Little Mr. Bouncer; and Tales of College Life Tales of College Life

Front matter

Illustrated title and author's self-portrait from Little Mr. Bouncer; and Tales of College Life (combined book)

TALES OF COLLEGE LIFE.

These "Tales of College Life" were written at various times during the last six years, and were published, piece-meal, in various serials. They have been revised and collected, and are here brought before the public in a cheap form, with the hope that they will not prove an unacceptable addition to that light and pleasant food which abler hands than mine have prepared for the mental banquet of those countless guests, who daily sit down at the well-supplied table of Literature.

"Aeger;" or, Mistaken Identity Chapter 1

ÆGER; OR, MISTAKEN IDENTITY.

It 's a wise father that knows his own son.

Walker's Apothegms.

CHAPTER I.

THE SICK MAN IN OXFORD.

ARE you æger this morning, Sir?" asked the Scout.

"Æger? why, of course I am! Don't I look æger?" answered his master.

"Well2"

"Well? but it is n't well! it 's æger!"

"Well—I don't know, Sir," replied the Scout, who (like Truth) was not to be driven from his well; "at least, I did n't know; but, in course, I knows now that you is æger."

"In course you does," replied his master. "So, post the æger till further notice. And—here, Thomas! tell the cook, if he can't devil kidneys better than this, he 'd better give up his profession, and go to the d—, that is to say, diggins."

"Yessir!" said the Scout, who would have made the same answer, if his master—or rather, one of his masters, for Mr. Percival Wylde had but a share in the ownership of the faithful Thomas—had directed him to convey his compliments to the Vice-Chancellor, and would feel obliged by the information whether his maternal relative had yet disposed of her mangle:—"yessir!" Exit Scout, leaving his master solus.

Mr. Percival Wylde was seated in his easiest easy-chair, in his comfortable rooms in the fine old College of St. Boniface, Oxford, over a well-garnished breakfast-table, to which an Apicius, or even an Alderman, might not have disdained to sit down. And Mr. Percival Wylde was making the viands disappear in a way which seemed to demonstrate that Mr. P. W. was in the enjoyment of the rudest health; and this, notwithstanding the fact above alluded to, that, on that very morning, there would be sent in to the proper authorities an "Æger," or document to the effect that Mr. Percival Wylde was prevented attending Chapels, Lectures, and other University duties, in consequence of severe indisposition. A shrewd observer, on contemplating Mr. Percival Wylde's healthy countenance, and vigorous assaults on the breakfast fare, might, from these trifling circumstances, have drawn the deduction, that the young gentleman's "indisposition" was nothing more nor less than an indisposition, or unwillingness, to subject himself to the fatiguing routine of collegiate duties; and that he was in the enjoyment of a mens sana in corpore sano. Nevertheless, he was æger in the sight of Dons and Tutors; and his mantelpiece was furnished with three half-emptied physic bottles in support of the assertion that he was on the sick list.

As Mr. Percival Wylde concluded his breakfast with a draught of Buttery ale (they are famed for their beer at St. Boniface), and proceeded to fill a short clay pipe from a tobacco-box that stood beside a bottle labelled "Two tablespoonsful to be taken every three hours until the fever abates," he cast his eyes upon the reflection in the mirror placed over the mantelpiece; and, half-vocally, half-mentally, addressed the following observations to the individual before him: "You are looking your best, this morning, Sir! I never saw you look brighter or handsomer. You will spoil your complexion if you keep to your rooms all day: you will expire with ennui before night comes; your own society ain't particularly captivating; you had better give the Dons the slip, and take a run into the country—Or, why should n't you run up to town, and steal a look at Fanny Douglas? She has been in Wilton Crescent these three days, and, of course, is dying to see you. What if, as Dick Swiveller says, the old min is not friendly, and your governor wants you to marry Wilhelmina? are there not two people to be consulted on this point; and don't you and Fanny love one another all the more because your engagement is opposed? It will do you good, Sir, to get away and see her: there are heaps of time, and you can be back before Gates. What is the good of posting an æger, if you are not to make use of it? What, indeed!"

And here, Mr. Percival Wylde, having filled his pipe, sat himself down to smoke it, and digest his thoughts; the which proceeding was complacently regarded by his Skye-terrier "Mac," who, seated upon the rug, alternately winked at his master, and blinked at the fire, from under his shaggy eyebrows.

By the time that the pipe was smoked out, the smoker's mind appeared to be fully made up; for Mr. Percival Wylde sprang from his chair, and exclaimed, "Fanny! you have gained the day. What, ho! my kingdom for a 'Bradshaw'!" And hunting about among a débris of newspapers, railway-books, puffing tradesmen's circulars, odd numbers of magazines, and other specimens of that miscellaneous literature which spreads, nettle-fashion, in all the available corners of a bachelor's apartment, Mr. Percival Wylde at length lighted upon the desired periodical, and, by this, put a stop to the premature expectations and groundless excitement of "Mac," who, with eyes of the keenest speculation, had been following his master's search, evidently anticipating that it would terminate in rats—if not cats.

But it ended in a less lively subject; to wit—(not that there was any wit in it) "Bradshaw." "Now, let me see!" murmured the undergraduate, as he turned over the leaves of the bewildering book, and consulted its still more bewildering index:

"Oxford, W. S. 10; Gt. W. 53•57; L. and N. W. 75; O. W. and W.—the Old Worse and Worse,—77; Shr. and Ches. 86. Mid. Remarkably explicit and clear, certainly. Oh, here it is! Down-train—London. Express leaves at five fifteen; Bletchley, six twenty-five; all right so far! only, this blackguard Junction—Oh, I see! departs from Bletchley at six-twenty-five; arrives at Oxford—why, confound it! it never arrives at Oxford at all! Oh! here 's another train at seven fifteen; reaches Oxford—at eight thirty. That's the ticket! that will just land me in time for Gates. So, to Town I go, and have a chat with Fanny. When a man 's æger, there 's nothing like going to London in search of first-rate advice. After all, Love 's the best physician!"

Having arrived at this comforting decision, Mr. Percival Wylde was not long in putting it in execution. Watching his opportunity, he ran across Quad., and sped out of the College gates unseen by other than friendly eyes. Then, stealing down the lane which runs at the back of St. Boniface—in which lane many a hack had been waiting to convey him to the cover side,—by divers paths he reached the Railway Station, and ascertained, to his great satisfaction, that no hostile Tutor was bound by the same train to London.

When the Great Metropolis—or "the little village," as Mr. Wylde and his companions facetiously termed it—had been duly reached, and Mr. Percival Wylde's inner man had been duly refreshed, that young gentleman forthwith took his way, on foot, to Wilton Crescent, anticipating the pleasure which Miss Fanny Douglas would doubtless feel at his unexpected visit, and already experiencing some of the delight which he himself would (of course!) entertain at his forthcoming interview with her—the adorable one! Filled with these agreeable expectations, he walked, "as upon air," to the Victoria Gate, and crossed the Park in the direction of the two towers of Babel that flank the bestagged pillars of the Albert Gate. But, as he was trampling the rough gravel of Rotten Row, the sight of a female equestrian, the tournure of whose form and face resembled that of the incomparable Fanny, carried him on further than he had purposed; and he had followed the horsewoman as far as the Achilles Statue before he discovered that he had been in pursuit of a perfect stranger.

Upon what trifles do the hinges of our life turn! If Mr. Percival Wylde had not caught sight of this young lady equestrian whom he had never seen before, and never wished to see again, he would have gone through the Albert Gate to Wilton Crescent, would have had an interview with the beloved Fanny, and would altogether have avoided that impending fate into the threatening jaws of which he was now thrusting himself.

If he had not done so and so, then so and so might have happened, and so and so would not have happened. Exactly! And so it might be argued of all the great events of ancient and modern times. If Cleopatra had squinted, the fortunes of the world would have been changed; if Helen had been otherwise than beautiful, the fate of nations would have been different. "Verily," as honest Touchstone saith, "there is much virtue in If."

Mr. Percival Wylde, then, to make up for the lost time, walked briskly by Apsley House, and turned down Hyde Park Corner towards Wilton Crescent—the goal of his expectations. "How surprised dear Fanny will be to see me!" he thought; "but an interview is doubly valued when it has been least expected." And here, the young gentleman's thoughts were compelled to flow in a very different channel, and to acknowledge that there must be an exception to every rule, whether it prove that rule, or no; for, to his amazement, his roving eye lighted upon the portly figure of a middle-aged gentleman, who was slowly toiling up the slight ascent opposite the St. George's Hospital, and was advancing towards him with an ill-boding look of mingled surprise and indignation.

"Aeger;" or, Mistaken Identity, Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

THE SICK MAN AT HYDE PARK CORNER.

Mr. Percival Wylde's first impulse upon perceiving the advancing foe, was to wheel round, and dart through Mr. Burton's screen to screen himself, as best he might, in the mazes of Hyde Park. His second impulse was to hail a passing cab, leap into it, and bid the cabby drive to Jericho. His third impulse was to meet the difficulty in the face,—take the bull by the horns—beard the lion in his den, and the Douglas in his hall,—and trust to his own boldness and readiness to bring him off the victor.

Mr. Percival Wylde decided ta act upon impulse the third.

He did this almost instantaneously; and, without altering his pace, or betraying by his features his sense of the disagreeable nature of the approaching rencontre, he advanced to meet the adversary. As he did so, he rapidly delivered this mental soliloquy: "The Governor, by all that 's blue! What on earth can have brought him to town? I thought the old bird was safe in Shropshire. He looks uncommonly black at seeing me. By Jove! I have done it now, and no mistake! I remember now! there was that letter I sent him the day before yesterday,—through being so beastly hard up,—telling him that I was very bad, and all the rest of it; and asking him to send me a cheque for medical fees, and all those sort of things. If he 's got that letter, what will he say to meeting me here! He 's rather corky at the best of times; what will he be now? He 'll see directly that I 'm on my road to Fanny, whom he hates like the bad; and that won't improve the old boy's temper. He expects one to stick so particularly close to College, that he 'll be no end riled at seeing his hopeful play truant in this fashion. I must deny myself to the old boy, and stick out that I 'm somebody else. There 's nothing like impudence! and I flatter myself that I can be as cool as a Covent-garden full of cucumbers. Now for it!"

By this time "the Old Boy" had advanced with quickened steps and eyes of wonder, and had pulled himself up full in the face of his unfilial son. The Old Boy had a highly-coloured, port-and-claret countenance, the radiant hues of which were shown off to the greatest advantage by the snowy colour (that is to say, if white is a colour) of his white neck-handkerchief, which appeared to have been wrapped round his neck a countless number of times, after an antique fashion. The Old Boy, being of a puffy, apoplectic habit of body, was not accustomed to ascend gradients, however easy, without a certain amount of stertorous breathing, that, for a time, proved a slight impediment to the freedom of conversation; and thus, when he encountered his son, he could only gasp, "Why—why! Percie!" and was then compelled to stop short, and to lay his hand upon his son's arm to arrest his farther progress.

Mr. Percival Wylde paused, and slightly lifted his eyebrows with an air of well-bred surprise.

"Why, Percie!" at length said Mr. Wylde, senior, as he regained his breath, without losing his astonishment; "why, Percie! what in the name of fortune brings you here?"

Mr. Percival Wylde gazed calmly on his interrogator, and, without betraying himself by the slightest show of confusion, said, in a careless, drawling tone, "You have the advantage of me, Sir."

"The what! the advantage! the doose, Sir!" cried the Old Boy, exploding at the first onset. "What the doose do you mean, Sir, about the advantage?"

"Really, Sir," replied the younger one, with a well-affected air of astonishment, "I can only repeat that you have the advantage of me."

"What!" cried the Old Boy, waxing even redder in the face, and hitting his stick upon the pavement after the manner of irate parents and guardians on the stage; "what! deny your own father! mean to say you don't know your own father!"

"Father!" said the other, with a slight shadow of polite astonishment in his tone; "Father! really, Sir, I2"

"What!" cried the Old Boy, "not own your own father? I suppose you 'll say next that you are not my son?"

"You flatter me, Sir, by the supposition that I could be the offspring of so remarkable an old gentleman," was the cool reply; "but, really, I must confess my inability to lay claim to so singular a parent."

"Why! you—you—" stammered the Old Boy, whose rage was now at boiling point; "but, come, Sir! no more nonsense! Just turn your steps, and come with me to Morley's." Mr. Wylde, it must be remarked, en passant, patronised this Trafalgar-square Hotel, as it was in convenient neighbourhood to his Club, which was at the opposite corner of the square.

"Excuse me, old gentleman!" replied his son, with undisturbed nonchalance; "but I have no wish to go to Morley's, although you hold out to me the tempting offer of your agreeable company. My way lies in the opposite direction."

"I know it does, Sir!" cried the Old Boy, as choleric as Mr. Wigan in "The Bengal Tiger": "I know it does! I knew it, Sir—knew it from the first! From the very first moment that I set eyes on you, I said, That rascal 's on his way to Wilton Crescent."

"You must be gifted with the spirit of prophecy, though not of politeness; for I am on my way to Wilton Crescent," was the reply.

The Old Boy was furious at this frank confession. "I knew you were!" he cried; "I knew it! and did n't I forbid you making love to her? didn't I tell you that I would never sanction any tomfoolery of love-making with a girl that won't have as much as will keep her in—in hair-oil, by Jove!" continued the Old Boy, anxious for a striking example in his statement of the presumptive fortune of Miss Fanny Douglas. "Perhaps you are not aware where I am just come from, Mr. Percie?"

"In the first place, Sir," replied the son, "as I am personally unknown to you, I cannot see why you should address a perfect stranger as 'Mr. Percie,' although that name might, perhaps, do as well as any other. But, in the second place, Sir, I think I can give a very shrewd conjecture as to the place from which you have just come,—namely, the Lunatic Asylum; to which place I should advise your speedy return. You are not fit to be trusted without a keeper."

Mr. Percival Wylde said this with perfect gravity, and with the air of pity which any one might be supposed to feel towards an unfortunate gentleman; but his words angered the Old Boy above all bounds. His loud tone of voice, his thumpings of his stick upon the pavement, and the highly dramatic action that he threw into the dialogue, had already attracted the notice of many of the passers by, and had drawn to the spot more than one of those London street-boys, who rise up, by a species of magic, wherever there is an exhibition of any thing for which no payment is demanded; and, it must be confessed, that Mr. Wylde was making a gratuitous exhibition of himself. These small boys, moreover, after the habits of their species, indulged in a running commentary on the passing scene, expressed in the common vernacular, and modelled on the Chorus of the ancient Greek drama. As may be imagined, their varied sallies of wit, and cutting sarcasms, were not without their effect; and their observations of "Draw it mild, old un!" "Don't bust yourself!" "You 'll split yer veskit, guv'nor!" were, to Mr. Wylde, as the lashings of the tail that excite the lion to fury.

"Asylum! keeper!" gasped the Old Boy, who would have roared, if his shortness of breath had permitted him to make so much noise; "by George, Sir! you 'll make me cut you off with a shilling!"

"He says," explained one small boy to another, who had just arrived upon the scene; "he says that he cut off with a bob. The old gent 's vun o' the swell mob." An explanation which was by no means satisfactory to Mr. Wylde.

"Cut me off with a shilling!" echoed the son; "really, Sir, your language is most extraordinary. But you must excuse my giving my attention to more of it, as I have my engagement to keep. Allow me to wish you good morning, and, at the same time, to thank you for your diverting society."

This was more than Mr. Wylde could bear. Catching his son tightly by the arm, he exclaimed, "Not so fast, Percie! you are not going to escape me in this way, without giving an account of yourself; and explaining why you are here in London, going to see a person you ought not to see, when you ought to be ill in bed in Oxford, running up doctors' bills, which you expect me to pay, and send you cheques for! and then to disown your own father, and—and—by George, Sir—" Mr. Wylde paused for lack of breath, not for lack of words.

"Hit him while he 's down!" cried a small boy, probably as a suggestion to Percie to take an unfair advantage of his parent, the while he was in his gasping state of speechlessness.

"Pray let me call a cab for you; you are getting outrageous. This is probably the time for one of your fits," said Percie; and with an air of kind protection, he put his arm within his father's, and sought to lead him to the neighbouring cab-stand.

"By George!" cried the Old Boy, as he recovered his breath, and broke from his son's hold, "this is more than I can bear! to be disowned, and called a madman by my own son—my own son, Sir!" he added to a passer-by who had tarried a moment, impelled by curiosity to listen to what was going on: "my own son, Sir! who ought to be at Oxford, and ill in bed."

"My eyes! ain't that a whopper, neither!" remarked one of the Chorus.

"Ill in bed, Sir!" continued Mr. Wylde, "and writing to me for cheques for doctors' bills, Sir! and then denies himself, Sir; and talks about me having the advantage, he confesses to being on his way to Wilton Crescent. What do you think of that, Sir?"

The gentleman to whom Mr. Wylde addressed himself appeared to be unable or unwilling to commit himself to a reply, not having seen much connexion or probability in Mr. Wylde's far-from-lucid resumeé; and his suspicions of that individual's sanity were strengthened, by the explanation which Percie gave to him and the other bystanders, in the abbreviated style of Mr. Alfred Jingle: "Poor man—touched here—very sad—sees a likeness—thinks I 'm his son—distressing case—very!"

"I 'll tell you what, Percie!" cried the Old Boy; "I 'll make you suffer for this! Disown me, and call me a lunatic! by Jove, Sir, I 'll cut you off with less than a shilling! Come with me directly, Sir; or never expect me to own you again."

"This," said a small boy, in the didactic manner of Mr. Robson. in the pathetic ballad of "Villikins and his Dinah," "this is vot that brute of a parient hobserved to the hoffspring of his haffections."

"Really, Sir," said Mr. Percival Wylde, "I have endured your eccentricities quite long enough, and it is now time to put a stop to them. You may, perhaps, be a very fine fellow down in your own part of the country, and accustomed to bully labourers and swear at tramps; but you 'll find, Sir, that this conduct won't do in London, where no man is suffered to publicly insult or annoy another with impunity. If every eccentric old gentleman was to take it into his head to claim any one he fancied as his own son, and was permitted to indulge in such absurd paternal cravings, young men, like myself, would not be able to walk the streets in safety, so long as old gentlemen like you were left at large. If you annoy me any further, I shall have no other course left than to give you in charge to this policeman." And Percie pointed to a blue-coated official who had strolled (by accident) to the spot.

"It's all stuff and nonsense!" cried the Old Boy, keeping a tight hold of his son's arm: "I 'm not going to be cheated out of my own eyesight in this way, and told to my face that I 'm a madman, and not the father of my own son—a son who deceives me, and imposes upon me with his sham sickness and his doctors' bills! But I 'm not the man to be tricked in this way; so, come along with me, Sir! I insist upon it! and you know very well that I keep my word, and am not to be trifled with."

"Vot a huncompromising old trump!" observed one of the Chorus.

"Since you compel me to adopt so disagreeable an expedient, I have no other alternative than to give you in charge: "and Mr. Percival Wylde beckoned to the blue-coated official.

"Hook it, old 'un!" cried a kindly-disposed small boy; "hook it! the Peeler 's a-coming!"

"Come, Sir!" said the Peeler: "I think you 'd best not trouble this gent, but move on: becos, if so be as he hinsists upon it, in course it 'll be my dooty to take you in charge."

"But," expostulated Mr. Wylde, "he 's my own son—who ought to be at Oxford, ill in bed—my own son!"

"Ah, Sir!" said the philosophic Peeler, "you see, here is hastonishing likenesses to be met with in the world. Sometimes it takes a wise child to know its own father, and sometimes a wise father ain't able to know his own son. We sees such things every day, bless you. But you must move on, Sir; or else I must take you in charge for annoying this gent. As it is, you 're a hobstructin' of the pavement."

"Ho, Soosanner!" sang one of the Chorus, as a consolation for the sufferer; "Ho, Soosanner, don't you cry for me! yer a goin' to Hallerbarmer, with yer banjo on yer knee!"

"I have no more time to lose, Sir!" said Mr. Percival Wylde, referring to his watch: "it is already past the time when I ought to have been in Wilton Crescent,"—(the Old Boy flinched at the mention of this locality),—"and I must again repeat, that if you persist in annoying or following me" (for I had better be on the safe side, thought Percie), "I must give you in charge. Having given you this final notice, I must leave you to pursue your own way."

"Very well, Sir!" roared the Old Boy, at the culminating point of his fury; "you shall suffer for this, Sir! I 'll teach you what it is to impose upon me with your sham sicknesses, and your cheques for doctors' bills that you never had! I 'll teach you what it is to disobey me by making love to that girl! If you were fifty sons and heirs, I'd cut you off with a shilling—I would, by George! I 'll give you a lesson, Sir! I 'll go up to Oxford at once and have you expelled the place. I will, Sir, by2"

"Don't swear, Sir!" said Mr. Percival Wylde, with the same imperturbable coolness and sangfroid that he had maintained throughout the conversation; "Don't swear, Sir, I beg! for as this is a public thoroughfare, I shall feel it my duty, as a member of society, to com of you, and have you fined five shillings, as a warning for the future!"

"Ugh!" was all that old Mr. Wylde ventured to growl in reply: and, seeing his son pursuing his way to Wilton Crescent, he strode in the opposite direction, down Piccadilly, surrounded by the Chorus of small boys, singing "Pop goes the Weasel," turning head over heels, and making the most liberal offers to do "four wheels a ha'penny" for Mr. Wylde's instruction and amusement: offers which were not received by that gentleman with the same liberal spirit in which they were made.

"Aeger;" or, Mistaken Identity Chapter 3

CHAPTER III.

THE SICK MAN ON HIS ROAD TO THE DOCTOR.

Mr. Percial Wylde experienced otherwise than agreeable feelings when his father made his declaration of visiting Oxford; and he was too well acquainted with the paternal mode of decision to doubt that his father would practise what he preached. He knew very well that the Old Boy would at once take the rail to Oxford, and, on there being fully certified as to the imposition practised upon him, would probably cut off the pecuniary supplies from his hopeful son, even if he did not proceed to the extremity of "cutting him off with less than a shilling."

Now, as this proceeding, even in its mildest form, would be anything but agreeable to a young gentleman who had freely plunged into the most expensive habits of a University career, the thought of its being carried into execution filled Percie with alarm, and brought before his imagination a series of startling pictures, executed in the heaviest mental distemper, in which expelling Dons and threatening Duns stood forth in sternest colours. He saw at once that he must give up his cherished plan of spending the best part of the day in the society of Miss Fanny Douglas, and must betake himself to Oxford with all expedition. But yet, when he reflected that he was but a few hundred yards from the abode of the charmer, and that the Crescent lay not so very much out of his way to the railway-station, it was more than the weakness of poor human nature could bear, not to call in there for a few moments en route.

"It will never pay to go back without a look at Fanny," thought Percie, "after I 've taken all this trouble to see her. I must manage to get a sight of her by herself, and to keep out of the reach of the rest; for I daresay the Old Boy will be making inquiries after me, and the éclaircissement might be awkward. It is unfortunate enough as it is; but who 'd have thought of meeting him at Hyde-park Corner when he ought to have been safe in Shropshire. I wish now I had n't sent for that doctor's cheque; but the game had done once before, and I thought it would do again; and I was so hard up, that I did n't know which way to turn. I wish Fanny had got something like a fortune, because then the Old Boy would n't cut up so rough about her. Her governor goes at such a pace, that he must live quite up to his means; and he 'll scarcely be able to give Fanny a sou,—and that the Old Boy knows pretty well. Hinc illæ lachrymæ: hence his advocacy of Wilhelmina. I would n't take her if her gingerbread were doubly as thick in gilt! Dear Fanny is worth a dozen of her. I must go and see her. It would certainly be awkward if the Old Boy got to Oxford first, and found out my absence. I know that he would keep his word about me, and I should be cast into the den of Duns. I should have no money—Fanny would only have her father's blessing; and our marriage would be out of the question. Yet I think I shall have time to call in the Crescent. I know the Old Boy's habits well enough to make me feel sure that he 'll go and pay his bill at Morley's before he sets out for Oxford. This will delay him some time; so I can easily spare a few minutes for Fanny, and reach Oxford by an earlier train than the Old Boy. I 'll risk it. As I 'm an æger man, I can't do better than pay a visit to the doctor who will do me the most good."