Part 3

Mr. Lambkin possessed among other great and gracious qualities the habit of writing to his nephew, Thomas Ezekiel Lambkin,[36] who entered the college as an undergraduate when his uncle was some four years a Fellow. Of many such communications he valued especially this which I print below, on account of the curious and pathetic circumstances which surrounded it. Some months after Thomas had been given his two groups and had left the University, Mr. Lambkin was looking over some books in a second-hand book shop--not with the intention of purchasing so much as to improve the mind. It was a favourite habit of his, and as he was deeply engaged in a powerful romance written under the pseudonym of “Marie Corelli”[37] there dropped from its pages the letter which he had sent so many years before. It lay in its original envelope unopened, and on turning to the flyleaf he saw the name of his nephew written. It had once been his! The boy had so treasured the little missive as to place it in his favourite book!

Lambkin was so justly touched by the incident as to purchase the volume, asking that the price might be entered to his account, which was not then of any long standing. The letter he docketed “to be published after my death.” And I obey the wishes of my revered friend:

“MY DEAR THOMAS,

“Here you are at last in Oxford, and at Burford, ‘a Burford Man.’ How proud your mother must be and even your father, whom I well remember saying that ‘if he were not an accountant, he would rather be a Fellow of Burford than anything else on earth.’ But it was not to be.

“The life you are entering is very different from that which you have left behind. When you were at school you were under a strict discipline, you were compelled to study the classics and to play at various games. Cleanliness and truthfulness were enforced by punishment, while the most instinctive habits of decency and good manners could only be acquired at the expense of continual application. In a word, ‘you were a child and thought as a child.’

“Now all that is changed, you are free (within limits) to follow your own devices, to make or mar yourself. But if you use Oxford aright she will make you as she has made so many of your kind--a perfect gentleman.

“But enough of these generalities. It is time to turn to one or two 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.