But I must not dwell on these pleasant days, the fatherʼs glory, the hopes of the sons, the love of all who came near them, and the blessings of Mrs. OʼGaghan.
They were now to go to Oxford, and astonish the natives there, by showing that a little hic, hæc, hoc, may come even out of Galilee; that a youth never drawn through the wire–gauge of Eton, Harrow, or Rugby, may carry still the electric spark, and be taper and well–rounded. Half their learning accrued sub dio, in the manner of the ancients. Uncle John would lead them between the trees and down to some forest dingle, the boy on his right hand construing aloud or parsing very slowly, the little spark at his left all glowing to explode at the first mistake. Δεξιύσειρος made the running, until he tripped and fell mentally, and even then he was set on his legs, unless the other was down upon him; but in the latter case the yoke–mate leaped into the harness. The stroke–oar on the river that evening was awarded to the one who paced the greatest number of stades in the active voice of expounding. The accuracy, the caution, born of this warm rivalry, became at last so vigilant, that the boy who won the toss for the right–hand place at starting, was almost sure of the stroke–oar.
So they passed the matriculation test with consummate ease, and delighted the college tutor by their clear bold writing. They had not read so much as some men have before entering the University, but all their knowledge was close and firm, and staunch enough for a spring–board. And they wrote most excellent Latin prose, and Greek verse easily flowing. However, Sir Cradock was very nervous on the eve of their departure for the first term of Oxford residence, and led John Rosedew, in whose classical powers he placed the highest confidence, into his private room, and there begged him, as a real friend, tested now for forty years, to tell him bluntly whether the boys were likely to do him credit.
“Donʼt spare me, John, and donʼt spare them: only let us have no disappointment about it”.
“My dear fellow, my dear fellow”! cried John, tugging at his collar, as he always did when nonplussed, for fear of losing himself; “how on earth can I tell? Most likely the men know a great deal more in the University now than they did when I had lectures. Havenʼt I begged you fifty times to have down a young first–classman”?
“Yes, I know you have, John. But I am not quite such a fool, nor so shamelessly ungrateful. To upset the pile of your ten years’ labour, and rebuild it upon its apex! And talk to me of young first–classmen! Why, you know as well as I do, John, that there is not one of them, however brilliant, with a tenth part of your knowledge. It could never be, any more than a young tree can carry the fruit of an old one. Why, when you took your own first–class, they could only find one man to put with you, and you have never ceased to read, read, read, ever since you left old Oriel, and chiefly in taste and philology. And such a memory as you have! John, I am ashamed of you. You want to impose upon me”.
And Sir Cradock fixed the parsonʼs eyes with that keen and point–blank gaze, which was especially odious to the shy John Rosedew.
“I am sure I donʼt. You cannot mean that”, he replied, rather warmly, for, like all imaginative men, when of a diffident cast, he was desperately matter–of–fact the moment his honour was played with. His friend began to smile at him, drawing up his grey moustache, and saying, “Yes, John, you are a donkey”.
“I know that I am”, said John Rosedew, shutting his eyes, as he loved to do when he got on a favourite topic; “by the side of those mighty critics of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries – the Scaligers, the Casaubons, the Vossii, the Stephani, – what am I but a starving donkey, without a thistle left for him? But as regards our English critics – at least too many of them – I submit that we have been misled by the superiority of their Latin, and their more slashing style. I doubt whether any of them had a tenth part of the learning, or the sequacity of genius – ”
“Come, John, I canʼt stand this, you know; and the boys will be down here directly, they are so fond of brown sherry”.
“Well, to return to the subject – I own that I was surprised and hurt when a former Professor of Greek actually confounded the Æolic form of the plusquam perfectum of so common a verb as – ”
“Yes, John, I know all about that, and how it spoiled your breakfast. But about the boys, the boys, John”?
“And again, as to the delicate sub–significance, not the well–known tortuousness of παρά in composition, but – ”
“Confound it, John. Theyʼve got all their things packed. Theyʼll be here in a moment, pretending to rollick for our sakes; and you wonʼt tell me what you think of them”.
“Well, I think there never were two finer fellows to jump a gate since the days of Castor and Pollux. ‘Hunc equis, illum superare pugnis.’ You remember how you took me down for construing ‘pugnis’ wrongly, when we were at Sherborne”?
“Yes, and how proud I was, John! You had been at the head of the form for three months, and none of us could stir you; but you came back again next day in the fifth Æneid. But here come the villains – now itʼs all over”.
And so the boys went away, and their father could not for his life ascertain what opinion his ancient friend had formed as to the chances of their doing something good at Oxford. Simple and straightforward as Mr. Rosedew was, no man ever lived from whom it was harder to force an opinion. He saw matters from so many aspects, everything took so many facets, shifting lights, and playing colours, from the versatility of his mind, that whoso could fix him at such times, and extort his real sentiments, might spin a diamond ring, and shave by it. He had golden hopes about his “nephews”, as he often called them, but he would not pronounce those hopes at present, lest the father should be disappointed. And so the boys went up to Oxford, half a moon before the woodcocks came.
CHAPTER VII
I do not mean to write at large upon University life, because the theme has been out–thesed by men of higher powers. It is a brief Olympic, a Derby premature, wherein to lose or win depends – training, health, ability, and industry being granted – upon the early stoning or late kernelling of the brain. Without laying claim to much experience, any one may protest that our brains are worked a deal too hard at the time of adolescence. We lose thereby their vivific powers and their originality. The peach throws off at the critical period all the fruit it cannot ripen; the vine has no such abjective prudence, and cripples itself by enthusiasm.
The twins were entered at Merton, and had the luck to obtain adjoining garrets. Sir Cradock had begun to show a decided preference for Clayton, as he grew year by year more and more like his mother. But this was not the only reason why he would not listen to some foolʼs suggestion, that Cradock, the heir to the property, should be ranked as a “gentleman–commoner”. That stupid distinction he left for men who require self–assertion, admiring as he did the sense and spirit of that Master, well known in his day, who, to some golden cad insisting that his son should be entered in that college as a gentleman–commoner, angrily replied, “Sir, all my commoners are gentlemen”.
But the brothers were very soon parted. Clayton got sleeved in a scholarʼs gown, while Cradock still fluttered the leading–strings. “Et tunicæ manicas– you effeminate Viley”! said Cradock, admiring hugely, when his twin ran up to show himself off, after winning a Corpus scholarship; “and the governor wonʼt allow me a chance of a parasol