, Hawthorne? I don’t want to be caught in this figure.”
“Why, I don’t know that you will be safe there, in the present state of the dean’s suspicions. No;tuck up those confounded petticoats, clap on your pea-jacket, twist those love-locks up under your cap, light this cigar, and sit in your easy-chair. The dean must be ’cuter than usual if he finds you out as the lady he is in search of.”
Leicester had hardly time to take this advice—the best I could hit upon at the moment—when the dean knocked at the door.
“Who are you? Come in,” said we both in a breath.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Leicester,” said the dean in his most official tone; “nothing but actually imperative duty occasions my intrusion at this unseasonable hour, but a most extraordinary circumstance must be my excuse. I saw, gentlemen—I saw with my own eyes,” he continued, looking blacker as he caught sight of me, and remembering, no doubt, the little episode of the stays—“I saw a female figure move in this direction but a few minutes ago. No such person has passed the gate, for I have made inquiry; certainly I have no reason to suppose any such person is concealed here; but I am bound to ask you, sir, on your honour as a gentleman—for I have no wish to make a search—is there any such person concealed in your apartments?”
“On my honour, sir, no one is or has been lately here, but myself and Mr Hawthorne.”
Here Dyson came into the room, looking considerably mystified.
“What’s the matter, Mr Dean?” said he, nodding good-humouredly to us.
“A most unpleasant occurrence, my dear sir; I have seen a woman in this direction not five minutes back. Unfortunately, I cannot be mistaken. She either passed into the porter’s lodge or into this staircase.”
“She is not in my rooms, I assure you,” said he, laughing; “I should think you made a mistake: it must have been some man in a white mackintosh.”
I smiled, and Leicester laughed outright.
“I am not mistaken, sir,” said the dean warmly. “I shall take your word, Mr Leicester; but allow me to tell you, that your conduct in lolling in that chair, as if in perfect contempt, and neither rising, nor removing your cap, when Mr Dyson and myself are in your rooms, is consistent neither with the respect due from an undergraduate, nor the behaviour I should expect from a gentleman.”
Poor Leicester coloured, and unwittingly removed his cap. The chestnut curls, some natural and some artificial, which had been so studiously arranged for Miss Hardcastle’s head-dress, fell in dishevelled luxuriance round his face; and as he half rose from his previous position in the chair, a pink-silk dress began to descend from under the pea-jacket. Concealment was at an end; the dean looked bewildered at first, and then savage; but a hearty laugh from Dyson settled the business.
“What, Leicester! you’re the lady the dean has been hunting about college! Upon my word, this is the most absurd piece of masquerading!—what on earth is it all about?”
I pitied Leicester, he looked such an extraordinary figure in his ambiguous dress, and seemed so thoroughly ashamed of himself; so, displaying the tops and cords in which I had enacted Hastings, I acknowledged my share in the business, and gave a brief history of the drama during my management. The dean endeavoured to look grave: Dyson gave way to undisguised amusement, and repeatedly exclaimed, “Oh! why did you not send me a ticket? When do you perform again?”
Alas! never. Brief, as bright, was our theatrical career. But the memory of it lives in the college still—of the comedy, and the supper, and the curious mistake which followed it; and the dean has not to this hour lost the credit which he then gained, of having a remarkably keen eye for a petticoat.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
[A]A well-known Oxford auctioneer of that day.
[A]A well-known Oxford auctioneer of that day.
1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters’ errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the authors’ words and intent.
2. The page numbering used in this e-text follows that used in the original paper book.