THE GOOD SAMARITAN
‘Ask Fawcett’—The Ancient Mariners and the Diplomat—Christmas
Exceedings—Fawcett as Host—A Bore foiled—The British
Association.
But if no respecter of persons, Fawcett unfailingly took every
opportunity to play the good Samaritan. Were a friend in trouble, this
great rough comforter was the first at hand to help. If ill, he had
probably from the beginning been sitting daily at the patient’s bedside,
bringing good cheer, or aiding in the thousand and one ways which his
understanding of suffering, through his own great suffering, had taught
him. Nothing gave him greater joy than to help in this way.
He was sent for on one occasion by an old gentleman on his deathbed.
[Sidenote: ‘Ask Fawcett.’]
The invalid had shared some of his guest’s tastes, and before the
interview ended the old man, instead of dedicating his last hours to
spiritual things, became so cheered and animated by his blind friend
that he called from his bed for his fishing-tackle and a bottle of his
best port. This sudden convalescence so scandalised the family that the
vitalising guest was not urged to call again. He was sure to give the
heartiest, least morbid cheer, and revelled in his great privilege of
service wherever it was needed, wherever he could enter. Moreover, his
helpfulness was not spasmodic, it was continuous and unforgetting, and
he was counted on as the most faithful and, in a homespun way, the most
delicate of friends. It necessarily follows that he became a connecting
link to a large circle of Cambridge friends. To the inquiry where any
Cambridge man was, and how the fates were treating him, it was the usual
thing to say, ‘Ask Fawcett.’ Whether the man had drifted away or had
been wrecked financially, socially, or by bad health, the blind man
always knew all about it, and had usually tried to set things right. He
believed firmly in the need of ‘keeping his friendships in constant
repair.’ He did not age prematurely and had the happy talent throughout
life of seeing things from a youthful point of view. It was one of his
principles to make friendships with younger men. Some of the most
brilliant juniors found in him a warm and loyal comrade.
[Sidenote: The Ancient Mariners and the Diplomat.]
He joined a famous boat crew known as the Ancient Mariners, an entirely
safe body of athletes not liable to over-exert itself. Fawcett’s rowing
was as vigorous as it was erratic. He could not keep time with the
others, so they wisely made him stroke.
The Ancient Mariners shockingly beguiled a trusting diplomat sent by
Napoleon III. to study Cambridge sport. The young envoy had just arrived
at Cambridge and was taking in with close scientific observation all its
characteristics. He paused while passing through the Backs as the
Ancient Mariners stroked by Fawcett, skying horribly as was his wont,
hove into sight. Full of interest, the Frenchman studied their
movements, and was surprised when the learned body of professors passed
at their aged and intellectual appearance. He spoke to two
undergraduates standing by. ‘_Pardon, messieurs_, is that the famous
Cambridge crew?’ ‘Yes,’ solemnly responded one shameless youth. ‘But,
monsieur, they are very old.’ ‘Oh yes,’ came the answer, ‘the strain in
training makes them so.’ Pondering on this shocking fact, the Frenchman
industriously made notes which were later digested by his compatriots.
Unfortunately history has not given us his report to the Emperor on the
Cambridge crew.
[Sidenote: Trinity Hall.]
[Sidenote: Christmas Festivities.]
Trinity Hall was founded in 1350 by the far-sighted Bishop Bateman. He
had been greatly alarmed by the terrible black death, and wished to
provide against a scarcity of lawyers. A more genial benefactor sought
to leave a merrier bequest, and provided for an annual Christmas
festivity, properly ushered in by chapel service and followed by a Latin
oration—a eulogy on Civil Law. These Yule-Tide ‘exceedings,’ as they
were gaily termed by the fellows, had a picturesque historic reputation,
and are well described by Leslie Stephen, who enjoyed them to the full.
He writes: ‘It was almost a religious ceremony. If we could not rival
the luxury of a civic banquet, there was an impressive solemnity about
the series of festivities which lasted some ten days at Christmas time.
The college butler swelled with patriotic pride as he arranged the
pyramid of plate—the quaint little enamelled cup bequeathed by our
founder, which had, I think, a shadowy reputation for detecting poison;
the statelier goblet given by Archbishop Parker, which made its rounds
with due ceremony that we might drink “in piam memoriam fundatoris”; and
the huge silver punchbowl, which represented Lord Chesterfield’s view of
the kind of conviviality likely to be appreciated by the Fellows of his
own period. The Master ... beamed hospitality from every feature as he
presided at the table, prolonging the after-dinner sitting till the port
and madeira had made the orthodox number of rounds.’
Fawcett loved these festivities, and rejoiced greatly when he could
succeed in bringing his old friends back to Cambridge, where ‘midst the
clatter of forty pair of knives and forks and the talk of forty guests
his ringing volleys of laughter would assert their supremacy.’
A friend adds: ‘We used to argue whether Fawcett or one of his friends,
whose lungs could emit a crow of superlative vigour, was capable of the
most effective laughter; but if the single explosion of his rival was
most startling no one could deny that Fawcett was superior in point of
continuous and infectious hilarity.’
These Christmas functions would be accompanied by long expeditions,
walking, riding, or when weather permitted, skating. Fawcett would never
lose a chance of this last. A Cambridge companion has told that ‘as soon
as it was even frosty, Fawcett wanted to go skating. Even if no one else
risked it he was glad to open the season. Once early in the winter he
insisted on skating on the river Cam at Cambridge. We took a boy with
us. It was very rough. We skated below the lock, where there is a long
space of river with a strong current. It wasn’t at all safe, and I was
relieved when I was able to persuade Fawcett to come ashore. Scarcely
had I succeeded when two undergraduates appeared on the river. “I don’t
see why I can’t skate if they can!” said Fawcett. “They will be in the
river in a minute,” I replied, and so one of them was, and the boy whom
we had taken with us and I were forced to become life-savers.’
He always remembered to carry pennies in his pocket for the man to put
on his skates, or oranges for the children.
[Sidenote: Fawcett as Host.]
In 1859 Fawcett, who had recently opened a correspondence with Mill,
hospitably asked him to the college Christmasing, but the great
economist did not come. At different times Fawcett had many guests,
notably Cobden, who came to see Fawcett in the summer of 1864 and
charmed the Dons by his delightful urbanity. The great agitator was
himself glad to make the discovery that Dons abate their political
prejudice to be hospitable. Professor Huxley was also gladly welcomed by
Fawcett, besides other scientists, politicians, economists, and lawyers,
famous in their time, and who if not immortals now at all events did
their share to create that great epoch of betterment in the English
world, the Victorian era.
Fawcett had now become a well-known figure, and suffered the usual
consequences. His strategy in self-preservation is described by one
friend thus:
[Sidenote: A Bore foiled.]
‘I was walking with him one day when he was stopped by the long
conversation of a very uninteresting Professor. A few days later, when
we were again walking, I told Fawcett of the approach of the same old
bore. “How far off is he?” asked Fawcett. “About three hundred feet ...
now about a hundred and fifty.” Fawcett’s pace kept quickening and
quickening so that I could hardly keep up; when about twenty yards off
his legs shot out like the huge pistons of an engine. I had to run to
keep up with him. Like a flash of lightning we passed the Professor,
Fawcett shouting as he sped furiously by, “How do you do, Professor?
Very fine day. Good-bye”; and when the Professor in a few seconds was
left a marvelling dot on the horizon, Fawcett turned to me and said,
“He’s even slower than he looks!”’
Fawcett revelled in Cambridge society, and constantly compared it with
London, to its great disadvantage. He felt that no continuity was
possible in the talk of London drawing-rooms, and that an enormous
amount of time was lost in unnecessary pioneering before one could
discover a ground of common interest. At last when you were established
comfortably on this ground, you were briskly whirled away to repeat the
tragedy in some other circle. He had no patience with the early break-up
of London dinner-parties, owing to the custom of moving on to other
functions, and he staunchly refused to go to ‘At Homes.’
[Sidenote: Cambridge Society.]
In Cambridge life was so much simpler, men knew each other, so that no
time was lost by preliminaries, and one could still have ‘talk such as
Johnson enjoyed at the Turk’s Head.’ One had only to walk across a court
to meet old friends, to strike at once into the vital things one cared
about. Here serious subjects were considered seriously, and by men who
were young enough to feel what they had to say and hope that their
opinions would jog the old world a little from its hackneyed course.
Stephen tells us how at Christmas time he would rejoice with Fawcett in
an early and conversational breakfast; then discuss the newspaper until
luncheon; the long afternoon tramp and talk would end just in time to
prepare for dinner, and after dinner more smoking and argument until the
wee hours of the next day. What a triumphant test of friendship and
fluency!
Much of the ability of Fawcett to entertain—and be entertained—from
morning until past midnight was the result of his talent for accepting
the small and trivial things of life as legitimate pabulum for talk. He
would begin a morning’s conversation with, ‘What did you have for
breakfast to-day?’
[Sidenote: Anecdotage.]
He had a surprising avidity for anecdotes, and loved to hear certain
lengthy ones repeated numberless times. He would listen, his attention
glued to these worn tales, and would beg with an infantile eagerness to
have some hoary story retold which he had heard over and over for a
quarter of a century. His friend, the late Master of Jesus College, had
a rare genius for mimicry of voice and gesture. Fawcett revelled in his
performances; he would be on the _qui vive_ with the delight of
anticipation, and ‘as the well-known anecdote proceeded every muscle of
his body would quiver with enjoyment and he would end with
laughter-choked petitions for more.’
Though Fawcett possessed a remarkably strong and rugged mind, his
training reflected the limitations of the Cambridge curriculum of his
day, in which the development of brain fibre by mental gymnastics and
keen competition was the chief object.
The undeniable charm which accompanies the type of mind which is
attracted by mystery or the more subtle forms of the æsthetic was denied
to Fawcett. Though his biographers may feel that he would have been more
interesting if he had possessed these qualities, the frank acceptance of
his limitations and the record of his achievement make a story of such
heroism that it requires nothing more than what legitimately belongs to
it.
The short-sighted put him down as a Philistine, an epithet well
described as that name which a prig bestows on the rest of the species;
but between Fawcett and a prig there was a natural lack of harmony. He
appreciated good work wherever he found it. The novels of George Eliot,
the Brontës, or Jane Austen were a great delight to him. _Esmond_ and
_Vanity Fair_ were read to him several times over, and he would ask for
certain sonorous passages from Milton or Burke.
[Sidenote: The British Association Meeting.]
In 1860 he visited Oxford, where the British Association was holding its
meeting. He read a paper in which he had the hardihood to attack the
caustic Whewell, assailing his preface to the works of Richard Jones. A
large meeting gathered to witness the encounter. ‘Fawcett had learned by
heart a sentence from Whewell’s preface. Whewell replied and repudiated
the phrases quoted. Fawcett slowly and accurately repeated the words,
which Whewell again disavowed. Then Fawcett called to his secretary to
produce the volume in which the unlucky sentence had been marked. The
Chairman read it out, when Fawcett’s quotation appeared to be perfectly
correct. He thus gained an apparently conclusive triumph.’ ‘There were
not a half-dozen people in the room,’ Fawcett observed afterwards, ‘who
would have understood if I had got the best of the argument as to the
inductive method; but they all heard the passage repeated distinctly
three times.’ Though the younger man had unquestionably routed this
senior, Whewell took his defeat magnanimously, and was from that time on
excellent terms with his conqueror.