of "the sets" very exclusive: young Hardie was Doge of a studious clique;
and careful to make it understood that he was a reading man who boated
and cricketed, to avoid the fatigue of lounging; not a boatman or
cricketer who strayed into Aristotle in the intervals of Perspiration.

His public running since he left Harrow was as follows: the prize poem in
his fourth term; the sculls in his sixth; the Ireland scholarship in his
eighth (he pulled second for it the year before); Stroke of the Exeter in
his tenth; and reckoned sure of a first class to consummate his twofold
career.

To this young Apollo, crowned with variegated laurel, Edward looked up
from a distance. The brilliant creature never bestowed a word on him by
land; and by water only such observations as the following: "Time, Six!"
"Well pulled, Six!" "Very well pulled, Six!" Except, by-the-bye, one
race; when he swore at him like a trooper for not being quicker at
starting. The excitement of nearly being bumped by Brasenose in the first
hundred yards was an excuse. However, Hardie apologised as they were
dressing in the barge after the race; but the apology was so stiff, it
did not pave the way to an acquaintance.

Young Hardie, rising twenty-one, thought nothing human worthy of
reverence, but Intellect. Invited to dinner, on the same day, with the
Emperor of Russia, and with Voltaire, and with meek St. John, he would
certainly have told the coachman to put him down at Voltaire.

His quick eye detected Edward's character; but was not attracted by it:
says he to one of his adherents, "What a good-natured spoon that Dodd is;
Phoebus, what a name!" Edward, on the other hand, praised this brilliant
in all his letters, and recorded his triumphs and such of his witty