I. CHILDHOOD

In the beginning of 1829 my father settled in a house at Kensington Gore now 42 Hyde Park Gate. There his second son, James Fitzjames, was born on March 3, 1829. James was the name upon which my grandfather insisted because it was his own. My father, because the name was his own, objected as long as he could, but at last compounded, and averted the evil omen, by adding Fitzjames. Two other children, Leslie and Caroline Emelia, were born in 1832 and 1834 at the same house. The Kensington of those days was still distinctly separate from London. A high wall divided Kensington Gardens from the Hounslow Road; there were still deer in the Gardens; cavalry barracks close to Queen’s Gate, and a turnpike at the top of the Gloucester Road. The land upon which South Kensington has since arisen was a region of market gardens, where in our childhood we strolled with our nurse along genuine country lanes.

It would be in my power, if it were desirable, to give an unusually minute account of my brother’s early childhood. My mother kept a diary, and, I believe, never missed a day for over sixty years. She was also in the habit of compiling from this certain family ‘annals’ in which she inserted everything that struck her as illustrative of the character of her children. About 1884 my brother himself began a fragment of autobiography, which he continued at intervals during the next two or three years. For various reasons I cannot transfer it as a whole to these pages, but it supplies me with some very important indications. A comparison with my mother’s contemporary account of the incidents common to both proves my brother’s narrative to be remarkably accurate. Indeed, though he disclaimed the possession of unusual powers of memory in general, he had a singularly retentive memory for facts and dates, and amused himself occasionally by exercising his faculty. He had, for example, a certain walking-stick upon which he made a notch after a day’s march; it served instead of a diary, and years afterwards he would explain what was the particular expedition indicated by any one of the very numerous notches.

Although I do not wish to record trifles important only in the eyes of a mother, or interesting only from private associations, I will give enough from these sources to illustrate his early development; or rather to show how much of the later man was already to be found in the infant. It requires perhaps some faith in maternal insight to believe that before he was three months old he showed an uncommon power of ’amusing himself with his own thoughts,’ and had ’a calm, composed dignity in his countenance which was quite amusing in so young a creature.’ It will be more easily believed that he was healthy and strong, and by the age of six months ‘most determined to have his own way.’ On August 15, 1830, Wilberforce was looking at the baby, when he woke up, burst into a laugh, and exclaimed ‘Funny!’ a declaration which Wilberforce no doubt took in good part, though it seems to have been interpreted as a reflection upon the philanthropist’s peculiar figure. My brother himself gives a detailed description of his grandfather from an interview which occurred when the old gentleman was seventy-six and the infant very little more than three years old. He remembers even the room and the precise position of the persons present. He remembers too (and his mother’s diary confirms the fact) how in the same year he announced that the Reform Bill had ‘passed.’ It was ‘a very fine thing,’ he said, being in fact a bill stuck upon a newsboy’s hat, inscribed, as his nurse informed him, with the words ‘Reform Bill.’

Although his memory implies early powers of observation, he did not show the precocity of many clever children. He was still learning to read about his fifth birthday, and making, as his mother complains, rather slow progress. But if not specially quick at his lessons, he gave very early and, as it seems to me, very noticeable proofs of thoughtfulness and independence of character. He was, as he remained through life, remarkable for that kind of sturdy strength which goes with a certain awkwardness and even sluggishness. To use a modern phrase, he had a great store of ‘potential energy,’ which was not easily convertible to purposes of immediate application. His mind swarmed with ideas, which would not run spontaneously into the regulation moulds. His mother’s influence is perceptible in an early taste for poetry. In his third year he learnt by heart ‘Sir John Moore’s Burial,’ ‘Nelson and the North,’ Wordsworth’s ‘Address to the Winds,’ and Lord F. L. Gower’s translation of Schiller (’When Jove had encircled this planet with light’) from hearing his brother’s repetition. He especially delighted in this bit of Schiller and in ‘Chevy Chase,’ though he resisted Watts’ hymns. In the next two or three years he learns a good deal of poetry, and on September 5, 1834, repeats fifty lines of Henry the Fifth’s speech before Agincourt without a fault. ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ and ’Robinson Crusoe’ are read in due course as his reading improves, and he soon delights in getting into a room by himself and surrounding himself with books. His religious instruction of course began at the earliest possible period, and he soon learnt by heart many simple passages of the Bible. He made his first appearance at family prayers in November 1830, when the ceremony struck him as ‘funny,’ but he soon became interested and was taught to pray for himself. In 1832 his elder brother has nicknamed him the ‘little preacher,’ from his love of virtuous admonitions. In 1834 he confides to his mother that he has invented a prayer for himself which is ’not, you know, a childish sort of invention’; and in 1835 he explains that he has followed the advice given in a sermon (he very carefully points out that it was only advice, not an order) to pray regularly. Avowals of this kind, however, have to be elicited from him by delicate maternal questioning. He is markedly averse to any display of feeling. ’You should keep your love locked up as I do’ is a characteristic remark at the age of four to his eldest brother. The effect of the religious training is apparently perceptible in a great tendency to self-analysis. His thoughts sometimes turn to other problems; in October, 1835, for example, he asks the question which has occurred to so many thoughtful children,’How do we know that the world is not a dream?’ but he is chiefly interested in his own motives. He complains in January 1834 that he has naughty thoughts. His father tells him to send them away without even thinking about them. He takes the advice, but afterwards explains that he is so proud of sending them away that he ’wants to get them that he may send them away.’ He objects to a reward for being good, because it will make him do right from a wrong motive. He shrinks from compliments. In October 1835 he leaves a room where some carpenters were at work because they had said something which he was sorry to have heard. They had said, as it appeared upon anxious inquiry, that he would make a good carpenter, and he felt that he was being cajoled. He remarks that even pleasures become painful when they are ordered, and explains why his sixth birthday was disappointing; he had expected too much.

His thoughtfulness took shapes which made him at times anything but easy to manage. He could be intensely obstinate. The first conflict with authority took place on June 28, 1831, when he resolutely declared that he would not say the ‘Busy Bee.’ This event became famous in the nursery, for in September 1834 he has to express contrition for having in play used the words ‘By the busy bee’ as an infantile equivalent to an oath. One difficulty was that he declined to repeat what was put into his mouth, or to take first principles in ethics for granted. When his mother reads a text to him (May 1832), he retorts, ’Then I will not be like a little child; I do not want to go to heaven; I would rather stay on earth.’ He declines (in 1834) to join in a hymn which expresses a desire to die and be with God. Even good people, he says, may prefer to stay in this world. ’I don’t want to be as good and wise as Tom Macaulay’ is a phrase of 1832, showing that even appeals to concrete ideals of the most undeniable excellence fail to overpower him. He gradually developed a theory which became characteristic, and which he obstinately upheld when driven into a logical corner. A stubborn conflict arose in 1833, when his mother was forced to put him in solitary confinement during the family teatime. She overhears a long soliloquy in which he admits his error, contrasts his position with that of the happy who are perhaps even now having toast and sugar, and compares his position to the ‘last night of Pharaoh.’ ’What a barbarian I am to myself!’ he exclaims, and resolves that this shall be his last outbreak. On being set at liberty, he says that he was naughty on purpose, and not only submits but requests to be punished. For a short time he applies spontaneously for punishments, though he does not always submit when the request is granted. But this is a concession under difficulties. His general position is that by punishing him his mother only ‘procures him to be much more naughty,’ and he declines as resolutely as Jeremy Bentham to admit that naughtiness in itself involves unhappiness, or that the happiness of naughtiness should not be taken into account. He frequently urges that it is pleasanter while it lasts to give way to temper, and that the discomfort only comes afterwards. It follows logically, as he argues in 1835, that if a man could be naughty all his life he would be quite happy. Some time later (1838) he is still arguing the point, having now reached the conclusion to which the Emperor Constantine gave a practical application. The desirable thing would be to be naughty all your life, and to repent just at the end.

These declarations are of course only interpolations in the midst of many more edifying though less original remarks. He was exceedingly conscientious, strongly attached to his parents, and very kind to his younger brother and sister. I note that when he was four years old he already thought it, as he did ever afterwards, one of the greatest of treats to have a solitary talk with his father. He was, however, rather unsociable and earned the nickname of ‘Gruffian’ for his occasionally surly manner. This, with a stubborn disposition and occasional fits of the sulks, must have made it difficult to manage a child who persisted in justifying ‘naughtiness’ upon general principles. He was rather inclined to be indolent, and his mother regrets that he is not so persevering as Frederick (Gibbs). His great temptation, he says himself, in his childhood was to be ‘effeminate and lazy,’ and ’to justify these vices by intellectual and religious excuses.’ A great deal of this, he adds, has been ‘knocked out of him’; he cannot call himself a sluggard or a hypocrite, nor has he acted like a coward. ‘Indeed,’ he says, ’from my very infancy I had an instinctive dislike of the maudlin way of looking at things,’ and he remembers how in his fifth year he had declared that guns were not ‘dreadful things.’ They were good if put to the proper uses. I do not think that there was ever much real ‘effeminacy’ to be knocked out of him. It is too harsh a word for the slowness with which a massive and not very flexible character rouses itself to action. His health was good, except for a trifling ailment which made him for some time pass for a delicate child. But the delicacy soon passed off and for the next fifty years he enjoyed almost unbroken health.

In 1836 he explains some bluntness of behaviour by an argument learnt from ‘Sandford and Merton’ that politeness is objectionable. In August occurs a fit of obstinacy. He does not want to be forgiven but to be ‘happy and comfortable.’ ’I do not feel sorry, for I always make the best of my condition in every possible way, and being sorry would make me uncomfortable. That is not to make the best of my condition.’ His mother foresees a contest and remarks ’a daring and hardened spirit which is not natural to him.’ Soon after, I should perhaps say in consequence of, these outbreaks he was sent to school. My mother’s first cousin, Henry Venn Elliott, was incumbent of St. Mary’s Chapel at Brighton and a leading evangelical preacher. At Brighton, too, lived his sister, Miss Charlotte Elliott, author of some very popular hymns and of some lively verses of a secular kind. Fitzjames would be under their wing at Brighton, where Elliott recommended a school kept by the Rev. B. Guest, at 7 Sussex Square. My mother took him down by the Brighton coach, and he entered the school on November 10, 1836. The school, says Fitzjames, was in many ways very good; the boys were well taught and well fed. But it was too decorous; there was no fighting and no bullying and rather an excess of evangelical theology. The boys used to be questioned at prayers. ’Gurney, what’s the difference between justification and sanctification?’ ’Stephen, prove the Omnipotence of God.’ Many of the hymns sung by the boys remained permanently in my brother’s memory, and he says that he could give the names of all the masters and most of the boys and a history of all incidents in chronological order. Guest’s eloquence about justification by faith seems to have stimulated his pupil’s childish speculations. He read a tract in which four young men discuss the means of attaining holiness. One says, ‘Meditate on the goodness of God’; a second, ’on the happiness of heaven’; a third, ‘on the tortures of hell’; and a fourth, ’on the love of Christ.’ The last plan was approved in the tract; but Fitzjames thought meditation on hell more to the purpose, and set about it deliberately. He imagined the world transformed into a globe of iron, white hot, with a place in the middle made to fit him so closely that he could not even wink. The globe was split like an orange; he was thrust by an angel into his place, immortal, unconsumable, and capable of infinite suffering; and then the two halves were closed, and he left in hideous isolation to suffer eternal torments. I guess from my own experience that other children have had similar fancies. He adds, however, a characteristic remark. ’It seemed to me then, as it seems now, that no stronger motive, no motive anything like so strong, can be applied to actuate any human creature toward any line of conduct. To compare the love of God or anything else is to my mind simply childish.’ He refers to Mill’s famous passage about going to hell rather than worship a bad God, and asks what Mill would say after an experience of a quarter of an hour. Fitzjames, however, did not dwell upon such fancies. They were merely the childish mode of speculation by concrete imagery. He became more sociable, played cricket, improved in health, and came home with the highest of characters as being the best and most promising boy in the school. He rose steadily, and seems to have been thoroughly happy for the next five years and a half.

In 1840 my mother observed certain peculiarities in me which she took at first to be indications of precocious genius. After a time, however, she consulted an eminent physician, who informed her that they were really symptoms of a disordered circulation. He added that I was in a fair way to become feeble in mind and deformed in body, and strongly advised that I should be sent to school, where my brain would be in less danger of injudicious stimulation. He declared that even my life was at stake. My father, much alarmed, took one of his prompt decisions. He feared to trust so delicate a child away from home, and therefore resolved to take a house in Brighton for a year or two, from which I might attend my brother’s school. The Kensington house was let, and my mother and sister settled in Sussex Square, a few doors from Mr. Guest. My father, unable to leave his work, took a lodging in town and came to Brighton for Sundays, or occasionally twice a week. In those days the journey was still by coach. When the railway began running in the course of 1841, I find my father complaining that it could not be trusted, and had yet made all other modes of travelling impossible. ’How many men turned of fifty,’ asks my brother, ’would have put themselves to such inconvenience, discomfort, and separation from their wives for the sake of screening a delicate lad from some of the troubles of a carefully managed boarding school?’ My brother was not aware of the apparent gravity of the case when he wrote this. Such a measure would have pushed parental tenderness to weakness had there been only a question of comfort; but my father was seriously alarmed, and I can only think of his conduct with the deepest gratitude.

To Fitzjames the plan brought the advantage that he became his father’s companion in Sunday strolls over the Downs. His father now found, as my mother’s diary remarks, that he could already talk to him as to a man, and Fitzjames became dimly aware that there were difficulties about Mr. Guest’s theology. He went with my father, too, to hear Mr. Sortaine, a popular preacher whose favourite topic was the denunciation of popery. My father explained to the boy that some able men really defended the doctrine of transubstantiation, and my brother, as he remarks, could not then suspect that under certain conditions very able men like nonsense, and are even not averse to ‘impudent lying,’ in defence of their own authority. Incidentally, too, my father said that there were such people as atheists, but that such views should be treated as we should treat one who insulted the character of our dearest friend. This remark, attributed to a man who was incapable of insulting anyone, and was a friend of such freethinkers as Austin and J. S. Mill, must be regarded as representing the impression made upon an inquisitive child by an answer adapted to his capacity. The impression was, however, very strong, and my brother notes that he heard it on a wettish evening on the cliff near the south end of the old Steine.

Fitzjames had discussed the merits of Mr. Guest’s school with great intelligence and had expressed a wish to be sent to Rugby. He had heard bad accounts of the state of Eton, and some rumours of Arnold’s influence had reached him. Arnold, someone had told him, could read a boy’s character at a glance. At Easter 1841, my father visited the Diceys at Claybrook, and thence took his boy to see the great schoolmaster at Rugby. Fitzjames draws a little diagram to show how distinctly he remembers the scene. He looked at the dark, grave man and wondered, ‘Is he now reading my character at a glance?’ It does not appear that he was actually entered at Rugby, however, and my father had presently devised another scheme. The inconveniences of the Brighton plan had made themselves felt, and it now occurred to my father that he might take a house in Windsor and send both Fitzjames and me to Eton. We should thus, he hoped, get the advantages of a public school without being exposed to some of its hardships and temptations. He would himself be able to live with his family, although, as things then were, he had to drive daily to and from the Slough station, besides having the double journey from Paddington to Downing Street. We accordingly moved to Windsor in Easter 1842. Fitzjames’s last months at school had not been quite so triumphant as the first, partly, it seems, from a slight illness, and chiefly for the characteristic reason, according to his master, that he would occupy himself with ‘things too high for him.’ He read solid works (I find mention of Carlyle’s ‘French Revolution’) out of school hours and walked with an usher to whom he took a fancy, discoursing upon absorbing topics when he should have been playing cricket. Fitzjames left Brighton on the day, as he notes, upon which one Mister was hanged for attempting murder being almost the last man in England hanged for anything short of actual murder. He entered Eton on April 15, 1842, and was placed in the ‘Remove,’ the highest class attainable at his age.

II. ETON

The Eton period had marked effects. Fitzjames owed, as he said, a debt of gratitude to the school, but it was for favours which would have won gratitude from few recipients. The boys at a public school form, I fancy, the most rigidly conservative body in existence. They hate every deviation from the accepted type with the hatred of an ancient orthodox divine for a heretic. The Eton boys of that day regarded an ’up-town boy’ with settled contempt. His motives or the motives of his parents for adopting so abnormal a scheme were suspect. He might be the son of a royal footman or a prosperous tradesman in Windsor, audaciously aspiring to join the ranks of his superiors, and if so, clearly should be made to know his place. In any case he was exceptional, and therefore a Pariah, to associate with whom might be dangerous to one’s caste. Mr. Coleridge tells me that even the school authorities were not free from certain suspicions. They wisely imagined, it appears, that my father had come among them as a spy, instigated, no doubt, by some diabolical design of ‘reforming’ the school and desecrating the shrine of Henry’s holy shade. The poor man, already overpowered by struggling with refractory colonists from Heligoland to New Zealand, was of malice prepense stirring up this additional swarm of hornets. I can hardly suppose, however, that this ingenious theory had much influence. Mr. Coleridge also says that the masters connived at the systematic bullying of the town boys. I can believe that they did not systematically repress it. I must add, however, in justice to my school-fellows, that my personal recollections do not reveal any particular tyranny. Such bullying as I had to endure was very occasional, and has left no impression on my memory. Yet I was far less capable than Fitzjames of defending myself, and can hardly have forgotten any serious tormenting. The truth is that the difference between me and my brother was the difference between the willow and the oak, and that I evaded such assaults as he met with open defiance.

My brother, as has been indicated, was far more developed in character, if not in scholarship, than is at all common at his age. His talks with my father and his own reading had familiarised him with thoughts lying altogether beyond the horizon of the average boyish mind. He was thoughtful beyond his years, although not conspicuously forward in the school studies. He was already inclined to consider games as childish. He looked down upon his companions and the school life generally as silly and frivolous. The boys resented his contempt of their ways; and his want of sociability and rather heavy exterior at the time made him a natural butt for schoolboy wit. He was, he says, bullied and tormented till, towards the end of his time, he plucked up spirit to resist. Of the bullying there can be no doubt; nor (sooner or later) of the resistance. Mr. Coleridge observes that he was anything but a passive victim, and turned fiercely upon the ringleaders of his enemies. ‘Often,’ he adds, ’have I applauded his backhanders as the foremost in the fray. He was only vanquished by numbers. His bill for hats at Sanders’ must have amounted to a stiff figure, for my visions of Fitzjames are of a discrowned warrior, returning to Windsor bareheaded, his hair moist with the steam of recent conflict.’ My own childish recollections of his school life refer mainly to pugilism. In October 1842, as I learn from my mother’s diary, he found a big boy bullying me, and gave the boy such a thrashing as was certain to prevent a repetition of the crime. I more vividly recollect another occasion, when a strong lad was approaching me with hostile intent. I can still perceive my brother in the background; when an application of the toe of his boot between the tails of my tyrant’s coat disperses him instantaneously into total oblivion. Other scenes dimly rise up, as of a tumult in the school-yard, where Fitzjames was encountering one of the strongest boys in the school amidst a delighted crowd, when the appearance of the masters stopped the proceedings. Fitzjames says that in his sixteenth year (i.-5) he grew nearly five inches, and instead of outgrowing his strength became a ’big, powerful young man, six feet high,’ and certainly a very formidable opponent.

Other boys have had similar experiences without receiving the same impression. ‘I was on the whole,’ he says, ’very unhappy at Eton, and I deserved it; for I was shy, timid, and I must own cowardly. I was like a sensible grown-up woman among a crowd of rough boys.’ After speaking of his early submission to tyranny, he adds: ’I still think with shame and self-contempt of my boyish weakness, which, however, did not continue in later years. The process taught me for life the lesson that to be weak is to be wretched, that the state of nature is a state of war, and Vae Victis the great law of Nature. Many years afterwards I met R. Lowe (Lord Sherbrooke) at dinner. He was speaking of Winchester, and said with much animation that he had learnt one great lesson there, namely, that a man can count on nothing in this world except what lies between his hat and his boots. I learnt the same lesson at Eton, but alas! by conjugating not pulso but vapulo.’ As I have intimated, I think that his conscience must have rather exaggerated his sins of submission; though I also cannot doubt that there was some ground for his self-humiliation. In any case, he atoned for it fully. I must add that he learnt another lesson, which, after his fashion, he refrains from avowing. The ‘kicks, cuffs, and hat smashing had no other result,’ says Mr. Coleridge, ’than to steel his mind for ever against oppression, tyranny, and unfairness of every kind.’ How often that lesson is effectually taught by simple bullying I will not inquire. Undoubtedly Fitzjames learnt it, though he expressed himself more frequently in terms of indignation against the oppressor than of sympathy for the oppressed; but the sentiment was equally strong, and I have no doubt that it was stimulated by these acts of tyranny.

The teaching at Eton was ‘wretched’; the hours irregular and very unpunctual; the classes were excessively large, and the tutorial instruction supposed to be given out of school frequently neglected. ’I do not believe,’ says my brother, ’that I was ever once called upon to construe at my tutor’s after I got into the fifth form.’ An absurd importance, too, was already attached to the athletic amusements. Balston, our tutor, was a good scholar after the fashion of the day and famous for Latin verse; but he was essentially a commonplace don. ‘Stephen major,’ he once said to my brother, ’if you do not take more pains, how can you ever expect to write good longs and shorts? If you do not write good longs and shorts, how can you ever be a man of taste? If you are not a man of taste, how can you ever hope to be of use in the world?’ a sorites, says my brother, which must, he thinks, be somewhere defective.

The school, however, says Fitzjames, had two good points. The boys, in the first place, were gentlemen by birth and breeding, and did not forget their home training. The simple explanation of the defects of the school was, as he remarks, that parents in this class did not care about learning; they wished their children to be gentlemen, and to be ’bold and active, and to make friends and to enjoy themselves, and most of them had their wish.’

The second good point in the school is more remarkable. ‘There was,’ says Fitzjames, ’a complete absence of moral and religious enthusiasm. The tone of Rugby was absolutely absent.’ Chapel was simply a kind of drill. He vividly remembers a sermon delivered by one of the Fellows, a pompous old gentleman, who solemnly gave out the bidding prayer, and then began in these words, ’which ring in my ears after the lapse of more than forty years.’ ’The subject of my discourse this morning, my brethren, will be the duties of the married state.’ When Balston was examined before a Public Schools Commission, he gave what Fitzjames considers ‘a perfectly admirable answer to one question.’ He had said that the Provost and Fellows did all the preaching, and was asked whether he did not regret that he could not, as headmaster, use this powerful mode of influencing the boys? ‘No,’ he said; ’I was always of opinion that nothing was so important for boys as the preservation of Christian simplicity.’ ‘This put into beautiful language,’ says my brother, ‘the truth that at Eton there was absolutely no nonsense.’ The masters knew that they had ’nothing particular to teach in the way of morals or religion, and they did not try to do so.’

The merits thus ascribed to Eton were chiefly due, it seems, to the neglect of discipline and of teaching. My brother infers that good teaching at school is of less importance than is generally supposed. I shall not enter upon that question; but it is necessary to point out that whatever the merits of an entire absence of moral and religious instruction, my brother can hardly be taken as an instance. At this time the intimacy with his father, already close, was rapidly developing. On Sunday afternoons, in particular, my father used to walk to the little chapel near Cumberland Lodge, in Windsor Park, and on the way would delight in the conversations which so profoundly interested his son. The boy’s mind was ripening, and he was beginning to take an interest in some of the questions of the day. It was the time of the Oxford movement, and discussions upon that topic were frequent at home. Frederick Gibbs held for a time a private tutorship at Eton while reading for a fellowship at Trinity, and brought news of what was exciting young men at the Universities. A quaint discussion recalled by my brother indicates one topic which even reached the schoolboy mind. He was arguing as to confirmation with Herbert Coleridge (1830-1861) whose promising career as a philologist was cut short by an early death. ’If you are right,’ said Fitzjames, ’a bishop could not confirm with his gloves on.’ ‘No more he could,’ retorted Coleridge, boldly accepting the position. Political questions turned up occasionally. O’Connell was being denounced as ‘the most impudent of created liars,’ and a belief in Free Trade was the mark of a dangerous radical. To the Eton time my brother also refers a passionate contempt for the ’sentimental and comic’ writers then popular. He was disgusted not only by their sentimentalism but by their vulgarity and their ridicule of all that he respected.

One influence, at this time, mixed oddly with that exerted by my father. My eldest brother, Herbert, had suffered from ill health, due, I believe, to a severe illness in his infancy, which had made it impossible to give him a regular education. He had grown up to be a tall, large-limbed man, six feet two-and-a-half inches in height, but loosely built, and with a deformity of one foot which made him rather awkward. The delicacy of his constitution had caused much anxiety and trouble, and he diverged from our family traditions by insisting upon entering the army. There, as I divine, he was the object of a good deal of practical joking, and found himself rather out of his element. He used to tell a story which may have received a little embroidery in tradition. He was at a ball at Gibraltar, which was attended by a naval officer. When the ladies had retired this gentleman proposed pistol shooting. After a candelabrum had been smashed, the sailor insisted upon taking a shot at a man who was lying on a sofa, and lodged a bullet in the wall just above his head. Herbert left the army about 1844 and entered at Gray’s Inn. He would probably have taken to literature, and he wrote a few articles not without promise, but his life was a short one. He was much at Windsor, and the anxiety which he had caused, as well as a great sweetness and openness of temper, made him, I guess, the most tenderly loved of his parents’ children. He had, however, wandered pretty widely outside the limits of the Clapham Sect. He became very intimate with Fitzjames, and they had long and frank discussions. This daring youth doubted the story of Noah’s flood, and one phrase which stuck in his brother’s mind is significant. ‘You,’ he said, ’are a good boy, and I suppose you will go to heaven. If you can enjoy yourself there when you think of me and my like grilling in hell fire, upon my soul I don’t envy you.’ One other little glance from a point of view other than that of Clapham impressed the lad. He found among his father’s books a copy of ‘State Trials,’ and there read the trial of Williams for publishing Paine’s ‘Age of Reason.’ The extracts from Paine impressed him; though, for a time, he had an impression from his father that Coleridge and other wise men had made a satisfactory apology for the Bible; and ‘in his inexperience’ he thought that Paine’s coarseness implied a weak case. ‘There is a great deal of truth,’ he says, ’in a remark made by Paine. I have gone through the Bible as a man might go through a wood, cutting down the trees. The priests can stick them in again, but they will not make them grow.’ For the present such thoughts remained without result. Fitzjames was affected, he says, by the combined influence of his father and brother. He thought that something was to be said on both sides of the argument. Meanwhile the anxiety caused to his father by Herbert’s unfortunately broken, though in no sense discreditable, career impressed him with a strong sense of the evils of all irregularities of conduct. He often remembered Herbert in connection with one of his odd anniversaries. ’This day eighteen years ago,’ he says (September 16, 1857), ’my brother Herbert and I killed a snake in Windsor Forest. Poor dear fellow! we should have been great friends, and please God! we shall be yet.’

Meanwhile Fitzjames had done well, though not brilliantly, at school. He was eighth in his division, of which he gives the first twelve names from memory. The first boy was Chenery, afterwards editor of the ‘Times,’ and the twelfth was Herbert Coleridge. With the exception of Coleridge, his cousin Arthur, and W. J. Beamont (1828-1868), who at his death was a Fellow at Trinity College, Cambridge, he had hardly any intimates. Chitty, afterwards his colleague on the Bench, was then famous as an athlete; but with athletics my brother had nothing to do. His only amusement of that kind was the solitary sport of fishing. He caught a few roach and dace, and vainly endeavoured to inveigle pike. His failure was caused, perhaps, by scruples as to the use of live bait, which led him to look up some elaborate recipes in Walton’s ’Compleat Angler.’ Pike, though not very intelligent, have long seen through those ancient secrets.

One of these friendships led to a characteristic little incident. In the Christmas holidays of 1844 Fitzjames was invited to stay with the father of his friend Beamont, who was a solicitor at Warrington. There could not, as I had afterwards reason to know, have been a quieter or simpler household. But they had certain gaieties. Indeed, if my memory does not deceive me, Fitzjames there made his first and only appearance upon the stage in the character of Tony Lumpkin. My father was alarmed by the reports of these excesses, and, as he was going to the Diceys, at Claybrook, wrote to my brother of his intentions. He hinted that Fitzjames, if he were at liberty, might like a visit to his cousins. Upon arriving at Rugby station he found Fitzjames upon the platform. The lad had at once left Warrington, though a party had been specially invited for his benefit, having interpreted the paternal hint in the most decisive sense. My father, I must add, was shocked by the results of his letter, and was not happy till he had put himself right with the innocent Beamonts.

Under Balston’s advice Fitzjames was beginning to read for the Newcastle. Before much progress had been made in this, however, my father discovered his son’s unhappiness at school. Although the deep designs of reform with which the masters seem to have credited him were purely imaginary, my father had no high opinion of Eton, and devised another scheme. Fitzjames went to the school for the last time about September 23, 1845, and then tore off his white necktie and stamped upon it. He went into the ante-chapel and scowled, he says, at the boys inside, not with a benediction. It was the close of three years to which he occasionally refers in his letters, and always much in the same terms. They were, in the main, unhappy, and, as he emphatically declared, the only unhappy years of his life, but they had taught him a lesson.

III. KING’S COLLEGE

On October 1, 1845, he entered King’s College, London. Lodgings were taken for him at Highgate Hill, within a few doors of his uncle, Henry Venn. He walked the four miles to the college, dined at the Colonial Office at two, and returned by the omnibus. He was now his own master, the only restriction imposed upon him being that he should every evening attend family prayers at his uncle’s house. The two years he spent at King’s College were, he says, ‘most happy.’ He felt himself changed from a boy to a man. The King’s College lads, who, indeed called themselves ‘men,’ were of a lower social rank than the Etonians, and, as Fitzjames adds, unmistakably inferior in physique. Boys who had the Strand as the only substitute for the playing-fields were hardly likely to show much physical prowess. But they had qualities more important to him. They were industrious, as became the sons of professional and business men. Their moral tone was remarkably good; he never knew, he says, a more thoroughly well-behaved set of lads, although he is careful to add that he does not think that in this respect Eton was bad. His whole education had been among youths ’singularly little disposed to vice or a riot in any form.’ But the great change for him was that he could now find intellectual comradeship. There was a debating society, in which he first learnt to hear his own voice, and indeed became a prominent orator. He is reported to have won the surname ‘Giant Grim.’ His most intimate friend was the present Dr. Kitchin, Dean of Durham. The lads discussed politics and theology and literature, instead of putting down to affectation any interest outside of the river and the playing-fields. Fitzjames not only found himself in a more congenial atmosphere, but could hold his own better among youths whose standard of scholarship was less exalted than that of the crack Latin versemakers at Eton, although the average level was perhaps higher. In 1846 he won a scholarship, and at the summer examination was second in classics. In 1847 he was only just defeated for a scholarship by an elder boy, and was first, both in classics and English literature, in the examinations, besides winning a prize essay.

Here, as elsewhere, he was much interested by the theological tone of his little circle, which was oddly heterogeneous. There was, in the first place, his uncle, Henry Venn, to whom he naturally looked up as the exponent of the family orthodoxy. Long afterwards, upon Venn’s death, he wrote, ‘Henry Venn was the most triumphant man I ever knew.’ ‘I never,’ he adds, ‘knew a sturdier man.’ Such qualities naturally commanded his respect, though he probably was not an unhesitating disciple. At King’s College, meanwhile, which prided itself upon its Anglicanism, he came under a very different set of teachers. The principal, Dr. Jelf, represented the high and dry variety of Anglicanism. I can remember how, a little later, I used to listen with wonder to his expositions of the Thirty-nine Articles. What a marvellous piece of good fortune it was, I used dimly to consider, that the Church of England had always hit off precisely the right solution in so many and such tangled controversies! But King’s College had a professor of a very different order in F. D. Maurice. His personal charm was remarkable, and if Fitzjames did not become exactly a disciple he was fully sensible of Maurice’s kindness of nature and loftiness of purpose. He held, I imagine, in a vague kind of way, that here might perhaps be the prophet who was to guide him across the deserts of infidelity into the promised land where philosophy and religion will be finally reconciled. Of this, however, I shall have more to say hereafter.

I must now briefly mention the changes which took place at this time in our family. In 1846 my brother Herbert made a tour to Constantinople, and on his return home was seized by a fever and died at Dresden on October 22. My father and mother had started upon the first news of the illness, but arrived too late to see their son alive. Fitzjames in the interval came to Windsor, and, as my mother records, was like a father to the younger children. The journey to Dresden, with its terrible suspense and melancholy end, was a severe blow to my father. From that time, as it seems to me, he was a changed man. He had already begun to think of retiring from his post, and given notice that he must be considered as only holding it during the convenience of his superiors. He gave up the house at Windsor, having, indeed, kept it on chiefly because Herbert was fond of the place. We settled for a time at Wimbledon. There my brother joined us in the early part of 1847. A very severe illness in the autumn of 1847 finally induced my father to resign his post. In recognition of his services he was made a privy councillor and K.C.B. His retirement was at first provisional, and, on recovering, he was anxious to be still employed in some capacity. The Government of the day considered the pension to which he was entitled an inadequate reward for his services. There was some talk of creating the new office of Assessor to the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council, to which he was to be appointed. This proved to be impracticable, but his claim was partly recognised in his appointment to succeed William Smyth (died June 26, 1849) as Regius Professor of Modern History at Cambridge. I may as well mention here the later events of his life, as they will not come into any precise connection with my brother’s history. The intimacy between the two strengthened as my brother developed into manhood, and they were, as will be seen, in continual intercourse. But after leaving King’s College my brother followed his own lines, though for a time an inmate of our household.

The Kensington house having been let, we lived in various suburban places, and, for a time, at Cambridge. My father’s professorship occupied most of his energies in later years. He delivered his first course in the May term of 1850. Another very serious illness, threatening brain fever, interrupted him for a time, and he went abroad in the autumn of 1850. He recovered, however, beyond expectation, and was able to complete his lectures in the winter, and deliver a second course in the summer of 1851. These lectures were published in 1852 as ‘Lectures on the History of France.’ They show, I think, the old ability, but show also some failure of the old vivacity. My father did not possess the profound antiquarian knowledge which is rightly demanded in a professor of the present day; and, indeed, I think it is not a little remarkable that, in the midst of his absorbing work, he had acquired so much historical reading as they display. But, if I am not mistaken, the lectures have this peculiar merit that they are obviously written by a man who had had vast practical experience of actual administrative work. They show, therefore, an unusual appreciation of the constitutional side of French history; and he anticipated some of the results set forth with, of course, far greater knowledge of the subject, in Tocqueville’s ‘Ancien Regime.’ Tocqueville himself wrote very cordially to my father upon the subject; and the lectures have been valued by very good judges. Nothing, however, could be more depressing than the position of a professor at Cambridge at that time. The first courses delivered by my father were attended by a considerable number of persons capable of feeling literary curiosity a class which was then less abundant than it would now be at Cambridge. But he very soon found that his real duty was to speak to young gentlemen who had been driven into his lecture-room by well-meant regulations; who were only anxious to secure certificates for the ‘poll’ degree, and whose one aim was to secure them on the cheapest possible terms. To candidates for honours, the history school was at best a luxury for which they could rarely spare time, and my father had to choose between speaking over the heads of his audience and giving milk and water to babes. The society of the Cambridge dons in those days was not much to his taste, and he soon gave up residence there.

About the beginning of 1853 he took a house in Westbourne Terrace, which became his headquarters. In 1855 he accepted a professorship at Haileybury, which was then doomed to extinction, only to hold it during the last three years of the existence of the college. These lectures sufficiently occupied his strength, and he performed them to the best of his ability. The lectures upon French history were, however, the last performance which represented anything like his full powers.

IV. CAMBRIDGE

In October 1847 my brother went into residence at Trinity College, Cambridge. ‘My Cambridge career,’ he says, ’was not to me so memorable or important a period of life as it appears to some people.’ He seems to have extended the qualification to all his early years. ‘Few men,’ he says, ’have worked harder than I have for the last thirty-five years, but I was a very lazy, unsystematic lad up to the age of twenty-two.’ He would sometimes speak of himself as ‘one of a slowly ripening race,’ and set little value upon the intellectual acquirements attained during the immature period. Yet I have sufficiently shown that in some respects he was even exceptionally developed. From his childhood he had shared the thoughts of his elders; he had ceased to be a boy when he had left Eton at sixteen; and he came up to Cambridge far more of a grown man than nine in ten of his contemporaries. So far, indeed, as his character was concerned, he had scarcely ever been a child: at Cambridge, as at Eton, he regarded many of the ambitions of his contemporaries as puerile. Even the most brilliant undergraduates are sometimes tempted to set an excessive value upon academical distinction. A senior wranglership appears to them to be the culminating point of human glory, instead of the first term in the real battle of life. Fitzjames, far from sharing this delusion, regarded it, perhaps, with rather too much contempt. His thoughts were already upon his future career, and he cared for University distinctions only as they might provide him with a good start in the subsequent competition. But this marked maturity of character did not imply the possession of corresponding intellectual gifts, or, as I should rather say, of such gifts as led to success in the Senate House. Fitzjames had done respectably at Eton, and had been among the first lads at King’s College. He probably came up to Cambridge with confidence that he would make a mark in examinations. But his mind, however powerful, was far from flexible. He had not the intellectual docility which often enables a clever youth to surpass rivals of much greater originality as originality not unfrequently tempts a man outside the strait and narrow path which leads to the maximum of marks. ’I have always found myself,’ says Fitzjames, in reference to his academical career, ’one of the most unteachable of human beings. I cannot, to this day, take in anything at second hand. I have in all cases to learn whatever I want to learn in a way of my own. It has been so with law, with languages, with Indian administration, with the machinery I have had to study in patent cases, with English composition in a word, with everything whatever.’ For other reasons, however, he was at a disadvantage. He not only had not yet developed, but he never at any time possessed, the intellectual qualities most valued at Cambridge.

The Cambridge of those days had merits, now more likely to be overlooked than overvalued. The course was fitted to encourage strenuous masculine industry, love of fair play, and contempt for mere showy displays of cleverness. But it must be granted that it was strangely narrow. The University was not to be despised which could turn out for successive senior wranglers from 1840 to 1843 such men as Leslie Ellis, Sir George Stokes, Professor Cayley, and Adams, the discoverer of Neptune, while the present Lord Kelvin was second wrangler and first Smith’s prizeman in 1845. During the same period the great Latin scholar, Munro (1842), and H. S. Maine (1844), were among the lights of the Classical Tripos. But, outside of the two Triposes, there was no career for a man of any ability. To parody a famous phrase of Hume’s, Cambridge virtually said to its pupils, ’Is this a treatise upon geometry or algebra? No. Is it, then, a treatise upon Greek or Latin grammar, or on the grammatical construction of classical authors? No. Then commit it to the flames, for it contains nothing worth your study.’ Now, in both these arenas Fitzjames was comparatively feeble. He read classical books, not only at Cambridge but in later life, when he was pleased to find his scholarship equal to the task of translating. But he read them for their contents, not from any interest in the forms of language. He was without that subtlety and accuracy of mind which makes the born scholar. He was capable of blunders surprising in a man of his general ability; and every blunder takes away marks. He was still less of a mathematician. ’I disliked,’ as he says himself, ’and foolishly despised the studies of the place, and did not care about accurate classical scholarship, in which I was utterly wrong. I was clumsy at calculation, though I think I have, and always have had, a good head for mathematical principles; and I utterly loathed examinations, which seem to me to make learning all but impossible.’

A letter from his friend, the Rev. H. W. Watson, second wrangler in 1850, who was a year his senior, has given me a very interesting account of impressions made at this time. The two had been together at King’s College. Fitzjames’s appearance at Trinity was, writes Mr. Watson, ’an epoch in my college life. A close intimacy sprung up between us, and made residence at Cambridge a totally different thing from what it had been in my first year. Your brother’s wide culture, his singular force of character, his powerful but, at that time, rather unwieldy intellect, his Johnsonian brusqueness of speech and manner, mingled with a corresponding Johnsonian warmth of sympathy with and loyalty to friends in trouble or anxiety, his sturdiness in the assertion of his opinions, and the maintenance of his principles, disdaining the smallest concession for popularity’s sake ... all these traits combined in the formation of an individuality which no one could know intimately and fail to be convinced that only time was wanting for the achievement of no ordinary distinction.’ ‘Yet,’ says Mr. Watson, ’he was distanced by men immeasurably his inferiors.’ Nor can this, as Mr. Watson rightly adds, be regarded as a condemnation of the system rather than of my brother. ’I attempted to prepare him in mathematics, and the well-known Dr. Scott, afterwards headmaster of Westminster, was his private tutor in classics; and we agreed in marvelling at and deploring the hopelessness of our tasks. For your brother’s mind, acute and able as it was in dealing with matters of concrete human interest, seemed to lose grasp of things viewed purely in the abstract, and positively refused to work upon questions of grammatical rules and algebraical formulae.’ When they were afterwards fellow-students for a short time in law, Mr. Watson remarked in Fitzjames a similar impatience of legal technicalities. He thinks that the less formal system at Oxford might have suited my brother better. At that time, however, Cambridge was only beginning to stir in its slumbers. The election of the Prince Consort to the Chancellorship in 1847 (my brother’s first year of residence) had roused certain grumblings as to the probable ‘Germanising’ of our ancient system; and a beginning was made, under Whewell’s influence, by the institution of the ‘Moral Sciences’ and ‘Natural Sciences’ Triposes in 1851. The theory was, apparently, that, if you ask questions often enough, people will learn in time to answer them. But for the present they were regarded as mere ‘fancy’ examinations. No rewards were attainable by success; and the ambitious undergraduates kept to the ancient paths.

I may as well dispose here of one other topic which seems appropriate to University days. Fitzjames cared nothing for the athletic sports which were so effectually popularised soon afterwards in the time of ’Tom Brown’s School Days.’ Athletes, indeed, cast longing eyes at his stalwart figure. One eminent oarsman persuaded my brother to take a seat in a pair-oared boat, and found that he could hardly hold his own against the strength of the neophyte. He tried to entice so promising a recruit by offers of a place in the ‘Third Trinity’ crew and ultimate hopes of a ‘University Blue.’ Fitzjames scorned the dazzling offer. I remember how Ritson, the landlord at Wastdale Head, who had wrestled with Christopher North, lamented in after years that Fitzjames had never entered the ring. He spoke in the spirit of the prize-fighter who said to Whewell, ‘What a man was lost when they made you a parson!’ His only taste of the kind was his hereditary love of walking. His mother incidentally observes in January 1846, that he has accomplished a walk of thirty-three miles; and in later days that was a frequent allowance. Though not a fast walker, he had immense endurance. He made several Alpine tours, and once (in 1860) he accompanied me in an ascent of the Jungfrau with a couple of guides. He was fresh from London; we had passed a night in a comfortless cave; the day was hot, and his weight made a plod through deep snow necessarily fatiguing. We reached the summit with considerable difficulty. On the descent he slipped above a certain famous bergschrund; the fall of so ponderous a body jerked me out of the icy steps, and our combined weight dragged down the guides. Happily the bergschrund was choked with snow, and we escaped with an involuntary slide. As we plodded slowly homewards, we expected that his exhaustion would cause a difficulty in reaching the inn. But by the time we got there he was, I believe, the freshest of the party. I remember another characteristic incident of the walk. He began in the most toilsome part of the climb to expound to me a project for an article in the ‘Saturday Review.’ I consigned that journal to a fate which I believe it has hitherto escaped. But his walks were always enjoyed as opportunities for reflection. Occasionally he took a gun or a rod, and I am told was not a bad shot. He was, however, rather inclined to complain of the appearance of a grouse as interrupting his thoughts. In sport of the gambling variety he never took the slightest interest; and when he became a judge, he shocked a Liverpool audience by asking in all simplicity, ‘What is the “Grand National"?’ That, I understand, is like asking a lawyer, What is a Habeas Corpus? He was never seized with the athletic or sporting mania, much as he enjoyed a long pound through pleasant scenery. In this as in some other things he came to think that his early contempt for what appeared to be childish amusements had been pushed rather to excess.

I return to Cambridge. My brother knew slightly some of the leading men of the place. The omniscient Whewell, who concealed a warm heart and genuine magnanimity under rather rough and overbearing manners, had welcomed my father very cordially to Cambridge and condescended to be polite to his son. But the gulf which divided him from an undergraduate was too wide to allow the transmission of real personal influence. Thompson, Whewell’s successor in the mastership, was my brother’s tutor. He is now chiefly remembered for certain shrewd epigrams; but then enjoyed a great reputation for his lectures upon Plato. My brother attended them; but from want of natural Platonism or for other reasons failed to profit by them, and thought the study was sheer waste of time. Another great Cambridge man of those days, the poetical mathematician, Leslie Ellis, was kind to my brother, who had an introduction to him probably from Spedding. Ellis was already suffering from the illness which confined him to his room at Trumpington, and prevented him from ever giving full proofs of intellectual powers, rated by all who knew him as astonishing. I may quote what Fitzjames says of one other contemporary, the senior classic of his own year: ’Lightfoot’s reputation for accuracy and industry was unrivalled; but it was not generally known what a depth of humour he had or what general force of character.’ Lightfoot’s promotion to the Bishopric of Durham removed him, as my brother thought, from his proper position as a teacher; and he suffered ‘under the general decay of all that belongs to theology.’ I do not find, however, that Lightfoot had any marked influence upon Fitzjames.

The best thing that the ablest man learns at college, as somebody has said, is that there are abler men than himself. My brother became intimate with several very able men of his own age, and formed friendships which lasted for life. He met them especially in two societies, which influenced him as they have influenced many men destined to achieve eminence. The first was the ‘Union.’ There his oratory became famous. The ‘Gruffian’ and ‘Giant Grim’ was now known as the ‘British Lion’; and became, says Mr. Watson, ’a terror to the shallow and wordy, and a merciless exposer of platitudes and shams.’ Mr. Watson describes a famous scene in the October term of 1849 which may sufficiently illustrate his position. ’There was at that time at Trinity a cleverish, excitable, worthy fellow whose mind was a marvellous mixture of inconsistent opinions which he expounded with a kind of oratory as grotesque as his views.’ Tradition supplies me with one of his flowers of speech. He alluded to the clergy as ’priests sitting upon their golden middens and crunching the bones of the people.’ These oddities gave my brother irresistible opportunities for making fun of his opponent. ’One night his victim’s powers of endurance gave way. The scene resembled the celebrated outburst of Canning when goaded by the invectives of Brougham. The man darted across the room with the obvious intention of making a physical onslaught, and then, under what impulse and with what purpose I do not know, the whole meeting suddenly flashed into a crowd of excited, wrangling boys. They leapt upon the seats, climbed upon the benches, vociferated and gesticulated against each other, heedless of the fines and threats of the bewildered President, and altogether reproduced a scene of the French revolutionary Assembly.’ Mr. Llewelyn Davies was the unfortunate President on this occasion, and mentions that my brother commemorated the scene in a ‘heroic ballad’ which has disappeared.

From the minutes of the Society ’I learn further details of this historic scene. The debate (November 27, 1849) arose upon a motion in favour of Cobden. His panegyrist made ‘such violent interruptions’ that a motion was made for his expulsion, but carried by an insufficient majority. Another orator then ‘became unruly’ and was expelled by a superabundant majority, while the original mover was fined 2_l._ The motion was then unanimously negatived, ’the opener not being present to reply.’ From the records of other debates I learn that Fitzjames was in favour of the existing Church Establishment as against advocates of change, whether high churchmen or liberationists. He also opposed motions for extension of the suffrage, without regard to education or property, moved by Sir W. Harcourt. He agrees, however, with Harcourt in condemning the game laws. His most characteristic utterance was when the admirer of Cobden had moved that ’to all human appearance we are warranted in tracing for our own country through the dim perspective of coming time an exalted and glorious destiny.’ Fitzjames moved as an amendment ’that the House, while it acknowledges the many dangers to which the country is exposed, trusts that through the help of God we may survive them.’ This amendment was carried by 60 to 0.

The other society was one which has included a very remarkable number of eminent men. In my undergraduate days we used to speak with bated breath of the ’Apostles’ the accepted nickname for what was officially called the Cambridge Conversazione Society. It was founded about 1820, and had included such men as Tennyson (who, as my brother reports, had to leave the Society because he was too lazy to write an essay), the two younger Hallams, Maurice, Sterling, Charles Buller, Arthur Helps, James Spedding, Monckton Milnes, Tom Taylor, Charles Merivale, Canon Blakesley, and others whom I shall have to mention. The existence of a society intended to cultivate the freest discussion of all the great topics excited some suspicion when, about 1834, there was a talk of abolishing tests. It was then warmly defended by Thirlwall, the historian, who said that many of its members had become ornaments of the Church.

But the very existence of this body was scarcely known to the University at large; and its members held reticence to be a point of honour. You might be aware that your most intimate friend belonged to it: you had dimly inferred the fact from his familiarity with certain celebrities, and from discovering that upon Saturday evenings he was always mysteriously engaged. But he never mentioned his dignity; any more than at the same period a Warrington would confess that he was a contributor to the leading journals of the day. The members were on the look-out for any indications of intellectual originality, academical or otherwise, and specially contemptuous of humbug, cant, and the qualities of the ‘windbag’ in general. To be elected, therefore, was virtually to receive a certificate from some of your cleverest contemporaries that they regarded you as likely to be in future an eminent man. The judgment so passed was perhaps as significant as that implied by University honours, and a very large proportion of the apostles have justified the anticipations of their fellows.

My brother owed his election at an unusually early period of his career to one of the most important friendships of his life. In the summer vacation of 1845 F. W. Gibbs was staying at Filey, reading for the Trinity Fellowship, which he obtained in the following October. Fitzjames joined him, and there met Henry Sumner Maine, who had recently (1844) taken his degree at Cambridge, when he was not only ’senior classic’ but a senior classic of exceptional brilliancy. Both Maine and Gibbs were apostles and, of course, friends. My brother’s first achievement was to come near blowing out his new friend’s brains by the accidental discharge of a gun. Maine happily escaped, and must have taken a liking to the lad. In 1847 Maine was appointed to the Regius Professorship of Civil Law in Cambridge. The study which he was to teach had fallen into utter decay. Maine himself cannot at that time have had any profound knowledge of the Civil Law if, indeed, he ever acquired such knowledge. But his genius enabled him to revive the study in England although no genius could galvanise the corpse of legal studies at the Cambridge of those days into activity. Maine, as Fitzjames says, ’made in the most beautiful manner applications of history and philosophy to Roman law, and transfigured one of the driest of subjects into all sorts of beautiful things without knowing or caring much about details.’ He was also able to ‘sniff at Bentham’ for his ignorance in this direction. ‘I rebelled against Maine for many years,’ says Fitzjames, ’till at last I came to recognise, not only his wonderful gifts, but the fact that at bottom he and I agreed fundamentally, though it cost us both a good deal of trouble to find it out.’ I quote this because it bears upon my brother’s later development of opinion. For the present, the personal remark is more relevant. Maine, says Fitzjames, ’was perfectly charming to me at college, as he is now. He was most kind, friendly, and unassuming; and, though I was a freshman and he a young don, and he was twenty-six when I was twenty one of the greatest differences of age and rank which can exist between two people having so much in common we were always really and effectually equal. We have been the closest of friends all through life.’ I think, indeed, that Maine’s influence upon my brother was only second to that of my father.

Maine brought Fitzjames into the apostles in his first term. Maine, says my brother, ’was a specially shining apostle, and in all discussions not only took by far the first and best part, but did it so well and unpretentiously, and in a strain so much above what the rest of us could reach, that it was a great piece of education to hear him.’ Other members of the little society, which generally included only five or six the name ‘apostles’ referring to the limit of possible numbers were E. H. Stanley (afterwards Lord Derby), who left in March 1848, Vernon Harcourt (now Sir William), H. W. Watson, Julian Fane, and the present Canon Holland. Old members Monckton Milnes, James Spedding, Henry Fitzmaurice Hallam, and W. H. Thompson (the tutor) occasionally attended meetings. The late Professor Hort and the great physicist, Clerk Maxwell, joined about the time of my brother’s departure. He records one statement of Maxwell’s which has, I suspect, been modified in transmission. The old logicians, said Maxwell, recognised four forms of syllogism. Hamilton had raised the number to 7, but he had himself discovered 135. This, however, mattered little, as the great majority could not be expressed in human language, and even if expressed were not susceptible of any meaning.

This specimen would give a very inaccurate notion of the general line of discussion. By the kindness of Professor Sidgwick, I am enabled to give some specimens of the themes supported by my brother, which may be of interest, not merely in regard to him, but as showing what topics occupied the minds of intelligent youths at the time. The young gentlemen met every Saturday night in term time and read essays. They discussed all manner of topics. Sometimes they descended to mere commonplaces Is a little knowledge a dangerous thing? Is it possible ridentem dicere verum? (which Fitzjames is solitary in denying) but more frequently they expatiate upon the literary, poetical, ethical, and philosophical problems which can be answered so conclusively in our undergraduate days. Fitzjames self-denyingly approves of the position assigned to mathematics at Cambridge. In literary matters I notice that he does not think the poetry of Byron of a ‘high order’; that he reads some essays of Shelley, which are unanimously voted ‘unsatisfactory’; that he denies that Tennyson’s ‘Princess’ shows higher powers than the early poems (a rather ambiguous phrase); that he considers Adam, not Satan, to be the hero of ‘Paradise Lost’; and, more characteristically, that he regards the novels of the present day as ‘degenerate,’ and, on his last appearance, maintains the superiority of Miss Austen’s ‘Emma’ to Miss Bronte’s ‘Jane Eyre.’ ‘Jane Eyre’ had then, I remember, some especially passionate admirers at Cambridge. His philosophical theories are not very clear. He thinks, like some other people, that Locke’s chapter on ‘Substance’ is ‘unsatisfactory’; and agrees with some ‘strictures’ on the early chapters of Mill’s ‘Political Economy.’ He writes an essay to explode the poor old social contract. He holds that the study of metaphysics is desirable, but adds the note, ’not including ontological inquiries under the head of metaphysics.’ He denies, however, the proposition that ’all general truths are founded on experience.’ He thinks that a meaning can be attached to the term ‘freewill’; but considers it impossible ’to frame a satisfactory hypothesis as to the origin of evil.’ Even the intellect of the apostles had its limits. His ethical doctrines seem to have inclined to utilitarianism. The whole society (four members present) agrees that the system of expediency, ’so far from being a derogation from the moral dignity of man, is the only method consistent with the conditions of his action.’ He is neutral upon the question whether ’self-love is the immediate motive of all our actions,’ and considers that question unmeaning, ’as not believing it possible that a man should be at once subject and object.’ He writes an essay to show that there is no foundation ’for a philosophy of history in the analogy between the progressive improvement of mankind and that of which individuals are capable,’ and he holds (in opposition to Maine) that Carlyle is a ‘philosophic historian.’ The only direct reference to contemporary politics is characteristic. Fane had argued that ’some elements of socialism’ should be ’employed in that reconstruction of society which the spirit of the age demands.’ Maine agrees, but Fitzjames denies that any reconstruction of society is needed.

Theological discussions abound. Fitzjames thinks that there are grounds independent of revelation for believing in the goodness and unity of an intelligent First Cause. He reads an essay to prove that we can form a notion of inspiration which does not involve dictation. He thinks it ‘more agreeable to right reason’ to explain the Biblical account of the creation by literal interpretation than ‘on scientific principles,’ but adds the rider, ‘so far as it can be reconciled with geological facts.’ He denies that the Pentateuch shows ‘traces of Egyptian origin.’ He thinks that Paley’s views of the ‘essential doctrines of Christianity’ are insufficient. He approves the ’strict observance of the Sabbath in England,’ but notes that he does not wish to ’confound the Christian Sunday with the Jewish Sabbath.’

The instinct which leads a young man to provide himself with a good set of dogmatic first principles is very natural; and the free and full discussion of them with his fellows, however crude their opinions may be, is among the very best means of education. I need only remark that the apostles appear to have refrained from discussion of immediate politics, and to have been little concerned in some questions which were agitating the sister University. They have nothing to say about Apostolical Succession and the like; nor are there any symptoms of interest in German philosophy, which Hamilton and Mansel were beginning to introduce. At Cambridge the young gentlemen are content with Locke and Mill; and at most know something of Coleridge and Maurice. Mr. Watson compares these meetings to those at Newman’s rooms in Oxford as described by Mark Pattison. There a luckless advocate of ill-judged theories might be crushed for the evening by the polite sentence, Very likely. At the Cambridge meetings, the trial to the nerves, as Mr. Watson thinks, was even more severe. There was not the spell of common reverence for a great man, in whose presence a modest reticence was excusable. You were expected to speak out, and failure was the more appalling. The contests between Stephen and Harcourt were especially famous. Though, says Mr. Watson, your brother was ’not a match in adroitness and chaff’ for his great ‘rival,’ he showed himself at his best in these struggles. ’The encounters were veritable battles of the gods, and I recall them after forty years with the most vivid recollection of the pleasure they caused.’ When Sir William Harcourt entered Parliament, my brother remarked to Mr. Llewelyn Davies, ’It does not seem to be in the natural order of things that Harcourt should be in the House and I not there to criticise him.’

Fitzjames’s position in regard both to theology and politics requires a little further notice. At this time my brother was not only a stern moralist, but a ’zealous and reverential witness on behalf of dogma, and that in the straitest school of the Evangelicals.’ Mr. Watson mentions the death at college of a fellow-student during the last term of my brother’s residence. In his last hours the poor fellow confided to his family his gratitude to Fitzjames for having led him to think seriously on religious matters. I find a very minute account of this written by my brother at the time to a common friend. He expresses very strong feeling, and had been most deeply moved by his first experience of a deathbed; but he makes no explicit reflections. Though decidedly of the evangelical persuasion at this period, and delighting in controversy upon all subjects, great and small, his intense aversion to sentimentalism was not only as marked as it ever became, but even led to a kind of affectation of prosaic matter of fact stoicism, a rejection of every concession to sentiment, which he afterwards regarded as excessive.

The impression made upon him by contemporary politics was remarkable. The events of 1848 stirred all young men in one way or the other; and although the apostles were discussing the abstract problems of freewill and utilitarianism, they were no doubt keenly interested in concrete history. No one was more moved than Fitzjames. He speaks of the optimistic views which were popular with the Liberals after 1832, expounded by Cobden and Bright and supposed to be sanctioned by the Exhibition of 1851. It was the favourite cant that Captain Pen ’had got the best of Captain Sword, and that henceforth the kindly earth would slumber, lapt in universal law. I cannot say how I personally loathed this way of thinking, and how radically false, hollow and disgusting it seemed to me then, and seems to me now.’ The crash of 1848 came like a thunderbolt, and ’history seemed to have come to life again with all its wild elemental forces.’ For the first time he was aware of actual war within a small distance, and the settlement of great questions by sheer force. ’How well I remember my own feelings, which were, I think, the feelings of the great majority of my age and class, and which have ever since remained in me as strong and as unmixed as they were in 1848. I feel them now (1887) as keenly as ever, though the world has changed and thinks and feels, as it seems, quite differently. They were feelings of fierce, unqualified hatred for the revolution and revolutionists; feelings of the most bitter contempt and indignation against those who feared them, truckled to them, or failed to fight them whensoever they could and as long as they could: feelings of zeal against all popular aspirations and in favour of all established institutions whatever their various defects or harshnesses (which, however, I wished to alter slowly and moderately): in a word, the feelings of a scandalised policeman towards a mob breaking windows in the cause of humanity. I should have liked first to fire grapeshot down every street in Paris, till the place ran with blood, and next to try Louis Philippe and those who advised him not to fight by court martial, and to have hanged them all as traitors and cowards. The only event in 1848 which gave me real pleasure was the days of June, when Cavaignac did what, if he had been a man or not got into a fright about his soul, or if he had had a real sense of duty instead of a wretched consciousness of weakness and a false position, Louis Philippe would have done months before.’ He cannot, he admits, write with calmness to this day of the king’s cowardice; and he never passed the Tuileries in later life without feeling the sentiment about Louis XVI. and his ‘heritage splendid’ expressed by Thackeray’s drummer, ’Ah, shame on him, craven and coward, that had not the heart to defend it!’

‘I have often wondered,’ adds Fitzjames, ’at my own vehement feelings on these subjects, and I am not altogether prepared to say that they are not more or less foolish. I have never seen war. I have never heard a shot fired in anger, and I have never had my courage put to any proof worth speaking of. Have I any right to talk of streets running with blood? Is it not more likely that, at a pinch, I might myself run in quite a different direction? It is one of the questions which will probably remain unanswered for ever, whether I am a coward or not. But that has nothing really to do with the question. If I am a coward, I am contemptible: but Louis Philippe was a coward and contemptible whether I am a coward or not; and my feelings on the whole of this subject are, at all events, perfectly sincere, and are the very deepest and most genuine feelings I have.’ Fitzjames’s only personal experience of revolutionary proceedings was on the famous 10th of April, when he was in London, but saw only special constables. The events of the day confirmed him in the doctrine that every disorganised mob is more likely to behave in the spirit of the lowest and most contemptible units than in the spirit of what is highest in them.

I can only add one little anecdote of those days. A friend of my brother’s rushed into his rooms obviously to announce some very exciting piece of news. Is the mob triumphant in Paris? ‘I don’t know,’ was the reply, ‘but a point has been decided in the Gorham case.’ Good evangelical as Fitzjames then was, he felt that there were more important controversies going on than squabbles over baptismal regeneration. A curious set of letters written in his first vacation to his friend Dr. Kitchin show, however, that he then took an eager interest in this doctrine. He discusses it at great length in the evangelical sense, with abundant quotations of texts.

While interested in these matters, winning fame at the Union and enjoying the good opinion of the apostles, Fitzjames was failing in a purely academical sense. He tried twice for a scholarship at Trinity, and both times unsuccessfully, though he was not very far from success. The failure excluded him, as things then were, from the possibility of a fellowship, and a degree became valueless for its main purpose. He resolved, therefore, to go abroad with my father, who had to travel in search of health. He passed the winter of 1850-1 in Paris, where he learnt French, and attended sittings of the Legislative Assembly, and was especially interested by proceedings in the French law-courts. He kept the May term of 1851 at Cambridge, and went out in the ‘Poll.’ Judging from the performances of his rivals, he would probably have been in the lower half of the first class in the Classical Tripos. Although his last months at Cambridge were not cheering, he retained a feeling for the place very unlike his feeling towards Eton. He had now at least found himself firmly on his own legs, measured his strength against other competitors, and made lasting friendships with some of the strongest. It had been, he says, ’my greatest ambition to get a fellowship at Trinity, but I got it at last, however, for I was elected an honorary Fellow in the autumn of 1885. I have had my share of compliments, but I never received one which gave me half so much pleasure.’ He visited Cambridge in later years and was my guest, and long afterwards the guest of his friend Maine, at certain Christmas festivities in Trinity Hall. He speaks in the warmest terms of his appreciation of the place, ‘old and dignified, yet fresh and vigorous.’ Nearly his last visit was in the autumn of 1885, when he gave a dinner to the apostles, of whom his son James was then a member.

Fitzjames’s friends were naturally surprised at his throwing up the game. Most of them set, as I have intimated, a higher value upon academical honours, considered by themselves, than he ever admitted to be just. Possibly they exaggerated a little the disgust which was implied by his absolute abandonment of the course. And yet, I find the impression among those who saw most of him at the time, that the disappointment was felt with great keenness. The explanation is given, I think, in some remarks made by my father to Mr Watson. My father held that the University system of distributing honours was very faulty. Men, he said, wanted all the confidence they could acquire in their own powers for the struggle of life. Whatever braced and stimulated self-reliance was good. The honour system encouraged the few who succeeded and inflicted upon the rest a ’demoralising sense of failure.’ I have no doubt that my father was, in fact, generalising from the case of Fitzjames. What really stung the young man was a more or less dim foreboding of the difficulties which were to meet him in the world at large. He was not one of the men fitted for easy success. The successful man is, I take it, the man with an eye for the line of least resistance. He has an instinct, that is, for the applying his strength in the direction in which it will tell most. And he has the faculty of so falling in with other men’s modes of thinking and feeling that they may spontaneously, if unconsciously, form a band of supporters. Obstacles become stepping-stones to such men. It was Fitzjames’s fate through life to take the bull by the horns; to hew a path through jungles and up steep places along the steepest and most entangled routes; and to shoulder his way by main strength and weight through a crowd, instead of contriving to combine external pressures into an agency for propulsion. At this time, the contrast between his acceptance with the ablest of his contemporaries in private and his inability to obtain the public stamp of merit perplexed and troubled him. Maine and Thompson could recognise his abilities. Why could not the examiners? Might not his ambition have to struggle with similar obstacles at the bar or in the pulpit?

I quote from a letter written by my father during Fitzjames’s academical career to show what was the relation at this time between the two men. My father dictates to my mother a letter to Fitzjames, dated January 19, 1849. ‘You well know,’ he says, ’that I have long since surmounted that paternal ambition which might have led me to thirst for your eminence as a scholar.

It has not pleased God to give you that kind of bodily constitution and mental temperament which is essential to such success.’ He proceeds to say that, although success in examinations is ’not essential to the great ends of Fitzjames’s existence, it is yet very desirable that he should become a good scholar from higher motives such,’ he adds, ’as are expounded in Bacon’s “De Augmentis."’ He solemnly recommends regular prayer for guidance in studies for which the lower motives may be insufficient. It then occurs to my mother that the advice may be a little discouraging. ’I am reminded by my amanuensis that I have left you in the dark as to my opinion of your probable success in the literary labours to which I have exhorted you. You must be a very mole if the darkness be real. From your childhood to this day I have ever shown you by more than words how high an estimate I entertain both of the depth and the breadth of your capacity. I have ever conversed with you as with a man, not as with a child; and though parental partiality has never concealed from me the fact of your deficiency in certain powers of mind which are essential to early excellence in learning, yet I have never been for a moment distrustful of your possessing an intellect which, if well disciplined and well cultured, will continue to expand, improve, and yield excellent fruit long after the mental faculties of many of your more fortunate rivals will have passed from their full maturity into premature decay. Faith in yourself (which is but one of the many forms of faith in God) is the one thing needful to your intellectual progress; and if your faith in yourself may but survive the disappointment of your academical ambition, that disappointment will be converted into a blessing.’

The letter shows, I think, under the rather elaborate phraseology, both the perspicuity with which the father had estimated his son’s talents and the strong sympathy which bound them together. The reference to Fitzjames’s ‘want of faith in himself’ is significant. If want of faith is to be measured by want of courage in tackling the difficulties of life, no man could be really less open to the charge than Fitzjames. But my father, himself disposed to anticipate ill fortune, had certain reasons for attributing to his son a tendency in the same direction. Fitzjames’s hatred of all exaggeration, his resolute refusal to be either sentimental or optimistic, led him to insist upon the gloomy side of things. Moreover, he was still indolent; given to be slovenly in his work, and rather unsocial in his ways, though warmly attached to a few friends. My father, impressed by these symptoms, came to the conclusion that Fitzjames was probably unsuited for the more active professions for which a sanguine temper and a power of quickly attaching others are obvious qualifications. He therefore looked forward to his son’s adoption of the clerical career, which his own deep piety as well as his painful experience of official vexations had long made him regard as the happiest of all careers. Circumstances strengthened this feeling. My father’s income had been diminished by his resignation, while the education of his two sons became more expensive, and he had to contribute to the support of his brother George. No human being could have made us feel more clearly that he would willingly give us his last penny or his last drop of blood. But he was for a time more than usually vexed and anxious; and the fact could not be quite concealed.

Fitzjames’s comparative failure at Cambridge suggests to him a significant remark. After speaking of his ‘unteachableness,’ he observes that his mind was over-full of thoughts about religion, about politics, about morals, about metaphysics, about all sorts of subjects, except art, literature, or physical science. For art of any kind I have never cared, and do not care in the very least. For literature, as such, I care hardly at all. I like to be amused and instructed on the particular things I want to know; but works of genius, as such, give me very little pleasure, and as to the physical sciences, they interest me only so far as they illustrate the true method of inquiry. They, or rather some of them, have the advantage of being particularly true, and so a guide in the pursuit of moral and distinctively human truth. For their own sake, I care very little about them.’

V. READING FOR THE BAR

My brother had definitely to make the choice of a profession upon which he had been reflecting during his college career. He set about the task in an eminently characteristic way. When he had failed in the last scholarship examination, he sat down deliberately and wrote out a careful discussion of the whole question. The result is before me in a little manuscript book, which Fitzjames himself re-read and annotated in 1865, 1872, and 1880. He read it once more in 1893. Both text and commentary are significant. He is anxious above all things to give plain, tangible reasons for his conduct. He would have considered it disgraceful to choose from mere impulse or from any such considerations as would fall under the damnatory epithet ‘sentimental.’ He therefore begins in the most prosaic fashion by an attempt to estimate the pecuniary and social advantages of the different courses open to him. These are in reality the Church and the Bar; although, by way of exhibiting the openness of his mind, he adds a more perfunctory discussion of the merits of the medical profession. Upon this his uncle, Henry Venn, had made a sufficient comment. ’There is a providential obstacle,’ he said, ’to your becoming a doctor you have not humbug enough.’ The argument from these practical considerations leads to no conclusion. The main substance of the discussion is therefore a consideration of the qualities requisite for the efficient discharge of clerical or legal duties. A statement of these qualities, he says, will form the major of his syllogism. The minor will then be, ‘I possess or do not possess them’; and the conclusion will follow, ’I ought to be a clergyman or a lawyer.’ Although it is easy to see that the ‘major’ is really constructed with a view to its applicability to his own character, he does not explicitly give any opinions about himself. He digested the results of the general discussions into thirteen questions which are not stated, though it is clear that they must have amounted to asking, Have I the desirable aptitudes? He has, however, elaborately recorded his answers, ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ and noted the precise time and place of answering and the length of time devoted to considering each. He began the inquiry on June 16, 1850. On September 23 he proceeds to answer the questions which he, acting (as he notes) as judge, had left to himself as jury. Questions 1 and 2 can be answered ‘immediately’; but N takes two hours. The 8th, 9th, and 10th were considered together, and are estimated to have taken an hour and a half, between 7 and 11.30 P.M.; though, as he was in an omnibus for part of the time and there fell asleep, this must be conjectural. The 13th question could not be answered at all; but was luckily not important. He had answered the 11th and 12th during a railway journey to Paris on October 2, and had thereupon made up his mind.

One peculiarity of this performance is the cramped and tortuous mode of expressing himself. His thoughts are entangled, and are oddly crossed by phrases clearly showing the influence of Maurice and Coleridge, and, above all, of his father. ‘Maurice’s books,’ he notes in 1865, ’did their utmost to make me squint intellectually about this time, but I never learnt the trick.’ A very different writer of whom he read a good deal at college was Baxter, introduced to him, I guess, by one of his father’s essays. ’What a little prig I was when I made all these antithèses!’ he says in 1865. ‘I learnt it of my daddy’ is the comment of 1880. ‘Was any other human being,’ he asks in 1880, ’ever constructed with such a clumsy, elaborate set of principles, setting his feelings going as if they were clockwork?’ This is the comment upon a passage where he has twisted his thoughts into a cumbrous and perfectly needless syllogism. He makes a similar comment on another passage in 1865, but ’I think,’ he says in 1880, ’that I was a heavy old man thirty years ago. Fifteen years ago I was at the height of my strength. I am beginning to feel now a little more tolerant towards the boy who wrote this than the man who criticised it in 1865; but he was quite right.’ The critic of 1865, I may note, is specially hard upon the lad of 1850 for his ignorance of sound utilitarian authorities. He writes against an allusion to Hobbes, ’Ignorant blasphemy of the greatest of English philosophers!’ The lad has misstated an argument from ignorance of Bentham and Austin. ’I had looked at Bentham at the period (says 1865), but felt a holy horror of him.’ Harcourt, it is added, ’used to chaff me about him.’ 1880 admits that ’1865, though a fine fellow, was rather too hot in his Benthamism; 1880 takes it easier, and considers that 1850 was fairly right, and that his language if not pharisaically accurate, was plain enough for common-sense purposes.’ In fact, both critics admit, and I fully agree with them, that under all the crabbed phraseology there was a very large substratum of good sense and sound judgment of men, to which I add of high principle. Among the special qualifications of a lawyer, the desire for justice takes a prominent place in his argument.

Looking at the whole document from the vantage-ground of later knowledge, the real, though unconscious, purpose seems to be pretty evident. Fitzjames had felt a repugnance to the clerical career, and is trying to convince himself that he has reasonable grounds for a feeling which his father would be slow to approve. There is not the least trace of any objection upon grounds of dissent from the Articles; though he speaks of responsibility imposed by the solemn profession required upon ordination. His real reason is explained in a long comparison between the ‘simple-minded’ or ‘sympathetic’ and the ‘casuistical’ man. They may both be good men; but one of them possesses what the other does not, a power of at once placing himself in close relations to others, and uttering his own thoughts eloquently and effectively without being troubled by reserves and perplexed considerations of the precise meaning of words. He thinks that every clergyman ought to be ready to undertake the ‘cure of souls,’ and to be a capable spiritual guide. He has no right to take up the profession merely with a view to intellectual researches. In fact, he felt that he was without the qualifications which make a man a popular preacher, if the word may be used without an offensive connotation. He could argue vigorously, but was not good at appealing to the feelings, or offering spiritual comfort, or attracting the sympathies of the poor and ignorant. Substantially I think that he was perfectly right not only in the conclusion but in the grounds upon which it was based. He was a lawyer by nature, and would have been a most awkward and cross-grained piece of timber to convert into a priest. He points himself to such cases as Swift, Warburton, and Sydney Smith to show the disadvantage of a secular man in a priest’s vestments.

When his mind was made up, Fitzjames communicated his decision to his father. The dangerous illness of 1850 had thrown his father into a nervous condition which made him unable to read the quaint treatise I have described. He appears, however, to have argued that a man might fairly take orders with a view to literary work in the line of his profession. Fitzjames yielded this ground but still held to the main point. His father, though troubled, made no serious objection, and only asked him to reconsider his decision and to consult Henry Venn. Henry Venn wrote a letter, some extracts from which are appended to the volume with characteristic comments. Venn was too sensible a man not to see that Fitzjames had practically made up his mind. I need only observe that Fitzjames, in reply to some hints in his uncle’s letter, observes very emphatically that a man may be serving God at the bar as in the pulpit. His career was now fixed. ’I never did a wiser thing in my life,’ says 1865, ‘than when I determined not to be a clergyman.’ ‘Amen!’ says 1880, and I am sure that no other year in the calendar would have given a different answer. ’If anyone should ever care to know what sort of man I was then,’ says Fitzjames in 1887, ’and, mutatis mutandis, am still, that paper ought to be embodied by reference in their recollections.’

Fitzjames took a lodging in London, for a year or so, and then joined my father at Westbourne Terrace. He entered at the Inner Temple, and was duly called to the bar on January 26, 1854. His legal education, he says, was very bad. He was for a time in the chambers of Mr. (now Lord) Field, then the leading junior on the Midland Circuit, but it was on the distinct understanding that he was to receive no direct instruction from his tutor. He was also in the chambers of a conveyancer. I learnt, he says, ’a certain amount of conveyancing, but in a most mechanical, laborious, wooden kind of way, which had no advantage at all, except that it gave me some familiarity with deeds and abstracts. My tutor was a pure conveyancer; so I saw nothing of equity drafting. I worked very hard with him, however, but I was incapable of being taught and he of teaching.’ The year 1852 was memorable for the Act which altered the old system of special pleading. ’The new system was by no means a bad one.... I never learnt it, at least not properly, and while I ought to have been learning, I was still under the spell of an unpractical frame of mind which inclined me to generalities and vagueness, and had in it a vast deal of laziness. When I look back on these times, I feel as if I had been only half awake or had not come to my full growth, though I was just under twenty-five when I was called. How I ever came to be a moderately successful advocate, still more to be a rather distinguished judge, is to me a mystery. I managed, however, to get used to legal ways of looking at things and to the form and method of legal arguments.’ He was at the same time going through an apprenticeship to journalism, of which it will be more convenient to speak in the next chapter. It is enough to say for the present that his first efforts were awkward and unsuccessful. After he was called to the bar, he read for the LL.B. examination of the University of London; and not only obtained the degree but enjoyed his only University success by winning a scholarship. One of his competitors was the present Sir Mountstuart Grant Duff. This performance is connected with some very important passages in his development.

He had made some intimate friendships beyond the apostolic circle, of whom Grant Duff was one of the first. They had already met at the rooms of Charles Henry Pearson, one of my brother’s King’s College friends. Grant Duff was for a long time in very close intimacy, and the friendship lasted for their lives, uninterrupted by political differences. They were fellow-pupils in Field’s chambers, were on circuit together for a short time till Grant Duff gave up the profession; and their marriages only brought new members into the alliance. I must confine myself to saying that my brother’s frequent allusions prove that he fully appreciated the value of this friendship. Another equally intimate friendship of the same date was with Henry John Stephen Smith. Smith was a godson of my uncle, Henry John Stephen. He and his sister had been from very early years on terms of especial intimacy with our cousins the Diceys. Where and when his friendship with my brother began I do not precisely know, but it was already very close. As in some later cases, of which I shall have to speak, the friendship seemed to indicate that Fitzjames was attracted by complementary rather than similar qualities in the men to whom he was most attached. No two men of ability could be much less like each other. Smith’s talents were apparently equally adapted for fine classical scholarship and for the most abstract mathematical investigations. If it was not exactly by the toss of a shilling it was by an almost fortuitous combination of circumstances that he was decided to take to mathematics, and in that field won a European reputation. He soared, however, so far beyond ordinary ken that even Europe must be taken to mean a small set of competent judges who might almost be reckoned upon one’s fingers. But devoted as he was to these abstruse studies, Smith might also be regarded as a typical example of the finest qualities of Oxford society. His mathematical powers were recognised by his election to the Savilian professorship in 1860, and the recognition of his other abilities was sufficiently shown by the attempt to elect him member for the University in 1878. He would indeed have been elected had the choice been confined to the residents at Oxford. Smith could discourse upon nothing without showing his powers, and he would have been a singular instance in the House of Commons of a man respected at once for scholarship and for profound scientific knowledge, and yet a chosen mouthpiece of the political sentiments of the most cultivated constituency in the country. The recognition of his genius was no doubt due in great part to the singular urbanity which made him the pride and delight of all Oxford common rooms. With the gentlest of manners and a refined and delicate sense of humour, he had powers of launching epigrams the subtle flavour of which necessarily disappears when detached from their context. But it was his peculiar charm that he never used his powers to inflict pain. His hearers felt that he could have pierced the thickest hide or laid bare the ignorance of the most pretentious learning. But they could not regret a self-restraint which so evidently proceeded from abounding kindness of heart. Smith’s good nature led him to lend too easy an ear to applications for the employment of his abilities upon tasks to which his inferiors would have been competent. I do not know whether it was to diffidence and reserve or to the gentleness which shrinks from dispelling illusions that another peculiarity is to be attributed. On religious matters, says his biographer, he was ‘absolutely reticent’; he would discuss such topics indeed, but without ever mentioning his own faith.

I mention this because it is relevant to his relations with my brother. Fitzjames was always in the habit of expressing his own convictions in the most downright and uncompromising fashion. He loved nothing better than an argument upon first principles. His intimacy with Smith was confirmed by many long rambles together; and for many years he made a practice of spending a night at Smith’s house at Oxford on his way to and from the Midland Circuit. There, as he says, ’we used to sit up talking ethics and religion till 2 or 3 A.M.’ I could not however, if I wished, throw any light upon Smith’s views; Smith, he says in 1862, is a most delightful companion when he has got over his ‘reserve’; and a year later he says that Smith is ’nearly the only man who cordially and fully sympathises with my pet views.’ What were the pet views is more than I can precisely say. I infer, however, from a phrase or two that Smith’s conversation was probably sceptical in the proper sense; that is, that he discussed first principles as open questions, and suggested logical puzzles. But my brother also admits that he never came to know what was Smith’s personal position. He always talked ‘in the abstract’ or ’in the historical vein,’ and ’seemed to have fewer personal plans, wishes and objects of any kind than almost any man I have ever known.’

These talks at any rate, with distinguished Oxford men, must have helped to widen my brother’s intellectual horizon. They had looked at the problems of the day from a point of view to which the apostles seem to have been comparatively blind. Another influence had a more obvious result. Fitzjames had to read Stephen’s commentaries and Bentham for the London scholarship. Bentham now ceased to be an object of holy horror. My brother, in fact, became before long what he always remained, a thorough Benthamite with certain modifications. It was less a case of influence, however, than of ‘elective affinity’ of intellect. The account of Fitzjames’s experience at Cambridge recalls memories of the earlier group who discussed utilitarianism under the leadership of Charles Austin and looked up to James Mill as their leader. The hatred for ‘sentimentalism’ and ‘vague generalities’ and the indifference to mere poetical and literary interests were common to both. The strong points of Benthamism may, I think, be summed up in two words. It meant reverence for facts. Knowledge was to be sought not by logical jugglery but by scrupulous observation and systematic appeals to experience. Whether in grasping at solid elements of knowledge Benthamists let drop elements of equal value, though of less easy apprehension, is not to my purpose. But to a man whose predominant faculty was strong common sense, who was absolutely resolved that whatever paths he took should lead to realities, and traverse solid ground instead of following some will-o’-the-wisp through metaphysical quagmires amidst the delusive mists of a lawless imagination, there was an obvious fascination in the Bentham mode of thought. It must be added, too, that at this time J. S. Mill, the inheritor of Bentham’s influences, was at the height of his great reputation. The young men who graduated in 1850 and the following ten years found their philosophical teaching in Mill’s ‘Logic,’ and only a few daring heretics were beginning to pick holes in his system. Fitzjames certainly became a disciple and before long an advocate of these principles.

I find one or two other indications of disturbing studies. He says in a letter that Greg’s ‘Creed of Christendom’ (published in 1851) was the first book of the kind which he read without the sense that he was trespassing on forbidden ground. He told me that he had once studied Lardner’s famous ‘Credibility of the Gospel History,’ to which Greg may not improbably have sent him. The impression made upon him was (though the phrase was used long afterwards) that Lardner’s case ’had not a leg to stand upon.’ From the Benthamite point of view, the argument for Christianity must be simply the historical evidence. Paley, for whom Fitzjames had always a great respect, put the argument most skilfully in this shape. But if the facts are insufficient to a lawyer’s eye, what is to happen? For reasons which will partly appear, Fitzjames did not at present draw the conclusions which to many seem obvious. It took him, in fact, years to develope distinctly new conclusions. But from this time his philosophical position was substantially that of Bentham, Mill, and the empiricists, while the superstructure of belief was a modified evangelicism.

My father’s liberality of sentiment and the sceptical tendencies which lay, in spite of himself, in his intellectual tendencies, had indeed removed a good deal of the true evangelical dogmatism. Fitzjames for a time, as I have intimated, seems to have sought for a guide in Maurice. He had been attracted when at King’s College by Maurice’s personal qualities, and when, in 1853, Maurice had to leave King’s College on account of his views about eternal punishment, Fitzjames took a leading part in getting up a testimonial from the old pupils of his teacher. When he became a law student he naturally frequented Maurice’s sermons at Lincoln’s Inn. Nothing could be more impressive than the manner of the preacher. His voice often trembled with emotion, and he spoke as one who had a solemn message of vast importance to mankind. But what was the message which could reach a hard-headed young ‘lawyer by nature’ with a turn for Benthamism? Fitzjames gives a kind of general form of Maurice’s sermons. First would come an account of some dogma as understood by the vulgar. Tom Paine could not put it more pithily or expressively. Then his hearers were invited to look at the plain words of Scripture. Do they not mean this or that, he would ask, which is quite different to what they had been made to mean? My answer would have been, says Fitzjames, that his questions were ‘mere confused hints,’ which required all kinds of answers, but mostly the answer ’No, not at all.’ Then, however, came Maurice’s own answers to them. About this time his hearer used to become drowsy, with ’an indistinct consciousness of a pathetic quavering set of entreaties to believe what, when it was intelligible, was quite unsatisfactory.’ Long afterwards he says somewhere that it was ‘like watching the struggles of a drowning creed.’ Fitzjames, however, fancied for a time that he was more or less of a Mauricean.

From one of his friends, the Rev. J. Llewelyn Davies, I have some characteristic recollections of the time. Mr. Davies was a college friend, and remembers his combativeness and his real underlying warmth of feeling. He remembers how, in 1848, Fitzjames was confident that the ‘haves’ could beat the ‘have nots,’ ‘set his teeth’ and exclaimed, ’Let them come on.’ Mr. Davies was now engaged in clerical work at the East-end of London. My brother took pleasure in visiting his friend there, learnt something of the ways of the district, and gave a lecture to a Limehouse audience. He attended a coffee-house discussion upon the existence of God, and exposed the inconclusiveness of the atheistic conclusions. On another occasion he went with ‘Tom,’ now Judge Hughes, to support Mr. Davies, who addressed a crowd in Leman Street one Sunday night. Hughes endeavoured to suppress a boy who was disposed for mischief. The boy threw himself on the ground, with Hughes holding him down. Fitzjames, raising a huge stick, plunged into the thick of the crowd. No one, however, stood forth as a champion of disorder; and Mr. Davies, guarded by his stalwart supporters, was able to speak to a quiet audience. Fitzjames, says Mr. Davies, was always ready for an argument in those days. He did not seek for a mere dialectical triumph; but he was resolved to let no assumption pass unchallenged, and, above all, to disperse sentiment and to insist upon what was actual and practical. He wrote to Mr. Davies in reference to some newspaper controversies: ’As to playing single-stick without being ever hit myself, I have no sort of taste for it; the harder you hit the better. I always hit my hardest.’ ‘Some people profess,’ he once said to the same friend, ’that the sermon on the Mount is the only part of Christianity which they can accept. It is to me the hardest part to accept.’ In fact, he did not often turn the second cheek. He said in the same vein that he should prefer the whole of the Church service to be made ’colder and less personal, and to revive the days of Paley and Sydney Smith.’ (The Church of the eighteenth century, only without the disturbing influence of Wesley, was, as he once remarked long afterwards, his ideal.) ’After quoting these words,’ says Mr. Davies in conclusion, ’I may be permitted to add those with which he closed the note written to me before he went to India (November 4, 1869), “God bless you. It’s not a mere phrase, nor yet an unmeaning or insincere one in my mouth affectionately yours."’

I shall venture to quote in this connection a letter from my father, which needs a word of preface. Among his experiments in journalism, Fitzjames had taken to writing for the ‘Christian Observer,’ an ancient, and, I imagine, at the time, an almost moribund representative of the evangelical party. Henry Venn had suggested, it seems, that Fitzjames might become editor. Fitzjames appears to have urged that his theology was not of the desired type. He consulted my father, however, who admitted the difficulty to be insuperable, but thought for a moment that they might act together as editor and sub-editor. My father says in his letters (August 4 and 8, 1854): ’I adhere with no qualifications of which I am conscious to the theological views of my old Clapham friends. You, I suppose, are an adherent of Mr. Maurice. To myself it appears that he is nothing more than a great theological rhetorician, and that his only definite and appreciable meaning is that of wedding the gospel to some form of philosophy, if so to conceal its baldness. But Paul of Tarsus many ages ago forbade the banns.’ In a second letter he says that there does not seem to be much real difference between Fitzjames’s creed and his own. ’It seems to me quite easy to have a theological theory quite complete and systematic enough for use; and scarcely possible to reach such a theory with any view to speculation easy, I mean, and scarcely possible for the unlearned class to which I belong. The learned are, I trust and hope, far more fixed and comprehensive in their views than they seem to me to be, but if I dared trust to my own observation I should say that they are determined to erect into a science a series of propositions which God has communicated to us as so many detached and, to us, irreconcilable verities; the common link or connecting principle of which He has not seen fit to communicate. I am profoundly convinced of the consistency of all the declarations of Scripture; but I am as profoundly convinced of my own incapacity to perceive that they are consistent. I can receive them each in turn, and to some extent I can, however feebly, draw nutriment from each of them. To blend them one with another into an harmonious or congruous whole surpasses my skill, or perhaps my diligence. But what then? I am here not to speculate but to repent, to believe and to obey; and I find no difficulty whatever in believing, each in turn, doctrines which yet seem to me incompatible with each other. It is in this sense and to this extent that I adopt the whole of the creed called evangelical. I adopt it as a regulator of the affections, as a rule of life and as a quietus, not as a stimulant to inquiry. So, I gather, do you, and if so, I at least have no right to quarrel with you on that account. Only, if you and I are unscientific Christians, let us be patient and reverent towards those whose deeper minds or more profound inquiries, or more abundant spiritual experience, may carry them through difficulties which surpass our strength.’

My brother’s reverence for his father probably prevented him from criticising this letter as he would have criticised a similar utterance from another teacher. He has, however, endorsed it I cannot say whether at the time with a tolerably significant remark. ‘This,’ he says, ’is in the nature of a surrebutter; only the parties, instead of being at issue, are agreed. My opinion as to his opinions is that they are a sort of humility which comes so very near to irony that I do not know how to separate them. Fancy old Venn and Simeon having had more capacious minds than Sir James (credat Christianus).’

The ‘Christian Observer’ was at this time edited by J. W. Cunningham, vicar of Harrow, who was trying to save it from extinction. He had been educated at Mr. Jowett’s, at Little Dunham and at Cambridge, and had been a curate of John Venn, of Clapham. He belonged, therefore, by right, to the evangelical party, and had been more or less known to my father for many years. His children were specially intimate with my aunt, Mrs. Batten, whose husband was a master at Harrow. Emelia Batten, now Mrs. Russell Gurney, was a friend of Cunningham’s children, and at this time was living in London, and on very affectionate terms with Fitzjames. He used to pour out to her his difficulties in the matter of profession choosing. There were thus various links between the Cunninghams and ourselves. Mr. Cunningham happened to call upon my father at Norwich, in the summer of 1850. With him came his eldest daughter by his second wife, Mary Richenda Cunningham, and there my brother saw her for the first time. He met her again in company with Miss Batten, on March 2, 1851, as he records, and thereupon fell in love, ’though in a quiet way at first. This feeling has never been disturbed in the slightest degree. It has widened, deepened, and strengthened itself without intermission from that day to this’ (January 3, 1887).

The connection with the ‘Christian Observer’ was of value, not for the few guineas earned, but as leading to occasional visits to Harrow. Fitzjames says that he took great pains with his articles, and probably improved his style, though ‘kind old Mr. Cunningham’ had to add a few sentences to give them the proper tone. They got him some credit from the small circle which they reached, but that was hardly his main object. ’This period of my life closed by my being engaged on November 11, 1854, at Brighton, just eighteen years to the day after I went to school there, and by my being married on April 19, 1855, at Harrow church, where my father and mother were married forty years before.’ The marriage, he says, ’was a blessed revelation to me. It turned me from a rather heavy, torpid youth into the happiest of men, and, for many years, one of the most ardent and energetic. It was like the lines in Tennyson

A touch, a kiss, the charm was snapped . . . . . . . And all the long-pent stream of life Dashed downward in a cataract.

I am surprised to find that, when I look back to that happiest and most blessed of days through the haze of upwards of thirty-two years, I do not feel in the least degree disposed to be pathetic over the lapse of life or the near approach of old age. I have found life sweet, bright, glorious. I should dearly like to live again; but I am not afraid, and I hope, when the time comes, I shall not be averse to die.’

At this point the autobiographical fragment ceases. I am glad that it has enabled me to use his own words in speaking of his marriage. No one, I think, can doubt their sincerity, nor can anyone who was a witness of his subsequent life think that they over-estimate the results to his happiness. I need only add that the marriage had the incidental advantage of providing him with a new brother and sister; for Henry (now Sir Henry) Stewart Cunningham, and Emily Cunningham (now Lady Egerton), were from this time as dear to him as if they had been connected by the closest tie of blood relationship.