Tracks of a Rolling Stone Part 4

When my letter was finished I got leave to go ash.o.r.e to post it. Feeling utterly miserable, I had my hair cut; and, rendered perfectly reckless by my appearance, I consented to have what was left of it tightly curled with a pair of tongs. I cannot say that I shared in any sensible degree the pleasure which this operation seemed to give to the artist. But when I got back to the s.h.i.+p the sight of my adornment kept my messmates in an uproar for the rest of the afternoon.

Whether the touching appeal to my mother produced tears, or of what kind, matters little; it effectually determined my career. Before my new s.h.i.+p sailed for China, I was home again, and in full possession of my coveted freedom as a civilian.

CHAPTER VIII

IT was settled that after a course of three years at a private tutor's I was to go to Cambridge. The life I had led for the past three years was not the best training for the fellow-pupil of lads of fifteen or sixteen who had just left school. They were much more ready to follow my lead than I theirs, especially as mine was always in the pursuit of pleasure.

I was first sent to Mr. B.'s, about a couple of miles from Alnwick.

Before my time, Alnwick itself was considered out of bounds. But as nearly half the sin in this world consists in being found out, my companions and I managed never to commit any in this direction.

We generally returned from the town with a bottle of some noxious compound called 'port' in our pockets, which was served out in our 'study' at night, while I read aloud the instructive adventures of Mr.

Thomas Jones. We were, of course, supposed to employ these late hours in preparing our work for the morrow. One boy only protested that, under the combined seductions of the port and Miss Molly Seagrim, he could never make his verses scan.

Another of our recreations was poaching. From my earliest days I was taught to shoot, myself and my brothers being each provided with his little single-barrelled flint and steel 'Joe Manton.' At - we were surrounded by grouse moors on one side, and by well-preserved coverts on the other. The grouse I used to shoot in the evening while they fed amongst the corn stooks; for pheasants and hares, I used to get the other pupils to walk through the woods, while I with a gun walked outside.

Scouts were posted to look out for keepers.

Did our tutor know? Of course he knew. But think of the saving in the butcher's bill! Besides which, Mr. B. was otherwise preoccupied; he was in love with Mrs. B. I say 'in love,' for although I could not be sure of it then, (having no direct experience of the _amantium irae_,) subsequent observation has persuaded me that their perpetual quarrels could mean nothing else. This was exceedingly favourable to the independence of Mr. B.'s pupils. But when asked by Mr. Ellice how I was getting on, I was forced in candour to admit that I was in a fair way to forget all I ever knew.

By the advice of Lord Spencer I was next placed under the tuition of one of the minor canons of Ely. The Bishop of Ely-Dr. Allen-had been Lord Spencer's tutor, hence his elevation to the see. The Dean-Dr. Peac.o.c.k, of algebraic and Trinity College fame-was good enough to promise 'to keep an eye' on me. Lord Spencer himself took me to Ely; and there I remained for two years. They were two very important years of my life. Having no fellow pupil to beguile me, I was the more industrious. But it was not from the better acquaintance with ancient literature that I mainly benefited,-it was from my initiation to modern thought. I was a constant guest at the Deanery; where I frequently met such men as Sedgwick, Airey the Astronomer-Royal, Selwyn, Phelps the Master of Sydney, Canon Heaviside the master of Haileybury, and many other friends of the Dean's, distinguished in science, literature, and art. Here I heard discussed opinions on these subjects by some of their leading representatives.

Naturally, as many of them were Churchmen, conversation often turned on the bearing of modern science, of geology especially if Sedgwick were of the party, upon Mosaic cosmogony, or Biblical exegesis generally.

The knowledge of these learned men, the lucidity with which they expressed their views, and the earnestness with which they defended them, captivated my attention, and opened to me a new world of surpa.s.sing interest and gravity.

What startled me most was the spirit in which a man of Sedgwick's intellectual power protested against the possible encroachments of his own branch of science upon the orthodox tenets of the Church. Just about this time an anonymous book appeared, which, though long since forgotten, caused no slight disturbance amongst dogmatic theologians. The tendency of this book, 'Vestiges of the Creation,' was, or was then held to be, antagonistic to the arguments from design. Familiar as we now are with the theory of evolution, such a work as the 'Vestiges' would no more stir the _odium theologic.u.m_ than Franklin's kite. Sedgwick, however, attacked it with a vehemence and a rancour that would certainly have roasted its author had the professor held the office of Grand Inquisitor.

Though incapable of forming any opinion as to the scientific merits of such a book, or of Hugh Miller's writings, which he also attacked upon purely religious grounds, I was staggered by the fact that the Bible could possibly be impeached, or that it was not profanity to defend it even. Was it not the 'Word of G.o.d'? And if so, how could any theories of creation, any historical, any philological researches, shake its eternal truth?

Day and night I pondered over this new revelation. I bought the books-the wicked books-which n.o.body ought to read. The _Index Expurgatorius_ became my guide for books to be digested. I laid hands on every heretical work I could hear of. By chance I made the acquaintance of a young man who, together with his family, were Unitarians. I got, and devoured, Channing's works. I found a splendid copy of Voltaire in the Holkham library, and hunted through the endless volumes, till I came to the 'Dialogues Philosophiques.' The world is too busy, fortunately, to disturb its peace with such profane satire, such withering sarcasm as flashes through an 'entretien' like that between 'Frere Rigolet' and 'L'Empereur de la Chine.' Every French man of letters knows it by heart; but it would wound our English susceptibilities were I to cite it here.

Then, too, the impious paraphrase of the Athanasian Creed, with its terrible climax, from the converting Jesuit: 'Or vous voyez bien . . .

qu'un homme qui ne croit pas cette histoire doit etre brule dans ce monde ci, et dans l'autre.' To which 'L'Empereur' replies: 'ca c'est clair comme le jour.'

Could an ignorant youth, fevered with curiosity and the first goadings of the questioning spirit, resist such logic, such scorn, such scathing wit, as he met with here?

Then followed Rousseau; 'Emile' became my favourite. Froude's 'Nemesis of Faith' I read, and many other books of a like tendency. Pa.s.sive obedience, blind submission to authority, was never one of my virtues, and once my faith was shattered, I knew not where to stop-what to doubt, what to believe. If the injunction to 'prove all things' was anything more than an empty apophthegm, inquiry, in St. Paul's eyes at any rate, could not be sacrilege.

It was not happiness I sought,-not peace of mind at least; for a.s.suredly my thirst for knowledge, for truth, brought me anything but peace. I never was more restless, or, at times, more unhappy. Shallow, indeed, must be the soul that can lightly sever itself from beliefs which lie at the roots of our moral, intellectual, and emotional being, sanctified too by a.s.sociations of our earliest love and reverence. I used to wander about the fields, and sit for hours in sequestered spots, longing for some friend, some confidant to take counsel with. I knew no such friend.

I did not dare to speak of my misgivings to others. In spite of my earnest desire for guidance, for more light, the strong grip of childhood's influences was impossible to shake off. I could not rid my conscience of the sin of doubt.

It is this difficulty, this primary dependence on others, which develops into the child's first religion, that perpetuates the infantile character of human creeds; and, what is worse, generates the hideous bigotry which justifies that sad reflection of Lucretius: 'Tantum Religio potuit suadere malorum!'

CHAPTER IX

TO turn again to narrative, and to far less serious thoughts. The last eighteen months before I went to Cambridge, I was placed, or rather placed myself, under the tuition of Mr. Robert Collyer, rector of Warham, a living close to Holkham in the gift of my brother Leicester. Between my Ely tutor and myself there was but little sympathy. He was a man of much refinement, but with not much indulgence for such aberrant proclivities as mine. Without my knowledge, he wrote to Mr. Ellice lamenting my secret recusancy, and its moral dangers. Mr. Ellice came expressly from London, and stayed a night at Ely. He dined with us in the cloisters, and had a long private conversation with my tutor, and, before he left, with me. I indignantly resented the clandestine representations of Mr. S., and, without a word to Mr. Ellice or to anyone else, wrote next day to Mr. Collyer to beg him to take me in at Warham, and make what he could of me, before I went to Cambridge. It may here be said that Mr. Collyer had been my father's chaplain, and had lived at Holkham for several years as family tutor to my brothers and myself, as we in turn left the nursery. Mr. Collyer, upon receipt of my letter, referred the matter to Mr. Ellice; with his approval I was duly installed at Warham. Before describing my time there, I must tell of an incident which came near to affecting me in a rather important way.

My mother lived at Longford in Derbys.h.i.+re, an old place, now my home, which had come into the c.o.ke family in James I.'s reign, through the marriage of a son of Chief Justice c.o.ke's with the heiress of the De Langfords, an ancient family from that time extinct. While staying there during my summer holidays, my mother confided to me that she had had an offer of marriage from Mr. Motteux, the owner of considerable estates in Norfolk, including two houses-Beachamwell and Sandringham. Mr.

Motteux-'Johnny Motteux,' as he was called-was, like Tristram Shandy's father, the son of a wealthy 'Turkey merchant,' which, until better informed, I always took to mean a dealer in poultry. 'Johnny,' like another man of some notoriety, whom I well remember in my younger days-Mr. Creevey-had access to many large houses such as Holkham; not, like Creevey, for the sake of his scandalous tongue, but for the sake of his wealth. He had no (known) relatives; and big people, who had younger sons to provide for, were quite willing that one of them should be his heir. Johnny Motteux was an epicure with the best of _chefs_. His capons came from Paris, his salmon from Christchurch, and his Strasburg pies were made to order. One of these he always brought with him as a present to my mother, who used to say, 'Mr. Motteux evidently thinks the nearest way to my heart is down my throat.'

A couple of years after my father's death, Motteux wrote to my mother proposing marriage, and, to enhance his personal attractions, (in figure and dress he was a duplicate of the immortal Pickwick,) stated that he had made his will and had bequeathed Sandringham to me, adding that, should he die without issue, I was to inherit the remainder of his estates.

Rather to my surprise, my mother handed the letter to me with evident signs of embarra.s.sment and distress. My first exclamation was: 'How jolly! The shooting's first rate, and the old boy is over seventy, if he's a day.'

My mother apparently did not see it in this light. She clearly, to my disappointments did not care for the shooting; and my exultation only brought tears into her eyes.

'Why, mother,' I exclaimed, 'what's up? Don't you-don't you care for Johnny Motteux?'

She confessed that she did not.

'Then why don't you tell him so, and not bother about his beastly letter?'

'If I refuse him you will lose Sandringham.'

'But he says here he has already left it to me.'

'He will alter his will.'

'Let him!' cried I, flying out at such prospective meanness. 'Just you tell him you don't care a rap for him or for Sandringham either.'

In more lady-like terms she acted in accordance with my advice; and, it may be added, not long afterwards married Mr. Ellice.

Mr. Motteux's first love, or one of them, had been Lady Cowper, then Lady Palmerston. Lady Palmerston's youngest son was Mr. Spencer Cowper. Mr.

Motteux died a year or two after the above event. He made a codicil to his will, and left Sandringham and all his property to Mr. Spencer Cowper. Mr. Spencer Cowper was a young gentleman of costly habits.

Indeed, he bore the slightly modified name of 'Expensive Cowper.' As an attache at Paris he was famous for his patronage of dramatic art-or artistes rather; the votaries of Terpsich.o.r.e were especially indebted to his liberality. At the time of Mr. Motteux's demise, he was attached to the Emba.s.sy at St. Petersburg. Mr. Motteux's solicitors wrote immediately to inform him of his accession to their late client's wealth.

It being one of Mr. Cowper's maxims never to read lawyers' letters, (he was in daily receipt of more than he could attend to,) he flung this one unread into the fire; and only learnt his mistake through the congratulations of his family.

The Prince Consort happened about this time to be in quest of a suitable country seat for his present Majesty; and Sandringham, through the adroit negotiations of Lord Palmerston, became the property of the Prince of Wales. The soul of the 'Turkey merchant,' we cannot doubt, will repose in peace.

The worthy rector of Warham St. Mary's was an oddity deserving of pa.s.sing notice. Outwardly he was no Adonis. His plain features and shock head of foxy hair, his antiquated and neglected garb, his copious jabot-much affected by the clergy of those days-were becoming invest.i.tures of the inward man. His temper was inflammatory, sometimes leading to excesses, which I am sure he rued in mental sackcloth and ashes. But visitors at Holkham (unaware of the excellent motives and moral courage which inspired his conduct) were not a little amazed at the austerity with which he obeyed the dictates of his conscience.

For example, one Sunday evening after dinner, when the drawing-room was filled with guests, who more or less preserved the decorum which etiquette demands in the presence of royalty, (the Duke of Suss.e.x was of the party,) Charles Fox and Lady Anson, great-grandmother of the present Lord Lichfield, happened to be playing at chess. When the irascible dominie beheld them he pushed his way through the bystanders, swept the pieces from the board, and, with rigorous impartiality, denounced these impious desecrators of the Sabbath eve.

As an example of his fidelity as a librarian, Mr. Panizzi used to relate with much glee how, whenever he was at Holkham, Mr. Collyer dogged him like a detective. One day, not wis.h.i.+ng to detain the reverend gentleman while he himself spent the forenoon in the ma.n.u.script library, (where not only the ancient ma.n.u.scripts, but the most valuable of the printed books, are kept under lock and key,) he considerately begged Mr. Collyer to leave him to his researches. The dominie replied 'that he knew his duty, and did not mean to neglect it.' He did not lose sight of Mr. Panizzi.

The notion that he-the great custodian of the nation's literary treasures-would snip out and pocket the t.i.tle-page of the folio edition of Shakespeare, or of the Coverdale Bible, tickled Mr. Panizzi's fancy vastly.

In spite, however, of our rector's fiery temperament, or perhaps in consequence of it, he was remarkably susceptible to the charms of beauty.

We were constantly invited to dinner and garden parties in the neighbourhood; nor was the good rector slow to return the compliment. It must be confessed that the pupil shared to the full the impressibility of the tutor; and, as it happened, unknown to both, the two were in one case rivals.

As the young lady afterwards occupied a very distinguished position in Oxford society, it can only be said that she was celebrated for her many attractions. She was then sixteen, and the younger of her suitors but two years older. As far as age was concerned, nothing could be more compatible. Nor in the matter of mutual inclination was there any disparity whatever. What, then, was the pupil's dismay when, after a dinner party at the rectory, and the company had left, the tutor, in a frantic state of excitement, seized the pupil by both hands, and exclaimed: 'She has accepted me!'

'Accepted you?' I asked. 'Who has accepted you?'