Chapter V: He Goes To Cambridge

Young Spencer went with Mr. Blomfield to Cambridge in the spring of 1817, and was entered fellow commoner of Trinity. He returned, immediately after being matriculated, to his family, and spent the summer in cricketing and sea-bathing, in Ryde, Isle of Wight, and hunting or shooting at Althorp. On Saturday, October 18th, he came to London with his parents. He and his brother Frederick went about shopping, to procure their several outfits for the University and the sea. On the morning of the 21st October, he set out from his father's house to Holborn, to catch the seven o'clock fly for Cambridge. This vehicle, which has been so long superseded by the Eastern Counties Railway, was filled with passengers before the Spencer carriage arrived. He then took a post chaise at ten o'clock, and arrived in Cambridge a little before six in the evening. All that remained of that day, and the greater part of the next, was spent in getting his rooms furnished, hiring his servant, making a few acquaintances, meeting those he knew before, and the other employments of a freshman. His tutor in classics was Mr. Evans, who long continued in the same capacity at Cambridge, and had the reputation of being a most upright man. For mathematics he had a Mr. Peacock, who afterwards became Dean of Ely, and restored the cathedral there. He fell into good hands, seemingly, as far as his studies were concerned. He does not seem to have been less fortunate in the choice of his companions. He is very slow in making friends; one he does not like for being "too much of the fine gentleman;" another invites him, and he remarks: "I suppose I must ask him to dinner or something {23} else; but I should not wish to continue acquaintance with him, for though he is good-natured, he is likely to be in a bad set." He also goes regularly to visit Mr. Blomfield, who resided in Hildersham, and advises with him about his proceedings. He also avoids needless waste of time, and says in his journal: "They all played whist, in their turns, but Bridgman and myself; which I am glad I did not, for I like it so well that I should play at it too much if I once began." Besides these precautions, and a feeling of indignation that bursts out now and again when he has to note a misdemeanour in his associates, he reads seven hours a day on an average. These conclusions are collected from the notes of a journal he wrote at the time; they mark a very auspicious beginning; and, being clear facts, will serve as a kind of glass through which one may read the following from his autobiography.

"My intentions were now well directed (on entering Cambridge). I
began well, and for a time did not give way to the detestable
fashions of the place, and was not much ashamed in the presence of
the profligate. I was very happy likewise. I found myself now for
the first time emerged from the condition of a boy. I was treated
with respect and kindness by the tutors and fellows of the college;
my company was always sought, and I was made much of by what was
supposed to be the best--that is, the most well-bred and
fashionable, set in the University. I had all the health and high
spirits of my age, and I now enjoyed manly amusements, being set
free from the cowardly feeling of inferiority which I had to oppress
me at Eton. My first term at Cambridge--that is, the two months that
passed before the first Christmas vacation after my going there--
was, as I thought, the happiest time I had yet known. I find it
difficult, however, now to understand that happiness, and still more
to understand the religious principle which had more or less some
influence over me, when I remember one circumstance which by itself
proves my religion to have been absolutely nugatory, and which, I
remember well, most grievously spoiled my happiness. As to my
religion, I do not remember that at that time I said any private
prayer. {24} I suppose I must have discontinued it when I left Mr.
Blomfield's, or soon after. Yet I had a sort of principle which
guarded me from joining in the profane contempt of God's worship
which prevails generally in the College chapels at Cambridge, and
for a long time from consenting to the practice of open
immoralities, or even pretending to approve them, though almost all
the young men whom I knew at Cambridge either notoriously followed
or at least sanctioned them."

He alludes to "one circumstance" in the last extract as being a test of his depth in religious matters, which it will be interesting to have in his own words. It occurred before his entering Cambridge; but as it considerably influenced his feelings during his stay there, it may as well find its place here.

"The circumstance to which I allude was something of an affair of
honour, as the world blindly calls it, into which I got engaged, and
which had so important an influence upon my religious feelings for
about two years that I will here particularly relate the
circumstances of it. In the last summer vacation, before my going to
Cambridge, I attended, with my father, the Northampton races, in our
way from the Isle of Wight to visit my brother at his place in
Nottinghamshire. I had begun, at that time, to be extremely fond of
dancing, as well as cricket, shooting, and the like amusements. At
this race ball at Northampton, I enjoyed myself to the full; but,
unwittingly, laid the foundation for sorrow on the next day.
Fancying myself a sort of leader of the gaiety, in a set which
seemed to be the most fashionable and smart of the evening, I must
needs be making up parties for select dances; which proceeding was,
of course, taken by others as intruding on the liberties of a public
entertainment; and it happened that, without knowing it, I barred
out from one quadrille which I helped in forming, the sister of a
young gentleman of name and fortune in the county. I was in the mean
time making up a party for a match at cricket on the racecourse for
the next day, and this gentleman was one of my chief helpmates. The
next day, while busy in collecting our cricketers to go {25} to the
ground, I met him in the street, and he gave me the hard cut. I knew
not what it meant, and simply let it pass; but on the morning after,
I was surprised at receiving a letter from him to tell me what was
my offence: it ended with the words (which are deeply enough
impressed on my memory not yet to be forgotten), 'If I did not look
upon you as a mere boy, I should call you in a more serious manner
to account for your rudeness.' He then told me where he might be
found the following day. Without much reflecting on this unpleasant
communication, I showed it to my father, who was near me, with
several other gentlemen of the county, when I received it. He asked
me whether I had meant any rudeness, and when I told him I had not,
he bid me write an apology, and particularly charged me not to
notice the concluding taunt. He afterwards mentioned it to two
others of these gentlemen, who both agreed that I had done right in
sending such an answer. But soon after my mind fell into such a
torment as I had never yet known. The answer was certainly right
according to Christian rules, and I suppose the laws of honour would
not have required more; but, at the time, I know not whether it
would not be esteemed in his mind and that of the friends whom he
might consult, to be too gentle for a man of courage. A most
agonizing dilemma I was now in, neither side of which I could
endure. On the one hand, I could not bear to look on death, and
standing to be shot at was what nothing but a fit of desperation
could bring me to. On the other, that awful tyrant, the world, now,
as it were, put forth his hand and claimed me for his own. To lose
my character for courage, and be branded as a coward, was what I
could not anyways endure. I went with my father in the carriage to
sleep at Loughborough; and when, at the inn, I retired from him to
my bedroom, the tumult of my mind was at its height. I had all but
determined to set off and go that very night to the place assigned
me by this gentleman, who by one disdainful expression had now
mysteriously become, as it appeared, the master of my doom; and,
renewing the quarrel, take my chance of the consequence. But again,
I saw this would {26} not save my honour, if it were already
compromised. It was clear that a change of mind like that would
hardly satisfy the world, which does not forgive a breach of its
awful laws on such easy terms. I finally slept off my trouble for
the present; but my soul remained oppressed with a new load, which
almost made me weary of my life. I remained convinced that I had not
reached the standard of courage in this affair; and I felt,
therefore, that it depended on the good-nature of this gentleman
whether my character should be exposed or not. He did not reply to
my letter of explanation. Was he satisfied or not? During my first
term at Cambridge he was expected there, and I was even invited to
meet him at a wine party, as one who was known to be one of his
neighbours and friends. I dared not show any reluctance to meet him,
lest the whole story should be known at Cambridge; and if I did meet
him, was he again to treat me with disdain? If he did, how should I
avoid a duel? I knew that having anything to do with a duel was
expulsion by the laws of the University; but if I, coward as I was,
had not yet made up my mind, as I had, that I must run the chance of
his shot, if he chose still to resent the affront, no wonder, if the
spoiling of my prospects in life, by expulsion from Cambridge, was
not much regarded. The present distress was evaded by his not
coming, as was expected. After this I desired one person who knew
him as a friend, and to whom alone I had explained my case, to write
and ask whether my apology had appeared to him sufficient. The
answer to this was an assurance that the thing had been no more
thought of; but it was two years before I met him in person, and by
his courteous manner was finally satisfied that all was right
between us. I might think it impossible that the great question
could be overlooked by men, what is to become of them in eternity,
if I had not had the experience of my own feelings in such an
occasion as this. In that memorable evening at Loughborough, I did
not indeed altogether overlook the moral question--Is a duel wrong?
I had made the most of what I had heard said in palliation of it by
some moralists; I could not find any ground, however, to think it
right before {27} God; yet the thought of having, perhaps before the
next day was past, to answer in the presence of God for having
thrown away my life in it, was not the consideration which deterred
me from the rash resolution. Now, how stands the world in England on
this question? It is clear that a Catholic, whether ecclesiastic or
layman, has no choice. He must either utterly renounce his religion
or duelling. A maintenance of the abominable practice by which
duelling is justified would deprive him of communion with the
Church. But how stand Protestants? The clergy are exempted from this
law by the world. But how many Protestant laymen are there of the
rank of gentlemen who dare to proclaim that they detest duelling,
and that they would sooner bear the disgrace of refusing a challenge
than offend God by accepting it, or run the risk of offending God?
for I suppose the greater part would try an argument to prove that
it may be excusable. The clergy generally, I believe, reckon it
decidedly a wicked worldly law, yet they receive laymen to communion
without insisting on this enormous evil being first abjured. I do
not, however, here propose a further discussion of the question
generally. To this law of the world, miserably as it tormented me
for a time, I believe I am indebted spiritually more than can well
be understood: at least to the misery which it occasioned me. I have
heard it related of blessed (now Saint) Alphonsus Maria di Liguori
that he owed his being led to bid adieu to the world and choosing
God for the portion of his inheritance, to making a blunder in
pleading a cause as an advocate. Having till that time set his
happiness on his worldly reputation for talent, he then clearly saw
how vain, were the promises of the world, and once for all he gave
it up. I knew not, alas! whither nor how to turn for more solid
consolation, and thus the spoiling of my happiness, which had
resulted from a mistake in a ball-room, did not teach me to be wise;
but it contributed materially, and most blessedly, to poison my
happiness at this time. Yet, in a general way, I went on gaily and
pleasantly enough, for serious reflections, on whatever subject it
might be, had no long continuance."

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