the evening, which seems to have left joyful
memories to both: for Surtees himself thus commemorated it in
macaronics, in which he was an adept:--

"Doctus Tatius hic residet,
Ad Coronam prandet ridet,
Spargit sales cum cachinno,
Lepido ore et concinno,
Ubique carus inter bonos
Rubei montis praesens honos."

In the same majestic folio in which this anecdote may be found--the
Memoir prefixed to the History of Durham--we are likewise told how, when
at college, he was waiting on a Don on business; and, feeling coldish,
stirred the fire. "Pray, Mr Surtees," said the great man, "do you think
that any other undergraduate in the college would have taken that
liberty?" "Yes, Mr Dean," was the reply--"any one as cool as I am!" This
would have been not unworthy of Brummell. The next is not in Brummell's
line. Arguing with a neighbour about his not going to church, the man
said, "Why, sir, the parson and I have quarrelled about the tithes."
"You fool," was the reply, "is that any reason why you should go to
hell?" Yet another. A poor man, with a numerous family, lost his only
cow. Surtees was collecting a subscription to replace the loss, and
called on the Bishop of Lichfield, who was Dean of Durham, and owner of
the great tithes in the parish, to ascertain what he would give. "Give!"
said the bishop; "why, a cow, to be sure. Go, Mr Surtees, to my
steward, and tell him to give you as much money as will buy the best cow
you can find." Surtees, astonished at this unexpected generosity,
said--"My Lord, I hope you will ride to heaven upon the back of that
cow." A while afterwards he was saluted in the college by the late Lord
Barrington, with--"Surtees, what is the absurd speech that I hear you
have been making to the dean?" "I see nothing absurd in it," was the
reply; "when the dean rides to heaven on the back of that cow, many of
you prebendaries will be glad to lay hold of her tail!"

I have noted these innocent trifles concerning one who is chiefly known
as a deep and dry investigator, for the purpose of propitiating the
reader in his favour, since the sacred cause of truth renders it
necessary to refer to another affair in which his conduct, however
trifling it might be, was not innocent. He was addicted to literary
practical jokes of an audacious kind, and carried his presumption so far
as to impose on Sir Walter Scott a spurious ballad which has a place in
the Border Minstrelsy. Nor is it by any mea