Chapter Five.
Saint Werner’s.
“So soon the boy a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.”
Rogers’ Human Life.
The last day at Harton came; the last chapel-service in that fair school fabric; the last sermon, “Arise, let us go hence;” the last look at the churchyard and the fourth-form room; the last “Speecher,” and delivering up of the monitor’s keys; the last farewells to Mr Carden and the other masters, and the Doctor, and their schoolfellows and fags; and then with swelling hearts Julian and Lillyston got into the special train, thronged with its laughing and noisy passengers, and during the twenty minutes which were occupied by their transit to London, were filled with the melancholy thought that the days of boyhood were over for ever.
“Good-bye, Frank,” said Julian—“To-morrow, to fresh fields and pastures new.”
“Good-bye, Julian. We must meet next at Saint Werner’s.”
“Mind you write meanwhile.”
“All right. You shall hear in a week. Good-bye.” And Lillyston nodded from the cab window his last farewell to Julian Home, the Harton boy.
But if there were partings, what glorious meetings there were too, during those twenty-four hours. Ah! they must be felt, not written of: but I am sure that no family felt a keener joy that day, than Julian’s mother, and sister, and brothers, when they saw him again, and learnt with pride that he had won a scholarship of 100 pounds a year; even Will and Mary, the faithful servants, seemed, when they heard it, to look up to their young master with even more honour than before.
Bruce spent the first part of his holidays in shooting, and the latter weeks in all the gaieties of a wealthy London family. He was naturally self-indulgent, and as no one urged him to make good use of his time, he devoted it to every possible amusement which riches could procure. Both he and his parents had a boundless belief in his natural abilities, and these, he thought, would be quite sufficient to gain him such honours as should be a graceful addition to the public reputation which he intended to win. A week or two before the Camford term commenced, he engaged some splendid lodgings, the most expensive which he heard of, and, turning out the furniture which was usually let with them, gave an almost unlimited order to a fashionable upholsterer to see them fitted out with due luxury and taste. When he came up as a freshman, which he deferred doing until the last possible moment, he was himself amazed to see how literally his orders had been obeyed. The rooms were refulgent with splendour: glossy tables, velvet-cushioned chairs, Turkey carpets, rich curtains, and an abundance of mirrors, made them, as the tradesman remarked “fit for a lord;” and Bruce took possession, with no little pride and self-satisfaction at finding himself his own master in so brilliant an abode.
Meanwhile, the holidays had passed by with Julian very differently, but very happily. Without tiring himself, or harassing his attention by study, he made a rule of devoting to work some portion, at least, of every day. Long strolls with his mother and sister in the bright summer evenings, bathes and boating excursions with Cyril and Frank, and happy, lonely rambles on the beach, kept him in health and spirits, and he looked forward with eager ambition to the arena which he was so soon to enter.
“The Harton boys have gone back by this time, haven’t they?” asked Violet, as she sat with her mother and brother on the lawn one afternoon. “Don’t you wish you were there again with them, Julian?”
“No,” said Julian, “I wouldn’t exchange Saint Werner’s man even for Harton boy.”
“How soon shall you have to go up to Saint Werner’s?” said Mrs Home.
“On October 15th; in about a fortnight’s time. I mean to go up a day or two beforehand to get settled. You and Violet must come with me, mother.”
“But is that usual? Won’t you get laughed at as though you were coming up under female escort?” asked Violet.
“Pooh! you don’t suppose I care for that,” said Julian, “even supposing it were likely to be true; besides—” He said no more, but his proud look at his sister’s face seemed to imply that he expected rather to be envied than laughed at.
Accordingly, they went up together, and, as the train drew nearer and nearer to Camford, all three grew silent and thoughtful. They were rightly conscious that on the years to be spent in college life depended no small part of Julian’s future happiness and prosperity. Three years at least would be spent there; years wealthy with all blessing, or prolific of evil and regret.
It was night when they arrived, and in the dimly-lighted streets there was not enough visible to gratify Julian’s eager curiosity. The omnibus was crowded with undergraduates, who were chiefly freshmen, but apparently anxious to seem very much at home. At the station, the piles of luggage seemed interminable, and Mrs Home and Violet were not sorry to escape from the unusual confusion to the quiet of their hotel.
Next morning, directly after an impatient breakfast, Julian started to call on his tutor.
“Which is the way to Saint Werner’s College?” he asked of the waiter.
“Straight along, sir,” was the reply, and off he started down King’s Parade. In his hurry to make the first acquaintance with his new college, Julian hardly stopped to admire the smooth green quadrangle and lofty turrets of King Henry’s College, or Saint Mary’s, or the Senate House and Library, but strode on to the gate of Saint Werner’s. Entering, he gazed eagerly at the famous great court, with its chapel, hall, fountain, and Master’s lodge; and then made his way through the cloisters of Warwick’s Court to his tutor’s rooms.
On entering, he found himself in a room, luxuriously furnished, and full of books. In a large armchair before the fire sat a clergyman, whom Julian at once conjectured to be Mr Grayson, the tutor on whose “side” he was entered. He was a tall, grave-looking man, of about forty, and rose to greet his pupil with a formal bow.
“How do you do, Mr —? I did not quite catch the name.”
“Home, sir,” said Julian, advancing to shake hands in a cordial and confiding manner; but the tutor contented himself with a very cold shake, and seemed at a loss how to proceed.
Julian was burning with curiosity and eagerness. He longed to ask a hundred questions; at such a moment—a moment when he first felt how completely he had passed over the boundary which divides boyhood from manhood, he yearned for a word of advice, of encouragement, of sympathy. He expected, at least, something which should resemble a welcome, or a direction what to do. Nothing of the kind, however, came. While Julian was awaiting some remark, the tutor shuffled, hemmed, and looked ill at ease, as though at a loss how to begin the conversation.
At last Julian, in despair, asked, “Whereabouts are my rooms, sir?”
“Oh, the porter will show you; you’ll find no difficulty about them,” said the tutor.
“Have you anything further to ask me, Mr Home?” he inquired, after another little pause.
“Nothing whatever, sir,” said Julian, a little indignantly, for he began to feel much like what a volcano may be supposed to do when its crater is filled with snow. “Have you anything to tell me, sir?”
“No, Mr Home. I hope you’ll—that is—I hope—good morning,” he said, as Julian, to relieve him from an unprofitable commonplace, backed towards the door, and made a formal bow.
“Humph,” thought Julian. “What an icicle; not much good to be got out of that quarter. An intolerably cold reception. It’s odd, too, for the man must have heard all about me from Mr Carden.”
As we shall have very little to do with Mr Grayson, we may here allow him a cordial word of apology. What was to Julian the commencement of an epoch, was, be it remembered, to the tutor a commonplace and almost everyday event. The whole of that week he had been occupied in receiving visits from “the early fathers,” who came up in charge of their sons, and all of whom seemed to expect that he would show the liveliest and tenderest interest in their respective prodigies. Other freshmen had visited him unaccompanied, and some of them seemed rather inclined to patronise him than otherwise. He was a shy man, and always had a painful suspicion at heart that people were laughing at him. Having lived the life of a student, he had never acquired the polished ease of a man of the world, and had a nervous dread of strangers. His manners were but an icy shield of self-defence against ridicule, and they suited his somewhat sensitive dignity. He persuaded himself, too, that the “men” on his side were “men” in years and discretion as well as name, and that they must stand or fall unaided, since the years of boyish discipline and school constraint were gone by. It never occurred to him that a word spoken in due season might be of incalculable benefit to many of his charge. Being a man of slow sensibilities, he could not sympathise with the enthusiastic temperament of youths like Julian, nor did he ever single out one of his pupils either for partiality or dislike. Yet he was thoroughly kind-hearted, and many remembered his good deeds with generous gratitude. Nor was he wholly wrong in his theory that a tutor often does as much harm by meddling interference as he does by distance and neglect.
When a boy goes to college, eager, quick, impetuous, rejoicing as a giant to run his course, he is generally filled with noble resolutions and elevating thoughts. There is a touch of flame and of romance in his disposition; he feels himself to be the member of a brotherhood, and longs to be a distinguished and worthy one; he is anxious for all that is grand and right, and yearns for a little sympathy to support his determination and enliven his hopes. Some there may be so dull and sensual, so swallowed up in selfishness and conceit, so chill to every generous sentiment, and callous to every stirring impulse, that they experience none of this; their sole aim is, on the one hand to succeed, or on the other, to amuse and gratify themselves, to cultivate all their animal propensities, and drown in the mud-honey of premature independence the last relics of their childish aspirations. With men like this, to dress showily, to drive tandem and give champagne breakfasts, comes as a matter of course; while their supremest delight is to wander back to their old school, in fawn-coloured dittos, and with a cigar in their mouths, to show their superiority to all sense of decency and good taste. But these are the rare exceptions. However much they may conceal their own emotions, however dead and cynical, and contemptible they may grow in after days, there are few men of ordinary uprightness who do not feel a thrill of genuine enthusiasm when they first enter the walls of their college, and who will not own it without a blush.
Now Julian was an enthusiast by nature and temperament; all the sentiments which we have been describing he felt with more than ordinary intensity. It gave a grandeur to his hopes, and a distinct sense of ennobling pleasure to remember that he was treading the courts which generations of the good and wise had trodden before him, and holding in his hand the torch which they had handed down to him. Their memory still lingered there, and he trusted that his name too might in after days be not wholly unremembered. At least he would strive, with a godlike energy, to fail in no duty, and to leave no effort unfulfilled. If he viewed his coming life too much in its poetical aspect, at least his glowing aspirations and golden dreams were tempered with a deep humility and a childlike faith.
After fuming a little at the icy reception which his tutor had given him, he walked up and down the court, thinking of his position, and his intentions—of the past, the present, and the future—until proud tears glistened in his eyes. It was clear to him that now he would have to stand alone amid life’s trials, and alone face life’s temptations. And he was ready for the struggle. With God’s help he would not miss the meaning of his life, but take the tide of opportunity while it was at the flood.
Before rejoining his mother, he determined to call on one of the junior fellows, the only one with whom he had any acquaintance, the Reverend N Admer. He only knew him from a casual introduction; but Mr Admer had asked him to call, on his arrival at Saint Werner’s, and Julian hoped both to get some information from him to dissipate the painful feeling of strangeness and novelty, and also partially to do away with the effect of Mr Grayson’s coldness.
Although it was now past ten in the morning, he found Mr Admer only just beginning breakfast, and looking tired and lazy. He was received with a patronising and supercilious tone, and the Fellow not only went on with his breakfast, but occasionally glanced at a newspaper while he talked. Not that Mr Admer at all meant to be unkind or rude, but he hated enthusiasm in every shape; he did not believe in it, and it wearied him—hence freshmen during their first few days were his profound abhorrence.
After a few commonplace remarks, Julian ventured on a question or two as to the purchases which he would immediately require, the hours of lecture and hall, and the thousand-and-one trifles of which a newcomer is necessarily ignorant. Mr Admer seemed to think this a great bore, and answered languidly enough, advising Julian not to be “more fresh” than he could help. It requires very small self-denial to make a person at home by supplying him with a little information; but small as the effort would have been, it was greater than the Reverend N Admer could afford to make, and his answers were so little encouraging that Julian, making ample allowance for the ennuyé condition of the young Fellow, relapsed into silence.
“And what do you think of Saint Werner’s?” asked Mr Admer, taking the initiative, with a yawn.
Julian’s face lighted up. “Think of it! I feel uncommonly proud already of being a Saint Werner’s man.”
“Genius loci, and all that sort of thing, eh?”
The sneering way in which this was said left room for no reply, so Mr Admer continued.
“Ah you’ll soon find all that sort of twaddle wear off.”
“I hope not,” said Julian.
“Of course you intend to be senior classic, or senior wrangler, or something of that sort?”
“I expect simply nothing; but if I were inclined to soar, one might have a still higher ambition than that.”
“Oh, I see; an embryo Newton,—all that sort of thing.”
“I didn’t mean quite ‘all that sort of thing,’ since you seem fond of the phrase,” said Julian, “but really I think my aspirations, whatever they are, would only tire you. Good morning.”
“Good morning,” said Mr Admer, nodding. “We don’t shake hands up here. I shall come and call on you soon.”
“The later the better,” thought Julian, as he descended the narrow stairs. “Good heavens! is that a fair specimen of a don, I wonder. If so, I shall certainly confine my acquaintance to the undergraduates.”
No, Julian, not a fair specimen of a don altogether, but in some of his aspects a fair specimen of a certain class of university men, who profess to admire nothing, hope for nothing, love nothing; who think warmth of heart a folly, and sentiment a crime; who would not display an interest in any thing more important than a boat-race or a game of bowls, to save their lives; who are very fond of the phrase, “all that sort of nonsense,” to express everything that rises above the dead level of their own dead mediocrity in intelligence and life. If you would not grovel in spirit; if you would not lose every tear that sparkles, and every sigh that burns; if you would not ossify the very power of passion; if you would not turn your soul into a mass of shapeless lead, avoid those despicable cynics, who never leave their discussion of the merits of beer, or the powers of stroke oars, unless it be to carp at acknowledged eminence, and jeer at genuine emotion. How often in such company have I seen men relapse into stupid silence, because, if they ventured on any expression of lively interest, one of the throng, amid the scornful indifference of the rest, would give the only acknowledgment of his remark, by taking the pipe out of his mouth, to give vent to a low guttural laugh.
After this it was lucky for Julian that he had brought his mother and sister with him, and that a moment after leaving Mr Admer he caught sight of Hugh Lillyston. With a joyful expression of surprise, they grasped each other’s hands, and interchanged so friendly a greeting that Julian in an instant had scattered to the winds the gloomy impression which was beginning to creep over him.
“How long have you been here, Hugh?”
“I came yesterday.”
“Have you seen your rooms yet?”
“No; I am just going to look for them.”
“Well, come along; I know where they are.”
“But stop,” said Julian, “I must go to the Eagle first for my people. They’ll be expecting me.”
“Really. So Mrs Home’s here?” asked Lillyston.
“Yes, and my sister. If you’ve nothing to do, come and be introduced.”
“How immensely jolly. I wish my mother and sister had taken the trouble to come with me, I know.”
They went to the hotel, and Lillyston was able to gratify the curiosity he had long felt to see his friend’s relations.
“Whom do you think I’ve brought back with me, mother? guess,” said Julian, as he entered the room beaming with pleasure. “Here, Hugh, come along. My mother—my sister—Mr Lillyston.”
“What! is this the Mr Lillyston of whom we’ve heard so much?” asked Mrs Home, with a cordial shake of the hand, while Violet looked up with a quick glance of curiosity and pleasure.
“No other,” said Hugh, laughing; “and really I feel as if I were an old friend already.”
“You are so, I assure you,” said Mrs Home, “and I hope we shall often meet now.” Lillyston hoped the same, as he looked at Violet.
It was arranged that they should all four go at once to Julian’s rooms, and help in the grand operation of unpacking. The rooms were very pleasant attics in the great court, looking out on the Fellows’ bowling-green, and the Iscam flowing beyond it. The furniture, most of which Julian was going to take from the previous possessor, was neat and comfortable, and when the book shelves began to glitter with his Harton prizes and gift-books, Julian was delighted beyond measure with the appearance of his new home.
For some hours the unpacking continued vigorously, only interrupted by an excursion for lunch to the hotel, since Julian had as yet purchased no plates and received no commons.
On their return they found an old lady in the room—
“A charred and wrinkled piece of womanhood;”
who, in a voice like the grating of a blunt saw, informed Julian that she was to be his bedmaker, and asked him whether he intended “to tea” in his rooms that evening. (The verb “to tea” is the property of bedmakers, and, with beautiful elasticity, it even admits of a perfect tense—as “have you tea’d?”)
“By all means,” said Julian; “lay the table for four this evening at eight o’clock, and get me some bread and butter. You’ll stay, Hugh, won’t you?”
“I should like to, very much. But won’t it be your last evening with your mother and Miss Home?”
“Yes; but never mind that.”
Lillyston shook his head, and bidding the ladies a warm good-bye, left them to enjoy with Julian his first quiet evening in Saint Werner’s, Camford.
“I must hang my pictures before you go, Violet. I shall want your advice.”
“Well, let me see,” said Violet. “The water-colour likenesses of Cyril and Frankie ought to go here, one on each side of Mr Vere; at least, I suppose, you mean to put Mr Vere in the place of honour?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Julian; “every time I look on that noble face, so full of strength and love, and so marked with those ‘divine hieroglyphics of sorrow,’ I shall learn fresh lessons of endurance and wisdom.”
“People will certainly call you a heretic, if you do,” laughed Violet.
“People!” said Julian scornfully.
“Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise.
“Let them yelp.”
Mr Vere was an eminent clergyman, who had been an intimate friend of Mr Home before his death. Julian had only heard him preach, and met him occasionally; but he had read some of his works, and had received from him so much sympathising kindness and intellectual aid, that he regarded him with a love and reverence little short of devotion—as a man distinguished above all others for his gentleness, his eloquence, his honesty, his learning, and his love. This likeness had belonged to Mr Home, and Julian had asked leave to carry it with him whenever he should go to the University.
“Yes, the place of honour for Mr Vere.”
“And where shall we hang this?” said Julian, taking up a photograph of Van Dyck’s great painting of Jacob’s Dream: the Hebrew boy is sleeping on the ground, and his long, dark curls, falling off his forehead, mingle with the rich foliage of the surrounding plants, fanned by the waving of mysterious wings; a cherub is lightly raising the embroidered cap that partially shades his face, and at his feet, blessing him with uplifted hand, stands a majestic angel, on whose flowing robes of white gleams a celestial radiance from the vista, alight with heavenly faces, that opens over his head. A happy and holy slumber seems to breathe from the lad’s countenance, and yet you can tell that the light of dreams has dawned under his “closed eyelids,” and that the inward eye has caught full sight of that Beatific Epiphany.
“We must hang this in your bedroom, Julian,” said Mrs Home. “I shall love to think of you lying under the outstretched hand of this heavenly watcher.”
So they hung it there, and the task was over, and they spent a happy happy evening together. Next morning Julian accompanied them to the train, and walked back to the matriculation examination.
Chapter Six.
Rencontres.
“A boy—no better—with his rosy cheeks
Angelical, keen eye, courageous look,
And conscious step of purity and pride.”
Wordsworth’s Prelude.
A public school man is by no means lonely when he first enters the university. He finds many of his old school-fellows accompanying him, and many who have gone up before him, and he feels united to them all by a bond of fellowship, which at once creates for him a circle of friends. Had Julian merely kept up his Harton acquaintances, he would have known as many Camford men as were at all necessary for the purposes of society.
But although with most or all of the Hartonians Julian remained on pleasant and friendly terms, there were others whom he saw quite as much, and whose society he enjoyed all the more thoroughly because their previous associations and experiences were different from his own. And on looking back in aftertimes, what a delight it was to remember the noble hearts which, during those years of college life, had always beaten in unison with his own. Few enjoyments were more keen than that social equality and unconventional intercourse common among all undergraduates, which might at any time ripen into an earnest and invaluable friendship, or merely stop at the stage of an agreeable acquaintanceship. A great, and not the least useful portion of University education consisted in the intimate knowledge of character and the many-sided sympathies which were thus insensibly acquired.
During the first few weeks of college life, of course, a good deal of time was spent in receiving and returning the visits of acquaintances, old and new. Of the latter, there was one with whom Julian and Lillyston were equally charmed, and who soon became their constant companion. His name was Kennedy, and Julian first got to know him by sitting next him in lecture-room. His lively remarks, his keen and vivid sense of the ludicrous, the quick yet kindly notice he took of men’s peculiarities, his ardent appreciation of the books which occupied their time, and the pleasant, rapid way in which he would dash off a caricature, soon attracted notice, and he rapidly became popular, both among undergraduates and dons. He was known, too, by the warm eulogy of his fellow-Marlbeians, who were never tired of singing his praises among themselves.
“Splendid!” whispered he to Julian warmly, after Julian had just finished construing a difficult clause in the Agamemnon, which he had done with a spirit and fire which even kindled a spark of admiration in the cold breast of Mr Grayson. “Splendidly done, Home! I say, how very reserved you are. Here have I been longing to know you for the last ten days, and we have hardly got beyond a nod to each other yet. Do come in to tea at my rooms to-night at eight. I want to introduce you to a friend of mine—Owen of Roslyn school.”
“With pleasure,” said Julian. “That dark-haired fellow is Owen, is it not? I hear he’s going to do great things!”
“Oh yes! booked for a Fellow and a double-first; so you ought to know him, you know.”
“Silence, gentlemen,” said Mr Grayson, turning his stony gaze on Kennedy, whose bright face instantly assumed a demure expression of deep attention, while the light of laughter which still danced in his eyes might have betrayed to a careful observer the fact that the notes on which he appeared to be so assiduously occupied mainly consisted of replications of Mr Grayson’s placid physiognomy and Roman nose.
“I’ve brought an umbra with me, Kennedy, in the person of Mr Lillyston, who sits next to me at lectures, and wanted to be introduced to you,” said Owen, as he came in to Kennedy’s room that evening.
“I’m delighted,” said Kennedy. “Mr Lillyston, let me introduce you to Mr Home.”
“We hardly need an introduction, Hugh, at this time of day; do we?” said Julian, laughing; and the four were soon as much at home as it was possible for men to be. There was no lack of conversation. I think the rooms of a Camford undergraduate are about the last place where conversation ever flags; and when men like Kennedy, Owen, Julian, and Lillyston meet, it is perhaps more genuinely earnest and interesting than in any other time or place.
The next day, as Kennedy was sitting in Julian’s rooms, glancing over the Aeschylus with him, in strutted Hazlet, whom we have incidentally mentioned as having been the son of a widow lady living at Ildown. He had come up to Camford straight from home, and as he had only received a home-education everything was strangely bewildering to him, and Julian was almost the only friend he knew. Nor was he likely to attract many friends; his manner was strangely self-confident, and his language dictatorial and dogmatic. In his mother’s house he had long been the centre of religious tea-parties, before which he was often called upon to read and even to expound the Scriptures. “At the tip of his subduing tongue” were a number of fantastic phrases, originally misapplied, and long since worn bare of meaning, and the test of his orthodoxy was the universality with which he could reiterate proofs of heresy against every man of genius, honesty, and depth—who loved truth better than he loved the oracles of the prevalent idols. Hazlet practised the duty of Christian charity by dealing indiscriminate condemnation against all except those who belonged to his own exclusive and somewhat ignorant school of religious intolerance. His face was the reflex of his mind; his lank black hair stuck down in stiff dry straightness over a contracted forehead and an ill-shaped head; his spectacles gave additional glassiness to a lack-lustre eye, and the manner in which he carried his chin in the air seemed like an acted representation of “I am holier than thou.”
Far be it from me to hold up to ridicule any body of earnest and honest men, to whatever party they may belong. I am writing of Hazlet, not of those who hold the same opinions as he did. That man must have been unfortunate in life who has not many friends, and friends whom he holds in deep affection, among the adherents of opinions most entirely antagonistic to his own. Hazlet’s repulsiveness was due to a very mistaken education, developing a very foolish idiosyncrasy, and especially to the pernicious system of encouraging sentiments and expressions which in a boy’s mind could not be other than sickly exotics. He had to be taught his own hypocrisy by the painful progress of events, and, above all, he had to learn that religious shibboleths may be no proof of sanctification, and that religious intolerance is usually the hybrid offspring of ignorance and conceit. In many essential matters he held the truth,—but he held it in unrighteousness.
It may be imagined that Hazlet was no favourite companion of Julian Home. But Julian loved and honoured to the utmost of his power the good points of all; he had a deep and real veneration for humanity, and rarely allowed himself an unkind expression, or a look which indicated ennui, even to those associates by whose presence he was most unspeakably bored. Hazlet mistook his courteous manner for a deferential agreement, and was, too often, in Julian’s presence more than usually insufferable in his Pharisaical tendencies.
“Good heavens!” said Kennedy, who saw Hazlet coming across the court. “Who’s this, Home? He looks as if he had been just presiding at three conventicles and a meeting at Philadelphus Hall. Surely he can’t be coming here.”
“Oh, yes,” said Julian, “that’s a compatriot of mine named Hazlet; a very good fellow, I believe, though rather obtrusive perhaps.”
“Good morning, Home,” said Hazlet, in a measured and sanctified tone, as he entered the room and sat down.
Kennedy glanced impatiently at the Aeschylus.
“Ah! I see you’re engaged on that heathen poet. It often strikes me, Home, that we may be wrong after all in spending so much time on these works of men, who, as Saint Paul tells us, were ‘wholly given to idolatry.’ I have just come from a most refreshing meeting at—”
“I say, Home,” cut in Kennedy hastily, “shall I go? I suppose you won’t do over any more of the Agamemnon this morning.”
“I don’t know,” said Julian; “perhaps Hazlet will join us in our construe.”
“No, I think not,” said Hazlet, with a compassionate sigh. “I have looked at it; but some of it appeared to me so pagan in its sentiments that I contented myself with praying that I might not be put on. But you haven’t told me what you think about what I was saying.”
“Botheration,” said Kennedy; “so your theory is that Christianity was intended to put an extinguisher over the light of heaven-born genius, and that the power and passion and wisdom of Aeschylus came from himself or the devil, and not from God? Surely, without any further argument on such an absurd proposition, it ought to be sufficient for you that this kind of learning forms a part of your immediate duty.”
“I find other duties more paramount—now prayer, for instance, and talk with sound friends.”
“Phew!!!” whistled Kennedy, thoroughly disgusted at language which was as new to him as it was distasteful; and, to relieve his feelings, he abandoned the conversation to Julian, and began to turn over the books on the table. Julian, however, seemed quite disinclined to enter into the question, and after a pause, Hazlet, gracefully waiving his little triumph, asked him with a peculiar unction—
“And how goes it, my dear Home, with your immortal soul?”
“My soul!” said Julian carelessly. “Oh! it’s all right.”
Hazlet then began to look at Julian’s pictures.
“Ah,” he observed with a deep sigh, “I’m sorry to see that you have the portrait of so unsound, so dangerous a man as Mr Vere.”
“We’ll drop that topic, please, Hazlet,” said Julian, “as we’re not likely to agree upon it.”
“Have you ever read one word that Mr Vere ever wrote?” asked Kennedy.
“Well, yes; at least no, not exactly: but still one may judge, you know; besides, I’ve seen extracts of his works.”
“Extracts!” answered Kennedy scornfully; “extracts which often attribute to him the very sentiments which he is opposing. But it isn’t worth arguing with one of your school, who have the dishonesty to condemn writers whom you are incapable of understanding, on the faith of extracts which they haven’t even read.”
The wrathful purpling of Hazlet’s sallow countenance portended an explosion of orthodox spleen, but Julian gently interposed in time to save the devoted Kennedy from a few unmeasured anathemas.
“Hush!” he said, “none of the odium theologicum, please, lest the mighty shade of Aeschylus smile at you in scorn. Do drop the subject, Hazlet.”
“Very well, if you like, Home; but I must deliver my conscience, you know. But really, Julian, you are not very Christian in your other pictures.”
This was too much even for Julian’s politeness, and he joined in the shout of laughter with which Kennedy greeted this appeal.
“Fools make a mock at sin,” said Hazlet austerely. “I trust that you will both be brought to a better state of mind. Good morning!”
Kennedy flung himself into an armchair, and after finishing his laugh, exclaimed, “My dear Home, where did you pick up that intolerable hypocrite?”
“Hush, Kennedy, hush! Don’t call him a hypocrite. His mode of religion may be very offensive to us, and yet it may be sincere.”
“Faugh! the idea of asking you, ‘How’s your soul?’ It reminds me of a friend of mine who was suddenly asked by a minister in a train ‘if he didn’t feel an aching void?’ ‘An aching void? Where?’ said Jones, in a tone of alarm, for he was an unimaginative person. ‘Within, sir, within!’ said the stranger. Jones felt anxiously to find whether one of his ribs was accidentally protruding, but finding them all safe, set down the minister for a lunatic, and moved to the further end of the carriage.”
Julian smiled; he was more accustomed to this kind of phraseology than his friend, and knew that outrageous as it was to good taste under the circumstances, it yet might spring from a sincere and honourable motive, or at best must be regarded as the natural result of innate vulgarity and mistaken training.
“Surely at best,” continued Kennedy, “it’s a most unwarrantable impertinence for a fellow like that to want to dabble his ignorant and coarse hand in the hallowed secrets of the microcosm. Not to one’s nearest and dearest friend, not to one’s mother or brother would one babble promiscuously on such awful themes; and to have the soul’s sublime and eternal emotions, its sacred and unspoken communings, lugged out into farcical prominence by such conversational cant as that, is to dry up the very fountain of true religion, and put a premium on the successful grin of an offensive hypocrisy.”
Kennedy seemed quite agitated, and as usual found relief in striding up and down the room. His religious feelings were deep and real—none the less so for being hidden—and Hazlet’s language and manner had given him a rude shock.
“Another hour in that fellow’s company would make me an infidel,” he exclaimed with quivering lip. “Pray for me, indeed, with some of his ‘sound and congenial friends.’ Faugh! ‘sound!’ how does he dare to judge whether his superiors are ‘sound’ or not? and why must he borrow a metaphor from Stilton cheeses when he’s talking of religious convictions.”
“Why really, Kennedy,” said Julian, “to see the contempt written in your face, one would think you were an archangel looking at a black beetle, as a learned judge once observed. If you won’t regard Hazlet as a man and a brother, at least remember that he’s a vertebrate animal.”
But Kennedy was not to be joked out of his indignation, so Julian continued. “I wish you knew more of Lillyston. At one time, I should have been nearly as much bothered by Hazlet as you, but Lillyston’s kind, genial good-humour with every one, and the genuine respectful sympathy which he shows even for things he can least understand, have made me much happier than I should have been. Now, he might have done Hazlet some good, whereas your opposition, my dear fellow, will only make him more rampant than ever. Ah, here Lillyston comes.”
“What an honest open face,” said Kennedy.
“Like the soul which looks through it, sans peur et sans reproche,” said Julian warmly.
“Rather a contrast to the last comer,” murmured Kennedy, as he picked up his cap and gown to walk to the lecture-room.
“There, don’t think of Hazlet any more,” said Julian.
“‘He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small,
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.’
“A capital good motto that; isn’t it, Hugh?”
“I must love Hazlet as one of the very small things, then,” said the incorrigible Kennedy as he left the room with the other two.
Hazlet was put on to construe during the lecture, and if anything could have shaken the brazen tower of his self-confidence, it would have been the egregious display of incapacity which followed; but Hazlet rather piqued himself on his indifference to the poor blind heathen poets, on whose names he usually dealt reprobation broadcast. “Like lions that die of an ass’s kick,” those wronged great souls lay prostrate before Hazlet’s wrathful heels.
Chapter Seven.
The Scorn of Scorn.
“And not a man, for being simply man,
Hath any honour, but honour for those honours
That are without him—as place, riches, favour,
Prizes of accident as oft as merit.”
Shakespeare.
Very different in all respects were Julian’s rencontres with others of his old schoolfellows. There were some, indeed, among them who had left Harton while they were still in low forms, and some whose tastes and pursuits were so entirely different from his own, that it was hardly likely that he should maintain any other intercourse with them than such as was demanded by a slight acquaintance. But of Bruce, at any rate, it might have been expected that he would see rather more than proved to be the case. Bruce, as having been head of the school during the period when Julian was a monitor, had been thrown daily into his company, and, as inmates of the same house, they had acted together in the thousand little scenes which diversify the bright and free monotony of a schoolboy’s life.
But the first fortnight passed by, and Bruce had not called on Julian, and as they were on different “sides,” they had not chanced to meet, either in lecture-room or elsewhere. Julian, not knowing whether his position as sizar would make any difference in Bruce’s estimation of him, had naturally left him to take the initiative in calling; while Bruce, on the other hand, always a little jealous of his brilliant contemporary, and not too anxious to be familiar with a sizar, pretended to himself that it was as much Julian’s place as his to be first in calling. Hence it was that, for the first fortnight, the two did not happen to come across each other.
Meanwhile Bruce also had made many fresh acquaintances. His reputation for immense wealth and considerable talent—his dashing easy manner—his handsome person and elaborate style of dress, attracted notice, and very soon threw him into the circle of all the young fashionables of Saint Werner’s. His style of life cannot be better described than by saying that he affected the fine gentleman. Hardly a day had passed during which he had not been at some large breakfast or wine-party, or formed one of a select little body of supping aristocrats. He did very little work, and pretended to do none, (for Bruce was a first-rate specimen of the never-open-a-book genus), although at unexpected hours he took care to get up the lecture-room subjects sufficiently well to make a display when he was put on. Even in this he was unsuccessful, for scholarship cannot be acquired per saltum, and Mr Serjeant, the lecturer on his side, looked on him with profound contempt as a puppy who was all the more offensive from pretending to some knowledge. He told him that he might distinguish himself by hard steady work, but would never do so without infinitely more pains than he took the trouble to apply. His quiet and caustic strictures, and the easy sarcasm with which he would allow Bruce to flourish his way through a passage, and then go through it himself, pointing out how utterly Bruce had “hopped with airy and fastidious levity” above all the nicer shades of meaning, and slurred over his ignorance of a difficulty by some piece of sonorous nonsense, made him peculiarly the object of the young man’s disgust. But though Mr Serjeant wounded his vanity, the irony of “a musty old don,” as Bruce contemptuously called him, was amply atoned for by the compliments of the fast young admirers whom Bruce soon gathered round him, and some of whom were always to be found after hall-time sipping his claret or lounging in his gorgeous rooms. To them Bruce’s genius was incontestably proved by the faultless evenness with which he parted his hair behind, the dapperness of his boots, and the merit of his spotless shirts.
Sir Rollo Bruce, Vyvyan’s father, was a man of no particular family, who had been knighted on a deputation, and contrived to glitter in the most splendid circles of London society. His magnificent entertainments, his exquisite appointments, his apparently fabulous resources, were a sufficient passport into the saloons of dukes; and, although ostensibly Sir Rollo had nothing to live on but his salary as the chairman of a bank, nobody who had the entrée of his house cared particularly to inquire into the sources of his wealth. Vyvyan imitated his father in his expensive tastes, and cultivated, with vulgar assiduity, the society of the noblemen at his college. In a short time he knew them all, and all of them had been at his rooms except a young Lord De Vayne, of whom we shall hear more hereafter, and whose retiring manners made him shrink with dislike from Bruce’s fawning familiarity.
The sizars at Saint Werner’s do not dine at the same hour as the rest of the undergraduates, but the hour after, and their dinner consists of the dishes which have previously figured on the Fellows’ table. It seems to me that the time may come when the authorities of that royal foundation will see reason to regret so unnecessary an arrangement, the relic of a long, obsolete, and always undesirable system. Many of Saint Werner’s most distinguished alumni have themselves sat at the sizars’ table, and if any of them were blessed or cursed with sensitive dispositions, they will not be dead to the justice of these remarks. The sizars are, by birth and education, invariably, so far as I know, the sons of gentlemen, and perhaps most often of clergymen whose means prevent them from bearing unassisted the heavy burden of University expenses. After a short time many of these sizars become scholars, and eventually a large number of them win for themselves the honours of a fellowship. Why put on these young students a gratuitous indignity? Why subject them to the unpleasant remarks which some are quite coarse enough to make on the subject? The authorities of Saint Werner’s are full of real courtesy and kindness, and that the arrangement is not intended as an indignity I am well aware; it is, as I have said, the accidental fragment of an obsolete period—a period when scholars dined on “a penny piece of beef,” and slept two or three in a room at the foot of the Fellows’ beds. All honour to Saint Werner’s; all honour to the great, and the wise, and the learned, and the noble whom she has sent forth into all lands; all honour to the bravery and the truthfulness of her sons; all honour to the profound scholars, and able teachers, and eloquent orators who preside at her councils; she is a Queen of colleges, and may wield her sceptre with a strong hand and a proud. But are there not some among her subjects who are deaf to the sounds of calm advice?—some who are so blind as to love her faults and prop up her abuses?—some who daub her walls with the untempered mortar of their blind prejudice, and treat every one as an enemy who would aid in removing here and there a bent pillar, and here and there a crumbling stone? (These words were written some time ago. I trust that since then all causes of offence, if they ever existed, have long been forgiven and forgotten.)
And now let all defenders of present institutions, however bad they may be—let all violent supporters of their old mumpsimus against any new sumpsimus whatever, listen to a conversation among some undergraduates. It may convince them, or it may not—I cannot tell; but I know that it had a powerful influence on me.
Bruce was standing in the Butteries, where he had just been joined by Lord Fitzurse and Sir John D’Acres, who by virtue of their titles—certainly not by any other virtue—sat among reverend Professors and learned Doctors at the high table, far removed from the herd of common undergraduates. With the three were Mr. Boodle and Mr. Tulk, (the “Mister” is given them in the college-lists out of respect for the long purses which have purchased them, the privilege of fellow-commoners or ballantiogennaioi), who enjoyed the same enviable distinction and happy privilege. By the screens were four or five sizars; a few more were scattered about in the passage waiting, whilst the servants hurriedly placed the dishes on the table set apart for them; and Julian was chatting to Lillyston, who chanced at the moment to have been passing by.
“Who is that table for?” asked D’Acres, pointing through the open door of the hall.
“Oh, that’s for the sizars,” tittered the feeble-minded Boodle, who tittered at everything.
“S–s–sizars!” stammered Lord Fitzurse. “What’s that mean? Are they v–v–very big f–f–fellows?”
“Ha! ha! ha!” said Bruce. “No; they’re sons of gyps and that kind of thing, who feed on the semese fragments of the high table.”
“They must be g–g–ghouls!” said his lordship, shudderingly.
“Hush,” said D’Acres, who was a thorough gentleman, “some of the sizars may be here;” and he dropped Bruce’s arm.
“Pooh! they’ll feel flattered,” said Bruce carelessly, as D’Acres walked off.
“Indeed!” said Julian, striding indignantly forward, for the conversation was so loud that he had heard every word of it. “Flattered to be the butt for the insolence of puppyism and every fool who is coarse enough to insult them publicly.”
“Who the d–d–d–deuce are you?” said Lord Fitzurse, “for you’re coming it r–r–rather strong.”
“Who is he?” said Lillyston, breaking in, “your equal, sir, in birth, as he is your superior in intellect, and in every moral quality. Gentlemen,” he continued, “let me warn you not to have the impertinence to talk in this way again.”
“Warn us!” said Bruce, trying to hide under bravado his crestfallen temper; “why, what’ll you do if we choose to continue?”
“Make a few counter-remarks to begin with, Bruce, on parasites and parvenus, tuft-hunting freshmen, and the tenth transmitters of a foolish face,” retorted Lillyston, glowing with honest indignation.
“And turn you out of the butteries by the shoulders,” said a strong undergraduate, who had chanced to be a witness of the scene. “A somewhat boyish proceeding, perhaps, but exactly suited to some capacities.”
Bruce and his friends, seeing that they were beginning to have the worst of it, thought it about time to swagger off, and for the future learnt to confine their remarks to a more exclusive circle.
There had been another silent spectator of the scene in the person of Lord De Vayne. He was a young viscount whose estate bordered on the grounds of Lonstead Abbey, and he had known Julian since both of them were little boys. He had been entirely educated at home with an excellent tutor, who had filled his mind with all wise and generous sentiments; but his widowed mother lived in such complete seclusion that he had rarely entered the society of any of his own age, and was consequently timid and bashful. Meeting sometimes with Julian, he had conceived a warm admiration for his genius and character, and at one time had earnestly wished to join him at Harton. But his mother was so distressed at the proposition that he at once abandoned it, while he eagerly looked forward to the time when he should meet his friend at Saint Werner’s, on the books of which college he had entered his name partly for this very reason. He had not been an undergraduate many days before he called on Julian, who had received him indeed very kindly, but who seemed rather shy of being much in his company for fear of the remarks which he had not yet learnt entirely to disregard. This was a great source of vexation to De Vayne, though the reason of it was partly explained after the remarks which he had just overheard.
“Home,” he whispered, “I wish you’d come into my rooms after hall, I should so much like to have a talk. Do,” he said, as he saw that Julian hesitated, “I assure you I have felt quite lonely here.”
Accordingly, after hall, Julian strolled into Warwick’s Court, and found his way to Lord De Vayne’s rooms.
“I am so glad to see you, Julian, at last. As I have told you,” he said, with a glistening eye, “I have been very lonely. I have never left home before, and have made no friend here as yet;” and he heaved a deep sigh.
Julian felt his heart full of friendliness for the gentle boy whose total inexperience made him seem younger than he really was. He glanced round the rooms; they were richly furnished, but full of memorials of home, that gave them a melancholy aspect. Over the fireplace was a water-colour likeness of his lady-mother in her widow’s weeds, and on the opposite side of the room another picture of a beautiful young child—De Vayne’s only brother, who had died in infancy. The handsomely-bound books on the shelves had been transferred from their well-known places in the library of Uther Hall, and the regal antlers which were fastened over the door had once graced the dining-room. Thousands would have envied Lord De Vayne’s position; but he had caught the shadow of his mother’s sadness, his relations were few, at Saint Werner’s as yet he had found none to lean upon, and he felt unhappy and alone.
“I was so ashamed, Julian,” he said, “so utterly and unspeakably ashamed to hear the rudeness of these men as we came out of hall. I’m afraid you must have felt deeply hurt.”
“Yes, for the moment; but I’m sorry that I took even a moment’s notice of it. Why should one be ruffled because others are unfeeling and impertinent; it is their misfortune, not ours.”
“But why did you come up as a sizar, Julian? Surely with Lonstead Abbey as your inheritance—”
“No,” said Julian with a smile; “I am lord of my leisure, and no land beside.”
“Really! I had always looked on you as a future neighbour and helper.”
He was too delicate to make any inquiries on the subject, but while a bright airy vision rose for an instant before Julian’s fancy, and then died away, his friend said, with ingenuous embarrassment:
“You know, Home, I am very rich. In truth, I have far more money than I know what to do with. It only troubles me. I wish—”
“Oh, dear no!” said Julian hastily; “I got the Newry scholarship, you know, at Harton, and I really need no assistance whatever.”
“I hope I haven’t offended you; how unlucky I am,” said De Vayne blushing.
“Not a whit, De Vayne; I know your kind heart.”
“Well, do let me see something of you. Won’t you come a walk sometimes, or let me come in of an evening when you’re taking tea, and not at work?”
“Do,” said Julian, and they agreed to meet at his rooms on the following Sunday evening.
Sunday at Camford was a happy day for Julian Home. It was a day of perfect leisure and rest; the time not spent at church or in the society of others, he generally occupied in taking a longer walk than usual, or in the luxuries of solemn and quiet thought. But the greatest enjoyment was to revel freely in books, and devote himself unrestrained to the gorgeous scenes of poetry, or the passionate pages of eloquent men; on that day he drank deeply of pure streams that refreshed him for his weekly work; nor did he forget some hour of commune, in the secrecy of his chamber and the silence of his heart, with that God and Father in whom alone he trusted, and to whom alone he looked for deliverance from difficulty, and guidance under temptation. Of all hours his happiest and strongest were those in which he was alone—alone except for a heavenly presence, sitting at the feet of a Friend, and looking face to face upon himself.
He had been reading Wordsworth since hall-time, when the ringing of the chapel-bell summoned him to put on his surplice, and walk quietly down to chapel. As there was plenty of time, he took a stroll or two across the court before going in. While doing so, he met De Vayne, and in his company suddenly found himself vis-à-vis with his old enemy Brogten.
“Hm!” whispered Brogten to his companion; “the sizars are getting on. A sizar and a viscount arm-in-arm!”
Julian only heard enough of this sentence to be aware that it was highly insolent; and the flush on De Vayne’s cheek showed that he too had caught something of its meaning.
“Never mind that boor’s rudeness,” he said. “I feel more than honoured to be in the sizar’s company. How admirably quiet you are, Julian, under such conduct!”
“I try to be; not always with success, though,” he answered, as his breast swelled, and his lip quivered with indignation
“Scorn!—to be scorned by one that I scorn:
Is that a matter to make me fret?
Is that a matter to cause regret?
Stop! let’s come into chapel.”
They went into chapel together. De Vayne walked into the noblemen’s seats, and Julian, hot and angry, and with the words, “Scorn!—to be scorned by one that I scorn,” still ringing in his ears, strode up the whole length of the chapel to the obscure corner set apart—is it not very needlessly set apart?—for the sizars’ use.
Saint Werner’s chapel on a Sunday evening is a moving sight. Five hundred men in surplices thronging the chapel from end to end—the very flower of English youth, in manly beauty, in strength, in race, in courage, in mind—all kneeling side by side, bound together in a common bond of union by the grand historic associations of that noble place—all mingling their voices together with the trebles of the choir and the thunder-music of the organ. This is a spectacle not often equalled; and to take a share in it, as one for whose sake in part it has been established, is a privilege not to be forgotten. The music, the devotion, the spirit of the place, smoothed the swelling thoughts of Julian’s troubled heart. “Are we not all brethren? Hath not one Father begotten us?” Such began to be the burden of his thoughts, rather than the old “Scorn!—to be scorned by one that I scorn.” And when the glorious tones of the anthem ceased, and the calm steady voice of the chaplain was heard alone, uttering in the sudden hush the grand overture to the noble prayer—
“O Lord, our heavenly Father, high and mighty, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, the only Ruler of princes, who dost from thy throne behold all the dwellers upon earth.”
Then the last demon of wrath was exorcised, and Julian thought to himself—
“No; from henceforth I scorn no one, and am indifferent alike to the proud man’s scorn and the base man’s sneer.”
The two incidents that we have narrated made Julian fear that his position as a sizar would be one of continual annoyance. He afterwards gratefully acknowledged that in such a supposition he was quite mistaken. Never again while he remained a sizar did he hear the slightest unkind allusions to the circumstance, and but for the external regulations imposed by the college, he might even have forgotten the fact. Those regulations, especially the hall arrangements, were indeed sufficiently disagreeable at times. It could not be pleasant to dine in a hall which had just been left by hundreds of men, and to make the meal amid the prospect of slovenly servants employed in the emptying of wine-glasses and the ligurrition of dishes, sometimes even in passages of coquetry or noisy civilities, on the interchange of which the presence of these undergraduates seemed to impose but little check. These things may be better now, and in spite of them Julian felt hearty reason to be grateful for the real kindness of the Saint Werner’s authorities. In other respects he found that the fact of his being a sizar made no sort of difference in his position; he found that the majority of men either knew or cared nothing about it, and sought his society on terms of the most unquestioned equality, for the sake of the pleasure which his company afforded them, and the thoughts which it enabled them to ventilate or interchange.