Bimalá takes with her as her guard in her solitary walk to the temple a halfcrazy pupil of the Brahman's, who acts as the fool of the novel. Bengalis have a great deal of humour, and this conceited pedant's extravagances afford no little amusement to Hindu readers, but such scenes seldom bear transplanting into another language. She sends her servant to fetch him, who finds him eating his meal of boiled rice, and slily makes him break the rule of silence which a Brahman should observe in eating his food. At length, however, he is persuaded to accompany her mistress, and the two set out on their lonely journey by moonlight. As they approach the rendezvous Bimalá determines to get rid of her companion, as his presence would be inconvenient at

that the Rajput family pride was wholly satisfied with the alliance. Thus Elphinstone says that "the connection was on a footing of so much equality that, from being looked on with repugnance as a loss of caste, it soon came to be counted as an honourable alliance with the family of the sovereign." But in Kaye's "Life of Lord Metcalfe," vol. i. p. 416, we have an interesting letter written by Metcalfe from Delhi, in reply to an inquiry from England, in reference to these matrimonial connections between the Moghul princes and the daughters of the Rajput Rajahs. "I received your letter," he writes, "a few minutes before a visit from the Jodpur wakil, a most respectable and well-informed old man ; and I availed myself of the opportunity to apply to him for a solution of the question. He says that it was first proposed to the Rajput Rajahs to form a connection with the imperial family by taking in marriage imperial princesses, but that this proposal was rejected, as such a communication would have polluted the blood of the Rajahs' families, and would have been utter abomination for ever; that they were glad to effect their escape from so alarming a danger by sacrificing their own daughters, who were considered as dead from the time of their connection with the Emperors; that after ice had been once broken by the formation of a connection of this kind, it came to be considered a custom, and ceased to be objectionable; that a connection with the Emperors was thought to be desirable for political purposes, and that the rivalship of the Rajahs of Jeipur and Jodpur made both occasionally press forward with their daughters, each being jealous when such a connection was formed by the other: nevertheless, that the daughters were considered as dead and gone, though their posthumous influence was an object of desire to their

fathers."

the meeting; she easily frightens him by a ghost story, and he hurries off without even a word of farewell. She then enters the temple, and finds the Rajput already there. He is very

anxious to learn the name of her young companion, but when he hears that she is the daughter of his he begins to despair. ever, for one more accordingly he and together to the castle.

father's enemy, He prays, howinterview, and Bimalá return As they return,

Bimalá is confirmed in a suspicion which had crossed her in her previous walk, that they were watched; she fancies she hears sounds of footsteps under the trees, and catches glimpses of moving figures between the boughs in the moonlight. At length they reach the castle; and, contrary to her expecta tions, she contrives a meeting between the lovers. Unfortunately she leaves the postern door open, and the party are suddenly surprised by a band of Katlú Khán's soldiers, who force their way into the fort and overpower the defenders. The attack is described with considerable spirit. The assailing party is commanded by Osmán Khán,a Pathan officer who had been sent to punish the chieftain of the fort for refusing his alliance against Man Singh.

Katlú Khán himself soon arrives, and takes charge of the prisoners. Bírendra, Tilottama's father, is put to death; but the Khán has the wounded Rajput prince carefully tended in his own house, as he hopes by his mediation to secure advantageous terms of peace with Mán Singh; when, however, he finds these hopes of his disappointed, he has him transferred to a dungeon and treated as a common prisoner. Tilottamá is placed in the Nawáb's zenána, but Bimalá has a parting interview with her husband before his death, when a final reconciliation takes place, and she vows to avenge him.

There is a very amusing scene when Jagat Singh, just before his removal to his cell, has an interview with Abhiram Swami's crazy pupil. Bidya-diggaj, "the world-supporting elephant of knowledge," is his upádhi or honorary title;

but the poor fellow has been frightened into embracing Mohammedanism, and he now swears by the Kurán instead of the Shasters, and wishes to be considered a "Mochhalmán" and to be called Shekh Through him he hears ! of Tilottamá's threatened fate, as if it were already accomplished and she had voluntarily welcomed her disgrace.

Bimalá in the meantime finds a friend in Osmán. She had saved his life when a child, and he now promises to save her; and he accordingly gives her a ring to secure her a free passage through the guards round the palace. She is to use it on the night of the tyrant's birthday, which he is to celebrate by a wild revel. The ring will only pass one through the guards, and Bimalá resolves to save her step-child. She herself remains behind to accomplish her own purpose of revenge, and Tilottamá is to personate her and so regain her liberty.

Tilottamá obeys her stepmother's instructions, and assumes her disguise; and as all the guards are engaged in revelry, she has no difficulty in threading her way through the various apartments of the palace, until she reaches the appointed door. There she finds a soldier waiting for her by Osmán's orders, who, on her showing him the ring, offers to conduct her where she pleases. In her agitation and utter uncertainty as to her lover's fate, she asks to be conducted to his cell. The soldier of course at first hesitates, and the prisoner's guards, when he explains her wish to them, are still more reluctant; but Osman's ring at last overcomes every obstacle, and the door is thrown open, and Tilottamá finds herself in his presence. He was lying dressed on a common prisoner's bed, when he was suddenly aroused by the opening of the door.

"At first when he saw her he did not recognize her. He was only astonished to see a woman enter his cell. He was still more astonished to see the stranger approach no nearer, but remain with her face bent down, leaning against the wall. He sprang from his bed, advanced to

The

wards the door, and looked,-it was Tilottamá! For a moment their eyes met; but at that very instant her glance dropped to the ground, and her limbs slightly moved as if she were about to fall at his feet. The Rajput a little drew back, and in an instant her limbs became rigid as by a spell. The blossom of her heart which had opened for a moment began at once to dry up and contract. He coldly exclaimed, 'How! Bírendra Singh's daughter?' words pierced her like an arrow-what meant this address? Had he forgotten her very name? Both remained silent for a while, until he again asked, 'For what purpose have you come here?' What a question! her head became giddy; the room, the bed, the lamp, the wall, all began to swim before her; she seized hold of the wall to support herself. The Rajput waited for an answer, but what answer could she give? At last he said, 'You are distressed,-go back whence you came, and forget all the past.'

"Tilottamá no longer felt giddy. Like a creeper fallen from the tree, she dropped senseless on the floor."

Jagat Singh had heard that she had been taken into the zenána, and all his Rajput pride had been roused; hence he had vowed to tear her image and memory from his mind. He now consults with the soldier who had brought her, as to what had best be done; and they finally agree to send a message to 'Ayesha, the daughter of the Nawab Katlú Khán. Her character is the best drawn in the book. She had nursed Jagat Singh while he lay dangerously wounded in her father's house, and her heart had been insensibly interested in the young Rajput hero. She comes

when summoned, and makes her appearance in the cell with her attendant, and soon restores Tilottamá to consciousness. But all hope or power of escape is over for the present, and she is sent back to 'Ayesha's room, who, however, promises to protect her and to seize the first opportunity of sending her away.

66

The female attendant left the room with her. Jagat Singh thought to him

self,' Is it thus that we have met again?' and he heaved a deep sigh and remained silent. As long as Tilottamá could be seen through the doorway, he kept his eyes fixed in that direction.

"Tilottamá also thought, 'Is it thus that we have met?' but as long as she was in sight she did not look back. When she turned and looked, he was no more to be seen."

'Ayeshá remains behind for a few minutes to offer the Rajput his liberty. She urges him to escape while there is time, as she fears for his life from her father's anger.

But he refuses to risk her safety; he feels that he already owes his life to her care, and he peremptorily rejects every plan of escape which would involve her honour or life. Our readers will see that some of the traits of 'Ayesha are drawn from Scott's Rebecca, but it is far from being a mere servile copy.

Bimala in the meantime assassinates the tyrant in the midst of his drunken revel; and of course this entirely changes the aspect of things. 'Ayeshá sends off Tilottamá to the appointed spot where the Brahman Abhiram was waiting for her. Jagat Singh is released from prison, and soon proceeds to his father's camp to effect a peace between the two armies.1

1

of Hindu rhetoric, all romances ought to do.

We have not said much of 'Ayesha, though, like Rebecca, she naturally interests the reader most. Her figure is the last seen in the book, and we extract the striking scene with which the story closes.

She gives to Tilottamá at her marriage a casket of jewels, just as Rebecca did to Rowena, and she then returns home.

"It was night when 'Ayeshá returned to her house. She stood at her chamber window in the cool evening breeze. Countless stars were shining in the dark sky, and the leaves of the trees were heard rustling in the darkness as the wind stirred them. The owl uttered his cry from the top of the tower, and beneath where she stood the moat reflected the image of the sky. She thought for some time, and at last drew off a ring from her hand. In that ring there was poison. She thought to herself, If I drink this little draught, I shall have quenched all my thirst;' but then again she thought, 'Did God send me into the world for such a deed as this? If I had not power to bear this sorrow, why did I accept at the first to be born as a woman? And what, too, would Jagat Singh say if he heard of it?' She replaced the ring on her finger, but she soon afterwards again drew it off.

She

thought to herself, 'It is not for a woman to keep this temptation near her; it is better to throw the tempter away.' So saying, 'Ayeshá dropped the poison-ring into the moat."

AN impression has been gaining ground that the recent appointment of a Commission to inquire into the revenues of Oxford and Cambridge is not intended. to lead to any legislative action. It is rumoured that the Government intend to rely on the activity recently displayed. by some colleges in remodelling their constitutions as a proof that they have in their own hands all the powers that are requisite for reform, and that parliamentary interference is unnecessary. The view is at first sight plausible; whether it is sound depends entirely on the nature and extent of the changes which require to be made. The object of this paper is to point out one or two considerations which appear to show that the task of self-reform is one which it is far beyond the power of colleges themselves to accomplish effectually.

If we examine the dissatisfaction which is felt with the existing application of college revenues, we shall find that, apart from the general conviction that a great deal of money is spent with very disproportionate results, it may be traced mainly to two sources-a conviction outside the University that certain forms of fellowships are abuses, and a conviction within the University that its machinery is no longer adapted to its changed circumstances and requirements. From the popular point of view the defects of the fellowship system are roughly summed up under two heads -clerical fellowships and non-resident fellowships. Both of these are condemned, and rightly condemned, as abuses, -the one as a remnant of a vicious system of denominational monopolies, the other as a remnant of a vicious system of sinecures. Prune off these rotten branches, say popular reformers, and there will not be so much amiss.

Unfortunately this is not a case to which pruning is applicable, for the evil is no mere excrescence, but is ingrained in the system. The suggestion of such a remedy arises from a misconception of the nature of fellowships, a misconception which is natural enough, for it is to be feared that the majority of Englishmen have the vaguest possible notions as to what is meant by a fellowship at Oxford or Cambridge, how it is obtained, what duties (if any) and emoluments are attached to it, and what are the conditions upon which it is held. To a foreigner, to whom even the name is unfamiliar, fellowships are still more mysterious institutions. In particular, the condition of celibacy, that curious relic of medievalism, which is attached to most of them, presents hopeless difficulties. An Oxford fellow, whose appearance and habits were very far from suggesting any resemblance to the mendicant orders, has been known to describe himself to an inquisitive foreigner, as "a kind of very secular monk." No wonder that both foreigners and natives should be puzzled, for it would be difficult to find a more anomalous monster than a modern college fellow-a member of a society maintaining curious and antique ecclesiastical forms and traditions, yet possibly the most lay of laymen; a celibate, yet bound by no monastic vows; a member of the body which supplies almost all the teaching power of the University, yet not necessarily a teacher, not necessarily resident at the University, and even if a resident teacher, holding no status in the University as such; receiving his emoluments, sometimes as part of his pay as teacher, sometimes as a mere sinecure prize: a patron of numerous livings and an absentee landlord of estates which he has probably never seen, and of the

existence of which he has very possibly never heard.

The truth of course is, that a college fellow is an English institution, and, like so many English institutions, is capable of historical explanation, but incapable of definition. Look at him. as he was in the fourteenth or fifteenth century, and the attributes which are so anomalous now, and the necessity or utility of which is defended by such far-fetched and powerful arguments, powerful arguments, become natural and intelligible enough. In the first place, he was originally a student, bound by the rules of his college to go through a long and elaborate course of study, but not bound to give any teaching. It was only by a kind of accident that, as the University system of teaching broke down, and it became more and more customary for young students to flock to colleges for the benefit of sharing in the college discipline and course of studies, the older member of the society became a teacher, and it is important to remember that even now the fellow is not a teacher as such. In the next place, when not merely learning, but the rudimentary arts of reading and writing, were almost a monopoly of the clergy, and when accordingly persons took orders, not because they wished to perform, or because they were peculiarly qualified to perform spiritual functions, but simply because they wished to lead a studious life, it is almost needless to say that a college fellow would, whether compelled to be so or not by the rules of his society, almost necessarily be a clerk in holy orders. The notion that either the Universities or the Colleges were intended in any special sense to be nursing mothers of the Church in general, or of the Anglican Establishment in particular, is a figment of a much later age. For the same reason, and also because his narrow lodgings, common meals and scanty stipend were inconsistent with married life, he would be a celibate. Many reasons would contribute to make him liveat the University. To begin with, if, as is probable, his aims were study, there was no other place at

which books or instruction were acces sible. Then the nature of his emoluments was such as to make them dependent in great measure on residence. In all probability they consisted mainly of free lodging at the University, of an allowance for "battels," i.e. meals, and of a "stipend" which was paid during residence. The financial circumstances of colleges have so completely changed that "rooms," "battels," and "stipend" now figure as very considerable items in the income of a fellow, which is mainly derived from his dividends, i.e. his share in the surplus revenues of the college estates, after payment out of them of the scholarships and other specific burdens with which they are charged,-a surplus, be it remembered, which did not then exist, and the existence of which is mainly due to the enormous increase in the value of land. Thus there was every reason why a fellow should remain at the University, or, if he left it, should only leave it for a college living the holding of which might or might not be considered by his college compatible with the retention, in a modified form, of his fellowship, according to the value of the living or the circumstances of the college. This being the case, it was hardly necessary to lay down rules expressly providing against such a contingency as that of a fellowship being held by a flourishing barrister or a colonial dignitary.

The Oxford reforms of 1854, by making success in an examination the only means of obtaining a fellowship, stimulated competition, and struck a blow at favouritism and nepotism, but they left the fellowships themselves unchanged. What the Oxford fellow was in the fourteenth, that he still is, in theory, in the nineteenth century. Though the Church is no longer the exclusive home of science and learning, though the Establishment has become only one among several denominations, yet a large proportion of the fellowships is reserved exclusively to clergymen of the Established Church. Though the scanty pittance of the fellow has grown into a comfortable competence, yet the