Chapter 8

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

　　I was first sent to Mr. B.'s, about a couple of miles fromAlnwick. Before my time, Alnwick itself was considered outof bounds. But as nearly half the sin in this world consistsin being found out, my companions and I managed never tocommit any in this direction.

　　We generally returned from the town with a bottle of somenoxious compound called 'port' in our pockets, which wasserved out in our 'study' at night, while I read aloud theinstructive adventures of Mr. Thomas Jones. We were, ofcourse, supposed to employ these late hours in preparing ourwork for the morrow. One boy only protested that, under thecombined seductions of the port and Miss Molly Seagrim, hecould never make his verses scan.

　　Another of our recreations was poaching. From my earliestdays I was taught to shoot, myself and my brothers being eachprovided with his little single-barrelled flint and steel'Joe Manton.' At - we were surrounded by grouse moors on oneside, and by well-preserved coverts on the other. The grouseI used to shoot in the evening while they fed amongst thecorn stooks; for pheasants and hares, I used to get the otherpupils to walk through the woods, while I with a gun walkedoutside. Scouts were posted to look out for keepers.

　　Did our tutor know? Of course he knew. But think of thesaving in the butcher's bill! Besides which, Mr. B. wasotherwise preoccupied; he was in love with Mrs. B. I say 'inlove,' for although I could not be sure of it then, (havingno direct experience of the AMANTIUM IRAE,) subsequentobservation has persuaded me that their perpetual quarrelscould mean nothing else. This was exceedingly favourable tothe independence of Mr. B.'s pupils. But when asked by Mr.

　　Ellice how I was getting on, I was forced in candour to admitthat I was in a fair way to forget all I ever knew.

　　By the advice of Lord Spencer I was next placed under thetuition of one of the minor canons of Ely. The Bishop of Ely- Dr. Allen - had been Lord Spencer's tutor, hence hiselevation to the see. The Dean - Dr. Peacock, of algebraicand Trinity College fame - was good enough to promise 'tokeep an eye' on me. Lord Spencer himself took me to Ely; andthere I remained for two years. They were two very importantyears of my life. Having no fellow pupil to beguile me, Iwas the more industrious. But it was not from the betteracquaintance with ancient literature that I mainly benefited,- it was from my initiation to modern thought. I was aconstant guest at the Deanery; where I frequently met suchmen as Sedgwick, Airey the Astronomer-Royal, Selwyn, Phelpsthe Master of Sydney, Canon Heaviside the master ofHaileybury, and many other friends of the Dean's,distinguished in science, literature, and art. Here I hearddiscussed opinions on these subjects by some of their leadingrepresentatives. 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, uponMosaic cosmogony, or Biblical exegesis generally.

　　The knowledge of these learned men, the lucidity with whichthey expressed their views, and the earnestness with whichthey defended them, captivated my attention, and opened to mea new world of surpassing interest and gravity.

　　What startled me most was the spirit in which a man ofSedgwick's intellectual power protested against the possibleencroachments of his own branch of science upon the orthodoxtenets of the Church. Just about this time an anonymous bookappeared, which, though long since forgotten, caused noslight disturbance amongst dogmatic theologians. Thetendency of this book, 'Vestiges of the Creation,' was, orwas then held to be, antagonistic to the arguments fromdesign. Familiar as we now are with the theory of evolution,such a work as the 'Vestiges' would no more stir the ODIUMTHEOLOGICUM than Franklin's kite. Sedgwick, however,attacked it with a vehemence and a rancour that wouldcertainly have roasted its author had the professor held theoffice of Grand Inquisitor.

　　Though incapable of forming any opinion as to the scientificmerits of such a book, or of Hugh Miller's writings, which healso attacked upon purely religious grounds, I was staggeredby the fact that the Bible could possibly be impeached, orthat it was not profanity to defend it even. Was it not the'Word of God'? And if so, how could any theories ofcreation, any historical, any philological researches, shakeits eternal truth?

　　Day and night I pondered over this new revelation. I boughtthe books - the wicked books - which nobody ought to read.

　　The INDEX EXPURGATORIUS became my guide for books to bedigested. I laid hands on every heretical work I could hearof. By chance I made the acquaintance of a young man who,together with his family, were Unitarians. I got, anddevoured, Channing's works. I found a splendid copy ofVoltaire in the Holkham library, and hunted through theendless volumes, till I came to the 'DialoguesPhilosophiques.' The world is too busy, fortunately, todisturb its peace with such profane satire, such witheringsarcasm as flashes through an 'entretien' like that between'Frere Rigolet' and 'L'Empereur de la Chine.' Every Frenchman of letters knows it by heart; but it would wound ourEnglish susceptibilities were I to cite it here. Then, too,the impious paraphrase of the Athanasian Creed, with itsterrible climax, from the converting Jesuit: 'Or vous voyezbien . . . qu'un homme qui ne croit pas cette histoire doitetre 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 firstgoadings of the questioning spirit, resist such logic, suchscorn, 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 alike tendency. Passive obedience, blind submission toauthority, was never one of my virtues, and once my faith wasshattered, I knew not where to stop - what to doubt, what tobelieve. If the injunction to 'prove all things' wasanything 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 assuredly my thirst for knowledge, for truth, brought meanything but peace. I never was more restless, or, at times,more unhappy. Shallow, indeed, must be the soul that canlightly sever itself from beliefs which lie at the roots ofour moral, intellectual, and emotional being, sanctified tooby associations of our earliest love and reverence. I usedto wander about the fields, and sit for hours in sequesteredspots, longing for some friend, some confidant to takecounsel with. I knew no such friend. I did not dare tospeak of my misgivings to others. In spite of my earnestdesire for guidance, for more light, the strong grip ofchildhood's influences was impossible to shake off. I couldnot 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, thatperpetuates the infantile character of human creeds; and,what is worse, generates the hideous bigotry which justifiesthat sad reflection of Lucretius: 'Tantum Religio potuitsuadere malorum!'