At the University there were temptations enough to lead youth to folly, even when it was not such youth as his, and therefore a shining mark.  The seed Charles Stuart had sown had flourished and grown rank and strong, so that the great seat of learning was rich with dissolute young fools and madcaps and their hangers-on.  But even the most foolish swaggerer of them could not call milksop a man who could outride, outleap, outfence, outhunt him; who could drive the four horses of his coach to London and back at such a pace and in such a manner as made purple-faced old stage-coach drivers shake their heads with glee, and who, in a wrestling-match, could break a man’s back at a throw if he chose to be unmerciful.  Besides this, he was popular for a score of reasons, being no sanctimonious preacher of his doctrines, but as joyous a liver as any among them and as open-handed and high of spirit.

“’Tis not for me to say how other men should live,” was his simple and straightforward creed.  “I live as I like best and find best pays me.  ’Tis for others to seek out and follow what best pays themselves.”

Many a story was told of him which his fellows liked, youth always being elated by any deed of prowess and daring in youth.  One of these stories, which was indeed no great one, but picturesque and pretty, took their fancy greatly, and was much related and laughed gaily over, and indeed beloved.

He was a strong and wondrous swimmer, having learned the art in his childhood on the seacoast, being taught by his Grace his father.  When at Oxford it was his custom to rise before the rest of the world, and in any weather or season plunge into the river and swim and dive and play in the water like a young river god.  He had chosen a favourite swimming-spot and would undress under cover of the trees and then dash out to his pastime, and it so chanced that going there one hot afternoon he fell upon an adventure.

A party of jolly personages of the middle class, who had come up from town on pleasure and rollicking interest, were taking a jaunt upon the river in a wherry.  ’Twas a wedding-party, and both males and females, having dined at a tavern, were well filled with ale and in the mood for disporting themselves.  The groom and his men friends, being in frolicsome humour and knowing nothing whatever of oarsmanship, were playing great pranks to make the women scream at their daring.  The bride, a pretty thing in cherry ribbands, clung to the boat’s side in amaze at the heroic swagger of her new lord, but her cheeks, which had matched her ribbands, grew paler at each rock and dip of the boat, and her fear forced little shrieks from her.  Her companions shrieked too, but laughingly and in such manner as but spurred the men to greater follies.  The sport was at its highest and noisiest when they neared the spot all Oxford knew by this time by the name of “my Lord Marquess’s diving hole.”  At this point the river was broad and deep, and not far below it the water washed