The Worlds Greatest Books - Arthur Mee, J. A. Hammerton, Eds.
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As we have said, Mr. Verdant Green felt very tearful and lonely as his
scout entered his rooms. But the appearance of Filcher reminded him that
he was now an Oxford man, and he resolved to begin his career by calling
upon Mr. Charles Larkyns.
He found Mr. Larkyns lolling on a couch, in dressing-gown and slippers.
Opposite to him was a gentleman whose face was partly hidden by a pewter
pot, out of which he was draining the last draught. Mr. Larkyns turned
his head, and saw dimly through the clouds of tobacco smoke that filled
his room a tall, thin, spectacled figure, with a hat in one hand, and an
envelope in the other.
"It's no use," he said, "stealing a march on me in this way. I don't owe
you anything; and if I did it is not convenient to pay it. Hang you
Oxford tradesmen! You really make a man thoroughly bill-ious. Tell your
master that I can't get any money out of my governor till I've got my
degree. Now make yourself scarce! You know where the door lies!"
Mr. Verdant Green was so confounded at this unusual reception that he
lost the power of motion and speech. But as Mr. Larkyns advanced towards
him in a threatening attitude, he managed to gasp out: "Why, Charles
Larkyns, don't you remember me, Verdant Green?"
"'Pon my word, old fellow," said his friend, "I thought you were a dun.
There are so many wretched tradesmen in this place who labour under the
impression that because a man buys a thing he means to pay for it, that
my life is mostly spent in dodging their messengers. Allow me," he
added, "to introduce you to Mr. Smalls. You will find him very useful in
helping you in your studies. He himself reads so hard that he is called
a fast man."
Mr. Smalls put down his pewter pot, and said that he had much pleasure
in forming the acquaintance of a freshman like Mr. Verdant Green; which
was undoubtedly true. And he then showed his absorbing interest in
literary studies by neglecting the society of Mr. Verdant Green and
immersing himself in the perusal of one of those vivid accounts of "a
rattling set-to between Nobby Buffer and Hammer Sykes" which make
"Bell's Life" the favourite reading of many Oxford scholars.
"I heard from my governor," said Mr. Larkyns, "that you were coming up,
and in the course of the morning I should have come to look you up. Have
a cigar, old chap?"
"Er--er--thank you very much," said Verdant, in a frightened way; "but I
have never smoked."
"Never smoked!" exclaimed Mr. Smalls, holding up "Bell's Life," and
making private signals to Mr. Larkyns. "You'll soon get the better of
that weakness! As you are a freshman, let me give you a little advice.
You know what deep readers the Germans are. That is because they smoke
more than we do. I should advise you to go at once to the
vice-chancellor and ask him for a box of good cigars. He will be
delighted to find you are beginning to set to work so soon."
Mr. Verdant Green thanked Mr. Smalls for his kind advice, and said that
he would go without delay to the vice-chancellor. And Mr. Smalls was so
delighted with the joke, for the vice-chancellor took severe steps to
prevent undergraduates from indulging in the fragrant weed, that he
invited Verdant to wine with him that evening.
"Just a small quiet party of hard-working men," said Mr. Smalls. "I hope
you don't object to a very quiet party."
"Oh, dear, no! I much prefer a quiet party," said Mr. Verdant Green;
"indeed, I have always been used to quiet parties; and I shall be very
glad to come."
In order to while away the time between then and evening, Mr. Charles
Larkyns offered to take Mr. Verdant Green over Oxford, and put him up to
a thing or two, and show him some of the freshman's sights. Naturally,
he got a considerable amount of fun out of his young and very credulous
friend. For some weeks afterwards, Mr. Verdant Green never met any of
the gorgeously robed beadles of the university without taking his hat
off and making them a profound bow. For, according to his information,
one of them was the vice-chancellor, and the rest were various
dignitaries and famous men.
By the time the inventive powers of Mr. Larkyns were exhausted, it was
necessary to dress for the very quiet party. Some hours afterwards, Mr.
Verdant Green was standing in a room filled with smoke and noise,
leaning rather heavily against the table. His friends had first tempted
him with a cigar; then, as his first smoke produced the strange effects
common in these cases, they had induced him to take a little strong
punch as a remedy. He was now leaning against the table in answer to the
call of "Mr. Gig-lamps for a song." Having decided upon one of those
vocal efforts which in the bosom of his family met with great applause,
he began to sing in low and plaintive tones, "'I dre-eamt that I dwelt
in Mar-ar-ble Halls, with'"--and then, alarmed by hearing the sound of
his own voice, he stopped.
"Try back, Verdant," shouted Mr. Larkyns.
Mr. Verdant Green tried back, but with an increased confusion of ideas,
resulting from the mixture of milk-punch and strong cigars. "'I dre-eamt
that I dwe-elt in Mar-arble Halls, with vassals and serfs at my
si-hi-hide; and--'--I beg your pardon, gentlemen, I really forget----oh,
I know--'And I also dre-eamt, which ple-eased me most--' No, that's not
it."
And, smiling very amiably, he sank down on the carpet, and went to sleep
under the table. Some time afterwards, two men were seen carrying an
inert body across the quad; they took it upstairs and put it on a bed.
And late the next morning, Mr. Verdant Green woke up with a splitting
headache, and wished that he had never been born.
As time went on, all the well-known practical jokes were played upon
him; and gradually--and sometimes painfully--he learnt the wisdom that
is not taught in books, nor acquired from maiden aunts.
_II.--Mr. Verdant Green Does as He Has Been Done By_
One morning, Mr. Green and one of his friends, little Mr. Bouncer, were
lounging in the gateway of Brazenface, when a modest-looking young man
came towards them. He seemed so ill at ease in his frock coat and high
collar that he looked as if he were wearing these articles for the first
time.
"I'll bet you a bottle of blacking, Gig-lamps," said Mr. Bouncer, "that
we have here an intending freshman. Let us take a rise out of him."
"Can you direct me to Brazenface College, please, sir?" said the
youthful stranger, flushing like a girl.
"This is Brazenface College," said Mr. Bouncer, looking very important.
"And, pray, what is your business here and your name?"
"If you please," said the stranger, "I am James Pucker. I came to enter,
sir, for my matriculation examination, and I wish to see the gentleman
who will examine me."
"Then you've come to the proper quarter, young man," said Mr. Bouncer.
"Here is Mr. Pluckem," turning to Mr. Verdant Green, "the junior
examiner."
Mr. Verdant Green took his cue with astonishing aptitude and glared
through his glasses at the trembling, blushing Mr. Pucker.
"And here," continued Mr. Bouncer, pointing to Mr. Fosbrooke, who was
coming up the street, "is the gentleman who will assist Mr. Pluckem in
examining you."
"It will be extremely inconvenient to me to examine you now," said Mr.
Fosbrooke; "but, as you probably wish to return home as soon as
possible, I will endeavour to conclude the business at once. Mr.
Bouncer, will you have the goodness to bring this young gentleman to my
rooms?"
Leaving Mr. Pucker to express his thanks for this great kindness to Mr.
Bouncer, who whiled away the time by telling him terrible stories about
the matriculation ordeal, Mr. Verdant Green and Fosbrooke ran upstairs,
and spread a newspaper over a heap of pipes and pewter pots and bottles
of ale, and prepared a table with pen, ink, and scribble-paper. Soon
afterwards, Mr. Bouncer led in the unsuspecting victim.
"Take a seat, sir," said Mr. Fosbrooke, gravely. And Mr. Pucker put his
hat on the ground, and sat down at the table in a state of blushing
nervousness. "Have you been at a public school?"
"Yes, sir," stammered the victim; "a very public one, sir. It was a
boarding school, sir. I was a day boy, sir, and in the first class."
"First class of an uncommon slow train!" muttered Mr. Bouncer.
"Now, sir," continued Mr. Fosbrooke, "let us see what your Latin writing
is like. Have the goodness to turn what I have written into Latin; and
be very careful," added Mr. Fosbrooke sternly, "be very careful that it
is good Latin!" And he handed Mr. Pucker a sheet of paper, on which he
had scribbled the following:
"To be turned into Latin after the Manner of the Animals of Tacitus: She
went into the garden to cut a cabbage to make an apple-pie. Just then a
great she-bear, coming down the street, poked its nose into the shop
window. 'What! No soap? Bosh!' So he died, and she (very imprudently)
married the barber. And there were present at the wedding the
Joblillies, and the Piccannies, and the Gobelites, and the great
Panjandrum himself, with the little button on top. So they all set to
playing catch-who-catch-can, till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of
their boots."
It was well for the purposes of the hoaxers that Mr. Pucker's
trepidation prevented him from making a calm perusal of the paper; he
was nervously doing his best to turn the nonsensical English word by
word into equally nonsensical Latin, when his limited powers of Latin
writing were brought to a full stop by the untranslatable word "bosh."
As he could make nothing of this, he gazed appealingly at the benignant
features of Mr. Verdant Green. The appealing gaze was answered by our
hero ordering Mr. Pucker to hand in his paper, and reply to the
questions on history and Euclid. Mr. Pucker took the two papers of
questions, and read as follows:
HISTORY.
"1. Show the strong presumption there is, that Nox was the god of
battles.
"2. In what way were the shades on the banks of the Styx supplied with
spirits?
"3. Give a brief account of the Roman emperors who visited the United
States, and state what they did there.
EUCLID.
"1. Show the fallacy of defining an angle, as a worm at one end and a
fool at the other.
"2. If a freshman _A_ have any mouth _x_ and a bottle of wine _y_, show
how many applications of _x_ to _y_ will place _y_+_y_ before _A_.
"3. Find the value of a 'bob,' a 'tanner,' a 'joey,' a 'tizzy,' a
'poney,' and a 'monkey.'
"4. If seven horses eat twenty-five acres of grass in three days, what
will be their condition on the fourth day? Prove this by practice."
Mr. Pucker did not know what to make of such extraordinary and
unexpected questions. He blushed, tried to write, fingered his curls,
and then gave himself over to despair; whereupon Mr. Bouncer was seized
with an immoderate fit of laughter, which brought the farce almost to an
end.
"I'm afraid, young gentleman," said Mr. Bouncer, "that your learning is
not yet up to the Brazenface standard. But we will give you one more
chance to retrieve yourself. We will try a little _viva voce_, Mr.
Pucker. If a coach-wheel 6 inches in diameter and 5 inches in
circumference makes 240 revolutions in a second, how many men will it
take to do the same piece of work in ten days?"
Mr. Pucker grew redder and hotter than before, and gasped like a fish
out of water.
"I see you will not do for us yet awhile," said his tormentor, "and we
are therefore under the painful necessity of rejecting you. I should
advise you to read hard for another twelve months, and try to master
those subjects in which you have now failed."
Disregarding poor Mr. Pucker's entreaties to matriculate him this once
for the sake of his mother, when he would read very hard--indeed he
would--Mr. Fosbrooke turned to Mr. Bouncer and gave him some private
instructions, and Mr. Verdant Green immediately disappeared in search of
his scout, Filcher. Five minutes afterwards, as the dejected Mr. Pucker
was crawling out of the quad, Filcher came and led him back to the rooms
of Mr. Slowcoach, the real examining tutor.
"But I have been examined," Mr. Pucker kept on saying dejectedly. "I
have been examined, and they rejected me."
"I think it was an 'oax, sir," said Filcher.
"A what!" stammered Mr. Pucker.
"A 'oax--a sell," said the scout. "Those two gents has been 'aving a
little game with you, sir. They often does it with fresh parties like
you, sir, that seem fresh and hinnocent like."
Mr. Pucker was immensely relieved at this news, and at once went to Mr.
Slowcoach, who, after an examination of twenty minutes, passed him. But
Filcher was alarmed at the joyful way in which he rushed out of the
tutor's room.
"You didn't tell 'im about the 'oax, sir, did yer?" asked the scout
anxiously.
"Not a word," said the radiant Mr. Pucker.
"Then you're a trump, sir!" said Filcher. "And Mr. Verdant Green's
compliments to yer, sir, and will you come up to his rooms and take a
glass of wine with him, sir?"
It need hardly be said that the blushing Mr. Pucker passed a very
pleasant evening with his new friends, and that Mr. Verdant Green was
very proud of having got so far out of the freshman's stage of existence
as to take part in one of the most successful hoaxes in the history of
Oxford.
_III.--Town and Gown_
Mr. Verdant Green, Mr. Charles Larkyns, and a throng of their
acquaintances were sitting in Mr. Bouncer's rooms, on the evening of
November 5, when a knock at the oak was heard; and as Mr. Bouncer roared
out, "Come in!" the knocker entered. Opening the door, and striking into
an attitude, he exclaimed in a theatrical tone and manner:
"Scene, Mr. Bouncer's rooms in Brazenface; in the centre a table, at
which a party are drinking log-juice, and smoking cabbage leaves. Door,
left, third entrance. Enter the Putney Pet. Slow music; lights half
down."
Even Mr. Verdant Green did not require to be told the profession of the
Putney Pet. His thick-set frame, his hard-featured, battered, hang-dog
face proclaimed him a prize-fighter.
"Now for a toast, gentlemen," said Mr. Bouncer. "May the Gown give the
Town a jolly good hiding!"
This was received with great applause, and the Putney Pet was dressed
out in a gown and mortar-board, and the whole party then sallied out to
battle. From time immemorial it has been the custom at Oxford for the
town-people and the scholars to engage, at least once a year, in a wild
scrimmage, and the pitched battle was now due. No doubt it was not quite
fair for the men of Brazenface to bring the Putney Pet up from London
for the occasion; but for some years Gown had been defeated by Town, and
they were resolved to have their revenge.
When Mr. Bouncer's party turned the corner of Saint Mary's, they found
that the Town, as usual, had taken the initiative, and in a dense body
had swept the High Street and driven all the gownsmen before them. A
small knot of 'varsity men were manfully struggling against superior
numbers by St. Mary's Hall.
"Gown to the rescue!" shouted Mr. Bouncer, as he dashed across the
street. "Come on, Pet! Here we are in the thick of it, just in the nick
of time!"
Poor Mr. Verdant Green had never learnt to box. He was a lover of peace
and quietness, and would have preferred to have watched the battle from
a college window; but he had been drawn in the fray against his will by
Mr. Bouncer. He now rushed into the scrimmage with no idea of fighting,
and a valiant bargee singled him out as an easy prey, and aimed a heavy
blow at him. Instinctively doubling his fists, Mr. Verdant Green found
that necessity was indeed the mother of invention; and, with a passing
thought of what would be his mother's and his maiden aunt's feelings
could they see him fighting with a common bargeman, he managed to guard
off the blow. But he was not so fortunate in the second round, for the
bargee knocked him down, but was happily knocked down in turn by the
Putney Pet. The language of this gentle and refined scholar had become
very peculiar.
"There's a squelcher for you, my kivey," he said to the bargee, as he
sent him sprawling. Then, turning round, he asked a townsman: "What do
you charge for a pint of Dutch pink?" following up the question by
striking him on the nose.
Unused to being questioned in this violent way, the town party at last
turned and fled, and the gownsmen went in search of other foes to
conquer. Even Mr. Verdant Green felt desperately courageous when the
town took to their heels and vanished.
At Exeter College another town-and-gown fight was raging furiously. The
town mob had come across the Senior Proctor, the Rev. Thomas Tozer; and
while Old Towzer, as he was called, was trying to assert his proctorial
authority over them, they had jeered him, and torn his clothes, and
bespattered him with mud. A small group of gownsmen rushed to his
rescue.
"Oh, this is painful," said the Rev. Thomas Tozer, putting the
handkerchief to his bleeding nose. "This is painful! This is exceedingly
painful, gentlemen!"
He was at once surrounded by sympathising undergraduates, who begged him
to allow them to charge the town at once. But the Town far outnumbered
the Gown, and, in spite of the assistance of the reverend proctor, the
fight was going against them. The Rev. Thomas Tozer had just been
knocked down for the first time in his life, and the cry of "Gown to the
rescue!" fell very pleasantly on his ears. Mr. Verdant Green helped him
to rise, while the Putney Pet stepped before him and struck out right
and left. Ten minutes of scientific pugilism, and the fate of the battle
was decided. The Town fled every way, and the Rev. Thomas Tozer was at
last able to look calmly about him. He at once resumed his proctorial
duties.
"Why have you not on your gown, sir?" he said to the Putney Pet.
"I ax yer pardon, guv'nor," said the Pet deferentially. "I couldn't get
on in it, nohow. So I pocketed it; but some cove has gone and prigged
it."
"I am unable to comprehend the nature of your language, sir," said the
Rev. Thomas Tozer angrily, thinking it was an impudent undergraduate. "I
don't understand you, sir; but I desire at once to know your name and
college."
Mr. Bouncer, however, succeeded in explaining matters to the proctor,
who then congratulated the Pet on having displayed pugilistic powers
worthy of the Xystics of the noblest days of Ancient Rome. Both the Pet
and the undergraduates wondered what a Xystic was, but instead of
inquiring further into the matter, they went to the Roebuck, where,
after a supper of grilled bones and welsh-rabbits, Mr. Verdant Green
gave, "by particular request," his now celebrated song, "The Mar-arble
Halls."
The forehead of the singer was decorated with a patch of brown paper,
from which arose a strong smell of vinegar. But he was not ashamed of
it; indeed, he wore it all the next day, and was sorry when he had to
take it off--for was it not, in a way, a badge of courage?
From this time Mr. Verdant Green began to despise mere reading-men who
never went in for sports. He resolved at once to go in for them all. He
took to rowing, and was rescued from a watery grave by Mr. Bouncer.
Then, defeated but undaunted, he took to riding, and was thrown off. But
what did it matter? Before the term ended, he grew more accustomed to
the management of Oxford tubs and Oxford hacks.
It is true that the unfeeling man who reported the Torpid races for
"Bell's Life" had the unkindness to state in cold print; "Worcester
succeeded in making the bump at the Cherwell, in consequence of No. 3 of
the Brazenface boat suffering from fatigue." And on the copy of the
journal sent to Mrs. Green of Manor Green, her son sadly drew a pencil
line under "No. 3," and wrote: "This was me." But both Mrs. Green and
Miss Virginia Green were more than consoled when their beloved boy
returned home about midsummer with a slip of paper on which was written
and printed:
GREEN, VERDANT, E. Coll. AEn. Fac. Quiaestionibus Magistrorum Scholarum
in Parviso pro forma respondit.
Ita testamur (GULIELMUS SMITH.
(ROBERTUS JONES.
In other words, Mr. Verdant Green had got through his Smalls. But, sad
to say, poor Mr. Bouncer had been plucked.
Mr. Verdant Green smiled to himself. It was the sheerest bit of good
luck that he had managed to get through. Still, he had learned more at
Oxford than was taught in books--he had learned to be a manly fellow in
spite of his gig-lamps.
* * * * *
CHARLOTTE BRONTE
Jane Eyre
Charlotte Bronte was born at Thornton, Yorkshire, England, on
the 21st of April, 1816, of Irish and Cornish stock. By reason
of her father's manner of living, she was utterly deprived of
all companions of her own age. She therefore lived in a little
world of her own, and by the time she was thirteen years of
age, it had become her constant habit, and one of her few
pleasures, to weave imaginary tales, idealising her favorite
historical heroes, and setting forth in narrative form her own
thoughts and feelings. Both Charlotte and her sisters Emily
and Anne early found refuge in their habits of composition,
and about 1845 made their first literary venture--a small
volume of poems. This was not successful, but the authors were
encouraged to make a further trial, and each began to prepare
a prose tale. "Jane Eyre," perhaps the most poignant
love-story in the English tongue, was published on October 16,
1847. Its title ran: "Jane Eyre: an Autobiography. Edited by
Currer Bell." The romantic story of its acceptance by the
publishers has been told in our condensation of Mrs. Gaskell's
"Life of Charlotte Bronte." (See LIVES AND LETTERS, Vol. IX.)
Written secretly under the pressure of incessant domestic
anxiety, as if with the very life-blood of its author, the
wonderful intensity of the story kindled the imagination of
the reading public in an extraordinary degree, and the
popularity at once attained has never flagged. Though the
experiences of Jane Eyre were not, except in comparatively
unimportant episodes, the experiences of the authoress, Jane
Eyre is Charlotte Bronte. One of the most striking features of
the book--a feature preserved in the following summary--is the
haunting suggestion of sympathy between nature and human
emotion. The publication of "Jane Eyre" removed its authoress
from almost straitened circumstances and a narrow round of
life to material comfort and congenial society. In reality it
endowed at once the most diffident of women with lasting fame.
After a brief period of married life, Charlotte Bronte died on
March 31, 1855.
_I.--The Master of Thornfield Hall_
Thornfield, my new home after I left school, was, I found, a fine old
battlemented hall, and Mrs. Fairfax, who had answered my advertisement,
a mild, elderly lady, related by marriage to Mr. Rochester, the owner of
the estate and the guardian of Adela Varens, my little pupil.
It was not till three months after my arrival there that my adventures
began. One day Mrs. Fairfax proposed to show me over the house, much of
which was unoccupied. The third storey especially had the aspect of a
home of the past--a shrine of memory. I liked its hush and quaintness.
"If there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall this would be its haunt," said
Mrs. Fairfax, as we passed the range of apartments on our way to see the
view from the roof.
I was pacing through the corridor of the third floor on my return, when
the last sound I expected in so still a region struck my ear--a laugh,
distinct, formal, mirthless. At first it was very low, but it passed off
in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber.
"Mrs. Fairfax," I called out, "did you hear that laugh? Who is it?"
"Some of the servants very likely," she answered; "perhaps Grace Poole."
The laugh was repeated in a low tone, and terminated in an odd murmur.
"Grace!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.
I didn't expect Grace to answer, for the laugh was preternatural.
Nevertheless, the door nearest me opened, and a servant came out--a set,
square-made figure, with a hard, plain face.
"Too much noise, Grace," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Remember directions!"
Grace curtseyed silently, and went in.
Not unfrequently after that I heard Grace Poole's laugh and her
eccentric murmurs, stranger than her laugh.
Late one fine, calm afternoon in January I volunteered to carry to the
post at Hay, two miles distant, a letter Mrs. Fairfax had just written.
The lane to Hay inclined uphill all the way, and having reached the
middle, I sat on a stile till the sun went down, and on the hill-top
above me stood the rising moon. The village was a mile distant, but in
the absolute hush I could hear plainly its murmurs of life.
A rude noise broke on the fine ripplings and whisperings of the evening
calm, a metallic clatter, a horse was coming. The windings of the lane
hid it as it approached. Then I heard a rush under the hedge, and close
by glided a great dog, not staying to look up. The horse followed--a
tall steed, and on its back a rider. He passed; a sliding sound, a
clattering tumble, and man and horse were down. They had slipped on the
sheet of ice which glased the causeway. The dog came bounding back,
sniffed round the prostrate group, and then ran up to me; it was all he
could do. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller struggling
himself free of his steed. I think he was swearing, but am not certain.