"Perhaps,' it occurred to me, 'the Vice-Chancellor may know Maddison Morton; and, if so, all right!'

"But Dr. Guest only appeared puzzled, and repeated several times,

"Morton-Morton!' as if he were either trying to recall an acquaintance of that name, or were learning the word by heart, like a parrot.

"Maddison Morton,' I explained, affably.

"Um!' he considered. Then he paused and examined the carpet. Receiving no assistance from that quarter, he looked up suddenly at me and asked, Fellow of Trinity?'

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"No,' I said. I was not aware, -he might be-but-in fact Maddison Morton had never presented himself to me in that light. For me, it had been sufficient that Maddison Morton should have been the distinguished author of Box and Cox.

"Not a Fellow of Trinity?' said the Vice-Chancellor, suspiciously. "No; I don't think so.'

"Um! And you propose acting a play written by Mr. Morton, who is not a Fellow of Trinity? Yes; what is the name ?'

"I could not help it. bound to come out at last.

It was

"It is called Box and Cox.' "Even then I was afraid he would ask me if Box and Cox' were Fellows of Trinity, without which qualification their fate, I felt at once, was sealed. I even regretted not having introduced them as Mr. Box and Mr. Cox, the other title sounding so familiar. If I could only have metamorphosed them into the Rev. Mr. Box, M.A., Fellow of Trinity, and Dr. Cox, D.D., Fellow of Caius, it would have been perfect.

"But the Vice-Chancellor was very grave and serious over it. He did not know either Box or Cox, by name. They were not members. of the University, any more than Mr. Maddison Morton was a Fellow of Trinity, and so he could not recognise them, officially. Box,

and Cox, might be, he seemed to think, very worthy persons, without a stain on their character, but he could not countenance them as performing in this University. He had misunderstood me, and thought I had proposed a theatrical entertainment to be given by Messrs Box and Cox (of the London theatres) in a play written by a Mr. Morton, not a Fellow of Trinity.

"I thought he was going to ask me for the name of the other piece, and I would rather have relinquished the whole affair, there and then, than have given up the name of Villikins and his Dinah, and have avowed myself the author. No: I had got into a difficulty, and made myself a martyr for the sake of Box and Cox, and that was ridiculous enough for one morning. If I added Villikins, he would think that there was a lunatic undergraduate at large in Trinity College.

"Fortunately the clock reminded him that, at that hour, a council was sitting,-where his attendance was imperative.

"I will lay this matter,' he said, solemnly, 'before the Heads, and will forward you our decision.'

"The idea of the Heads again struck me, only this time in connection with the tossing shilling and the lucky sixpence, in 'Box and Cox.' 'Heads I don't win,' I thought to myself as I thanked the Vice-Chancellor for his polite attention, and SO withdrew. Through an open side-door in the hall, as I passed out, I saw the 'Heads' assembling, and I could not help feeling intensely amused at the notion of the Vice-Chancellor's gravely submitting for the careful consideration of this august body the names of Box and Cox, not being members of the University, associated with that of Maddison Morton (not a Fellow of Trinity), and of F. C. Burnand, undergraduate, Trin. Coll. Cam.

"This was the first step taken towards obtaining official recognition for an amateur University performance, with what result remains to be seen."

Here follows a tirade against Dons in general, written by Burnand with the mature views of five-and-forty, and consequently deserving of some respect.

"For the representative, typical, ollege Don, I have not, I say it boldly, the slightest atom of respect, and the sentiments of my youth, as regards Dons in general, have never been modified, or altered, by the experience of middle-age. What was at first a very natural undergraduate

instinct, has grown into a most firm and honest conviction.

"Of course I am aware that there are Dons and Dons; but when a Don, who is a don by position, is at the same time not a Don by disposition, then he ought not to be a Don at all; he is so clearly out of place, that, when you inform your friends that the gentleman in

question is a resident Fellow of S. Boniface, they will hardly credit your assertion.

"There is no such creature, properly speaking, as a young Don. If a man is a Don by nature, he is never young. There are no such comfortable places anywhere as those held by the college Dons in residence. Their life is simply a luxurious development of bachelor existence in club and chambers, but their chambers are above suspicion, and the obligations of their state are a guarantee for their individual local respectability, while their public morality is as unexceptionable as their dinners at the high table in Hall, and their wine in the common room of the College.

"Dons seem to forget they have ever been undergraduates; and, for the matter of that they have very little to forget, as they, probably, never partook of the generally hilarious undergraduate's temperament temperament the healthy outburst of youth and the overflow of animal spirits, peculiarly English in its boisterous character, easily directed for good by judicious control, and turned off into various channels of harmless recreation, where a discriminating superior, if he chose to trouble himself about those placed under his care, would be able to detect the bent, inclination, of many a young man, whose peculiar talents might be then and there fostered with the most beneficial results."

Three days after the interview came a polite note from the V.C. containing an explicit refusal, after due consideration from the Heads, to sanction dramatic performances in the University. Matters were therefore worse than before, as bona-fide ignorance of statutes could not now be pleaded. It might be considered that this was final, but a back door of escape was

soon found, and, strange to say, a back door arrived at by an aristocratic corridor. There was a University club of high degree, the Athenæum, for which only the University Tufts were eligible. These privileged gentlemen chanced about this time to advertise a single dramatic performance, with only such pretence of secrecy as might make "a show of such deference as was to be expected from dukes, earls, and other titled members of the aristocracy, who had kindly consented to come up to the University, and patronise the ancient institution." This put Burnand on his mettle, and he proposed to his equally angry friends a theatrical club, a rival to the Athe

næum.

Rooms were taken, rules drawn up, liabilities undertaken, subscriptions fixed, and the dramatic club became a fact. Among the original members was one very useful one, the only sporting man of the club, brought in on the ground of being an excellent subscriber to anything, and not in the slightest degree interested in theatricals. "I remember the readiness with which, at the very first call, he produced five-pound notes, and frightened all the quiet and moderate men by the force of his language, the energy of his character, and the amount of money at his command." About the ViceChancellor and the Heads no member troubled himself any more. They had winked at the performances of the Athenæum theatricals, they could not afterwards open their eyes too wide upon the enterprise of the humbler but more painstaking Thespians. For several years, however, the club was not recognised, only tolerated; and it was not until the Prince of Wales in 1861 dignified the performances with his presence that it obtained open recognition

by the authorities. A certain sum in proportion is irresistibly suggested: as terrible Don is to abject undergraduate, so is mighty Prince to terrible Don. Even "Box and Cox" may become as classical as a Greek play when the light of royalty has shone upon it. Before recognition and during its infancy, the "A. D. C." was a secret society, rather Bohemian than aristocratic in its sentiments, rather jovial than ascetic in its tendencies."

"The rehearsals were the occasions of delightful little dinners and suppers in each other's rooms, and in these we were not luxurious, nor were our 'spreads' anything like so expensive, or so pretentious, as what were called the Athenæum Teas.'"

The active members of the infant club were heroes in work. The "acting manager" was the manager of the acting;" the best of the scene-painters were amateurs; members were to be seen, in paper caps and aprons, hard at work at stage carpentry.

The

secretary, who undertook also the laborious duties of treasurer, had to attend every meeting, was fined for absence, had to yield an account of tickets sold, and bills printed, had to write the letters and audit the accounts; he usually accepted the honorary post with avidity, and resigned as speedily as was consistent with decency when he discovered what was expected of him.

There were peculiarities in some of the actors which must at the time have provoked much merriment, and greatly added to the success of the entertainments. One member, according to the chronicle kept by the club, was wont to sing very well, 'but," as he says himself, "acting, &c., is not his forte. In reciting poetry, too, he has a singular habit of

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making such words as 'pudding' and crocodile' rhyme, which gives the audience a very peculiar idea of what the author intended to say." About another performer a report got about that when taking a character whose dress included some very large shirt studs, he found it most convenient to paint his shirt front with them; it was even supposed that he had transferred this artistic success to the shirt front of private life; and not only a sale of tickets at increased prices, but mysterious invitations to dinner, were the result of the curiosity inspired by the man who was supposed to have reached perfection in painting the appearance of studs upon his shirt front.

One very amusing scene arose in a farce, in which one of the actors was a dancing bear; an unfortunate wight was strapped up in a bear's skin so tightly that it was impossible to get out without assistance. He was to be accompanied by a wandering sailor, his master. He had shown some disinclination for the part, but had been reassured by his friends, and told that a brilliant dramatic opening might easily be made of it. His fellow-performer, the sailor, was especially anxious, he assured him, to second him well. This character

was taken by a conscientious

actor.

"Of course,' he had argued, 'no sailor would go about with a bear, unless he had either a good stout stick or a whip to larrup him with.'

"He considered the stick as most appropriate to a sailor ashore, and with this 'hand-property' he had taken good care to provide himself. But, alas for the unhappy bear! the stick was not a properly sawdust-stuffed staff, such as is used on the stage by pantomimists, but it was a good, stout, substantial, undeniable

cudgel. It was realism with a vengeance.

"Mr. S. Vane, before coming up to the University, had, like the celebrated T. P. Cooke, really been in the navy, at least, so it was said. He had a bluff, honest, hearty, rolling sort of way with him, and was a first-rate fellow on and off the stage-as even the unhappy G. Rece would have willingly owned-up till this minute.

The farce went on: so did the sailor, and with him the bear led by a chain. No chance of escape. At first the bear tried to be funny -and he was funny-he stood up and danced. Alas! his fun was but short-lived, for at the first sign of any repetition of such a burst of humour, down came Jack Robinson's thick cudgel on the bear's head and shoulders, who thereupon swore audibly. It was not a growl, it was an oath accompanied by a remonstrance which went entirely unheeded by the jolly tar, who, seeing the audience highly amused at his use of his stick, thought he couldn't give them, or the bear, too much of a good thing. He was right as to the audience, he was wrong as to the bear's view of the matter.

"I quite forgot,' said the representative of Jack ashore,' earnestly explaining the matter, afterwards, to somebody, 'I quite forgot it might hurt; and I really didn't think he could feel it through that bear skin.'

"In vain the bear attempted to ward off the blows with much the same action of the paws as the bear in the illustrated fable-book attempts to get rid of the bees. He kept up the character as long as he could. He even pretended to have been taught some sort of dance by Jack Robinson, which necessitated his putting up his fore-paws in order to guard his head, aud taking advantage of the attitude, he was

just about to whisper behind his hand a real aside' requesting Jack Robinson to have a little more consideration for his feelings, when the sailor, being in the full swing of his part, and thinking that the bear was playing up to him in first-rate style, angrily exclaimed, Ah! would you?' and down came a crack from the cudgel, and out came another and a louder oath from the bear.

"At last the bear could stand it no longer he made a rush at his tormentor, and there was a man and bear fight for the space of about half a minute, during which the audience shouted and applauded vigorously. But the unfortunate bear was heavily handicapped in his dress, and without it he would not have been a match for his antagonist, who, entering into the spirit of the scene, pretended to defend his life from the bear's deadly attack, and inserting his hand in the bear's leather collar, half strangled poor G. Rece,' while at the same time he caught him such cracks over the head, as but for the padding, would most certainly have incapacitated the representative of the bear from ever appearing on any stage again—at least for a very long time.

"There was nothing for the unhappy bear but entire submission; so, sinking down, he lay as if completely vanquished, panting on the ground, while S. Vane gave him one or two playful taps on the skull, just to finish with, then

struck an attitude like a victorious

lion tamer, and having dismissed the bear with a parting kick, he resumed the business of the scene. There was immense applause. 'S. Vane' bowed his acknowledgments, but the bear had availed himself of this respite to sneak quietly out by the door in the scene-and nothing could induce him to return. In fact, I think from that moment he retired from the Club and never paid any further subscription. His name does not occur again in the bills. He had had enough of it. His histrionic ambition had received a violent blow-several very violent blows -he had paid his halfpence, he had received all the kicks, and if he felt himself aggrieved, I must say I think he was more than justified.

"Those who witnessed the scene will never forget it, and many among the audience who afterwards became members, have since narrated the story to me from their point of view, and told me how admirably they thought the unhappy bear was acting his part!

What would the Vice-Chancellor have thought of this kind of application to the "heads of the University?

The reminiscences from which we have made our few quotations are not only full of interest and amusement for old University men, but for all who sympathise with the drama under difficulties, and for all who care for a picture of honest, spontaneous, work and fun combined.