Tutor and Pupils--Old Style

Doctor Samuel Johnson, of Johnson's Court, Fleet Street, had at this
time some name in the world; but not to the pitch that persons entering
Pembroke College hastened to pay reverence to the second floor over the
gateway, which he had vacated thirty years earlier--as persons do now.

Their gaze, as a rule, rose no higher than the first-floor oriel, where
the shapely white shoulder of a Parian statue, enhanced by a background
of dark-blue silken hanging, caught the wandering eye. What this lacked
of luxury and mystery was made up--almost to the Medmenham point in the
eyes of the city--by the gleam of girandoles, and the glow, rather felt
than seen, of Titian-copies in Florence frames. Sir George, borne along
in his chair, peered up at this well-known window--well-known, since in
the Oxford of 1767 a man's rooms were furnished if he had tables and
chairs, store of beef and October, an apple-pie and Common Room
port--and seeing the casement brilliantly lighted, smiled a trifle
contemptuously.

'The Reverend Frederick is not much changed,' he muttered. 'Lord, what a
beast it was! And how we hazed him! Ah! At home, is he?'--this to the
servant, as the man lifted the head of the chair. 'Yes, I will go up.'

To tell the truth, the Reverend Frederick Thomasson had so keen a scent
for Gold Tufts or aught akin to them, that it would have been strange
if the instinct had not kept him at home; as a magnet, though unseen,
attracts the needle. The same prepossession brought him, as soon as he
heard of his visitor's approach, hurrying to the head of the stairs;
where, if he had had his way, he would have clasped the baronet in his
arms, slobbered over him, after the mode of Paris--for that was a trick
of his--and perhaps even wept on his shoulder.