From Gretna Green to Land's End Part 11

"It gives me the eye-ache, sir."

"Have you paid for it yet?"

"Was there anybody in the shop when you bought it?"

"Are you wearing it for an advertis.e.m.e.nt?"

"Hush-h! _She_ gave it to him."

"Oh, SHE put it on for him."

"You're quite right, sir. Don't take it off."

"We can sympathize with young romance, sir."

"Be careful of it, sir."

"Wear it till your dying day."

"It's the colour of her hair."

But by this time the poor fellow's face was flaming, and he jerked off the tie and flung it to the floor amid thunders of derisive applause.

Then the Undergraduate Gallery turned its attention to the organist, who in all the hubbub was brilliantly going through the numbers of his program.

"Will you kindly tell us what you're playing, Mr. Lloyd?"

"We don't care for cla.s.sical music ourselves."

"'Auld Lang Syne,' if you please."

The organ struck into "Auld Lang Syne," and the lads sprang up and sang it l.u.s.tily with hands clasped in the approved Scotch fas.h.i.+on.

"'Rule, Britannia,' Mr. Lloyd."

Again he obliged them and was rewarded by a rousing cheer, followed by cheers for the Varsity and the ladies, groans for the Proctors, who are the officers of discipline, and barks for their a.s.sistants, the so-called Bulldogs. In the midst of this yelping chorus the great doors were flung wide, and an awesome file of dignitaries, in all the blues and purples, pinks and scarlets, of their various degrees, paced slowly up the aisle, escorting their distinguished guests, savants of several nations, and headed by the Vice-Chancellor, whose array outwent Solomon in all his glory.

The top gallery was on its feet, but not in reverence. The organ-march was drowned in the roar of l.u.s.ty voices greeting the Head of the University thus:

"Oh, whist, whist, whist!

Here comes the bogie man.

Now go to bed, you Baby, You Tommy, Nell, and Dan.

Oh, whist, whist, whist!

He'll catch ye if he can; And all the popsies, wopsies, wop, Run for the bogie man."

The uproar was no whit diminished when presently the Vice-Chancellor was seen to be making an address.

"Who wrote it for you, sir?"

"Oh, that's shocking bad Latin."

"_Jam!_ What kind of jam?"

"It's just what you said to those other blokes last year."

"It's always the same thing."

"It's all blarney."

"The guests wish you were done, sir."

"You may sit down, sir."

But the Vice-Chancellor, unperturbed, kept on with his inaudible oratory to its natural end.

A professor of ill.u.s.trious name was next to rise, throwing up a laughing look at the boys, whose tumult bore him down after the first few sentences. What matter? It was idle to pretend that that great audience could follow Latin speeches. They were all to go into print, and he who would and could might read them at his ease. The phrase that undid this genial personage was _clarior luce_.

"Oh, _oh_, sir! Lucy who?"

"Clare or Lucy? Try for both, sir."

"We'll surely tell your wife, sir."

"A sad example to our youth, sir."

"You shock our guest from Paris, sir."

The prize English essayist was hardly allowed to recite the first paragraph of his production.

"Very nice."

"But a great bore."

"It's not as good as mine."

"That'll do, sir."

"The Vice-Chancellor is gaping, sir."

"Three cheers for the lady who jilted the Senior Proctor!"

Under the storm of enthusiasm evoked by this happy suggestion, the English essayist gave place to the Greek poet, a rosy-cheeked stripling who stood his ground barely two minutes.

"Aren't you very young, my dear?"

"Will some kind lady kiss him for his mother?"

The English prize poem, the Newdigate, founded by Sir Roger Newdigate of the George Eliot country, was heard through with a traditional attention and respect, though the poet's delivery came in for occasional criticism.