One last Commemoration. A day or two of unbearable farewells. Instructions for the packing of books and pictures which he had unpacked so very lately, yet at the distant other end of his Oxford career. And then that overwhelming day when a man drives to the station and, as the train gathers speed, looks for the last time on Tom Tower. He will come back again, no doubt, but no longer as a resident undergraduate; the Kingdom of the Young has passed to another dynasty. In three or four years he has progressed, in age, from boy to man; but the development has been chiefly intellectual, and, for all his greater knowledge and experience, he has changed little in character or essential instincts. The rigour of school discipline has been relaxed, because it is no longer needed; but the simple school ideals of honour and loyalty, restraint and self-control, clean living and hard condition remain unaltered. Had he chosen to defy opinion and to disdain the protection with which Oxford surrounds him, the opportunity was at hand for drinking too much and for getting into debt, for idling and for discarding the fastidiousness which impels English boys to keep women at a distance. There are men in every generation who will collect experience at all costs, but at Oxford they are not regarded with admiration: the undergraduate who drinks or boasts of his exploits with women is voted noxious or boring or both. A month or six weeks after the end of term comes the viva; then the class lists. In the following October the curtain is rung down for most, when they meet again--and, perhaps, for the last time--to receive the grace of their college and to proceed to the degree of Bachelor of Arts. CHAPTER IV LONDON AND ELSEWHERE "... These homes, this valley spread below me here, The rooks, the tilted stacks, the beasts in pen, Have been the heartfelt things, past-speaking dear To unknown generations of dead men, Who, century after century, held these farms, And, looking out to watch the changing sky, Heard, as we heard, the rumours and alarms Of war at hand and danger pressing nigh. And knew, as we know, that the message meant The breaking off of ties, the loss of friends, Death, like a miser getting in his rent, And no new stones laid where the trackway ends. The harvest not yet won, the empty bin, The friendly horses taken from the stalls, The fallow on the hill not yet brought in, The cracks unplastered in the leaking walls. Yet heard the news, and went discouraged home, And brooded by the fire with heavy mind, With such dumb loving of the Berkshire loam As breaks the dumb hearts of the English kind, Then sadly rose and left the well-loved Downs, And so by ship to sea, and knew no more The fields of home, the byres, the market towns, Nor the dear outline of the English shore,