Doctor Samuel Johnson, of Johnson's Court, Fleet Street, had at this
time some name in the world; but not to the pitch that persons entering
Pembroke College hastened to pay reverence to the second floor over the
gateway, which he had vacated thirty years earlier--as persons do now.
Their gaze, as a rule, rose no higher than the first-floor oriel, where
the shapely white shoulder of a Parian statue, enhanced by a background
of dark-blue silken hanging, caught the wandering eye. What this lacked
of luxury and mystery was made up--almost to the Medmenham point in the
eyes of the city--by the gleam of girandoles, and the glow, rather felt
than seen, of Titian-copies in Florence frames. Sir George, borne along
in his chair, peered up at this well-known window--well-known, since in
the Oxford of 1767 a man's rooms were furnished if he had tables and
chairs, store of beef and October, an apple-pie and Common Room
port--and seeing the casement brilliantly lighted, smiled a trifle
contemptuously.
'The Reverend Frederick is not much changed,' he muttered. 'Lord, what a
beast it was! And how we hazed him! Ah! At home, is he?'--this to the
servant, as the man lifted the head of the chair. 'Yes, I will go up.'
To tell the truth, the Reverend Frederick Thomasson had so keen a scent
for Gold Tufts or aught akin to them, that it would have been strange
if the instinct had not kept him at home; as a magnet, though unseen,
attracts the needle. The same prepossession brought him, as soon as he
heard of his visitor's approach, hurrying to the head of the stairs;
where, if he had had his way, he would have clasped the baronet in his
arms, slobbered over him, after the mode of Paris--for that was a trick
of his--and perhaps even wept on his shoulder.
But Soane, who knew his
ways, coolly defeated the manoeuvre by fending him off with his cane;
and the Reverend Frederick was reduced to raising his eyes and hands to
heaven in token of the joy which filled him at the sight of his
old pupil.
'Lord! Sir George, I am inexpressibly happy!' he cried. 'My dear sir, my
very dear sir, welcome to my poor rooms! This is joy indeed! Gaudeamus!
Gaudeamus! To see you once more, fresh from the groves of Arthur's and
the scenes of your triumphs! Pardon me, my dear sir, I must and will
shake you by the hand again!' And succeeding at last in seizing Sir
George's hand, he fondled and patted it in both of his--which were fat
and white--the while with every mark of emotion he led him into
the room.