quiet goodness were not exciting enough for revolution time; and Karr returned to his retirement, having doubtless learned the sad fact that if a party of probity has not already founded itself ab infra, it is quite impossible to establish it ab extra, especially in time of revolution; unless indeed there come a rare other-world personage, able to burn through the popular crust by the powers of a transcendent life. Karr, though doubtless a very good fellow, has no daimon to, whisper to him, like Socrates or Swedenborg. He is a good-natured and ingenious Frenchman, softened by gardening and Germany; but not the genius of a new party in Revolution time.

Karr in his early days was not very well handled by English critics. A writer in Fraser's Magazine described him in 1847. "The next person of distinction I happened to be introduced to was Alphonse Karr, who is not much handsomer than De Balzac. Karr was formerly a professor in a college, and began his literary career by writing articles for a Sunday paper, called Figaro. He likes to be considered eccentric, and takes the most scrupulous care to distinguish himself by everything that is odd and original, to excite public attention. Notoriety is to him one of the staple articles of existence. He used to dress in a suit of black velvet for winter, and in nankeen for summer; but though the materials and colours of his vestments were very opposite, his fashion never varied. His mode of living is entirely Turkish. He has no chairs in his rooms, only cushions; and sleeps on a sofa with out taking off his body clothes. He generally writes lying down on the ground-a somewhat singular way of collecting his cogitations. From everything you see and hear of him, he seems to have adopted the

opinion of Alcibiades, that anything is better for an ambitious man than not to be spoken of. He has a negro servant, whom he dresses in scarlet, and sends out to walk with a very fine Newfoundland dog, named Freyschütz, whom he introduces into all his writings as his only faithful friend. This dog and the servant add mightily to his popular notoriety; for he is, without doubt, the most perfect personification of French literary vanity in Paris. The walls of the city are covered in all directions with his name, for he never publishes anything without puffing it off, with all the ingenuity and indefatigable pertinacity of a London tradesmen. Two or three years ago he saved a man from drowning, and according to the custom of the Continent, a silver medal was given to him on the occasion by the government. This memorial he has the silly and childish vanity to wear always at his buttonhole."

Amongst other occasional works of Karr's-and his forte appears to lie in the occasional-we have an introduction to Brillat Savarin's "Physiologie du Goût," which is a piece of interesting writing. Karr candidly acknowledges having never spoken without contempt of gourmandise before reading this book. After the reading, he finds himself ashamed of not being a gourmand, or rather gourmet. He regrets not having the necessary number of faculties, and deems himself, like blind or deaf people, to be a sense short. Then he turns to the gourmandises which he is possessed of-of colours and of perfumes, of the sense of the splendour of the setting sun, the passion for music; reminding us of Anacreon's "of odours, of music, I wish to be mad." After being drunken with these, too often he finds "human ways too strait, too

strait the paths of the possible, the roads of reality."

In spite of his affectations, and his rather German gaiety, like that of the Baron who took to jumping on tables to prove himself lively,

in spite of many offences against style and all the virtues the finished critic would extol, one cherishes a certain affection for Karr as bearing about him some of the fragrance of a fresh and homely garden.

shall never forget mine. I was the guest of a Christchurch Don, who made my brief sojourn of four days among the brightest of my life. It was a raw November day, with a fog which wrapped one like a wet blanket partially frozen. The transition from the outer air to the blazing hearth of the hall of Christchurch was almost heaven. The grace was pronounced by an undergraduate whom I remembered as one of the dramatis person of a Westminster play.

I dined at the Don's table, of course, with my friend. I was charmed with the beer, and was asked to take the best. A pint of it was placed before me, but it was hinted to me that if I wished to walk out of the hall, I had better restrict myself to half of it. The common room to which we adjourned was a vaulted chamber with a curtain drawn across it, and reminded one of a scene in "The Duenna" representing the refectory of a convent, with the monks over their wine.

The next morning my friend entertained a large party at breakfast. College breakfasts are indescribable they are sui generis. In the course of it inquiry was made after a certain student-a student

of Christchurch being analogous to a Fellow of another college-when someone said he had " come to grief" in equivalent terms, he was married. Our informant said he was passing through a provincial town when he saw the truant student standing in front of the principal hotel. After they had exchanged greetings his friend took from his waistcoat pocket the cutting from the Times of the announcement of his marriage; and, pointing upwards with his thumb, said, "Got her up there." They were on their weddingtour, which was to terminate at a pretty cottage belonging either to him or to his lady. On their arrival there they found that the house had been attempted by burglars, who, however, were alarmed before they could effect an entrance, and decamped. This naturally suggested precautions against a repetition of the visit; and, arming his gardener with a fowling-piece, he gave him strict injunctions to watch throughout the night, and, if he saw anyone on the premises, to fire, and "he would bear him harmless "-which shows that the bridegroom had his own opinions on the law of the case. The "happy pair" were sitting after dinner, when the gentleman, taking up a small pocket pistol, playfully presented it at his wife, saying

Now, my dear, if you were a

robber, I should just-." At that moment the weapon exploded, wounding the lady-happily, very slightly in the arm. Almost

frantic, the husband rushed out of the house in quest of the village doctor, and in crossing the garden was descried by the faithful watchman, who, as in duty bound, and supposing it was a burglar, sent a charge of small shot after the fugitive with a precision which would have gained him a prize at a rifle match. Fortunately, however, the wound was not dangerous, although an extremely inconvenient one, the gardener having aimed at the centre of his target.

On the following day I lunched with my dear old friend Dr. Bliss, Principal of St. Mary Hall, and for many years the most efficient registrar of the university, and by him was taken to witness the examination for degrees.

To my

surprise, the first face I saw was that of a young friend who was then under torture. I was much struck by the gentleness of the examiners, whose desire it seemed to pull the candidates through. One of the latter was so fearfully nervous that when his examination was over, he rushed to the door and fainted on the threshold. My host had procured me an invitation to dine with the Principal and Fellows of Brasenose. As we were proceeding to that college I met my undergraduate acquaintance, who flourished his just-acquired testamur in my face. "I plucked him last time," said my host, quietly.

I

It was a gaudy day at Brasenose, and the fare was sumptuous. shall not soon forget the noble figure of the handsome, geniallooking Principal, Dr. Harrington, as he presided over the feast, nor his gracious reception of me. As the loving cup circulated, I was

told by the Dean-I think it was— who sat next to me, that the custom of the guest next to the one drinking rising at the same time, was to protect the drinker from being stabbed, a not unfrequent contingency in primitive times, when knives were used at table for other purposes than carving.

one

They had a pleasant arrangement of the Common Room at Brasenose : small tables beside each of the company-were arranged in a semicircle before the fire, a tramway for the decanters being made on the mantelshelf. On the following day my friend, the newly-made B.A., invited me to lunch and dine at Wadham College, having previously shown me the library at Queen's, where an undergraduate made it almost a casus belli that we would not lunch with him, our only purpose in calling on him being to obtain the library key. The great charm of both universities is their hospitality, which follows them from their college rooms to their chambers in the Temple and elsewhere, as I have had, and now have, frequent occasions to know.

On the morning of my last day, the newly-fledged B.A. took me to witness the conferring of degrees. Dr. Bliss, who was present, and very busy in his capacity of Registrar, called me to his side and desired me to ask of him an explanation of anything I might not comprehend; putting me at the same time in charge of certain printed papers which I was to hand out to applicants. He was beset on all sides by applications for papers and information; and, although at that time much advanced in years, the method, self-possession, and perfect impartiality with which he discharged his many functions were very wonderful.

I observed that one of the proctors, who sat by the Vice-Chan

cellor, when a passed undergraduate was proposed for his degree, left, the side of the ViceChancellor, and walked down the line formed by the "heads of the houses," and then, returning, resumed his seat. Dr. Bliss explained this by saying that in former times, if any one of the "heads of houses" plucked the gown of the proctor, it barred the degree. And this he might do without assigning any reason; but if he did so a second time, his reason was challenged. And this is the origin of the term plucking, in modern times changed into ploughing; if the candidate go in for honours and fail, he is said to be gulphed.

During my stay, I visited the Radcliffe Library, and had a view of Oxford from outside, my cicerone pointing out to me the particular colleges which brewed the best beer. He seemed to like the flavour of that of Magdalen best.

I was at Oxford on a fifth of November, a day memorable for "Town and Gown Rows." As I was leaving Brasenose, after the gaudy banquet, one of the Fellows -a proctor I think-advised me, if I met with a crowd, to give it a" wide berth:" counsel which I most implicitly followed, although, as it happened, it was an exceptionally quiet Guy Fawkes' Day.

I heard an anecdote of a proctor encountering on his rounds two undergraduates, who were without their gowns, or out of bounds, or out of hours. He challenged one : "Your name and college?" They were given. Turning to the other: "And pray, sir, what might your name be? "Julius Cæsar," was

the reply. "What, sir! Do you mean to say that your name is Julius Cæsar ?" "Sir, you did not ask me what it is, but what it might be." The proctor, repressing a smile, turned away.

As in athletics, so in intellectual contests, life is often the price of the prize. Here is a poem from the pen of an undergraduate, who has since achieved a world-wide fame. It was published without the name of the author, and I dare not add it.

CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD.
NIGHT.

Faint from the bell the ghastly echoes fall;
That grates within the grey cathedral's

tower ;

Let me not enter through the portal tall,

Lest the strange spirit of the moonless hour

Should give a life to those pale people, who

Lie on their fretted niches, two and twoEach with his head on pillowy stone reposed,

And his hands lifted, and his eyelids closed.

From many a mouldering oriel, as to flout

Its pale grave brow of ivy-tresséd stone, Comes the incongruous laugh, and revel shout

Above, some solitary casement thrown Wide open to the wavering night wind, Admits its chill-so deathful, yet so kindUnto the fevered brow and fiery eye Of one whose night-hour passeth sleeplessly.

Ye melancholy chambers! I could shun The darkness of your silence, with such fear

As places where slow murder had been done.

How many noble spirits have died here, Withering away in yearnings to aspire, Gnawed by mocked hope-devoured by their own fire!

Methinks the grave must feel a colder bed To spirits such as these, than unto common dead.*