The Retrogradation Amongst Masters, Tutors, and Scholars
Discipline, like every thing else characteristic of our elder institutions, has for some years been fast giving way in our universities. Statutes are permitted to slumber unheeded, as not fitted to the present advanced state of society; and in colleges where it would, as late as the beginning of the nineteenth century, have been almost a crime to have been seen in hall or chapel without a white cravat on, scholars now strut in black ones, “unawed by imposition” or a fine. I can remember the time when this inroad upon decent appearance first begun, and when the Dean of our college put forth his strong arm, and insisted on white having the preference. Men then used to wear their black till they came to the hall or chapel door, then take them off, and walk in with none at all, and again twist them round the neck, heedless whether the tie were Brummell or not, on issuing forth from Prayers or Commons. Like the Whigs, they have by perseverance carried their point, and strut about in black, wondering what they shall next attempt.
THERE IS AN ON-DIT,
That at the time Dr. W—— became Master of St. John’s College, Cambridge, the tutors used to oblige (and it was a custom for) the scholars to stand, cap in hand (if any tutor entered a court where they might be passing,) till the said tutor disappeared. This was so rigorously enforced, that the scholars complained to the new master, and he desired the tutors to relax the custom. This order they refused to comply with. Upon this the Doctor took down from a shelf a copy of the College Statutes, and coolly read to them a section, where the fellows of the same were enjoined to stand, cap in hand, till the master passed by, wherever they met him; and the Doctor, it is added, insisted upon its observance, on pain of ejection, till at length the tutors gave way.
THE WORCESTER GOBLIN
Foote the comedian was, in his youthful days, a student of Worcester College, Oxford, under the care of the Provost, Dr. Gower. The Doctor was a learned and amiable man, but a pedant. The latter characteristic was soon seized upon by the young satirist, as a source whereon to turn his irresistible passion for wit and humour. The church at this time belonging to Worcester College, fronted a lane were cattle were turned out to graze, and (as was then the case in many towns, and is still in some English villages) the church porch was open, with the bell-ropes suspended in the centre. Foote tied a wisp of hay to one of them, and this was no sooner scented by the cattle at night, than it was seized upon as a dainty morsel. Tug, tug, went one and all, and “ding-dong” went the bell at midnight, to the astonishment of the Doctor, the sexton, the whole parish, and the inmates of the College. The young wag kept up the joke for several successive nights, and reports of ghosts, goblins, and frightful visions, soon filled the imagination of old and young with alarm, and many a simple man and maiden whisked past the scene of midnight revel ere the moon had “filled her horns,” struck with fear and trembling. The Doctor suspected some trick. He, accordingly, engaged the Sexton to watch with him for the detection of the culprit. They had not long lain hid, under favour of a dark night, when “ding-dong” went the bell again: both rushed from their hiding places, and the sexton commenced the attack by seizing the cow’s tail, exclaiming, “’Tis a gentleman commoner,—I have him by the tail of his gown!” The Doctor approached on the opposite tack, and seized a horn with both hands, crying, “No, no, you blockhead, ’tis the postman,—I have caught the rascal by his blowing-horn!” and both bawled lustily for assistance, whilst the cow kicked and flung to get free; but both held fast till lights were procured, when the real offender stood revealed, and the laugh of the whole town was turned upon the Doctor and his fellow-night-errant, the Sexton.
RECORDS OF THE CAMBRIDGE TRIPOSES
The Spoon, in the words of Lord Byron’s Don Juan,
“—— The name by which we Cantabs please,
To dub the last of honours in degrees,”
is the annual subject for University mirth, and if not the fountain, is certainly the very foundation of Cambridge University honours: without the spoon, not a man in the Tripos would have a leg to stand upon: in fact, it would be a top without a bottom, minus the spoon. Yet “this luckless wight,” says the compiler of the Cambridge Tart, is annually a universal butt and laughing-stock of the whole Senate-House. He is the last of those men who take honours of his year, and is called a “junior optime,” and notwithstanding his being superior to them all, the lowest of the Ὁι πολλοι, or Gregarious Undistinguished Bachelors, think themselves entitled to shoot their pointless arrows against the “wooden spoon,” and to reiterate the perennial remark, that, “wranglers” are born with golden spoons in their mouths; “senior optimes” with silver spoons; “junior optimes” with wooden spoons, and the Ὁι πολλοι with leaden spoons in their mouths. It may be here, however, observed, that it is unjust towards the undistinguished bachelors to say that “he (the spoon) is superior to them all.” He is generally a man who has read hard, id est, has done his best, whilst the undistinguished bachelors, it is well known, include many men of considerable, even superior talents, but having no taste for mathematics, have merely read sufficient to get a degree; consequently have not done their best. The muse has thus invoked
THE WOODEN SPOON
When sage Mathesis calls her sons to fame,
The Senior Wrangler bears the highest name.
In academic honour richly deckt,
He challenges from all deserved respect.
But, if to visit friends he leaves his gown,
And flies in haste to cut a dash in town,
The wrangler’s title, little understood,
Suggests a man in disputation good;
And those of common talents cannot raise,
Their humble thoughts a wrangler’s mind to praise.
Such honours to an Englishman soon fade,
Like laurel wreaths, the victor’s brows that shade.
No such misfortune has that man to fear,
Whom fate ordains the last in fame’s career;
His honours fresh remain, and e’en descend
To soothe his family, or chosen friend.
And while he lives, he wields the boasted prize,
Whose value all can feel, the weak, the wise;
Displays in triumph his distinguished boon,
The solid honours of the Wooden Spoon!
That many have borne off this prize who might have done better, is well known too. One learned Cantab in that situation felt so assured of his fate, when it might have been more honourable, had he been gifted with prudence and perseverance, that on the morning when it is customary to give out the honours, in the Senate House, in their order of merit, he provided himself with a large wooden spoon, and when there was a call from the gallery, for “the spoon” (for then the Undergraduates were allowed to express their likes and dislikes publicly, a custom now suppressed,) he turned the shafts of ridicule aside by thrusting the emblem of his honours up high over his head,—an act that gained him no slight applause. Another Cantab, of precisely the same grade as to talent, who was second in the classical tripos of his year, gave a supper on the occasion of the spoon being awarded to him, which commenced with soup, each man being furnished with a ponderous wooden spoon to lap it with. Another, now a Fellow of Trinity College, who more than once bore off the Porson prize, being in this place of honour, a wag nailed a large wooden spoon to his door. Hundreds of other tricks have been put upon the spoon, next to whom are—
THE POLL; OR, ὉΙ ΠΟΛΛΟΙ:
Which, said the great Bentley, in a sermon preached before the University of Cambridge, on the 5th of November, 1715, “is a known expression in profane authors, opposed sometimes, τοις σοφοις, to the wise, and ever denotes the most, and generally the meanest of mankind.” “Besides the mirth devoted character,” (the wooden spoon,) says the writer first quoted, there “are always a few, a chosen few, a degree lower than the Ὁι πολλοι, constantly written down alphabetically, who serve to exonerate the ‘wooden spoon,’ in part, from the ignominy of the day; and these undergo various epithets, according to their accidental number. If there was but one, he was called Bion, who carried all his learning about him without the slightest inconvenience. If there were two, they were dubbed the Scipios; Damon and Pythias; Hercules and Atlas; Castor and Pollux. If three, they were ad libitum, the three Graces; or the three Furies; the Magi; or Noah, Daniel, and Job. If seven, they were the seven Wise Men; or the Seven Wonders of the World. If nine, they were the unfortunate Suitors of the Muses. If twelve, they became the Apostles. If thirteen, either they deserved a round dozen, or, like the Americans, should bear thirteen stripes on their coat and arms. Lastly, they were sometimes styled constant quantities, and Martyrs; or the thirteenth was designated the least of the Apostles; and, should there be a fourteenth, he was unworthy to be called an Apostle!” An unknown pen has immortalized the Ὁι πολλοι, by the following—