Young Nelligan had distanced all his competitors in his college career;
some who were his equals in ability, were inferior to him in habits of
hard and patient labor; and others, again, were faint-hearted to oppose
one in whose success they affected to believe luck had no small
share. One alone had the honest candor to avow that he deserved his
pre-eminence, on the true ground of his being their superior. This was a
certain Jack Massingbred, a young fellow of good family and fortune,
and who, having been rusticated at Oxford, and involved in some outrage
against authority in Cambridge, had come over to finish his college
career in the “Silent Sister.”
Although Irish by birth, and connected with Ireland by ties of family
and fortune, he had passed all his life in England, his father having
repaired to that country after the Union, exchanging the barren honor of
a seat for an Irish borough for a snug Treasury appointment. His son
had very early given proof of superior capacity. At Rugby he was
distinguished as a scholar; and in his opening life at Oxford his
talents won high praise for him. Soon after his entrance, however,
he had fallen into a fast set,--of hunting, tandem-driving, and
occasionally hard-drinking men,--in whose society he learned to
forget all his aim for college success, and to be far more anxious
for distinction as a whip or a stroke-oar than for all the honors of
scholarship. At first he experienced a sense of pride in the thought
that he could hold his own with either set, and take the lead in the
examination-hall as easily as he assumed the first place in the social
meeting. A few reverses, however, taught him that his theory was
a mistake, that no amount of ability will compensate for habits of
idleness and dissipation, and that the discursive efforts of even high
genius will be ever beaten by the steady results of patient industry.
Partly indifferent to what had once been his great ambition, partly
offended by his failures, Massingbred threw himself entirely into the
circle of his dissipated companions, and became the very head and front
of all their wildest excesses. An absurd exploit, far more ludicrous
than really culpable, procured his rustication; a not less ridiculous
adventure drove him from Cambridge; and he had at last arrived in
Dublin, somewhat tamed down by his experiences, and half inclined to
resume his long-abandoned desire for college distinction.
The habits of the Irish College were strikingly unlike those of either
Oxford or Cambridge. Instead of a large class consisting of men of great
fortune and high expectations, he found a very slight sprinkling of
such, and even they made up nothing that resembled a party. Separated
by age, political distinctions, and county associations, all stronger in
the poorer country than in the richer one, they held little intercourse
together, and were scarcely acquainted.
If there was less actual wealth, there was also less credit to be
obtained by an Irish student. The Dublin shopkeeper acknowledged no
prestige in the “gownsman;” he admitted him to no special privilege of
book-debts; and as the great majority of the students resided with
their families in the capital, there was no room for that reckless
extravagance so often prosecuted by those who are temporarily removed
from domestic supervision.
Massingbred was at first grievously disappointed. There were neither
great names nor great fortunes amongst his new associates. Their mode
of life, too, struck him as mean and contemptible. There were clever men
reading for honors, and stupid men steering their slow way to a degree;
but where were the fast ones? where the fellows who could tool a team or
steer a six-oar, who could dash up to town for a week's reckless life at
Crocky's and Tattersall's, make their book on the Oaks, or perhaps ride
the winner at a steeplechase?
It was all grievously slow. Dublin itself was a poor affair. He had few
acquaintances, the theatres were bad, and public amusements there were
none. His fellow-students, too, stood aloof from him. It was not that
he was richer, better dressed, rode blood horses, dined at Morris-son's,
wore kid gloves, and carried scented pocket-handkerchiefs. It was not
that he had a certain air of puppyism as he wended his way across the
courts, or sauntered elegantly into chapel. They could have forgiven any
or all of these better than one of his offendings, which was his accent.
Strange as it may seem, his English voice and English pronunciation
were the most unpopular things about him, and many a real defect in his
character might have met a more merciful construction had he given no
initial “H” to “humble,” and evinced a more generous confusion about his
“wills” and “snails.”
Somewhat bored by a life so unlike anything he had ever tried
before,--partly, perhaps, stimulated to show that he could do something
beside canter his thorough-bred along Sackville Street, or lounge in
the stage-box in solitary splendor,--he went in for honors, and, to
the surprise of all, succeeded. In fact, he beat two or three of the
distinguished men of his time, till, thrown by the chance of events into
Nelligan's division, he found at once his superior, and saw that he was
in presence of an intelligence considerably above his own. When he had
adventured on the struggle and found himself worsted, he acknowledged
defeat with all the generosity of an honorable nature; and forcing his
way through the crowd as it issued from the examination-hall, was the
very first to grasp Nelligan's hand and congratulate him on his success.
“That was all got up; he was bursting with jealousy. The fellow could
have strangled Nelligan,” muttered one.
“He certainly put a good face on the disaster,” said another, more
mercifully given; “though I suppose he feels the thing sorely enough at
heart!”
That was exactly what he did not, however. Young Massingbred regarded a
college distinction as no evidence whatever of a man's attainments. He
had seen stupid fellows win the prize for which clever ones strove in
vain; but, at all events, he regarded such successes as contributing in
nothing to the great race of life, and had even a theory that such early
efforts were often the very means of exhausting the energies that should
be exerted for the high rewards of the world. Besides this, he felt a
pleasure in manfully showing that he was above a petty jealousy, and
fairly owning himself beaten in a fair struggle.
“You are the better man, Nelligan,” said he, gayly; “I 'll not try
another fall with you, be assured.”
Strange was it that in this very avowal he had asserted what the other
felt in his inmost heart to be an immeasurable superiority over him;
and that in the very moment of striking his flag he had proclaimed his
victory. To be able to run him so hard for the race and yet not feel the
struggle, to strive for the prize and care nothing for defeat, seemed to
Nelligan the evidence of an ambition that soared above college triumph,
and he could not but envy that buoyant high-hearted temperament that
seemed to make light of difficulties and not even feel depressed by a
defeat.
Up to this time these two young men had scarcely known each other, but
now they became intimate. The very difference in character served
to draw them more closely together; and if Nelligan felt a degree of
admiration for qualities whose brilliant display opened a new sense of
enjoyment to him, the other was delighted with the gentle and almost
childlike innocence of the student whose far-soaring intellect was
mastering the highest questions of science.
Massingbred was one of those natures in whom frankness is an instinct.
It seems to such a relief to open the secrets of the heart and avow
their weaknesses and their shortcomings, as though--by some Moral
Popery--they would obtain the benefit of a free confession and go forth
the better for their candor.
Not only did he tell Nelligan of his own career and its accidents, the
causes for which he was not on good terms with his family, and so on;
but he even ventured to discuss the public life of his father, and, in
a spirit of banter, swore that to his political subserviency did he owe
his whole fortune in life.
“My father was one of the crew when the vessel was wrecked, Nelligan,”
said he; “there was plenty of talk of standing by the ship to the last,
and perishing with her. Some did so, and they are forgotten already. My
father, however, jumped into the long-boat with a few more, and thought
that probably they might find another craft more seaworthy; fortunately
he was right; at least, assuredly, I 'm not the man to say he was not.”
“But was there no desertion of principle, Massingbred?” said Nelligan.
“No more than there is a desertion of your old coat when you discover it
to be too threadbare to wear any longer. Irish Politics, as the men of
that day understood them, had become impracticable,--impossible, I
might say; the only sensible thing to do was to acknowledge the fact. My
father was keen-sighted enough to see it in that light, and here 's his
health for it.”
Nelligan was silent.
“Come, Joe, out with it. Your family were honest Unionists. Tell me so
frankly, man. Own to me that you and yours look upon us all as a set of
knaves and scoundrels, that sold their country, and so forth. I want to
see you in a mood of good passionate indignation for once. Out with it,
boy; curse us to your heart's content, and I 'll hear it like an angel,
for the simple reason that I know it to be just. You won't, won't you?
Is your anger too deep for words? or are there any special and peculiar
wrongs that make your dark consuming wrath too hot for utterance?”
Nelligan was still silent; but the blush which now covered his face had
become almost purple. The allusion to his family as persons of political
importance struck him, and for the first time, with a sense of shame.
What would Massingbred think of them if he knew their real station? what
would he think of _him_ for having concealed it? Had he concealed it?
Had he ever divulged the truth? He knew not; in the whirlwind of his
confusion he knew nothing. He tried to say some words to break the
oppressive silence that seemed to weigh him down like an accusation, but
he could not.
“I see it all, Nelligan. My foolish affectation of laughing at all
principle has disgusted you; but the truth is, I don't feel it: I do
not. I own frankly that the bought patriot is a ruined man, and there
is a moral Nemesis over every fellow that sells himself; I don't mean to
say but that many who did so did n't make the best bargain their
brains were worth, and my father for one; he was a man of fair average
abilities,--able to say his commonplaces like his neighbors,--and
naturally felt that they would sound as well in England as in Ireland; I
don't think he had a single conviction on any subject, so that he really
sold a very unsalable article when he vended himself. But there were
others,--your Governor, for instance; come, now, tell me about him; you
are so devilish close, and I want to hear all about your family. You
won't; well, I'll give you one chance more, and then--”
“What then?” asked Nelligan, breathlessly.
“I 'll just go and learn for myself.”
“How? what do you mean?” “The easiest way in the world. The vacation
begins next Tuesday, and I 'll just invite myself to spend the first
week of it under your paternal roof. You look terribly shocked,
absolutely horrified; well, so you ought. It is about the greatest piece
of impertinence I 've heard of. I assure you I have a full consciousness
of that myself; but no matter, I 'll do it.”
Nelligan's shame was now an agony. It had never occurred to him in
his life to feel ashamed of his station or that of his family, for the
simple reason that he had never made pretension to anything higher or
more exalted. The distinctions at which he aimed were those attainable
by ability; social successes were triumphs he never dreamed of. But now
came the thought of how he should stand in his friend's esteem, when the
fact was revealed that he was the son of very humble parents, all whose
ways, thoughts, and habits would be apt themes for ridicule and sarcasm.
Over and over again had Massingbred annoyed him by the disparaging tone
in which he canvassed “small people,” the sneering depreciation in
which he held all their doings, and the wholesale injustice by which he
classed their sentiments with their good manners. It was the one feature
of his friend's character that gave a check to his unbounded esteem for
him. Had he not possessed this blemish, Nelligan would have deemed him
nearly faultless.
Intensely feeling this, Nelligan would have given much for courage to
say, “I am one of that very set you sneer at. All my associations and
ties are with them. My home is amongst them, and every link of kindred
binds me to them.”
Yet, somehow, he could not bring himself to the effort. It was not that
he dreaded the loss of friendship that might ensue,--indeed, he rather
believed that such would not occur; but he thought that a time might
come when that avowal might be made with pride, and not in humiliation,
when he should say: “My father, the little shopkeeper of Oughterard,
gave me the advantages by which I became what I am. The class you sneer
at had yet ambitions high and daring as your own; and talents to attain
them, too! The age of noble and serf has passed away, and we live in a
freer and more generous era, when men are tested by their own worth;
and if birth and blood would retain their respect amongst us, it is
by contesting with us more humbly born the prizes of life.” To have
asserted these things now, however, when he was nothing, when his name
had no echo beyond the walls of a college, would have seemed to him an
intolerable piece of presumption, and he was silent.
Massingbred read his reserve as proceeding from displeasure, and
jestingly said,--
“You mustn't be angry with me, Joe. The boldness of men like me is less
impudence than you take it for, since--should I fulfil my threat, and
pay your father a visit--I 'd neither show surprise nor shame if he
refused to receive me. I throw over all the claims of ceremony; but at
the same time I don't want to impose the trammels on my friends. They
are free to deal with me as frankly, ay, and as curtly as I have treated
them; but enough of all this. Let us talk of something else.”
And so they did, too,--of their college life and its changeful fortunes;
of their companions and their several characters, and of the future
itself, of which Massingbred pretended to read the fate, saying: “You'll
be something wonderful one of these days, Joe. I have it as though
revealed to me,--_you_ astonishing the world by your abilities, and
winning your way to rank and eminence; while _I_ like a sign-post that
points to the direction, shall stand stock-still, and never budge an
inch, knowing the road, but not travelling it.”
“And why should it be so, Mass, when you have such a perfect
consciousness of your powers for success?”
“For the simple reason, my boy, that I know and feel how the cleverness
which imposes upon others has never imposed upon myself. The popular
error of a man's being able to do fifty things which he has not done
from idleness, apathy, carelessness, and so on, never yet deceived me,
because I know well that when a fellow has great stuff in him it will
come out, whether he likes or not. You might as well say that the grapes
in a wine-vat could arrest their own process of fermentation, as that
a man of real genius--and mind, I am now speaking of no other--could
suppress the working of his intelligence, and throw his faculties into
torpor. The men who do nothing are exactly the men who can do no better.
Volition, energy, the strong impulse for action, are part and parcel of
every really great intellect; and your 'mute, inglorious Milton' only
reminds me of the artist who painted his canvas all red to represent the
passage of the Egyptians through the Red Sea. Believe me, you must take
all untried genius in the same scale of credit as that by which you
have fancied the chariots and horsemen submerged in the flood. They are
there, if you like; and if you don't--”
“Your theory requires that all men's advantages should be equal, their
station alike, and their obstacles the same. Now, they are not so.
See, for instance, in our University here. _I_ am debarred from the
fellowship-bench--or, at least, from attempting to reach it--because I
am a Papist.”
“Then turn Protestant; or if that doesn't suit you, address yourself
to kick down the barrier that stands in your way. By the bye, I did n't
know you were a Roman; how comes that? Is it a family creed, or was it a
caprice of your own?”
“It is the religion my family have always professed,” said Nelligan,
gravely.
“I have no right to speak of these subjects, because I have never felt
strongly enough on them to establish strong convictions; but it
appears to me that if I were you--that is, if I had _your_ head on my
shoulders--I should think twice ere I 'd sacrifice my whole future out
of respect for certain dogmas that no more interfere with one's daily
life and opinions than some obsolete usage of ancient Greece has a
bearing upon a modern suit in Chancery. There, don't look fretful and
impatient; I don't want to provoke you, nor is it worth your while
to bring your siege artillery against my card-house. I appreciate
everything you could possibly adduce by anticipation, and I yield myself
as vanquished.”
Thus, half in earnest, half jestingly, Massingbred talked away, little
thinking how deeply many a random speech entered into his friend's
heart, taking firm root there to grow and vegetate hereafter. As for
himself, it would have been somewhat difficult to say how far his
convictions ever went with his words. Any attempt to guide and direct
him was, at any time, enough to excite a wilful endeavor to oppose it,
and whatever savored of opposition immediately evoked his resistance.
The spirit of rebellion was the keynote of his character; he could be
made anything, everything, or nothing, as authority--or as he would have
styled it, tyranny--decided.
It was just at this very moment that an incident occurred to display
this habit of his mind in its full force. His father, by employing much
private influence and the aid of powerful friends, had succeeded in
obtaining for him the promise of a most lucrative civil appointment
in India. It was one of those situations which in a few years of
very moderate labor secure an ample fortune for the possessor. Mr.
Massingbred had forgotten but one thing in all the arrangement of this
affair, which was to apprise his son of it beforehand, and make him, as
it were, a part of the plot. That one omission, however, was enough to
secure its failure.
Jack received the first tidings of the scheme when it was a fact, not a
speculation. It was a thing done, not to do, and consequently a “gross
piece of domestic cruelty to dispose of him and his future by an
arbitrary banishment to a distant land, linking him with distasteful
duties, uncongenial associates,” and the rest of it. In a word, it was a
case for resistance, and he did resist, and in no very measured fashion,
either. He wrote back a pettish and ill-tempered refusal of the place,
sneered at the class by whom such appointments were regarded as prizes,
and coolly said that “it was quite time enough to attach himself to the
serious business of life when he had tasted something of the pleasures
that suited his time of life; besides,” added he, “I must see which way
my ambitions point; perhaps to a seat on the Treasury benches, perhaps
to a bullock-team, a wood-axe, and a rifle in a new settlement. Of my
resolves on either head, or on anything between them, you shall have
the earliest possible intimation from your devoted, but perhaps not very
obedient, to command,
“J. M.”
His father rejoined angrily and peremptorily. The place had cost him
everything he could employ or enlist of friendly patronage; he made the
request assume all the weight of a deep personal obligation, and now
the solicitation and the success were all to go for nothing. What if he
should leave so very gifted a young gentleman to the unfettered use of
his great abilities? What if he abstained from any interference with
one so competent to guide himself? He threw out these suggestions too
palpably to occasion any misconception, and Jack read them aright. “I'm
quite ready for sea whenever you are pleased to cut the painter,” said
he; and the correspondence concluded with a dry intimation that two
hundred a year, less than one half of his former allowance, should be
paid into Coutts's for his benefit, but that no expenditure above that
sum would be repaid by his father.
“I 'll emigrate; I 'll agitate; I 'll turn author, and write for the
reviews; I 'll correspond with the newspapers; I 'll travel in Afrifca;
I 'll go to sea,--be a pirate;” in fact, there was nothing for which he
thought his capacity unequal, nor anything against which his principles
would revolt. In speculation, only, however; for in sober reality he
settled down into a mere idler, discontented, dreamy, and unhappy.
Little momentary bursts of energy would drive him now and then to his
books, and for a week or two he would work really hard; when a change as
sudden would come over him, and he would relapse into his former apathy.
Thus was it that he had lived for some time after the term had come to
an end, and scarcely a single student lingered within the silent courts.
Perhaps the very solitude was the great charm of the place; there was
that in his lonely, unfriended, uncompanionable existence that seemed to
feed the brooding melancholy in which he indulged with all the ardor
of a vice. He liked to think himself an outcast and forgotten. It was a
species of flattery that he addressed to his own heart when he affected
to need neither sympathy nor affection. Still his was not the stuff of
which misanthropy is fashioned, and he felt acutely the silence of his
friend Nelligan, who had never once written to him since they parted.
“I 'd scarcely have left _him_ here,” said he to himself one day; “had
_he_ been in my position, I 'd hardly have quitted _him_ under such
circumstances. He knew all about my quarrel with my father. He had read
our letters on each side. To be sure he had condemned _me_, and taken
the side against me; still, when there was a breach, and that breach
offered no prospect of reconciliation, it was but scant friendship to
say good-bye, and desert me. He might, at least, have asked me down to
his house. I 'd not have gone; that 's certain. I feel myself very
poor company for myself, and I 'd not inflict my stupidity upon others.
Still, _he_ might have thought it kind or generous. In fact, in such a
case I would have taken no refusal; I'd have insisted.”
What a dangerous hypothesis it is when we assume to act for another;
how magnanimously do we rise above all meaner motives, and only think
of what is generous and noble; how completely we discard every possible
contingency that could sway us from the road of duty, and neither look
right nor left on our way to some high object! Jack Massingbred, arguing
thus, ended by thinking himself a very fine fellow and his friend a very
shabby one,--two conclusions that, strangely enough, did not put him
into half as much good-humor with the world as he expected. At all
events, he felt very sore with Nelligan, and had he known where to
address him, would have written a very angry epistle of mock gratitude
for all his solicitude in his behalf; very unfortunately, however, he
did not know in what part of Ireland the other resided, nor did his
acquaintance with provincial dialect enable him to connect his friend
with a western county. He had so confidently expected to hear from him,
that he had never asked a question as to his whereabouts. Thus was it
with Massingbred, as he sauntered along the silent alleys of the College
Park, in which, at rare intervals, some solitary sizar might be met
with,--spare, sad-looking figures,--in whose features might be read
the painful conflict of narrow fortune and high ambition. Book in
hand generally, they rarely exchanged a look as he passed them; and
Massingbred scanned at his ease these wasted and careworn sons of labor,
wondering within himself was “theirs the right road to fortune.”
Partly to shake off the depression that was over him by change of place,
and in part to see something of the country itself, Massingbred resolved
to make a walking-tour through the south and west of Ireland, and with a
knapsack on his back, he started one fine autumn morning for Wicklow.