As to Crawford’s intellectual powers, he had already given ample proof. He had taken a first class in Classical Moderations. He had won the Chancellor’s prize for Latin Verse, and had been _proxime accessit_ for the Stanhope Essay. And then, to crown all, from the boyish undergraduate point of view, he had rowed in his College Eight, and won the Diamond Sculls at Henley. Why, he was the very _beau-ideal_ of a Fellow. A handsome, clever, athletic English gentleman. Oxford has had many such, and, thank God, she has them still. Men who consider a fellowship and tutorship a sacred trust; who look upon the undergraduates as friends to be helped, guided, and taught, but not in mere learning for the schools; who will draw out, not crush, the fresh hopefulness of youth; who will cheer, not cloud, boys’ ambitions; who will look for good qualities, not watch and wait for errors; whose chief thought will be what good they can do, and not what fines they can impose. “Do you see much of Monkton now?” Crawford asked, as they were walking to Godstow by the upper river. “Very little,” said Frank. “I can’t think what he does with himself.” “Not much, I fancy. I see him loafing occasionally, and I believe that’s pretty nearly all he does. However, I’m glad you don’t see much of him.” And Crawford changed the subject. “What’s this I hear of you and the _Undergraduates’ Journal_? You don’t mean to say you’ve taken to write in it? I should have thought you had work enough to do.” Frank got red and confused. “Well, the fact is--I have written a few things; but it didn’t take much time.” “Ah! that’s just where it is,” said Crawford. “If you do anything of that sort at all, it’s worth doing well--just as everything is, for the matter of that. You haven’t time to do it well, and you square the matter by doing it hurriedly. You’d far better stick to your Law reading.” “I say, old fellow,” remonstrated Frank, “I didn’t come out for a lecture. You’re a regular old school-master. I only wrote three little poems, or ‘sets of verses’ as I suppose I ought to call ’em: that’s the extent of my writing.” “Oh!” said Crawford, somewhat mollified. “Well, take my advice; get your degree first and write afterwards.” “That’s all very well,” retorted Frank; “but I should like to know how you expect a fellow to be able to write without practice? Reading Law and writing answers to papers don’t help one.” “I don’t think we’ll discuss the question any further,” answered Crawford. “You want to marry Rose, I know, as quickly as possible. Well, my opinion is that you’ll do it a great deal more quickly by reading Law than by writing poetry.”