52 MEMOIR OF 



"No, sir," said Squeaker Smith to a member 

 of Christ Church, surnamed Hard-riding Dick, 

 " no, sir, you ain't a-going to have a horse of 

 mine again in a hurry for that drag ; I picked 

 thorns enough to make a crow's nest out of 

 Woodman's legs the last time you rode him, 

 and he never touched a grain of corn for a 

 week afterwards. 'Tisn't hunting, nor 'tisn't 

 hacking ; but, to speak plainly, 'tis barbarous 

 cruelty to a noble animal." 



Smith was quite right ; and Russell, had he 

 been present, would have highly commended 

 the humanity of his decision. 



Russell had been in residence some fourteen 

 terms, and was now, with a view to his final 

 examination, busily employed in preparing for 

 the schools and furbishing up his old Tiverton 

 armour, which, he was not slow to discover, 

 had grown somewhat rusty by habitual disuse 

 and the easy conditions of his college life. 

 His degree being of paramount importance to 

 him, the short period that now remained for get- 

 ting up his books was naturally accompanied by 

 the inevitable doubt and anxiety, which even the 

 ablest scholars are apt to feel at such a time. 



It was on a glorious afternoon towards the 

 end of May, when strolling round Magdalen 

 meadow with Horace in hand, but Beckford in 

 his head, he emerged from the classic shade 

 of Addison's Walk, crossed the Cherwell in a 



