Charles went up this term for his first examination, and this caused
him to remain in Oxford some days after the undergraduate part of his
college had left for the Long Vacation. Thus he came across Mr.
Vincent, one of the junior tutors, who was kind enough to ask him to
dine in Common-room on Sunday, and on several mornings made him take
some turns with him up and down the Fellows' walk in the college
garden.
A few years make a great difference in the standing of men at
Oxford, and this made Mr. Vincent what is called a don in the eyes of
persons who were very little younger than himself. Besides, Vincent
looked much older than he really was; he was of a full habit, with a
florid complexion and large blue eyes, and showed a deal of linen at
his bosom, and full wristbands at his cuffs. Though a clever man, and a
hard reader and worker, and a capital tutor, he was a good feeder as
well; he ate and drank, he walked and rode, with as much heart as he
lectured in Aristotle, or crammed in Greek plays. What is stranger
still, with all this he was something of a valetudinarian. He had come
off from school on a foundation fellowship, and had the reputation both
at school and in the University of being a first-rate scholar. He was a
strict disciplinarian in his way, had the undergraduates under his
thumb, and having some bonhomie in his composition, was regarded
by them with mingled feelings of fear and good will. They laughed at
him, but carefully obeyed him. Besides this he preached a good sermon,
read prayers with unction, and in his conversation sometimes had even a
touch of evangelical spirituality. The young men even declared they
could tell how much port he had taken in Common-room by the devoutness
of his responses in evening-chapel; and it was on record that once,
during the Confession, he had, in the heat of his contrition, shoved
over the huge velvet cushion in which his elbows were imbedded upon the
heads of the gentlemen commoners who sat under him.
He had just so much originality of mind as gave him an excuse for
being “his own party” in religion, or what he himself called being “no
party man;” and just so little that he was ever mistaking shams for
truths, and converting pompous nothings into oracles. He was oracular
in his manner, denounced parties and party-spirit, and thought to avoid
the one and the other by eschewing all persons, and holding all
opinions. He had a great idea of the via media being the truth;
and to obtain it, thought it enough to flee from extremes, without
having any very definite mean to flee to. He had not clearness of
intellect enough to pursue a truth to its limits, nor boldness enough
to hold it in its simplicity; but he was always saying things and
unsaying them, balancing his thoughts in impossible attitudes, and
guarding his words by unintelligible limitations. As to the men and
opinions of the day and place, he would in the main have agreed with
them, had he let himself alone; but he was determined to have an
intellect of his own, and this put him to great shifts when he would
distinguish himself from them. Had he been older than they, he would
have talked of “young heads,” “hot heads,” and the like; but since they
were grave and cool men, and outran him by fourteen or fifteen years,
he found nothing better than to shake his head, mutter against
party-spirit, refuse to read their books, lest he should be obliged to
agree with them, and make a boast of avoiding their society. At the
present moment he was on the point of starting for a continental tour
to recruit himself after the labours of an Oxford year; meanwhile he
was keeping hall and chapel open for such men as were waiting either
for Responsions, or for their battel money; and he took notice of
Reding as a clever, modest youth of whom something might be made. Under
this view of him, he had, among other civilities, asked him to
breakfast a day or two before he went down.
A tutor's breakfast is always a difficult affair both for host and
guests; and Vincent piqued himself on the tact with which he managed
it. The material part was easy enough; there were rolls, toast,
muffins, eggs, cold lamb, strawberries, on the table; and in due season
the college-servant brought in mutton-cutlets and broiled ham; and
every one ate to his heart's, or rather his appetite's, content. It was
a more arduous undertaking to provide the running accompaniment of
thought, or at least of words, without which the breakfast would have
been little better than a pig-trough. The conversation or rather
mono-polylogue, as some great performer calls it, ran in somewhat of
the following strain:
“Mr. Bruton,” said Vincent, “what news from Staffordshire? Are the
potteries pretty quiet now? Our potteries grow in importance. You need
not look at the cup and saucer before you, Mr. Catley; those came from
Derbyshire. But you find English crockery everywhere on the Continent.
I myself found half a willow-pattern saucer in the crater of Vesuvius.
Mr. Sikes, I think you have been in Italy?”
“No, sir,” said Sikes; “I was near going; my family set off a
fortnight ago, but I was kept here by these confounded smalls.”
“Your Responsiones,” answered the tutor in a tone of rebuke;
“an unfortunate delay for you, for it is to be an unusually fine
season, if the meteorologists of the sister University are right in
their predictions. Who is in the Responsion schools, Mr. Sikes?”
“Butson of Leicester is the strict one, sir; he plucks one man in
three. He plucked last week Patch of St. George's, and Patch has taken
his oath he'll shoot him; and Butson has walked about ever since with a
bulldog.”
“These are reports, Mr. Sikes, which often flit about, but must not
be trusted. Mr. Patch could not have given a better proof that his
rejection was deserved.”
A pause—during which poor Vincent hastily gobbled up two or three
mouthfuls of bread and butter, the knives and forks meanwhile clinking
upon his guests' plates.
“Sir, is it true,” began one of his guests at length, “that the old
Principal is going to be married?”
“These are matters, Mr. Atkins,” answered Vincent, “which we should
always inquire about at the fountain-head; antiquam exquirite matrem, or rather patrem; ha, ha! Take some more tea, Mr. Reding; it
won't hurt your nerves. I am rather choice in my tea; this comes
overland through Russia; the sea-air destroys the flavour of our common
tea. Talking of air, Mr. Tenby, I think you are a chemist. Have you
paid attention to the recent experiments on the composition and
resolution of air? Not? I am surprised at it; they are well worth your
most serious consideration. It is now pretty well ascertained that
inhaling gases is the cure for all kinds of diseases. People are
beginning to talk of the gas-cure, as they did of the water-cure. The
great foreign chemist, Professor Scaramouch, has the credit of the
discovery. The effects are astounding, quite astounding; and there are
several remarkable coincidences. You know medicines are always
unpleasant, and so these gases are always fetid. The Professor cures by
stenches, and has brought his science to such perfection that he
actually can classify them. There are six elementary stenches, and
these spread into a variety of subdivisions? What do you say, Mr.
Reding? Distinctive? Yes, there is something very distinctive in
smells. But what is most gratifying of all, and is the great
coincidence I spoke of, his ultimate resolution of fetid gases assigns
to them the very same precise number as is given to existing complaints
in the latest treatises on pathology. Each complaint has its gas. And,
what is still more singular, an exhausted receiver is a specific for
certain desperate disorders. For instance, it has effected several
cures of hydrophobia. Mr. Seaton,” he continued to a freshman, who, his
breakfast finished, was sitting uncomfortably on his chair, looking
down and playing with his knife—“Mr. Seaton, you are looking at that
picture”—it was almost behind Seaton's back—“I don't wonder at it; it
was given me by my good old mother, who died many years ago. It
represents some beautiful Italian scenery.”
Vincent stood up, and his party after him, and all crowded round the
picture.
“I prefer the green of England,” said Reding.
“England has not that brilliant variety of colour,” said Tenby.
“But there is something so soothing in green.”
“You know, of course, Mr. Reding,” said the tutor, “that there is
plenty of green in Italy, and in winter even more than in England; only
there are other colours too.”
“But I can't help fancying,” said Charles, “that that mixture of
colours takes off from it the repose of English scenery.”
“The repose, for instance,” said Tenby, “of Binsey Common, or Port
Meadow in winter.”
“Say in summer,” said Reding; “if you choose place, I will choose
time. I think the University goes down just when Oxford begins to be
most beautiful. The walks and meadows are so fragrant and bright now,
the hay half carried, and the short new grass appearing.”
“Reding ought to live here all through the Long,” said Tenby: “does
any one live through the Vacation, sir, in Oxford?”
“Do you mean they die before the end of it, Mr. Tenby?” asked
Vincent. “It can't be denied,” he continued, “that many, like Mr.
Reding, think it a most pleasant time. I am fond of Oxford; but
it is not my habitat out of term-time.”
“Well, I think I should like to make it so,” said Charles, “but, I
suppose, undergraduates are not allowed.”
Mr. Vincent answered with more than necessary gravity, “No;” it
rested with the Principal; but he conceived that he would not consent
to it. Vincent added that certainly there were parties who
remained in Oxford through the Long Vacation. It was said mysteriously.
Charles answered that, if it was against college rules, there was no
help for it; else, were he reading for his degree, he should like
nothing better than to pass the Long Vacation in Oxford, if he might
judge by the pleasantness of the last ten days.
“That is a compliment, Mr. Reding, to your company,” said Vincent.
At this moment the door opened, and in came the manciple with the
dinner paper, which Mr. Vincent had formally to run his eye over.
“Watkins,” he said, giving it back to him, “I almost think to-day is
one of the Fasts of the Church. Go and look, Watkins, and bring me
word.”
The astonished manciple, who had never been sent on such a
commission in his whole career before, hastened out of the room, to
task his wits how best to fulfil it. The question seemed to strike the
company as forcibly, for there was a sudden silence, which was
succeeded by a shuffling of feet and a leave-taking; as if, though they
had secured their ham and mutton at breakfast, they did not like to
risk their dinner. Watkins returned sooner than could have been
expected. He said that Mr. Vincent was right; to-day he had found was
“the feast of the Apostles.”
“The Vigil of St. Peter, you mean, Watkins,” said Mr. Vincent; “I
thought so. Then let us have a plain beefsteak and a saddle of mutton;
no Portugal onions, Watkins, or currant-jelly; and some simple pudding,
Charlotte pudding, Watkins—that will do.”
Watkins vanished. By this time, Charles found himself alone with the
college authority; who began to speak to him in a more confidential
tone.
“Mr. Reding,” said he, “I did not like to question you before the
others, but I conceive you had no particular meaning in your
praise of Oxford in the Long Vacation? In the mouths of some it would
have been suspicious.”
Charles was all surprise.
“To tell the truth, Mr. Reding, as things stand,” he proceeded, “it
is often a mark of party, this residence in the Vacation;
though, of course, there is nothing in the thing itself but what
is perfectly natural and right.”
Charles was all attention.
“My good sir,” the tutor proceeded, “avoid parties; be sure to avoid
party. You are young in your career among us. I always feel anxious
about young men of talent; there is the greatest danger of the talent
of the University being absorbed in party.”
Reding expressed a hope that nothing he had done had given cause to
his tutor's remark.
“No,” replied Mr. Vincent, “no;” yet with some slight hesitation;
“no, I don't know that it has. But I have thought some of your remarks
and questions at lecture were like a person pushing things too far, and wishing to form a system.”
Charles was so much taken aback by the charge, that the unexplained
mystery of the Long Vacation went out of his head. He said he was “very
sorry,” and “obliged;” and tried to recollect what he could have said
to give ground to Mr. Vincent's remark. Not being able at the moment to
recollect, he went on. “I assure you, sir, I know so little of parties
in the place, that I hardly know their leaders. I have heard persons
mentioned, but, if I tried, I think I should, in some cases, mismatch
names and opinions.”
“I believe it,” said Vincent; “but you are young; I am cautioning
you against tendencies. You may suddenly find yourself absorbed
before you know where you are.”
Charles thought this a good opportunity of asking some questions in
detail, about points which puzzled him. He asked whether Dr. Brownside
was considered a safe divine to follow.
“I hold, d'ye see,” answered Vincent, “that all errors are
counterfeits of truth. Clever men say true things, Mr. Reding, true in
their substance, but,” sinking his voice to a whisper, “they go too
far. It might even be shown that all sects are in one sense but
parts of the Catholic Church. I don't say true parts, that is a further
question; but they embody great principles. The Quakers
represent the principle of simplicity and evangelical poverty; they
even have a dress of their own, like monks. The Independents represent
the rights of the laity; the Wesleyans cherish the devotional
principle; the Irvingites, the symbolical and mystical; the High Church
party, the principle of obedience; the Liberals are the guardians of
reason. No party, then, I conceive, is entirely right or entirely
wrong. As to Dr. Brownside, there certainly have been various opinions
entertained about his divinity; still, he is an able man, and I think
you will gain good, gain good from his teaching. But
mind, I don't recommend him; yet I respect him, and I consider
that he says many things very well worth your attention. I would advise
you, then, to accept the good which his sermons offer, without
committing yourself to the bad. That, depend upon it, Mr.
Reding, is the golden though the obvious rule in these matters.”
Charles said, in answer, that Mr. Vincent was overrating his powers;
that he had to learn before he could judge; and that he wished very
much to know whether Vincent could recommend him any book, in which he
might see at once what the true Church-of-England doctrine was
on a number of points which perplexed him.
Mr. Vincent replied, he must be on his guard against dissipating his
mind with such reading, at a time when his University duties had a
definite claim upon him. He ought to avoid all controversies of the
day, all authors of the day. He would advise him to read no
living authors. “Read dead authors alone,” he continued; “dead authors
are safe. Our great divines,” and he stood upright, “were models;
'there were giants on the earth in those days,' as King George the
Third had once said of them to Dr. Johnson. They had that depth, and
power, and gravity, and fulness, and erudition; and they were so racy,
always racy, and what might be called English. They had that richness,
too, such a mine of thought, such a world of opinion, such activity of
mind, such inexhaustible resource, such diversity, too. Then they were
so eloquent; the majestic Hooker, the imaginative Taylor, the brilliant
Hall, the learning of Barrow, the strong sense of South, the keen logic
of Chillingworth, good, honest old Burnet,” etc., etc.
There did not seem much reason why he should stop at one moment more
than another; at length, however, he did stop. It was prose, but it was
pleasant prose to Charles; he knew just enough about these writers to
feel interested in hearing them talked about, and to him Vincent seemed
to be saying a good deal, when in fact he was saying very little. When
he stopped, Charles said he believed that there were persons in the
University who were promoting the study of these authors.
Mr. Vincent looked grave. “It is true,” he said; “but, my young
friend, I have already hinted to you that indifferent things are
perverted to the purposes of party. At this moment the names of
some of our greatest divines are little better than a watchword by
which the opinions of living individuals are signified.”
“Which opinions, I suppose,” Charles answered, “are not to be found
in those authors.”
“I'll not say that,” said Mr. Vincent. “I have the greatest respect
for the individuals in question, and I am not denying that they have
done good to our Church by drawing attention in this lax day to the old
Church-of-England divinity. But it is one thing to agree with these
gentlemen; another,” laying his hand on Charles's shoulder, “another to
belong to their party. Do not make man your master; get good from all;
think well of all persons, and you will be a wise man.”
Reding inquired, with some timidity, if this was not something like
what Dr. Brownside had said in the University pulpit; but perhaps the
latter advocated a toleration of opinions in a different sense? Mr.
Vincent answered rather shortly, that he had not heard Dr. Brownside's
sermon; but, for himself, he had been speaking only of persons in our
own communion.
“Our Church,” he said, “admitted of great liberty of thought within
her pale. Even our greatest divines differed from each other in many
respects; nay, Bishop Taylor differed from himself. It was a great
principle in the English Church. Her true children agree to differ. In
truth,” he continued, “there is that robust, masculine, noble
independence in the English mind, which refuses to be tied down to
artificial shapes, but is like, I will say, some great and beautiful
production of nature,—a tree, which is rich in foliage and fantastic
in limb, no sickly denizen of the hothouse, or helpless dependent of
the garden wall, but in careless magnificence sheds its fruits upon the
free earth, for the bird of the air and the beast of the field, and all
sorts of cattle, to eat thereof and rejoice.”
When Charles came away, he tried to think what he had gained by his
conversation with Mr. Vincent; not exactly what he had wanted, some
practical rules to guide his mind and keep him steady; but still some
useful hints. He had already been averse to parties, and offended at
what he saw of individuals attached to them. Vincent had confirmed him
in his resolution to keep aloof from them, and to attend to his duties
in the place. He felt pleased to have had this talk with him; but what
could he mean by suspecting a tendency in himself to push things too
far, and thereby to implicate himself in party? He was obliged to
resign himself to ignorance on the subject, and to be content with
keeping a watch over himself in future.