Of course I duly took my degrees of B.A. and M.A.,—­and long after of D.C.L., when the Cathedral chimes rang for me, as they always do for a grand compounding Doctor.

A mentionable curio of authorship on that occasion is this:  whatever may be the rule now, in those days the degree of D.C.L. involved a three-hours’ imprisonment in the pulpit of the Bodleian Chapel, for the candidate to answer therefrom in Latin any theological objectors who might show themselves for that purpose; as, however, the chapel was always locked by Dr. Bliss, the registrar, there was never a possibility to make objection.  So my three hours of enforced idleness obliged me to use pencil and paper, which I happened to have in my pocket,—­and I then and there produced my poem on “The Dead”—­to be found at p. 26 of my Miscellaneous Poems, still extant at Gall & Inglis’s—­a long one of eighteen stanzas, much liked by Gladstone amongst others.  I didn’t intend it certainly, but, as the poem ends with the word “bliss,” it was ridiculously thought that I had specially alluded to the registrar!

CHAPTER V.

ORDERS:  AND LINCOLN’S INN.

Soon after leaving Oxford, and when some attempts to help my speech seemed to be partially successful, my father wished me to take orders, which also from religious motives was my own desire (for M’Neile at Albury, and Bulteel at Oxford, had been instruments of good to me, the first since I was 15, the other as a young collegian) and as Earl Rivers, whom my father had financially assisted promised me a living, and a curacy was easy where the mere licence was enough by way of salary, I soon found myself standing for introductory approval before Bishop Burgess at his hotel in Waterloo Place, a candidate for orders by Examination.  The good Bishop being a Hebrew scholar was glad enough to hear that I (with however slight a smattering) had studied that primitive tongue under Pusey and Pauli,—­and I began to hope before his awful presence.  But, when he told me to read, and soon perceived my only half-cured infirmity, he faithfully enough assured me with sorrow that I could not be ordained unless I had my speech.  So that first and sole interview came to an untimely end:  for soon after, not meaning to give up the struggle at once, I resolved, before my next Episcopal visit, to go down to Blewbury, the vicarage of my friend Mr. Evanson, who had agreed to license me to his curacy, in order that by reading the lessons in church I might practically test my competency.  Of course, I prepared myself specially by diligence, and care, and prayer, to stand this new ordeal.  But I failed to please even the indulgent vicar, though he got his curate for nothing, and though his fair daughter amiably welcomed the not ungainly Coelebs; and as for the severe old clerk,—­he naively blurted out, “Tell’ee what, sir, it won’t do:  you looks well,—­but what means them stops?” Alas! they meant the