_ Ernest felt now that the turning point of his life had come. He
would give up all for Christ--even his tobacco.
So he gathered together his pipes and pouches, and locked them up in
his portmanteau under his bed where they should be out of sight, and
as much out of mind as possible. He did not burn them, because
someone might come in who wanted to smoke, and though he might
abridge his own liberty, yet, as smoking was not a sin, there was no
reason why he should be hard on other people.
After breakfast he left his rooms to call on a man named Dawson, who
had been one of Mr Hawke's hearers on the preceding evening, and who
was reading for ordination at the forthcoming Ember Weeks, now only
four months distant. This man had been always of a rather serious
turn of mind--a little too much so for Ernest's taste; but times had
changed, and Dawson's undoubted sincerity seemed to render him a
fitting counsellor for Ernest at the present time. As he was going
through the first court of John's on his way to Dawson's rooms, he
met Badcock, and greeted him with some deference. His advance was
received with one of those ecstatic gleams which shone occasionally
upon the face of Badcock, and which, if Ernest had known more, would
have reminded him of Robespierre. As it was, he saw it and
unconsciously recognised the unrest and self-seekingness of the man,
but could not yet formulate them; he disliked Badcock more than
ever, but as he was going to profit by the spiritual benefits which
he had put in his way, he was bound to be civil to him, and civil he
therefore was.
Badcock told him that Mr Hawke had returned to town immediately his
discourse was over, but that before doing so he had enquired
particularly who Ernest and two or three others were. I believe
each one of Ernest's friends was given to understand that he had
been more or less particularly enquired after. Ernest's vanity--for
he was his mother's son--was tickled at this; the idea again
presented itself to him that he might be the one for whose benefit
Mr Hawke had been sent. There was something, too, in Badcock's
manner which conveyed the idea that he could say more if he chose,
but had been enjoined to silence.
On reaching Dawson's rooms, he found his friend in raptures over the
discourse of the preceding evening. Hardly less delighted was he
with the effect it had produced on Ernest. He had always known, he
said, that Ernest would come round; he had been sure of it, but he
had hardly expected the conversion to be so sudden. Ernest said no
more had he, but now that he saw his duty so clearly he would get
ordained as soon as possible, and take a curacy, even though the
doing so would make him have to go down from Cambridge earlier,
which would be a great grief to him. Dawson applauded this
determination, and it was arranged that as Ernest was still more or
less of a weak brother, Dawson should take him, so to speak, in
spiritual tow for a while, and strengthen and confirm his faith.
An offensive and defensive alliance therefore was struck up between
this pair (who were in reality singularly ill assorted), and Ernest
set to work to master the books on which the Bishop would examine
him. Others gradually joined them till they formed a small set or
church (for these are the same things), and the effect of Mr Hawke's
sermon instead of wearing off in a few days, as might have been
expected, became more and more marked, so much so that it was
necessary for Ernest's friends to hold him back rather than urge him
on, for he seemed likely to develop--as indeed he did for a time--
into a religious enthusiast.
In one matter only, did he openly backslide. He had, as I said
above, locked up his pipes and tobacco, so that he might not be
tempted to use them. All day long on the day after Mr Hawke's
sermon he let them lie in his portmanteau bravely; but this was not
very difficult, as he had for some time given up smoking till after
hall. After hall this day he did not smoke till chapel time, and
then went to chapel in self-defence. When he returned he determined
to look at the matter from a common sense point of view. On this he
saw that, provided tobacco did not injure his health--and he really
could not see that it did--it stood much on the same footing as tea
or coffee.
Tobacco had nowhere been forbidden in the Bible, but then it had not
yet been discovered, and had probably only escaped proscription for
this reason. We can conceive of St Paul or even our Lord Himself as
drinking a cup of tea, but we cannot imagine either of them as
smoking a cigarette or a churchwarden. Ernest could not deny this,
and admitted that Paul would almost certainly have condemned tobacco
in good round terms if he had known of its existence. Was it not
then taking rather a mean advantage of the Apostle to stand on his
not having actually forbidden it? On the other hand, it was
possible that God knew Paul would have forbidden smoking, and had
purposely arranged the discovery of tobacco for a period at which
Paul should be no longer living. This might seem rather hard on
Paul, considering all he had done for Christianity, but it would be
made up to him in other ways.
These reflections satisfied Ernest that on the whole he had better
smoke, so he sneaked to his portmanteau and brought out his pipes
and tobacco again. There should be moderation he felt in all
things, even in virtue; so for that night he smoked immoderately.
It was a pity, however, that he had bragged to Dawson about giving
up smoking. The pipes had better be kept in a cupboard for a week
or two, till in other and easier respects Ernest should have proved
his steadfastness. Then they might steal out again little by
little--and so they did.
Ernest now wrote home a letter couched in a vein different from his
ordinary ones. His letters were usually all common form and
padding, for as I have already explained, if he wrote about anything
that really interested him, his mother always wanted to know more
and more about it--every fresh answer being as the lopping off of a
hydra's head and giving birth to half a dozen or more new questions-
-but in the end it came invariably to the same result, namely, that
he ought to have done something else, or ought not to go on doing as
he proposed. Now, however, there was a new departure, and for the
thousandth time he concluded that he was about to take a course of
which his father and mother would approve, and in which they would
be interested, so that at last he and they might get on more
sympathetically than heretofore. He therefore wrote a gushing
impulsive letter, which afforded much amusement to myself as I read
it, but which is too long for reproduction. One passage ran: "I am
now going towards Christ; the greater number of my college friends
are, I fear, going away from Him; we must pray for them that they
may find the peace that is in Christ even as I have myself found
it." Ernest covered his face with his hands for shame as he read
this extract from the bundle of letters he had put into my hands--
they had been returned to him by his father on his mother's death,
his mother having carefully preserved them.
"Shall I cut it out?" said I, "I will if you like."
"Certainly not," he answered, "and if good-natured friends have kept
more records of my follies, pick out any plums that may amuse the
reader, and let him have his laugh over them." But fancy what
effect a letter like this--so unled up to--must have produced at
Battersby! Even Christina refrained from ecstasy over her son's
having discovered the power of Christ's word, while Theobald was
frightened out of his wits. It was well his son was not going to
have any doubts or difficulties, and that he would be ordained
without making a fuss over it, but he smelt mischief in this sudden
conversion of one who had never yet shown any inclination towards
religion. He hated people who did not know where to stop. Ernest
was always so outre and strange; there was never any knowing what he
would do next, except that it would be something unusual and silly.
If he was to get the bit between his teeth after he had got ordained
and bought his living, he would play more pranks than ever he,
Theobald, had done. The fact, doubtless, of his being ordained and
having bought a living would go a long way to steady him, and if he
married, his wife must see to the rest; this was his only chance
and, to do justice to his sagacity, Theobald in his heart did not
think very highly of it.
When Ernest came down to Battersby in June, he imprudently tried to
open up a more unreserved communication with his father than was his
wont. The first of Ernest's snipe-like flights on being flushed by
Mr Hawke's sermon was in the direction of ultra-evangelicalism.
Theobald himself had been much more Low than High Church. This was
the normal development of the country clergyman during the first
years of his clerical life, between, we will say, the years 1825 to
1850; but he was not prepared for the almost contempt with which
Ernest now regarded the doctrines of baptismal regeneration and
priestly absolution (Hoity toity, indeed, what business had he with
such questions?), nor for his desire to find some means of
reconciling Methodism and the Church. Theobald hated the Church of
Rome, but he hated dissenters too, for he found them as a general
rule troublesome people to deal with; he always found people who did
not agree with him troublesome to deal with: besides, they set up
for knowing as much as he did; nevertheless if he had been let alone
he would have leaned towards them rather than towards the High
Church party. The neighbouring clergy, however, would not let him
alone. One by one they had come under the influence, directly or
indirectly, of the Oxford movement which had begun twenty years
earlier. It was surprising how many practices he now tolerated
which in his youth he would have considered Popish; he knew very
well therefore which way things were going in Church matters, and
saw that as usual Ernest was setting himself the other way. The
opportunity for telling his son that he was a fool was too
favourable not to be embraced, and Theobald was not slow to embrace
it. Ernest was annoyed and surprised, for had not his father and
mother been wanting him to be more religious all his life? Now that
he had become so they were still not satisfied. He said to himself
that a prophet was not without honour save in his own country, but
he had been lately--or rather until lately--getting into an odious
habit of turning proverbs upside down, and it occurred to him that a
country is sometimes not without honour save for its own prophet.
Then he laughed, and for the rest of the day felt more as he used to
feel before he had heard Mr Hawke's sermon.
He returned to Cambridge for the Long Vacation of 1858--none too
soon, for he had to go in for the Voluntary Theological Examination,
which bishops were now beginning to insist upon. He imagined all
the time he was reading that he was storing himself with the
knowledge that would best fit him for the work he had taken in hand.
In truth, he was cramming for a pass. In due time he did pass--
creditably, and was ordained Deacon with half-a-dozen others of his
friends in the autumn of 1858. He was then just twenty-three years
old. _