definite bits of advice which I hope you will receive in the right
spirit. My dear boy, I want you to lay your hand in mine while I speak
to you, not as an uncle, but rather as an elder brother. Promise me
three things. First never to gamble in any form; secondly, never to
drink a single glass of wine after dinner; thirdly, never to purchase
anything without paying for it in cash. If you will make such strict
rules for yourself and keep them religiously you will find after years
of constant effort a certain result developing (as it were), you will
discover with delight that your character is formed; that you have
neither won nor lost money at hazards, that you have never got drunk
of an evening, and that you have no debts. Of the first two I can only
say that they are questions of morality on which we all may, and all
_do_, differ. But the third is of a vital and practical importance.
Occasional drunkenness is a matter for private judgment, its rightness
or wrongness depends upon our ethical system; but debt is fatal to any
hope of public success.
“I hesitate a little to mention one further point; but--may I say
it?--will you do your best to avoid drinking neat spirits in the early
morning--especially Brandy? Of course a Governor and Tutor, whatever
his abilities, gets removed in his sympathies from the younger men.[38]
The habit may have died out, and if so I will say no more, but in my
time it was the ruin of many a fair young life.
“Now as to your day and its order. First, rise briskly when you are
called, and into your cold bath, you young dog![39] No shilly-shally;
into it. Don’t splash the water about in a miserable attempt to deceive
your scout, but take an Honest British Cold Bath like a man. Soap
should never be used save on the hands and neck. As to hot baths,
never ask for them in College, it would give great trouble, and it is
much better to take one in the Town for a shilling; nothing is more
refreshing than a good hot bath in the Winter Term.
“Next you go out and ‘keep’ a Mosque, Synagogue, or Meeting of the
Brethren, though if you can agree with the system it is far better to
go to your College Chapel; it puts a man right with his superiors and
you obey the Apostolic injunction.[40]
“Then comes your breakfast. Eat as much as you can; it is the
foundation of a good day’s work in the Vineyard. But what is this?--a
note from your Tutor. Off you go at the appointed time, and as you
may be somewhat nervous and diffident I will give you a little
Paradigm,[41] as it were, of a Freshman meeting his Tutor for the first
time.
“[_The Student enters, and as he is half way through the door says:--_]
“_St._--Good morning! Have you noticed what the papers say
about--[_Here mention some prominent subject of the day._]
“[_The Tutor does not answer but goes on writing in a little book; at
last he looks up and says:--_]
“_Tut._--Pray, what is your name?
“_St._--M. or N.
“_Tut._--What have you read before coming up, Mr. ----?
“_St._--The existing Latin authors from Ennius to Sidonius
Apollinaris, with their fragments. The Greek from Sappho to Origen
including Bacchylides.
[_The Tutor makes a note of this and resumes...._]
“_Tut._--Have you read the Gospels?
“_St._--No, Sir.
“_Tut._--You must read two of them as soon as possible in the Greek, as
it is necessary to the passing of Divinity, unless indeed you prefer
the beautiful work of Plato. Come at ten to-morrow. Good morning.
“_St._--I am not accustomed to being spoken to in that fashion.
[_The Tutor will turn to some other Student, and the first Student will
leave the room._]
“I have little more to say. You will soon learn the customs of the
place, and no words of mine can efficiently warn you as experience
will. Put on a black coat before Hall, and prepare for that meal
with neatness, but with no extravagant display. Do not wear your cap
and gown in the afternoon, do not show an exaggerated respect to the
younger fellows (except the Chaplain), on the one hand, nor a silly
contempt for the older Dons upon the other. The first line of conduct
is that of a timid and uncertain mind; it is of no profit for future
advancement, and draws down upon one the contempt of all. The second
is calculated to annoy as fine a body of men as any in England, and
seriously to affect your reputation in Society.
“You will find in every college some club which contains the wealthier
undergraduates and those of prominent position. Join it if possible
at once before you are known. At its weekly meetings speak soberly,
but not pompously. Enliven your remarks with occasional flashes of
humour, but do not trench upon the ribald nor pass the boundary of
right-reason. Such excesses may provoke a momentary laugh, but they
ultimately destroy all respect for one’s character. Remember Lot’s wife!
“You will row, of course, and as you rush down to the river after a
hurried lunch and dash up to do a short bit of reading before Hall,
your face will glow with satisfaction at the thought that every day of
your life will be so occupied for four years.
“Of the grosser and lower evils I need not warn you: you will not give
money to beggars in the street, nor lend it to your friends. You will
not continually expose your private thoughts, nor open your heart to
every comer in the vulgar enthusiasm of some whom you may meet. No, my
dear Ezekiel, it would be unworthy of your name, and I know you too
well, to fear such things of you. You are a Gentleman, and that you
may, like a gentleman, be always at your ease, courteous on occasion,
but familiar never, is the earnest prayer of--
“JOSIAH LAMBKIN.”
VII.
Lambkin’s Lecture on “Right”
Of the effects of Mr. Lambkin’s lectures, the greatest and (I venture
to think) the most permanent are those that followed from his course
on _Ethics_. The late Dean of Heaving-on-the-Marsh (the Honourable
Albert Nathan-Merivale, the first name adopted from his property in
Rutland) told me upon one occasion that he owed the direction of his
mind to those lectures (under Providence) more than to any other
lectures he could remember.
Very much the same idea was conveyed to me, more or less, by the
Bishop of Humbury, who turned to me in hall, only a year ago, with a
peculiar look in his eyes, and (as I had mentioned Lambkin’s name) said
suddenly, like a man who struggles with an emotion:[42] “Lambkin(!)[43]
... did not he give lectures in your hall ... on Ethics?” “Some,”
I replied, “were given in the Hall, others in Lecture Room No. 2
over the glory-hole.” His lordship said nothing, but there was a
world of thought and reminiscence in his eyes. May we not--knowing
his lordship’s difficulties in matters of belief, and his final
victory--ascribe something of this progressive and salutary influence
to my dear friend?
ON “RIGHT”
[_Being Lecture V. in a course of Eight, delivered, in the Autumn
Term of 1878._]
We have now proceeded for a considerable distance in our journey
towards the Solution. Of eight lectures, of which I had proposed to
make so many milestones on the road, the fifth is reached, and now we
are in measurable distance of the Great Answer; the Understanding of
the Relations of the Particular to the Universal.
It is an easy, though a profitable task to wander in what the late Sir
Reginald Hawke once called in a fine phrase “the flowery meads and
bosky dells of Positive Knowledge.” It is in the essence of any modern
method of inquiry that we should be first sure of our facts, and it
is on this account that all philosophical research worthy of the name
must begin with the physical sciences. For the last few weeks I have
illustrated my lectures with chemical experiments and occasionally
with large coloured diagrams, which, especially to young people like
yourselves have done not a little to enliven what might at first appear
a very dull subject. It is therefore with happy, hopeful hearts,
with sparkling eyes and eager appetite that we leave the physical
entry-hall of knowledge to approach the delicious feast of metaphysics.
But here a difficulty confronts us. So far we have followed an
historical development. We have studied the actions of savages and the
gestures of young children; we have enquired concerning the habits
of sleepwalkers, and have drawn our conclusions from the attitudes
adopted in special manias. So far, then, we have been on safe ground.
We have proceeded from the known to the unknown, and we have correlated
Psychology, Sociology, Anatomy, Morphology, Physiology, Geography,
and Theology (_here Mr. Darkin of Vast, who had been ailing a long
time, was carried out in a faint; Mr. Lambkin, being short-sighted,
did not fully seize what had happened, and thinking that certain of
his audience were leaving the Hall without permission, he became as
nearly angry as was possible to such a man. He made a short speech on
the decay of manners, and fell into several bitter epigrams. It is only
just to say that, on learning the occasion of the interruption, he
regretted the expression “strong meat for babes” which had escaped him
at the time._)
So far so good. But there is something more. No one can proceed
indefinitely in the study of Ethics without coming, sooner or later,
upon the Conventional conception of _Right_. I do not mean that this
conception has any philosophic value. I should be the last to lay down
for it those futile, empirical and dogmatic foundations which may
satisfy narrow, deductive minds. But there it is, and as practical men
with it we must deal. What is _Right_? Whence proceeds this curious
conglomeration of idealism, mysticism, empiricism, and fanaticism to
which the name has been given?
It is impossible to say. It is the duty of the lecturer to set
forth the scheme of truth: to make (as it were) a map or plan of
Epistemology. He is not concerned to demonstrate a point; he is not
bound to dispute the attitude of opponents. Let them fall of their own
weight (_Ruant mole suâ_). It is mine to show that things _may_ be thus
or thus, and I will most steadily refuse to be drawn into sterile
argument and profitless discussion with mere affirmations.
“The involute of progression is the subconscious evolution of the
particular function.” No close reasoner will deny this. It is the
final summing up of all that is meant by Development. It is the root
formula of the nineteenth century that is now, alas! drawing to a close
under our very eyes. Now to such a fundamental proposition I add a
second. “The sentiment of right is the inversion of the subconscious
function in its relation to the indeterminate ego.” This also I take
to be admitted by all European philosophers in Germany. Now I will not
go so far as to say that a major premiss when it is absolutely sound,
followed by a minor equally sound, leads to a sure conclusion. God
fulfils himself in many ways, and there are more things in heaven and
earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But I take this
tentatively: that if these two propositions are true (and we have the
word of Herr Waldteufel,[44] who lives in the Woodstock Road, that
it is true) then it follows conclusively that no certainty can be
arrived at in these matters. I would especially recommend you on this
point (_here Mr. Lambkin changed his lecturing voice for a species of
conversational, interested and familiar tone_) to read the essay by
the late Dr. Barton in _Shots at the Probable_: you will also find the
third chapter of Mr. Mendellsohn’s _History of the Soul_ very useful.
Remember also, by the way, to consult the footnote on p. 343, of
Renan’s _Anti-Christ_. The Master of St. Dives’ _Little Journeys in the
Obvious_ is light and amusing, but instructive in its way.
There is a kind of attitude (_this was Lambkin’s peroration, and he was
justly proud of it_) which destroys nothing but creates much: which
transforms without metamorphosis, and which says “look at this, I have
found truth!” but which dares not say “look away from that--it is
untrue.”
Such is our aim. Let us make without unmaking and in this difficult
question of the origin of _Right_, the grand old Anglo-Saxon sense
of “Ought,” let us humbly adopt as logicians, but grimly pursue as
practical men some such maxim as what follows:
“Right came from nothing, it means nothing, it leads to nothing; with
it we are nothing, but without it we are worse than nothing.”[45]
Next Thursday I shall deal with morality in international relations.
VIII.
Lambkin’s Special Correspondence
Lambkin was almost the first of that great band of Oxford Fellows who
go as special correspondents for Newspapers to places of difficulty
and even of danger. On the advantages of this system he would often
dilate, and he was glad to see, as he grew to be an older, a wealthier,
and a wiser man, that others were treading in his footsteps. “The
younger men,” he would say, “have noticed what perhaps I was the first
to see, that the Press is a Power, and that men who are paid to educate
should not be ashamed to be paid for any form of education.” He was,
however, astonished to see how rapidly the letters of a correspondent
could now be issued as a book, and on finding that such publications
were arranged for separately with the publishers, and were not the
property of the Newspapers, he expressed himself with a just warmth in
condemnation of such a trick.
“Sir” (said he to the Chaplain), “in my young days we should have
scorned to have faked up work, well done for a particular object, in
a new suit for the sake of wealth”; and I owe it to Lambkin’s memory
to say that he did not make a penny by his “Diary on the Deep,”[46]
in which he collected towards the end of his life his various letters
written to the Newspapers, and mostly composed at sea.
The occasion which produced the following letter was the abominable
suppression by Italian troops of the Catholic Riots at Rome in 1873.
Englishmen of all parties had been stirred to a great indignation at
the news of the atrocities. “As a nation” (to quote my dear friend) “we
are slow to anger, but our anger is terrible.” And such was indeed the
case.
A great meeting was held at Hampstead, in which Mr. Ram made his famous
speech. “This is not a question of religion or of nationality but of
manhood (he had said), and if we do not give our sympathy freely, if we
do not send out correspondents to inform us of the truth, if we do not
meet in public and protest, if we do not write and speak and read till
our strength be exhausted, then is England no longer the England of
Cromwell and of Peel.”
Such public emotion could not fail to reach Lambkin. I remember his
coming to me one night into my rooms and saying “George (for my name
is George), I had to-day a letter from Mr. Solomon’s paper--_The Sunday
Englishman_. They want me to go and report on this infamous matter, and
I will go. Do not attempt to dissuade me. I shall return--if God spares
my life--before the end of the vacation. The offer is most advantageous
in every way: I mean to England, to the cause of justice, and to that
freedom of thought without which there is no true religion. For,
understand me, that though these poor wretches are Roman Catholics, I
hold that every man should have justice, and my blood boils within me.”
He left me with a parting grip of the hand, promising to bring me back
photographs from the Museum at Naples.
If the letter that follows appears to be lacking in any full account of
the Italian army and its infamies, if it is observed to be meagre and
jejune on the whole subject of the Riots, that is to be explained by
the simple facts that follow.
When Lambkin sailed, the British Fleet had already occupied a deep and
commodious harbour on the coast of Apulia, and public irritation was
at its height; but by the time he landed the Quirinal had been forced
to an apology, the Vatican had received monetary compensation, and the
Piedmontese troops had been compelled to evacuate Rome.
He therefore found upon landing at Leghorn[47] a telegram from the
newspaper, saying that his services were not required, but that the
monetary engagements entered into by the proprietors would be strictly
adhered to.
Partly pleased, partly disappointed, Lambkin returned to Oxford,
taking sketches on the way from various artists whom he found willing
to sell their productions. These he later hung round his room, not on
nails (which as he very properly said, defaced the wall), but from a
rail;--their colours are bright and pleasing. He also brought me the
photographs I asked him for, and they now hang in my bedroom.
This summary must account for the paucity of the notes that follow, and
the fact that they were never published.
[There was some little doubt as to whether certain strictures on
the First Mate in Mr. Lambkin’s letters did not affect one of our
best families. Until I could make certain whether the Estate should
be credited with a receipt on this account or debited with a loss I
hesitated to publish. Mr. Lambkin left no heirs, but he would have been
the first to regret (were he alive) any diminution of his small fortune.
I am glad to say that it has been satisfactorily settled, and that
while all parties have gained none have lost by the settlement.]
* * * * *
THE LETTERS
_s.s. Borgia, Gravesend,
Sunday, Sept. 27th, 1873_
Whatever scruples I might have had in sending off my first letter
before I had left the Thames, and upon such a day, are dissipated
by the emotions to which the scenes I have just passed through give
rise.[48]
What can be more marvellous than this historic river! All is dark, save
where the electric light on shore, the river-boats’ lanterns on the
water, the gas-lamps and the great glare of the town[49] dispel the
gloom. And over the river itself, the old Tamesis, a profound silence
reigns, broken only by the whistling of the tugs, the hoarse cries of
the bargemen and the merry banjo-party under the awning of our ship.
All is still, noiseless and soundless: a profound silence broods over
the mighty waters. It is night.
It is night and silent! Silence and night! The two primeval things!
I wonder whether it has ever occurred to the readers of the _Sunday
Englishman_ to travel over the great waters, or to observe in their
quiet homes the marvellous silence of the night? Would they know of
what my thoughts were full? They were full of those poor Romans,
insulted, questioned and disturbed by a brutal soldiery, and I thought
of this: that we who go out on a peculiarly pacific mission, who have
only to write while others wield the sword, we also do our part. Pray
heaven the time may soon come when an English Protectorate shall be
declared over Rome and the hateful rule of the Lombard foreigners shall
cease.[50]
There is for anyone of the old viking blood a kind of fascination in
the sea. The screw is modern, but its vibration is the very movement
of the wild white oars that brought the Northmen[51] to the field of
Senlac.[52] Now I know how we have dared and done all. I could conquer
Sicily to-night.
As I paced the deck, an officer passed and slapped me heartily on
the shoulder. It was the First Mate. A rough diamond but a diamond
none the less. He asked me where I was bound to. I said Leghorn. He
then asked me if I had all I needed for the voyage. It seems that I
had strayed on to the part of the deck reserved for the second-class
passengers. I informed him of his error. He laughed heartily and said
we shouldn’t quarrel about that. I said his ship seemed to be a Saucy
Lass. He answered “That’s all right,” asked me if I played “Turn-up
Jack,” and left me. It is upon men like this that the greatness of
England is founded.
Well, I will “turn in” and “go below” for my watch; “you gentlemen of
England” who read the _Sunday Englishman_, you little know what life is
like on the high seas; but we are one, I think, when it comes to the
love of blue water.
_Posted at Dover, Monday, Sept. 28, 1873._
We have dropped the pilot. I have nothing in particular to write.
There is a kind of monotony about a sea voyage which is very depressing
to the spirits. The sea was smooth last night, and yet I awoke this
morning with a feeling of un-quiet to which I have long been a
stranger, and which should not be present in a healthy man. I fancy
the very slight oscillation of the boat has something to do with it,
though the lady sitting next to me tells me that one only feels it in
steamboats. She said her dear husband had told her it was “the smell of
the oil”--I hinted that at breakfast one can talk of other things.
The First Mate sits at the head of our table. I do not know how it is,
but there is a lack of _social reaction_ on board a ship. A man is a
seaman or a passenger, and there is an end of it. One has no fixed
rank, and the wholesome discipline of social pressure seems entirely
lost. Thus this morning the First Mate called me “The Parson,” and I
had no way to resent his familiarity. But he meant no harm; he is a
sterling fellow.
After breakfast my mind kept running to this question of the Roman
Persecution, and (I know not how) certain phrases kept repeating
themselves literally “_ad nauseam_” in my imagination. They kept pace
with the throb of the steamer, an altogether new sensation, and my
mind seemed (as my old tutor, Mr. Blurt, would put it) to “work in a
circle.” The pilot will take this. He is coming over the side. He is
not in the least like a sailor, but small and white. He wears a bowler
hat, and looks more like a city clerk than anything else. When I asked
the First Mate why this was, he answered “It’s the Brains that tell.” A
very remarkable statement, and one full of menace and warning for our
mercantile marine.
* * * * *
_Thursday, Oct. 1, 1873._
I cannot properly describe the freshness and beauty of the sea after a
gale. I have not the style of the great masters of English prose, and
I lack the faculty of expression which so often accompanies the poetic
soul.
The white curling tips (white horses) come at one if one looks to
windward, or if one looks to leeward seem to flee. There is a kind of
balminess in the air born of the warm south; and there is jollity in
the whole ship’s company, as Mrs. Burton and her daughters remarked to
me this morning. I feel capable of anything. When the First Mate came
up to me this morning and tried to bait me with his vulgar chaff I
answered roundly, “Now, sir, listen to me. I am not seasick, I am not a
landlubber, I am on my sea legs again, and I would have you know that I
have not a little power to make those who attack me feel the weight of
my arm.”
He turned from me thoroughly ashamed, and told a man to swab the decks.
The passengers appeared absorbed in their various occupations, but I
felt I had “scored a point” and I retired to my cabin.
My steward told me of a group of rocks off the Spanish coast which we
are approaching. He said they were called “The Graveyard.” If a man can
turn his mind to the Universal Consciousness and to a Final Purpose all
foolish fears will fall into a secondary plane. I will not do myself
the injustice of saying that I was affected by the accident, but a lady
or child might have been, and surely the ship’s servants should be
warned not to talk nonsense to passengers who need all their strength
for the sea.
_Friday, Oct. 2, 1873._
To-day I met the Captain. I went up on the bridge to speak to him.
I find his name is Arnssen. He has risen from the ranks, his father
having been a large haberdasher in Copenhagen and a town councillor. I
wish I could say the same of the First Mate, who is the scapegrace son
of a great English family, though he seems to feel no shame. Arnssen
and I would soon become fast friends were it not that his time is
occupied in managing the ship. He is just such an one as makes the
strength of our British Mercantile marine. He will often come and walk
with me on the deck, on which occasions I give him a cigar, or even
sometimes ask him to drink wine with me. He tells me it is against the
rules for the Captain to offer similar courtesies to his guests, but
that if ever I am in Ernskjöldj, near Copenhagen, and if he is not
absent on one of his many voyages, he will gratefully remember and
repay my kindness.
I said to the Captain to-day, putting my hand upon his shoulder, “Sir,
may one speak from one’s heart?” “Yes,” said he, “certainly, and God
bless you for your kind thought.” “Sir,” said I, “you are a strong,
silent, God-fearing man and my heart goes out to you--no more.” He was
silent, and went up on the bridge, but when I attempted to follow him,
he assured me it was not allowed.
Later in the day I asked him what he thought of the Roman trouble. He
answered, “Oh! knock their heads together and have done with it.” It
was a bluff seaman’s answer, but is it not what England would have said
in her greatest days? Is it not the very feeling of a Chatham?
I no longer speak to the First Mate. But in a few days I shall be able
to dismiss the fellow entirely from my memory, so I will not dwell on
his insolence.
_Leghorn, Oct. 5, 1873._