"Patet omnibus veritas; nondum est prorsus occupata."
Seneca, Epistolae 33.
Julian's third year at Camford was by no means the happiest period of
his life there, because the sad absence of Kennedy and De Vayne made a
gap in his circle of friends which could not easily be filled up; but
this was the _annus mirabilis_ of his university career. He gained
prize after prize; he was always first class in the college
examinations; he won the chancellor's medals for Latin and English
verse, and, indeed, almost divided with Owen the honours of the place.
To crown all, he gained the Ireford University scholarship, which Owen
had won the year before.
Of all the men of his year, he was the most honoured and respected; he
wore the weight both of his honours and his learning "lightly like a
flower," and there was a graceful humility, joined with his
self-dependence, which won every heart, and prevented that jealousy
which sometimes accompanies success.
The most important event in his intellectual progress was the attention
which he began to turn at this time to biblical and theological studies.
He was thankful in later years that he had deferred such inquiries to a
time when he was capacitated for them by a calm and sound judgment, and
a solid basis of linguistic and historical knowledge. He had always
looked forward to holy orders, and regarding the life of a clergyman as
his appointed work, he considered that an honest, a critical, and an
impartial study of the Bible was his first duty. In setting about it,
he came to it as a little child; all he sought for was the simple truth,
uncrushed by human traditions, unmingled with human dogmas, untrammelled
by human interpretations, unadulterated by human systems. He found that
he had a vast amount to unlearn, and saw clearly that if he fearlessly
pursued his inquiries they would lead him so far from the belief of
popular ignorance, as very probably to bar all worldly success in the
sacred profession which he had chosen. But he knew that the profession
_was_ sacred, and, fearless by nature, he determined to seek for truth
and truth only, honestly following the prayerful conclusions of his
clearest and most deliberate judgment. Even in these early days the
freedom and honesty of his research drew on him slight sibilations of
those whose religion was shallow and sectarian; in after years they were
destined to bring on him open and positive persecution.
Not that Julian was ever in the least degree obtrusive in stating his
beliefs when they widely and materially differed from the expressed
opinions of the majority; except, indeed, in the cases when such
opinions appeared to him dishonest or dangerous. He was scrupulously
careful not to wound the conscience of those who would have been unable
to understand the ground of his arguments, even when they could not
resist their logical statement; and in whom long custom was so
inveterate that the weed of system could not be torn out of their hearts
without endangering the flower of belief. With men like Hazlet--I mean
the reformed and now sincere Hazlet--he either confined himself wholly
to subjects on which differences were impossible, or, if questioned,
stated his views with caution and consideration. It was only with the
noisy and violent upholders of long-grounded error--error which they
were too feeble to maintain except by mean invective or ignorant
declamation--that Julian used the keen edge of his sarcasm, or the
weighty sword of his moral indignation. He was not the man to bow down
before the fool's-cap of tyrannous and blatant ignorance. If he could
have chosen one utterance from the holy Scriptures, which to him was
more precious in its full meaning than another, it was that promise,
rich with inexhaustible blessing, "And ye shall know the truth, and the
truth shall make you free."
Perhaps there is no greater want in this age than a full, fair,
_fearless_ religio clerici; the men who _could_ write it, dare not; and
the men who dare write it, cannot. They say the age is not ripe for it;
and if they mean that it would cause violent offence to the potent
rulers of fashionable religious dogmatism, they are right. But I wander
from my theme, and meddle with the subjects which this is not the place
to touch upon.
The close of Julian's undergraduate life was as honourable as its
promise had been. He obtained a brilliant first class, and was
bracketed with Owen as the best classic of his year. Lillyston also
distinguished himself, and all three determined to read for Fellowships,
which, before a year was over, they had the honour to obtain.
Meanwhile a circumstance had happened which changed the course of
Kennedy's intentions. After his conversation with Violet, he had often
thought of his plans for the future, and written to her about them.
Reconciled to the plan, of returning to Camford after the year of his
rustication, he was now trying to settle his future profession. His way
seemed by no means clear; he had never thought of being a clergyman, and
now, more than ever, deemed himself unfitted for such a life. The long
tedious delay of the bar to a man without any special interest; the
sickness of hope deferred during the prime years of life the weariness
of a distasteful study, and the heavy trial of dusky chambers in a city
to a man who loved the sea and the country with a passionate love,
deterred him from choosing the law. He had no liking for the army,
except in time of war; the life of the officers whom he knew was not
altogether to his mind, and he was neither inclined to gaiety nor fond
of an occupation which offered so many temptations to listlessness and
indolence. There was no immediate necessity to decide finally, because
in any case he meant to take his degree, and looked forward with some
hope, after his year of unswerving diligence in the retirement of Orton,
to honours in the Tripos and the pleasant aid of a Saint Werner's
Fellowship as the crown of his career. But on the whole, he began to
think that he might be both useful and successful as a physician. He
had a deep reverence for this earthly tabernacle of the immortal soul,
and a hallowed and reverend curiosity about that "harp of a thousand
strings," which, if it be untuned by sickness, mars every other melody
of life. Violet entered into all his views, and they determined to
leave the matter thus until Kennedy should have donned his B A gown.
But about this period that public step was taken of throwing open to
competition the Indian civil service appointments, which has been of
such enormous advantage to the "middle-classes" of England by offering
to them, as the reward of industry, the opportunity of a new and
honourable profession, and which seems likely to be prolific of good
results to the future of our Empire in the East. Directly Kennedy saw
the announcement of the examination, he grasped with avidity the chance
of a provision for life which it afforded, and easily obtained the
assent both of his own and of Julian's family to offer himself as a
candidate. Of course they contemplated with sorrow the prospect of so
long a separation as the plan involved, but they saw that he himself was
strongly desirous to win their approval of his proposition, and of
course his wishes were Violet's too.
So Kennedy went in for the civil service examination, and acquitted
himself so admirably that his name headed the list of successful
competitors, and he was told that he must prepare himself to leave
England in a year for the post to which they appointed him.
This happened about the time that Julian took his degree, and before the
year was over Julian had been elected a Fellow, and the living of Elstan
was offered to him. Being of small value--200 pounds a year--it had
been rejected by all the Fellows of older standing, and had "come down"
to Julian, who, to the surprise of his friends, left Camford and
accepted it without hesitation.
"My dear fellow," said Mr Admer, "how in the world can you be so insane
as to bury yourself alive, at the age of twenty-two, in so obscure a
place as the vicarage of Elstan?"
"Oh, Elstan is a charming place," said Julian; "I visited it before
accepting it, and found it to be one of those dear little English
villages in the greenest fields of Wiltshire. The house is a very
pretty one, and the parish is in perfect order. My predecessor was an
excellent man: his population, of one thousand souls, were perhaps as
well attended to as any in all England."
"Yes, yes," said Mr Admer, impatiently, "I know all that; but who will
ever hear of you again if you go and become what Sydney Smith calls `a
kind of holy vegetable' in the cabbage-gardens of a Wiltshire hamlet?"
"Why, what would you have me do, Mr Admer?"
"Oh, I don't know; stay up here, edit a Greek play, or one of the
epistles; bestir yourself for some rising university member in a
contested election; set yourself to get a bishopric or a deanery; you
could easily do it if you tried. I'll give you a receipt for it any day
you like. Or go to some London church; with such sermons as you could
preach you might have London at your heels in no time, and as you would
superadd learning to effectiveness, your fortune would be made."
Julian was sorry to hear him talk like this; it was the language of a
disappointed and half-believing man.
"I don't care for such aims," he said. "A _mere_ popular preacher I
would not be, and as for preferment it doesn't depend much on me, but
for the most part on purely accidental causes. All I care for at
present is to be useful and happy. Obscurity is no trial to me; neither
success nor failure can make me different from what I am."
"Well then, at least, write a book or something to keep yourself in
men's memory."
"I don't feel inclined. There are too many books in the world, and I
have nothing particular to say. Besides, the annoyance and spite to
which an author subjects himself are endless--to hear ignorant and often
malicious criticisms, to see his views misrepresented, his motives
calumniated, and his name aspersed. No, for the present, I prefer the
peace and the dignity of silence."
"What on earth will you find to do, then, if you have no ambition?"
"Nay, I don't want you to think that I'm so virtuous or so phlegmatic as
to have no ambition. I _have_ a passionate ambition, whether known or
unknown, so to live as to lead on the coming golden age, and prepare the
next generation to be truer and wiser than ours. If it be my destiny
never to be called to a wider sphere of work than Elstan, I shall be
content to do it there."
"And how will you occupy your time?" asked Mr Admer, who had long loved
Julian too well even to smile at what were to himself mere
unintelligible enthusiasms.
"Oh, no fear on that score. My profession will give me plenty of work;
besides, what is the use of education, if it be not to render it
_impossible_ for a man to know the meaning of the word ennui? Put me
alone in the waiting-room of some little wayside station to wait three
hours for a train, and I should still be perfectly happy, even if there
were no such thing as a book to be got for miles."
"Well, well, if you must vanish to Elstan, do. At any rate, remember
your old Camford friends, and let us hear of you sometimes? I suppose
you'll keep on your Fellowship at least for a year?"
"Insidious questioner!" said Julian; "no, I hope to be married very
soon. You shall come down and see love in a cottage."
"Aha, I see it all now," said Mr Admer, with a sigh.
"Nay, you mustn't sigh. I expect to be congratulated, not pitied," said
Julian, gaily. "A wife will sweeten all the cares and sorrows of life,
and instead of withering away my prime in selfish isolation, and
spending these still half-youthful years in loneliness, and without a
real home, I shall feel myself complete in the materials of happiness.
After all, ambition such as yours is a loveless bride."
So Julian accepted Elstan, and Lillyston went with him to London to help
him in selecting furniture for the vicarage which was so soon to receive
a bride.
"Are you really going to venture on matrimony with only 200 pounds a
year?" asked Lillyston.
"I have some more of my own, you know, Hugh; Mr Carden's legacy, you
remember; but even if I hadn't, I would still marry even on a hundred a
year if I wished and the lady consented."
"And repent at leisure."
"Not a bit of it. If I were a man to whom lavender-coloured kid gloves
and unlimited eau-de-cologne were necessaries of life, it might be folly
to think of it. But if a man be brave, and manly, and fearless of
convention, let him marry by all means, and not make his life bitter and
his love cold by long delay."
"But how about his children?"
"Well, it may be fanaticism, but I believe that God never sends a soul
into the world without providing ample means for its sustenance. Of
course, such an assertion will set the tongues of our would-be
philosophers waggling in scornful cachinnation; but, in spite of that, I
do believe that if a man have faith, and a strong heart, and common
sense, he may depend upon it his children will not starve. Some of the
very happiest people I know are to be found among the large families of
country clergymen. Besides, very often the children succeed in life,
and improve their father's position. I haven't the shadow of a doubt
that I am doing the right thing. I only wish, Hugh, that you would
follow my example."
"Perhaps I shall, some day," said Lillyston.
"And meanwhile you will be my bridegroom's man, will you not?"
"Joyfully--if it be only to see Miss Kennedy's face again."
"And do you know that Kennedy is to be married to Violet the same day?"
"Is he? happy fellow! As for me, I am going to resign my fellowship,
and to make myself useful at Lillyston Court. When is the wedding to
be?"
"_Both_ weddings, you mean, Hugh. On the tenth of next June at
Orton-on-the-Sea--the loveliest spot in the world, I think."
So in due time Julian packed up all his books and prizes, and bade
farewell to his friends, and turned his back on Camford. It is as
impossible to leave one's college without emotion as it is to enter it,
and the tears often started to Julian's eyes as the train whirled him
off to Elstan. He had cause, if any man ever had, to look back to
Camford with regret and love. His course had been singularly
successful, singularly happy. He had entered Saint Werner's as a sizar,
he left it as a Fellow, and not "With academic laurels unbestowed."
He had grown in calmness, in strength, in wisdom; he had learnt many
practical lessons of life; he had gained new friends, without losing the
old. He had learnt to honour all men, and to be fearless for the truth.
His mind had become a well-managed instrument, which he could apply to
all purposes of discovery, research, and thought; he was wiser, better,
braver, nearer the light. In a word, he had learnt the great purpose of
life--sympathy and love to further man's interest--faith and prayer to
live ever for God's glory. And not a few of these lessons he owed to
his college, to its directing influence, its ennobling associations, its
studies--all bent towards that which is permanent and eternal, not to
the transitory and superficial. To the latest day of his life, the name
of Saint Werner's remained to Julian Home an incentive to all that is
noble and manly in human effort. He felt the same duty with regard to
it as the generous scion of an illustrious house feels towards the
ancient name which he has inherited, and the noble lineage whence he has
sprung.
The few months which were to elapse before his marriage, Julian spent in
preparing the vicarage for his young betrothed, and he stored it with
everything which could delight a simple yet refined and educated taste.
There was an indefinable charm about it--the charm of home. You felt on
entering it that its owner destined it as the place around which his
fondest affections were to centre, and his work in life was to be done.
Julian had not the restless mind which sighs for continual change; happy
in himself and his own resources, and the honest endeavour to do good,
the glory of the green fields, the changes of the varying year supplied
him with a wealth of beauty which was sufficient for all his needs, and
when--after some long day's work amid the cottages, reading to the sick
at their lonely bedsides, listening to the prattle of the children in
the infant schools, talking to the labourers as they rested at their
work--he refreshed himself by a gallop across the free fresh downs, or a
quiet stroll under the rosy apple-blossoms of his orchard or garden,
Julian might have said with more truth than most men can, that he was a
happy and a contented man.