"A few souls brought together as it were by chance, for a short
friendship and mutual dependence in this little ship of earth, so
soon to land her passengers and break up the company for ever."--C.
KINSGLEY.
"To thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."
--SHAKSPEARE, _Polonius to Laertes_.
"If you would escape vexation, reprove yourself liberally and others
sparingly."--CONFUCIUS.
It was the third year of our Oxford life, and Milligan and I were now
the "senior men" resident in college; we sat at one of the higher tables
in hall, and occupied stalls in chapel. We generally attended lectures
together, and many are the amusing tricks I recall which Milligan used
to play--one especially, on a freshman named Dry--a pious youth in green
spectacles, and with the general aspect of "Verdant Green." An
undergraduate's gown is always adorned with two long strings behind;
these strings of Dry, Milligan adroitly fastened to mine, and, inventing
one excuse after another, for slipping round the room to open the door,
shut a window, &c., he eventually had connected the whole lecture in one
continuous chain; finally, he fastened himself to Dry _on the other
side_; and then, with loud outcries of "Don't, Dry,--don't, Dry," pulled
himself away, the result being that Dry and his chair were overturned,
and that the whole lecture, one after another, came crashing on the top
of him! Milligan would have got into a serious scrape on this occasion,
but that he was equally popular with the tutors and his companions, so
that every possible excuse was made for him, while I laughed in such
convulsions at the absurdity of the scene, that I was eventually
expelled from the lecture, and served as a scapegoat.
I think we were liked in college--Milligan much better than I. Though we
never had the same sort of popularity as boating-men and cricketers
often acquire, we afforded plenty of amusement. When the college gates
were closed at night, I often used to rush down into Quad and act "Hare"
all over the queer passages and dark corners of the college, pursued by
a pack of hounds who were more in unison with the general idea of Harrow
than of Oxford. One night I had been keeping ahead of my pursuers so
long, that, as one was apt to be rather roughly handled when caught
after a very long chase, I thought it was as well to make good my escape
to my own rooms in the New Buildings, and to "sport my oak." Yet, after
some time, beginning to feel my solitude rather flat after so much
excitement, I longed to regain the quadrangle, but knew that the
staircase was well guarded by a troop of my pursuers. By a vigorous
_coup d'état_, however, I threw open my "oak," and seizing the handrail
of the bannisters, slipped _on_ it through the midst of them, and
reached the foot of the staircase in safety. Between me and the
quadrangle a long cloistered passage still remained to be traversed, and
here I saw the way blocked up by a figure approaching in the moonlight.
Of course it must be an enemy! There was nothing for it but desperation.
I rushed at him like a bolt from a catapult, and by taking him unawares,
butting him in the stomach, and then flinging myself on his neck,
overturned him into the coal-hole, and escaped into Quad. My pursuers,
seeing _some one_ struggling in the coal-hole, thought it was I, and
flung all their sharp-edged college caps at him, under which he was
speedily buried, but emerged in time to exhibit himself as--John
Conington, Professor of Latin!
Meantime, I had discovered the depth of my iniquity, and fled to the
rooms of Duckworth, a scholar, to whom I recounted my adventure, and
with whom I stayed. Late in the evening a note was brought in for
Duckworth, who said, "It is a note from John Conington," and read--"Dear
Duckworth, having been the victim of a cruel outrage on the part of some
undergraduates of the college, I trust to your friendship for me to
assist me in finding out the perpetrators," &c. Duckworth urged that I
should give myself up--that John Conington was very good-natured--in
fact, that I had better confess the whole truth, &c. So I immediately
sat down and wrote the whole story to Professor Conington, and not till
I had _sent_ it, and it was safe in his hands, did Duckworth confess
that the note he had received was a forgery, that he had contrived to
slip out of the room and write it to himself--and that I had made my
confession unnecessarily. However, he went off with the story and its
latest additions to the Professor, and no more was said.
If Milligan was my constant companion in college, George Sheffield and I
were inseparable out of doors, though I often wondered at his caring so
much to be with me, as he was a capital rider, shot, oarsman--in fact,
everything which I was not. I believe we exactly at this time, and for
some years after, supplied each other's vacancies. It was the most
wholesome, best kind of devotion, and, if we needed any ennobling
influence, we always had it at hand in Mrs. Eliot Warburton, who
sympathised in all we did, and who, except his mother, was the only
woman whom I ever knew George Sheffield have any regard for. It was
about this time that the Bill was before Parliament for destroying the
privileges of Founder's kin. While it was in progress, we discovered
that George was distinctly "Founder's kin" to Thomas Teesdale, the
founder of Pembroke, and half because our ideas were conservative, half
because we delighted in an adventure of any kind, we determined to take
advantage of the privilege. Dr. Jeune, afterwards Bishop of
Peterborough, was Master of Pembroke then, and was perfectly furious at
our audacity, which was generally laughed at at the time, and treated as
the mere whim of two foolish schoolboys; but we would not be daunted,
and went on our own way. Day after day I studied with George the
subjects of his examination, goading him on. Day after day I walked down
with him to the place of examination, doing my best to screw up his
courage to meet the inquisitors. We went against the Heads of Houses
with the enthusiasm of martyrs in a much greater cause, and we were
victorious. George Sheffield was forcibly elected to a Founder's-kin
Scholarship at Pembroke, and was the last so elected. Dr. Jeune was
grievously annoyed, but, with the generosity which was always
characteristic of him, he at once accorded us his friendship, and
remained my most warm and honoured friend till his death about ten years
afterwards. He was remarkable at Oxford for dogmatically repealing the
law which obliged undergraduates to receive the Sacrament on certain
days in the year. "In future," he announced in chapel, "no member of
this college will be compelled to eat and drink his own damnation."
In urging George Sheffield to become a scholar of Pembroke, I was
certainly disinterested; without him University lost half its charms,
and Oxford was never the same to me without "Giorgione"--the George of
Georges. But our last summer together was uncloudedly happy. We used to
engage a little pony-carriage at the Maidenhead, with a pony called
Tommy, which was certainly the most wonderful beast for bearing fatigue,
and as soon as ever the college gates were opened, we were "over the
hills and far away." Sometimes we would arrive in time for breakfast at
Thame, a quaint old town quite on the Oxfordshire boundary, where John
Hampden was at school. Then we would mount the Chiltern Hills with our
pony, and when we reached the top, look down upon the great
Buckinghamshire plains, with their rich woods; and when we saw the
different gentlemen's places scattered about in the distance, we used to
say, "There we will go to luncheon"--"There we will go to dinner," and
the little programmes we made we always carried out; for having each a
good many relations and friends, we seldom found we had _no_ link with
any of the places we came to. Sometimes Albert Rutson would ride by the
side of our carriage, but I do not think that either then or afterwards
we quite liked having anybody with us, we were so perfectly contented
with each other, and had always so much to say to each other. Our most
delightful day of all was that on which we had luncheon at Great Hampden
with Mr. and Lady Vere Cameron and their daughters, who were slightly
known to my mother; and dined at the wonderful old house of Chequers,
filled with relics of the Cromwells, the owner, Lady Frankland Russell,
being a cousin of Lady Sheffield's. Most enchanting was the late return
from these long excursions through the lanes hung with honeysuckle and
clematis, satiated as we were, but not wearied with happiness, and full
of interest and enthusiasm in each other and in our mutual lives, both
past and present. One of the results of our frequent visits to the
scenes of John Hampden's life was a lecture which I was induced to
deliver in the town-hall at Oxford, during the last year of my Oxford
life, upon John Hampden--a lecture which was sadly too short, because at
that time I had no experience to guide me as to how long such things
would take.
It was during this spring that my mother was greatly distressed by the
long-deferred declaration of Mary Stanley that she had become a Roman
Catholic.[109] A burst of family indignation followed, during which I
constituted myself Mary's defender, utterly refused to make any
difference with her, as well as preventing my mother from doing so; and
many were the battles I fought for her.
A little episode in my life at this time was the publication of my first
book--a very small one, "Epitaphs for Country Churchyards." It was
published by John Henry Parker, who was exceedingly good-natured in
undertaking it, for it is needless to say it was not remunerative to
either of us. The ever-kind Landor praised the preface very much, and
delighted my mother by his grandiloquent announcement that it was "quite
worthy of Addison!"
At this time also my distant cousin Henry Liddell was appointed to the
Deanery of Christ Church. He had previously been Headmaster of
Westminster, and during his residence there had become celebrated by his
Lexicon. One day he told the boys in his class that they must write an
English epigram. Some of them said it was impossible. He said it was not
impossible at all; they might each choose their own subject, but an
epigram they must write. One boy wrote--
"Two men wrote a Lexicon,
Liddell and Scott;
One half was clever,
And one half was not.
Give me the answer, boys,
Quick to this riddle,
Which was by Scott
And which was by Liddell?"
Dr. Liddell, when it was shown up, only said, "I think you are rather
severe."
As to education, I did not receive much more at Oxford this year than I
had done before. The college lectures were the merest rubbish; and of
what was learnt to pass the University examinations, nothing has since
been of use to me, except the History for the final Schools. About
fourteen years of life and above £4000 I consider to have been wasted on
my education of nothingness. At Oxford, however, I was not idle, and the
History, French, and Italian, which I taught myself, have always been
useful.
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Oxford, Feb. 19, 1856._--Your news about dear Mary (Stanley) is
very sad. She will find out too late the mistake she has made:
that, because she cannot agree with everything in the Church of
England, she should think it necessary to join another, where, if
she receives anything, she will be obliged to receive everything. I
am sorry that the person chosen to argue with her was not one whose
views were more consistent with her own than Dr. Vaughan's. It is
seldom acknowledged, but I believe that, by their tolerance, Mr.
Liddell and Mr. Bennett[110] keep as many people from Rome as other
people drive there. I am very sorry for Aunt Kitty, and hope that
no one who loves her will add to her sorrow by estranging
themselves from Mary--above all, that _you_ will not consider her
religion a barrier. When people see how nobly all her life is given
to good, and how she has even made this great step, at sacrifice to
herself, because she believes that good may better be carried out
in another Church, they may pity her delusion, but no person of
right feeling can possibly be angry with her. And, after all, she
has not changed her religion. It is, as your own beloved John
Wesley said, on hearing that his nephew had become a Papist--'He
has changed his opinions and mode of worship, but has not changed
his religion: that is quite another thing.'"
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