indecent before the
world. For that army of men who use Cambridge as a gate to the world
in front of them the passage through the narrow streets is too swift to
afford more in after life than a pleasant reminiscence. It is because
Cambridge is the bridge between stern discipline and pleasant freedom
that it is so happily remembered; but there are those who adopt
Cambridge as their abiding home, and it is for these that real life is
impossible.

Beneath these grey walls as the years pass slowly the illusions grow.
Closer and closer creep the walls of experience, softer and thicker
are the garments worn to keep out the cold, gentler and gentler are
the speculations born of a good old Port and a knowledge of the Greek
language. About the High Tables voices softly dispute the turning of a
phrase, eyes mildly salute the careful dishes of a wisely chosen cook,
gentle patronage is bestowed upon the wild ruffian of the outer world.
Many bells ring, many fires are burning, many lamps are lit, many leaves
of many books are turned--busily, busily hands are raising walls of
self-defence; the world at first regretted, then patronized, is now
forgotten . . . hush, he sleeps, his feet in slippers, his head upon
the softest cushion, his hand still covering the broad page of his
dictionary. . . . Nothing, not birth nor love, nor death must disturb
his repose.

And here, in the heart of the Sannet Wood, is death from violence,
death, naked, crude, removed from all sense of life as we know it. The
High Tables avoid Carfax's body with all possible discretion; for an
hour or two the Port has lost its flavour, Homer is hidden by a
cloud, the gentle chatter is curtailed and silenced. Amongst the lower
order--those wild and turbulent undergraduates--it is the only topic.
Carfax is very generally known; he had ridden, he had rowed, he had
played cricket. A member of the only sporting club in the University, he
had been known as a "real sportsman and a damned good fellow" because he
was often drunk and frequently spent an evening in London . . . and now
he is dead.

In Saul's a number of very young spirits awake to the consciousness of
death. Here is a red-faced hearty fellow as fit as anything one moment
and dead the next. Never before had the fact been faced that this might
happen to any one. Let the High Table dismiss it easily, it is none
so simple for those who have not had time to build up those defending
walls. For a day or two there