One fifth of November, when there was a town and gown row, about forty of us went out from Christ Church to see the fun. Hardly had we all got into St. Aldate’s Street when we met the senior Proctor, with Brown the marshal carrying the mace, the bull dogs and all the myrmidons of collegiate authority. Of course, he stopped us—“Your name and College, gentlemen!” We were promptly sent back into Tom Gate, and as promptly marched across the quadrangle and were out again at Canterbury Gate, Arkwright and myself still leading. This time we got as far as the High Street unmolested, but no sooner had we turned the corner by Spiers’ shop than we ran into the arms of another Proctor. “Your names, gentlemen; go back to College at once!” and forming up behind us with his lictors, the great guardian of morals drove us in front of him along the High Street and by St. Aldate’s to Tom Gate. We had not gone many yards when we met Proctor No. 1, who mercifully did not recognize us. “Your names and Colleges, gentlemen.” “Thank you, sir,” said John Arkwright with inimitable coolness, pointing to the police force behind, “We have our Escort!” There was a great laugh from the crowd that had collected, and I expected consequences, but the Proctor must have been a good-natured fellow who saw the joke of the thing, for he took off his cap and disappeared, and we heard no more of the matter—but all chance of fun or a fight was over for that night, and this time we stayed within gates. John Arkwright, among other accomplishments, was a capital boxer—and we used to have great bouts at Maclaren’s gymnasium and fencing-rooms. Indeed there was quite a little fashion-wave of sparring which came over Oxford about the years 1856 and 1857, and so we got Aaron Jones to come down and give us lessons. He arrived the week after his second fight with Tom Sayers, and at that time, though by no means an ill-looking man, he was not a pretty sight. All shape, all humanity seemed to have been beaten out of his face; he must have suffered horribly, but that he did not mind. His courage was extraordinary and he was an undeniably fine boxer; but he had one great defect which was fatal to a first-class fighter in those days; his hands used to swell and get puffy, and the striking value of his blows was largely discounted. Now that gloves are used in all fights he would have been a most formidable adversary, for his power of inflicting punishment would have been as great as his endurance in taking it. He was a good specimen of his class, and he had a certain rough and ready wit which made him very amusing.