# The adventures of Mr. Verdant Green, an Oxford freshman/chapter 8

MR. VERDANT GREEN'S MORNING REFLECTIONS ARE NOT SO PLEASANT AS HIS EVENING DIVERSIONS.
Mr. Smalls' room was filled with smoke and noise. Supper had been cleared away; the glasses were now sparkling on the board, and the wine was ruby bright. The table, moreover, was supplied with spirituous liquors and mixtures of all descriptions, together with many varieties of "cup,"—a cup which not only cheers, but occasionally inebriates; and this miscellany of liquids was now being drunk on the premises by some score and a half of gentlemen, who were sitting round the table, and standing or lounging about in various parts of the room. Heading the table, sat the host, loosely attired in a neat dressing gown of crimson and blue, in an attitude which allowed him to swing his legs easily, if not gracefully, over the arm of his chair, and to converse cheerfully with Charles Larkyns, who was leaning over the chair-back. Visible to the naked eye, on Mr. Smalls' left hand, appeared the white tie and full evening dress which decorated the person of Mr. Verdant Green.
A great consumption of tobacco was going on, not only through the medium of cigars, but also of meerschaums, short "dhudheens" of envied colour, and the genuine yard of clay; and Verdant, while he was scarcely aware of what he was doing, found himself, to his great amazement, with a real cigar in his mouth, which he was industriously sucking, and with great difficulty keeping alight. Our hero felt that the unexpected exigencies of the case demanded from him some sacrifice; while he consoled himself by the reflection, that, on the homoeopathic principle of "likes cure likes," a cigar was the best preventive against any ill effects arising from the combination of the thirty gentlemen who were generating smoke with all the ardour of lime-kilns or young volcanoes, and filling Mr. Smalls' small room with an atmosphere that was of the smoke, smoky. Smoke produces thirst; and the cup, punch, egg-flip, sherry-cobblers, and other liquids, which had been so liberally provided, were being consumed by the members of the party as though it had been their drink from childhood; while the conversation was of a kind very different to what our hero had anticipated, being for the most part vapid and unmeaning, and (must it be confessed?) occasionally too highly flavoured with improprieties for it to be faithfully recorded in these pages of most perfect propriety.
The literature of ancient Greece and Rome was not even referred to; and when Verdant, who, from the unusual combination of the smoke and liquids, was beginning to feel extremely amiable and talkative,—made a reflective observation (addressed to the company generally) which sounded like the words "Nunc vino pellite curas, Cras ingens,"—he was immediately interrupted by the voice of Mr. Bouncer, crying out, "Who's that talking shop about engines? Holloa, Gig-lamps!—"Mr. Bouncer, it must be observed, had facetiously adopted the sobriquet which had been bestowed on Verdant and his spectacles on their first appearance outside the Oxford coach,—"Holloa, Gig-lamps, is that you ill-treating the dead languages? I'm ashamed of you! a venerable party like you ought to be above such things. There! don't blush, old feller, but give us a song! It's the punishment for talking shop, you know."
There was an immediate hammering of tables and jingling of glasses, accompanied with loud cries of "Mr. Green for a song! Mr. Green! Mr. Gig-lamps' song!" cries which nearly brought our hero to the verge of idiotcy.
Charles Larkyns saw this, and came to the rescue. "Gentlemen," he said, addressing the company, "I know that my friend Verdant can sing, and that, like a good bird, he will sing. But while he is mentally looking over his numerous stock of songs, and selecting one for our amusement, I beg to fill up our valuable time, by asking you to fill up a bumper to the health of our esteemed host Smalls (vociferous cheers)—a man whose private worth is only to be equalled by the purity of his milk-punch and the excellence of his weeds (hear hear). Bumpers, gentlemen, and no heel-taps! and though I am sorry to interfere with Mr. Fosbrooke's private enjoyments, yet I must beg to suggest to him that he has been so much engaged in drowning his personal cares in the bowl over which he is so skilfully presiding, that my glass has been allowed to sparkle on the board empty and useless." And as Charles Larkyns held out his glass towards Mr. Fosbrooke and the punch-bowl, he trolled out, in a rich, manly voice, old Cowley's anacreontic:
"Fill up the bowl then, fill it high!  Fill all the glasses there! For why  Should every creature drink but I?  Why, man of morals, tell me why?"
By the time that the "man of morals" had ladled out for the company, and that Mr. Smalls' health had been drunk and responded to amid uproarious applause, Charles Larkyns' friendly diversion in our hero's favour had succeeded, and Mr. Verdant Green had regained his confidence, and had decided upon one of those vocal efforts which, in the bosom of his own family, and to the pianoforte accompaniment of his sisters, was accustomed to meet with great applause. And when he had hastily tossed off another glass of milk-punch (merely to clear his throat), he felt bold enough to answer the spirit-rappings which were again demanding "Mr. Green's song!" It was given much in the following manner:
Mr. Verdant Green (in low plaintive tones, and fresh alarm at hearing the sounds of his own voice). "I dreamt that I dwe-elt in mar-arble halls, with"—
Mr. Bouncer (interrupting). "Spit it out, Gig-lamps! Dis child can't hear whether it's Maudlin Hall you're singing about, or what."
Omnes. "Order! or-der! Shut up, Bouncer!"
Charles Larkyns (encouragingly). "Try back, Verdant: never mind."
Mr. Verdant Green (tries back, with increased confusion of ideas, resulting principally from the milk-punch and tobacco). "I dreamt that I dwe-elt in mar-arble halls, with vassals and serfs at my si-hi-hide; and—and—I beg your pardon, gentlemen, I really forget—oh, I know!—and I also dre-eamt, which ple-eased me most—no, that's not it" -
Mr. Bouncer (who does not particularly care for the words of a song, but only appreciates the chorus)—"That'll do, old feller! We ain't pertickler,—(rushes with great deliberation and noise to the chorus) "That you lo-oved me sti-ill the sa-ha-hame—chorus, gentlemen!"
Omnes (in various keys and time). "That you lo-oved me sti-ill the same."
Mr. Bouncer (to Mr. Green, alluding remotely to the opera). "Now my Bohemian gal, can't you come out to-night? Spit us out a yard or two more, Gig-lamps."
Mr. Verdant Green (who has again taken the opportunity to clear his throat). "I dreamt that I dwe-elt in mar-arble—no! I beg pardon! sang that (desperately)—that sui-uitors sou-ught my hand, that knights on their (hic) ben-ended kne-e-ee—had (hic) riches too gre-eat to"—(Mr. Verdant Green smiles benignantly upon the company)—"Don't rec'lect anymo."
Mr. Bouncer (who is not to be defrauded of the chorus). "Chorus, gentlemen!—That you'll lo-ove me sti-ill the sa-a-hame!"
Omnes (ad libitum). "That you'll lo-ove me sti-ill the same!"
Though our hero had ceased to sing, he was still continuing to clear his throat by the aid of the milk-punch, and was again industriously sucking his cigar, which he had not yet succeeded in getting half through, although he had re-lighted it about twenty times. All this was observed by the watchful eyes of Mr. Bouncer, who, whispering to his neighbour, and bestowing a distributive wink on the company generally, rose and made the following remarks:—
"Mr. Smalls, and gents all: I don't often get on my pins to trouble you with a neat and appropriate speech; but on an occasion like the present, when we are honoured with the presence of a party who has just delighted us with what I may call a flood of harmony (hear, hear),—and has pitched it so uncommon strong in the vocal line, as to considerably take the shine out of the woodpecker-tapping, that we've read of in the pages of history (hear, hear: "Go it again, Bouncer!"),—when, gentlemen, I see before me this old original Little Wobbler,—need I say that I allude to Mr. Verdant Green?—(vociferous cheers)—I feel it a sort of, what you call a privilege, d'ye see, to stand on my pins, and propose that respected party's jolly good health (renewed cheers). Mr. Verdant Green, gentlemen, has but lately come among us, and is, in point of fact, what you call a freshman; but, gentlemen, we've already seen enough of him to feel aware that—that Brazenface has gained an acquisition, which—which—(cries of "Tally-ho! Yoicks! Hark forrud!") Exactly so, gentlemen: so, as I see you are all anxious to do honour to our freshman, I beg, without further preface, to give you the health of Mr. Verdant Green! With all the honours. Chorus, gents!
"For he's a jolly good fellow!  For he's a jolly good fellow!!  For he's a jolly good f-e-e-ell-ow!!!  Which nobody can deny!"
This chorus was taken up and prolonged in the most indefinite manner; little Mr. Bouncer fairly revelling in it, and only regretting that he had not his post-horn with him to further contribute to the harmony of the evening. It seemed to be a great art in the singers of the chorus to dwell as long as possible on the third repetition of the word "fellow," and in the most defiant manner to pounce down on the bold affirmation by which it is followed; and then to lyrically proclaim that, not only was it a way they had in the Varsity to drive dull care away, but that the same practice was also pursued in the army and navy for the attainment of a similar end.
When the chorus had been sung over three or four times, and Mr. Verdant Green's name had been proclaimed with equal noise, that gentleman rose (with great difficulty), to return thanks. He was understood to speak as follows:
"Genelum anladies (cheers),—I meangenelum. ("That's about the ticket, old feller!" from Mr. Bouncer.) Customd syam plic speakn, I—I—(hear, hear)—feel bliged drinkmyel. I'm fresman, genelum, and prowtitle (loud cheers). Myfren Misserboucer, fallowme callm myfren! ("In course, Gig-lamps, you do me proud, old feller.") Myfren Misserboucer seszime fresman—prow title, sureyou (hear, hear). Genelmun, werall jolgoodfles, anwe wogohotillmorrin! ("We won't, we won't! not a bit of it!") Gelmul, I'm fresmal, an namesgreel, gelmul (cheers). Fanyul dousmewor, herescardinpocklltellm! Misser Verdalgreel, Braseface, Oxul fresmal, anprowtitle! (Great cheering and rattling of glasses, during which Mr. Verdant Green's coat-tails are made the receptacles for empty bottles, lobsters' claws, and other miscellaneous articles.) Misserboucer said was fresmal. If Misserboucer wantsultme ("No, no!"), herescardinpock'lltellm namesverdalgreel, Braseface! Not shameofitgelmul! prowtitle! (Great applause.) I doewaltilsul Misserboucer! thenwhysee sultme? thaswaw Iwaltknow! (Loud cheers, and roars of laughter, in which Mr. Verdant Green suddenly joins to the best of his ability.) I'm anoxful fresmal, gelmul, 'fmyfrel Misserboucer loumecallimso. (Cheers and laughter, in which Mr. Verdant Green feebly joins.) Anweerall jolgoodfles, anwe wogohotilmorril, an I'm fresmal, gelmul, anfanyul dowsmewor—an I—doefeel quiwell!"
This was the termination of Mr. Verdant Green's speech, for after making a few unintelligible sounds, his knees suddenly gave way, and with a benevolent smile he disappeared beneath the table.
Half an hour afterwards two gentlemen might have been seen, bearing with staggering steps across the moonlit quad the huddled form of a third gentleman, who was clothed in full evening dress, and appeared incapable of taking care of himself. The two first gentlemen set down their burden under an open doorway, painted over with a large 4; and then, by pulling and pushing, assisted it to guide its steps up a narrow and intricate staircase, until they had gained the third floor, and stood before a door, over which the moonlight revealed, in newly-painted white letters, the name of "Mr. VERDANT GREEN."
"Well, old feller," said the first gentleman, "how do you feel now, after 'Sich a getting up stairs'?"
"Feel much berrer now," said their late burden; "feel quite-comfurble! Shallgotobed!"
"Well, Gig-lamps," said the first speaker, "and By-by won't be at all a bad move for you. D'ye think you can unrig yourself and get between the sheets, eh, my beauty?"
"Its allri, allri!" was the reply; "limycandle!"
"No, no," said the second gentleman, as he pulled up the window-blind, and let in the moonlight; "here's quite as much light as you want. It's almost morning."
"Sotis," said the gentleman in the evening costume: "anlittlebirds beginsingsoon! Ilike littlebirds sing! jollittlebirds!" The speaker had suddenly fallen upon his bed, and was lying thereon at full length, with his feet on the pillow.
"He'll be best left in this way," said the second speaker, as he removed the pillow to the proper place, and raised the prostrate gentleman's head; "I'll take off his choker and make him easy about the neck, and then we'll shut him up, and leave him. Why the beggar's asleep already!" And so the two gentlemen went away, and left him safe and sleeping.
It is conjectured, however, that he must have got up shortly after this, and finding himself with his clothes on, must have considered that a lighted candle was indispensably necessary to undress by; for when Mrs. Tester came at her usual early hour to light the fires and prepare the sitting-rooms, she discovered him lying on the carpet embracing the coal-skuttle, with a candle by his side. The good woman raised him, and did not leave him until she had, in the most motherly manner, safely tucked him up in bed.
Clink, clank! clink, clank! tingle, tangle! tingle, tangle! Are demons smiting ringing hammers into Mr. Verdant Green's brain, or is the dreadful bell summoning him to rise for morning chapel?
Mr. Filcher puts an end to the doubt by putting his head in at the bedroom door, and saying, "Time for chapel, sir! Chapel," thought Mr. Filcher; "here is a chap ill, indeed!—Bain't you well, sir? Restless you look!"
Oh, the shame and agony that Mr. Verdant Green felt! The desire to bury his head under the clothes, away from Robert's and everyone else's sight; the fever that throbbed his brain and parched his lips, and made him long to drink up Ocean; the eyes that felt like burning lead; the powerless hands that trembled like a weak old man's; the voice that came in faltering tones that jarred the brain at every word! How he despised himself; how he loathed the very idea of wine; how he resolved never, never to transgress so again! But perhaps Mr. Verdant Green was not the only Oxford freshman who has made this resolution.
"Bain't you well, sir?" repeated Mr. Filcher, with a passing thought that freshmen were sadly degenerating, and could not manage their three bottles as they did when he was first a scout: "bain't you well, sir?"
"Not very well, Robert, thank you. I—my head aches, and I'm afraid I shall not be able to get up for chapel. Will the Master be very angry?"
"Well, he might be, you see, sir," replied Mr. Filcher, who never lost an opportunity of making anything out of his master's infirmities; "but if you'll leave it to me, sir, I'll make it all right for you, I will. Of course you'd like to take out an æger, sir; and I can bring you your Commons just the same. Will that do, sir?"
"Oh, thank you; yes, any thing. You will find five shillings in my waistcoat-pocket, Robert; please to take it; but I can't eat."
"Thank'ee, sir," said the scout, as he abstracted the five shillings; "but you'd better have a bit of somethin', sir;—a cup of strong tea, or somethin'. Mr. Smalls, sir, when he were pleasant, he always had beer, sir; but p'raps you ain't been used to bein' pleasant, sir, and slops might suit you better, sir."
"Oh, any thing, any thing!" groaned our poor, unheroic hero, as he turned his face to the wall, and endeavoured to recollect in what way he had been "pleasant" the night before. But, alas! the wells of his memory had, for the time, been poisoned, and nothing clear or pure could be drawn therefrom. So he got up and looked at himself in the glass, and scarcely recognized the tangled-haired, sallow-faced wretch, whose bloodshot eyes gazed heavily at him from the mirror. So he nervously drained the water-bottle, and buried himself once more among the tossed and tumbled bed-clothes.
The tea really did him some good, and enabled him to recover sufficient nerve to go feebly through the operation of dressing; though it was lucky that nature had not yet brought Mr. Verdant Green to the necessity of shaving, for the handling of a razor might have been attended with suicidal results, and have brought these veracious memoirs and their hero to an untimely end.
He had just sat down to a second edition of tea, and was reading a letter that the post had brought him from his sister Mary, in which she said, "I dare say by this time you have found Mr. Charles Larkyns a very delightful companion, and I am sure a very valuable one; as, from what the rector says, he appears to be so steady, and has such nice quiet companions:"—our hero had read as far as this, when a great noise just without his door, caused the letter to drop from his trembling hands; and, between loud fanfares from a post-horn, and heavy thumps upon the oak, a voice was heard, demanding "Entrance in the Proctor's name."
Mr. Verdant Green had for the first time "sported his oak." Under any circumstances it would have been a mere form, since his bashful politeness would have induced him to open it to any comer; but, at the dreaded name of the Proctor, he sprang from his chair, and while impositions, rustications, and expulsions rushed tumultuously through his disordered brain, he nervously undid the springlock, and admitted—not the Proctor, but the "steady" Mr. Charles Larkyns and his "nice quiet companion," little Mr. Bouncer, who testified his joy at the success of their coup d'état, by blowing on his horn loud blasts that might have been borne by Fontarabian echoes, and which rang through poor Verdant's head with indescribable jarrings.
"Well, Verdant," said Charles Larkyns, "how do you find yourself this morning? You look rather shaky."
"He ain't a very lively picter, is he?" remarked little Mr. Bouncer, with the air of a connoisseur; "peakyish you feel, don't you, now, with a touch of the mulligrubs in your collywobbles? Ah, I know what it is, my boy."
It was more than our hero did; and he could only reply that he did not feel very well. "I—I had a glass of claret after some lobster-salad, and I think it disagreed with me."
"Not a doubt of it, Verdant," said Charles Larkyns very gravely; "it would have precisely the same effect that the salmon always has at a public dinner,—bring on great hilarity, succeeded by a pleasing delirium, and concluding in a horizontal position, and a demand for soda-water."
"I hope," said our hero, rather faintly, "that I did not conduct myself in an unbecoming manner last night; for I am sorry to say that I do not remember all that occurred."
"I should think not, Gig-lamps, You were as drunk as a besom," said little Mr. Bouncer, with a side wink to Mr. Larkyns, to prepare that gentleman for what was to follow. "Why, you got on pretty well till old Slowcoach came in, and then you certainly did go it, and no mistake!"
"Mr. Slowcoach!" groaned the freshman. "Good gracious! is it possible that he saw me? I don't remember it."
"And it would be lucky for you if he didn't," replied Mr, Bouncer. "Why his rooms, you know, are in the same angle of the quad as Smalls'; so, when you came to shy the empty bottles out of Smalls' window at his window—"
"Shy empty bottles! Oh!" gasped the freshman.
"Why, of course, you see, he couldn't stand that sort of game—it wasn't to be expected; so he puts his head out of the bedroom window—and then, don't you remember crying out, as you pointed to the tassel of his night-cap sticking up straight on end, 'Tally-ho! Unearth'd at last! Look at his brush!' Don't you remember that, Gig-lamps?"
"Oh, oh, no!" groaned Mr. Bouncer's victim: "I can't remember,—oh, what could have induced me!"
"By Jove, you must have been screwed! Then I daresay you don't remember wanting to have a polka with him, when he came up to Smalls' rooms?"
"A polka! Oh dear! Oh no! Oh!"
"Or asking him if his mother knew he was out,—and what he'd take for his cap without the tassel; and telling him that he was the joy of your heart,—and that you should never be happy unless he'd smile as he was wont to smile, and would love you then as now,—and saying all sorts of bosh? What, not remember it! 'Oh, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!' as some cove says in Shakespeare. But how screwed you must have been, Gig-lamps!"
"And do you think," inquired our hero, after a short but sufficiently painful reflection,—"do you think that Mr. Slowcoach will—oh!—expel me?"
"Why, it's rather a shave for it," replied his tormentor; "but the best thing you can do is to write an apology at once: pitch it pretty strong in the pathetic line,—say it's your first offence, and that you'll never be a naughty boy again, and all that sort of thing. You just do that, Gig-lamps, and I'll see that the note goes to—the proper place."
"Oh, thank you!" said the freshman; and while, with equal difficulty from agitation both of mind and body, he composed and penned the note, Mr. Bouncer ordered up some buttery beer, and Charles Larkyns prepared some soda-water with a dash of brandy, which he gave Verdant to drink, and which considerably refreshed that gentleman. "And I should advise you," he said, "to go out for a constitutional; for walking-time's come, although you have but just done your breakfast. A blow up Headington Hill will do you good, and set you on your legs again."
So Verdant, after delivering up his note to Mr. Bouncer, took his friend's advice, and set out for his constitutional in his cap and gown, feeling afraid to move without them, lest he should thereby trespass some law. This, of course, gained him some attention after he had crossed Magdalen Bridge; and he might have almost been taken for the original of that impossible gownsman who appears in Turner's well-known "View of Oxford, from Ferry Hincksey," as wandering—
"Remote, unfriended, solitary, slow,"—
in a corn-field, in the company of an umbrella!
Among the many pedestrians and equestrians that he encountered, our freshman espied a short and very stout gentleman, whose shovel-hat, short apron, and general decanical costume, proclaimed him to be a don of some importance. He was riding a pad-nag, who ambled placidly along, without so much as hinting at an outbreak into a canter; a performance that, as it seemed, might have been attended with disastrous consequences to his rider. Our hero noticed, that the trio of undergraduates who were walking before him, while they passed others, who were evidently dons, without the slightest notice (being in mufti), yet not only raised their hats to the stout gentleman, but also separated for that purpose, and performed the salute at intervals of about ten yards. And he further remarked, that while the stout gentleman appeared to be exceedingly gratified at the notice he received, yet that he had also very great difficulty in returning the rapid salutations; and only accomplished them and retained his seat by catching at the pommel of his saddle, or the mane of his steed,—a proceeding which the pad-nag seemed perfectly used to.
Mr. Verdant Green returned home from his walk, feeling all the better for the fresh air and change of scene; but he still looked, as his neighbour, Mr. Bouncer, kindly informed him, "uncommon seedy, and doosid fishy about the eyes;" and it was some days even before he had quite recovered from the novel excitement of Mr. Smalls' "quiet party."