ff: finally, the father failed in Mods
and has gone down: the son will probably take his degree,
and may then be able to prepare his father for another try.

Among the coloured cartoons in Shrimpton's
window at Oxford there used to be, when I was
up, a picture which I think referred to this story.

_Nov. 23rd._--Spent two hours "invigilating" in the
rooms of W.J. Grant (who has broken his collar-bone, and is
allowed to do his Greats papers in this way) while he
dictated his answers to another undergraduate, Pakenham, who
acted as scribe.

_Nov. 24th_.--Dined with Fowler (now President of
C.C.C.) in hall, to meet Ranken. Both men are now mostly
bald, with quite grey hair: yet how short a time it seems
since we were undergraduates together at Whitby! (in 1854).

_Dec 8th._--A Common Room Meeting. Fresh powers were
given to the Wine Committee, and then a new Curator elected.
I was proposed by Holland, and seconded by Harcourt, and
accepted office with no light heart: there will be much
trouble and thought needed to work it satisfactorily, but it
will take me out of myself a little, and so may be a real
good--my life was tending to become too much that of a
selfish recluse.

During this year he composed the words of a song, "Dreamland." The air
was _dreamed_ by his friend, the late Rev. C. E. Hutchinson, of
Chichester. The history of the dream is here given in the words of the
dreamer:--

I found myself seated, with many others, in darkness, in a
large amphitheatre. Deep stillness prevailed. A kind of
hushed expectancy was upon us. We sat awaiting I know not
what. Before us hung a vast and dark curtain, and between it
and us was a kind of stage. Suddenly an intense wish seized
me to look upon the forms of some of the heroes of past
days. I cannot say whom in particular I longed to behold,
but, even as I wished, a faint light flickered over the
stage, and I was aware of a silent procession of figures
moving from right to left across the platform in front of
me. As each figure approached the left-hand corner it turned
and gazed at me, and I knew (by what means I cannot say) its
name. One only I recall--Saint George; the light shone with
a peculiar blueish lustre on his shield and helmet as he
turned and slowly faced me. The figures were shadowy, and
floa