Chapter Seven.

The Scorn of Scorn.

“And not a man, for being simply man,
Hath any honour, but honour for those honours
That are without him—as place, riches, favour,
Prizes of accident as oft as merit.”
Shakespeare.

Very different in all respects were Julian’s rencontres with others of his old schoolfellows. There were some, indeed, among them who had left Harton while they were still in low forms, and some whose tastes and pursuits were so entirely different from his own, that it was hardly likely that he should maintain any other intercourse with them than such as was demanded by a slight acquaintance. But of Bruce, at any rate, it might have been expected that he would see rather more than proved to be the case. Bruce, as having been head of the school during the period when Julian was a monitor, had been thrown daily into his company, and, as inmates of the same house, they had acted together in the thousand little scenes which diversify the bright and free monotony of a schoolboy’s life.

But the first fortnight passed by, and Bruce had not called on Julian, and as they were on different “sides,” they had not chanced to meet, either in lecture-room or elsewhere. Julian, not knowing whether his position as sizar would make any difference in Bruce’s estimation of him, had naturally left him to take the initiative in calling; while Bruce, on the other hand, always a little jealous of his brilliant contemporary, and not too anxious to be familiar with a sizar, pretended to himself that it was as much Julian’s place as his to be first in calling. Hence it was that, for the first fortnight, the two did not happen to come across each other.

Meanwhile Bruce also had made many fresh acquaintances. His reputation for immense wealth and considerable talent—his dashing easy manner—his handsome person and elaborate style of dress, attracted notice, and very soon threw him into the circle of all the young fashionables of Saint Werner’s. His style of life cannot be better described than by saying that he affected the fine gentleman. Hardly a day had passed during which he had not been at some large breakfast or wine-party, or formed one of a select little body of supping aristocrats. He did very little work, and pretended to do none, (for Bruce was a first-rate specimen of the never-open-a-book genus), although at unexpected hours he took care to get up the lecture-room subjects sufficiently well to make a display when he was put on. Even in this he was unsuccessful, for scholarship cannot be acquired per saltum, and Mr Serjeant, the lecturer on his side, looked on him with profound contempt as a puppy who was all the more offensive from pretending to some knowledge. He told him that he might distinguish himself by hard steady work, but would never do so without infinitely more pains than he took the trouble to apply. His quiet and caustic strictures, and the easy sarcasm with which he would allow Bruce to flourish his way through a passage, and then go through it himself, pointing out how utterly Bruce had “hopped with airy and fastidious levity” above all the nicer shades of meaning, and slurred over his ignorance of a difficulty by some piece of sonorous nonsense, made him peculiarly the object of the young man’s disgust. But though Mr Serjeant wounded his vanity, the irony of “a musty old don,” as Bruce contemptuously called him, was amply atoned for by the compliments of the fast young admirers whom Bruce soon gathered round him, and some of whom were always to be found after hall-time sipping his claret or lounging in his gorgeous rooms. To them Bruce’s genius was incontestably proved by the faultless evenness with which he parted his hair behind, the dapperness of his boots, and the merit of his spotless shirts.

Sir Rollo Bruce, Vyvyan’s father, was a man of no particular family, who had been knighted on a deputation, and contrived to glitter in the most splendid circles of London society. His magnificent entertainments, his exquisite appointments, his apparently fabulous resources, were a sufficient passport into the saloons of dukes; and, although ostensibly Sir Rollo had nothing to live on but his salary as the chairman of a bank, nobody who had the entrée of his house cared particularly to inquire into the sources of his wealth. Vyvyan imitated his father in his expensive tastes, and cultivated, with vulgar assiduity, the society of the noblemen at his college. In a short time he knew them all, and all of them had been at his rooms except a young Lord De Vayne, of whom we shall hear more hereafter, and whose retiring manners made him shrink with dislike from Bruce’s fawning familiarity.

The sizars at Saint Werner’s do not dine at the same hour as the rest of the undergraduates, but the hour after, and their dinner consists of the dishes which have previously figured on the Fellows’ table. It seems to me that the time may come when the authorities of that royal foundation will see reason to regret so unnecessary an arrangement, the relic of a long, obsolete, and always undesirable system. Many of Saint Werner’s most distinguished alumni have themselves sat at the sizars’ table, and if any of them were blessed or cursed with sensitive dispositions, they will not be dead to the justice of these remarks. The sizars are, by birth and education, invariably, so far as I know, the sons of gentlemen, and perhaps most often of clergymen whose means prevent them from bearing unassisted the heavy burden of University expenses. After a short time many of these sizars become scholars, and eventually a large number of them win for themselves the honours of a fellowship. Why put on these young students a gratuitous indignity? Why subject them to the unpleasant remarks which some are quite coarse enough to make on the subject? The authorities of Saint Werner’s are full of real courtesy and kindness, and that the arrangement is not intended as an indignity I am well aware; it is, as I have said, the accidental fragment of an obsolete period—a period when scholars dined on “a penny piece of beef,” and slept two or three in a room at the foot of the Fellows’ beds. All honour to Saint Werner’s; all honour to the great, and the wise, and the learned, and the noble whom she has sent forth into all lands; all honour to the bravery and the truthfulness of her sons; all honour to the profound scholars, and able teachers, and eloquent orators who preside at her councils; she is a Queen of colleges, and may wield her sceptre with a strong hand and a proud. But are there not some among her subjects who are deaf to the sounds of calm advice?—some who are so blind as to love her faults and prop up her abuses?—some who daub her walls with the untempered mortar of their blind prejudice, and treat every one as an enemy who would aid in removing here and there a bent pillar, and here and there a crumbling stone? (These words were written some time ago. I trust that since then all causes of offence, if they ever existed, have long been forgiven and forgotten.)

And now let all defenders of present institutions, however bad they may be—let all violent supporters of their old mumpsimus against any new sumpsimus whatever, listen to a conversation among some undergraduates. It may convince them, or it may not—I cannot tell; but I know that it had a powerful influence on me.

Bruce was standing in the Butteries, where he had just been joined by Lord Fitzurse and Sir John D’Acres, who by virtue of their titles—certainly not by any other virtue—sat among reverend Professors and learned Doctors at the high table, far removed from the herd of common undergraduates. With the three were Mr. Boodle and Mr. Tulk, (the “Mister” is given them in the college-lists out of respect for the long purses which have purchased them, the privilege of fellow-commoners or ballantiogennaioi), who enjoyed the same enviable distinction and happy privilege. By the screens were four or five sizars; a few more were scattered about in the passage waiting, whilst the servants hurriedly placed the dishes on the table set apart for them; and Julian was chatting to Lillyston, who chanced at the moment to have been passing by.

“Who is that table for?” asked D’Acres, pointing through the open door of the hall.

“Oh, that’s for the sizars,” tittered the feeble-minded Boodle, who tittered at everything.

“S–s–sizars!” stammered Lord Fitzurse. “What’s that mean? Are they v–v–very big f–f–fellows?”

“Ha! ha! ha!” said Bruce. “No; they’re sons of gyps and that kind of thing, who feed on the semese fragments of the high table.”

“They must be g–g–ghouls!” said his lordship, shudderingly.

“Hush,” said D’Acres, who was a thorough gentleman, “some of the sizars may be here;” and he dropped Bruce’s arm.

“Pooh! they’ll feel flattered,” said Bruce carelessly, as D’Acres walked off.

“Indeed!” said Julian, striding indignantly forward, for the conversation was so loud that he had heard every word of it. “Flattered to be the butt for the insolence of puppyism and every fool who is coarse enough to insult them publicly.”

“Who the d–d–d–deuce are you?” said Lord Fitzurse, “for you’re coming it r–r–rather strong.”

“Who is he?” said Lillyston, breaking in, “your equal, sir, in birth, as he is your superior in intellect, and in every moral quality. Gentlemen,” he continued, “let me warn you not to have the impertinence to talk in this way again.”

“Warn us!” said Bruce, trying to hide under bravado his crestfallen temper; “why, what’ll you do if we choose to continue?”

“Make a few counter-remarks to begin with, Bruce, on parasites and parvenus, tuft-hunting freshmen, and the tenth transmitters of a foolish face,” retorted Lillyston, glowing with honest indignation.

“And turn you out of the butteries by the shoulders,” said a strong undergraduate, who had chanced to be a witness of the scene. “A somewhat boyish proceeding, perhaps, but exactly suited to some capacities.”

Bruce and his friends, seeing that they were beginning to have the worst of it, thought it about time to swagger off, and for the future learnt to confine their remarks to a more exclusive circle.

There had been another silent spectator of the scene in the person of Lord De Vayne. He was a young viscount whose estate bordered on the grounds of Lonstead Abbey, and he had known Julian since both of them were little boys. He had been entirely educated at home with an excellent tutor, who had filled his mind with all wise and generous sentiments; but his widowed mother lived in such complete seclusion that he had rarely entered the society of any of his own age, and was consequently timid and bashful. Meeting sometimes with Julian, he had conceived a warm admiration for his genius and character, and at one time had earnestly wished to join him at Harton. But his mother was so distressed at the proposition that he at once abandoned it, while he eagerly looked forward to the time when he should meet his friend at Saint Werner’s, on the books of which college he had entered his name partly for this very reason. He had not been an undergraduate many days before he called on Julian, who had received him indeed very kindly, but who seemed rather shy of being much in his company for fear of the remarks which he had not yet learnt entirely to disregard. This was a great source of vexation to De Vayne, though the reason of it was partly explained after the remarks which he had just overheard.

“Home,” he whispered, “I wish you’d come into my rooms after hall, I should so much like to have a talk. Do,” he said, as he saw that Julian hesitated, “I assure you I have felt quite lonely here.”

Accordingly, after hall, Julian strolled into Warwick’s Court, and found his way to Lord De Vayne’s rooms.

“I am so glad to see you, Julian, at last. As I have told you,” he said, with a glistening eye, “I have been very lonely. I have never left home before, and have made no friend here as yet;” and he heaved a deep sigh.

Julian felt his heart full of friendliness for the gentle boy whose total inexperience made him seem younger than he really was. He glanced round the rooms; they were richly furnished, but full of memorials of home, that gave them a melancholy aspect. Over the fireplace was a water-colour likeness of his lady-mother in her widow’s weeds, and on the opposite side of the room another picture of a beautiful young child—De Vayne’s only brother, who had died in infancy. The handsomely-bound books on the shelves had been transferred from their well-known places in the library of Uther Hall, and the regal antlers which were fastened over the door had once graced the dining-room. Thousands would have envied Lord De Vayne’s position; but he had caught the shadow of his mother’s sadness, his relations were few, at Saint Werner’s as yet he had found none to lean upon, and he felt unhappy and alone.

“I was so ashamed, Julian,” he said, “so utterly and unspeakably ashamed to hear the rudeness of these men as we came out of hall. I’m afraid you must have felt deeply hurt.”

“Yes, for the moment; but I’m sorry that I took even a moment’s notice of it. Why should one be ruffled because others are unfeeling and impertinent; it is their misfortune, not ours.”

“But why did you come up as a sizar, Julian? Surely with Lonstead Abbey as your inheritance—”

“No,” said Julian with a smile; “I am lord of my leisure, and no land beside.”

“Really! I had always looked on you as a future neighbour and helper.”

He was too delicate to make any inquiries on the subject, but while a bright airy vision rose for an instant before Julian’s fancy, and then died away, his friend said, with ingenuous embarrassment:

“You know, Home, I am very rich. In truth, I have far more money than I know what to do with. It only troubles me. I wish—”

“Oh, dear no!” said Julian hastily; “I got the Newry scholarship, you know, at Harton, and I really need no assistance whatever.”

“I hope I haven’t offended you; how unlucky I am,” said De Vayne blushing.

“Not a whit, De Vayne; I know your kind heart.”

“Well, do let me see something of you. Won’t you come a walk sometimes, or let me come in of an evening when you’re taking tea, and not at work?”

“Do,” said Julian, and they agreed to meet at his rooms on the following Sunday evening.

Sunday at Camford was a happy day for Julian Home. It was a day of perfect leisure and rest; the time not spent at church or in the society of others, he generally occupied in taking a longer walk than usual, or in the luxuries of solemn and quiet thought. But the greatest enjoyment was to revel freely in books, and devote himself unrestrained to the gorgeous scenes of poetry, or the passionate pages of eloquent men; on that day he drank deeply of pure streams that refreshed him for his weekly work; nor did he forget some hour of commune, in the secrecy of his chamber and the silence of his heart, with that God and Father in whom alone he trusted, and to whom alone he looked for deliverance from difficulty, and guidance under temptation. Of all hours his happiest and strongest were those in which he was alone—alone except for a heavenly presence, sitting at the feet of a Friend, and looking face to face upon himself.

He had been reading Wordsworth since hall-time, when the ringing of the chapel-bell summoned him to put on his surplice, and walk quietly down to chapel. As there was plenty of time, he took a stroll or two across the court before going in. While doing so, he met De Vayne, and in his company suddenly found himself vis-à-vis with his old enemy Brogten.

“Hm!” whispered Brogten to his companion; “the sizars are getting on. A sizar and a viscount arm-in-arm!”

Julian only heard enough of this sentence to be aware that it was highly insolent; and the flush on De Vayne’s cheek showed that he too had caught something of its meaning.

“Never mind that boor’s rudeness,” he said. “I feel more than honoured to be in the sizar’s company. How admirably quiet you are, Julian, under such conduct!”

“I try to be; not always with success, though,” he answered, as his breast swelled, and his lip quivered with indignation

“Scorn!—to be scorned by one that I scorn:
Is that a matter to make me fret?
Is that a matter to cause regret?
Stop! let’s come into chapel.”

They went into chapel together. De Vayne walked into the noblemen’s seats, and Julian, hot and angry, and with the words, “Scorn!—to be scorned by one that I scorn,” still ringing in his ears, strode up the whole length of the chapel to the obscure corner set apart—is it not very needlessly set apart?—for the sizars’ use.

Saint Werner’s chapel on a Sunday evening is a moving sight. Five hundred men in surplices thronging the chapel from end to end—the very flower of English youth, in manly beauty, in strength, in race, in courage, in mind—all kneeling side by side, bound together in a common bond of union by the grand historic associations of that noble place—all mingling their voices together with the trebles of the choir and the thunder-music of the organ. This is a spectacle not often equalled; and to take a share in it, as one for whose sake in part it has been established, is a privilege not to be forgotten. The music, the devotion, the spirit of the place, smoothed the swelling thoughts of Julian’s troubled heart. “Are we not all brethren? Hath not one Father begotten us?” Such began to be the burden of his thoughts, rather than the old “Scorn!—to be scorned by one that I scorn.” And when the glorious tones of the anthem ceased, and the calm steady voice of the chaplain was heard alone, uttering in the sudden hush the grand overture to the noble prayer—

“O Lord, our heavenly Father, high and mighty, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, the only Ruler of princes, who dost from thy throne behold all the dwellers upon earth.”

Then the last demon of wrath was exorcised, and Julian thought to himself—

“No; from henceforth I scorn no one, and am indifferent alike to the proud man’s scorn and the base man’s sneer.”

The two incidents that we have narrated made Julian fear that his position as a sizar would be one of continual annoyance. He afterwards gratefully acknowledged that in such a supposition he was quite mistaken. Never again while he remained a sizar did he hear the slightest unkind allusions to the circumstance, and but for the external regulations imposed by the college, he might even have forgotten the fact. Those regulations, especially the hall arrangements, were indeed sufficiently disagreeable at times. It could not be pleasant to dine in a hall which had just been left by hundreds of men, and to make the meal amid the prospect of slovenly servants employed in the emptying of wine-glasses and the ligurrition of dishes, sometimes even in passages of coquetry or noisy civilities, on the interchange of which the presence of these undergraduates seemed to impose but little check. These things may be better now, and in spite of them Julian felt hearty reason to be grateful for the real kindness of the Saint Werner’s authorities. In other respects he found that the fact of his being a sizar made no sort of difference in his position; he found that the majority of men either knew or cared nothing about it, and sought his society on terms of the most unquestioned equality, for the sake of the pleasure which his company afforded them, and the thoughts which it enabled them to ventilate or interchange.