een me use the
common-room snuff-box to keep myself awake after dinner; but nothing
more. I keep a box in my pocket merely as a bauble--it was a present.
You should have lived when I was young. There was old Dr. Troughton of
Nun's Hall, he carried his snuff loose in his pocket; and old Mrs.
Vice-Principal Daffy used to lay a train along her arm, and fire it with
her nose. Doctors of medicine took it as a preservative against
infection, and doctors of divinity against drowsiness in church."

"They take wine against infection now," said Mr. Reding; "it's a much
surer protective."

"Wine?" cried Mr. Malcolm; "oh, they didn't take less wine then, as you
and I know. On certain solemn occasions they made a point of getting
drunk, the whole college, from the Vice-Principal or Sub-Warden down to
the scouts. Heads of houses were kept in order by their wives; but I
assure you the jolly god came _very_ near Mr. Vice-Chancellor himself.
There was old Dr. Sturdy of St. Michael's, a great martinet in his time.
One day the King passed through Oxford; Sturdy, a tall, upright,
iron-faced man, had to meet him in procession at Magdalen Bridge, and
walked down with his pokers before him, gold and silver, vergers, cocked
hats, and the rest. There wasn't one of them that wasn't in liquor.
Think of the good old man's horror, Majesty in the distance, and his own
people swaying to and fro under his very nose, and promising to leave
him for the gutter before the march was ended."

"No one can get tipsy with snuff, I grant," said Mr. Reding; "but if
wine has done some men harm it has done others a deal of good."

"Hair-powder is as bad as snuff," said Mary, preferring the former
subject; "there's old Mr. Butler of Cooling, his wig is so large and
full of powder that when he nods his head I am sure to sneeze."

"Ah, but all these are accidents, young lady," said Mr. Malcolm, put out
by this block to the conversation, and running off somewhat testily in
another direction; "accidents after all. Old people are always the same;
so are young. Each age has its own fashion: if Mr. Butler wore no wig,
still there would be something about him odd and strange to young eyes.
Charles, don't you be an old bachelor. No one cares for old people.
Marry, my dear boy; look out betimes for a virtuous young woman, who
will make you an attentive wife."

Charles slightly coloured, and his sister laughed as if there was some
understanding between them.

Mr. Malc