Chapter 188: Changes in the University of London (K)

Chapter 187 Changes in the University of London (4K)

There were no ripples on Sunday morning, on a day when everyone would be heading to church to worship God, there were two uninvited guests on London’s Gower Street.

Perhaps for the rest of Britannia, everyone should be in church at this time of day.

But for these deviants on Gower Street, it’s just an uneventful day.

The reason for this is also simple, because Gower Street is the territory of the University of London, which, as we all know, is the only university in Britain that does not have a prayer room.

Devotees, clergy, nobles, and other decent people shunned the place, but Arthur and Elder felt at home here.

Elder, who was holding a pipe and wearing a dark gray tweed trench coat, picked up the brim of his hat with his fingers, revealing half of his eyes in the late fall chill.

“Going in to show them the ropes?”

Arthur nodded as he removed his black leather gloves, “Well, show ’em your hand.”

The two of them stepped shoulder to shoulder towards the gates of the university, even though it was a Sunday, there were still a lot of students seen coming and going in the school.

To say why Arthur came to the campus of the University of London today, naturally he wanted to come over to contact Mr. Bianchin.

Just like what Elder said, although Bianchin’s utilitarianism had been suppressed as heresy in earlier decades, today’s time was different.

In the last decade or two, the scope of influence of utilitarianism has been expanding, and the principle of utilitarianism has not only captured a lot of fans in the Whig Party, but even a few representatives of the Tory Liberals, such as George Canning, Huskisson, and Sir Peel, have been directly or indirectly influenced by a lot of people.

The abolition of slavery, the freedom of speech and the reform of the criminal law have all been implemented in Mr. Bianchin’s ideas.

Although several other ideas, similar to the separation of state religion, the abolition of corporal punishment, the abolition of usury, women’s equal rights, free trade and other issues have not been implemented due to too bold and too much resistance.

But no matter what, no one can underestimate the influence of Mr. Bianchin in the political, economic and even cultural circles of Britain.

The fact that the Westminster Review, which he founded, was able to challenge both the Quarterly Review and the Edinburgh Review, the organs of the Tories and Whigs, in the field of public opinion, is a clear proof of this.

In order to defeat the Tories in the Parliament, the Whigs have united all their forces this time.

From the lower class workers and the poor who were dissatisfied with their living conditions, to the middle class whose standard of living was gradually rising and who were eager to influence the decision-making of the country, to the archbishops and priests who were furious because of the Catholic Emancipation Act.

With all these people Whigs united, how could they not throw an olive branch to the University of London, which had been unpopular with the Tories?
It is to be remembered that it is not for a year or two that the students of the University of London have been in a hurry about not being able to get their degrees, and Mr. Elder-Carter is a typical example of this.

Of course, perhaps Mr. Elder-Carter already has a stable institutional job, so he is not too happy to target the ruling party, but rather pinpoint the clerics who often attack the University of London in the newspapers and Parliament, as well as Cambridge and Oxford, which represent the stronghold of conservative forces in the United Kingdom.

But the other students obviously didn’t talk as tough as someone with a Royal Navy background like Elder, and although people couldn’t figure out how on earth the clergy had jumped on this end, in order to be granted a Royal Warrant, the guys all had to hold their noses for the time being and squat with their former clerical foes in the same trenches of opposition to Wellington’s Cabinet.

While Elder went to the toilet, Arthur’s eyes swept over the faces of every student on campus, and he could easily read from the joyful expressions of the students that the group should be very satisfied with the recent political progress.

Arthur raised an eyebrow with his pipe in his mouth, “Perhaps the Whigs going up there is still a good thing for me? If the Royal Warrant does go out, at least no one can say I read pheasant from now on?”

The Red Devil, who was following behind, leaned against the marble sculpture and yawned, “Come on, Arthur. If you’re so intent on pushing for a Royal Warrant to be issued, why don’t you just go and elect a councillor?”

Arthur glanced at the Red Devil, “You’re the one who should save yourself more trouble, Agareth. Something like a councillor isn’t something a commoner like me can touch, and in order to elect a councillor, I’d have to quit my job at Scotland Yard first. Then I’d have to research which constituency to go to, and if it’s a large constituency with a large number of voters, then that Mr. Disraeli who speaks in Hyde Park every day and no one listens to him would be a lesson to me.

If it is to find a small constituency, I have to pay three or four thousand pounds to buy votes, the most important thing is that you want to buy people may not necessarily sell to you. The worst thing is to run into the kind of constituency that has been predetermined, in that kind of constituency, you run over to buy votes to get a beating are considered light. Those people may not be able to hit back, with the charge of election bribery to make you rotten and stink, and then hand in hand to put you in jail.”

Agareth took out his handkerchief and blew his nose, he shook it, “Arthur, why don’t you understand what I mean? Didn’t Wellington ask you to join the Tories earlier and he evened out a seat for you? If you nod your head in agreement, it won’t be long before you’ll be swinging into the House of Commons as Arthur Hastings, MP.”

Arthur leaned against the trunk of a tree and sipped his cigarette.

“Do you think I’d fall for that? If someone else had said that to me, I would have just assumed that he didn’t understand the parliamentary system in Britain. But for an all-knowing devil like you to say that, I’ll have to take it as ill-intentioned. Surely you know that there is no paycheck for being an MP.

Therefore, usually only those who have no worries about food and drink and own regular industries will get a job as a parliamentarian.

Only a tiny fraction of MPs, the big shots who are the face of the party, are able to get the various ministerial portfolios and receive the salaries for their positions when the cabinet is reshuffled.

And the kind of backbenchers that the Duke of Wellington asked me to vote for not only get no income pay, but their votes must follow the party. What am I going over there to do with this kind of swinging head of a donkey?

So even if I wanted to stay in government work, I wouldn’t jump out of the realm of the Clerk of the House, and I don’t have the spare money for me to argue with people every day in Parliament.”

The Red Devil couldn’t help rubbing his hands together with a bad smile at his words, “Then do you think a commoner’s university like the University of London with an annual tuition fee of 23 pounds and 6 shillings could give birth to a guy who has the spare money to elect a parliamentarian?”

“No, I certainly don’t think so.”

Arthur refired his wind-blown pipe, “But I think Mr. Bianchin would know quite a few fellows with spare money. In fact, Mr. Bianchin would more than likely win if he went to elect the MP himself, but his old man is old and has never been willing to bow down to either Tory or Whig, so he wouldn’t be able to make much of a difference even if he did become an MP, and so he doesn’t bother to do so.”

Arthur had just lit his cigarette when he looked up and saw that across the street, in the shade of a tree, Elder, who had just returned from the restroom, was standing at the entrance to the corridor of the school building, watching the two young men debating with great interest.

Arthur walked up and bumped Elder with his shoulder, “What are you doing?”

Elder was not annoyed by the bump, but pointed at the two men and snickered, “You don’t understand, this is the kind of fun classical literature researchers like me like to watch, the battle between Wordsworth worshippers and Byron worshippers.”

No sooner had Elder’s words left his mouth than a heated argument broke out between the two young men. The brown-haired young man, red in the face, loudly accused his companion, “John, I demand that you must retract your disparaging remarks about Lord Byron! Byron’s works are poems of human life, while Wordsworth’s are all flowers and butterflies. Look at his Greek War Song, Wordsworth couldn’t have written that in a hundred years!”

Speaking with emotion, the brown-haired young man, as if a certain button had been turned on, could not help but begin to recite Byron’s poetry.

“Arise, sons and daughters of Greece!
The glorious hour has come.
To follow the example of our ancestors.
And be not in vain the descendants of heroes!
……

Let us proudly resist

The power of the Turkish tyrant.
Let the motherland see her sons and daughters
Stand up and break the chains!
The spirits of kings and forefathers
Have come to review this duel!
……

Wake up, Sparta!
Today.
How can you lie high?
With your old companion, Athens.
Unite against the enemy!
Bring back Leonidas.

Leonidas.
He saved you all.
How strong and fearful!
At the hot springs he held the enemy at bay.

He held the enemy at bay.
He fought the Persian army.
He kept our country free.
He led 300 warriors.
He stood firm throughout the battle.
Like a mighty and furious lion.

Drowning in a sea of blood.

Arise, sons of Greece!
Swing your arms against the foe.
Let their fetid rivers of blood

Like rivers running at their feet!”

No sooner had the brown-haired young man finished his recitation than his dark-haired companion had begun to counterattack.

“Whoa, Roebuck, I knew you’d mention this poem by Byron. But don’t forget, he also wrote a whole bunch of love poems, like that one, ‘She Walks in Beauty’s Glow’

Heh, that forehead, that vivid cheek.

So gentle, so calm, and yet pulsing with love.

That charming smile, that radiance of countenance, that
All speak of a kindly being:

Her mind is at peace with all the world.
Her heart overflows with true and pure love!”

When the brown-haired young man Roebuck heard this, it was as if he had grasped something tightly, and he laughed triumphantly, “Haha, John, now you’ll have to admit defeat, won’t you? Don’t you know yourself that Byron writes these same lovey-dovey things?
In butterflies and flowers, Byron and Wordsworth are at about the same level, but in heroic epics, Byron dumps Wordsworth by more than two streets. Do you know how high Byron was in poetry?
After all, you went to Edinburgh in college, then advanced to theology later on, and now you’re into political economy and law; you’re pressed with literature.”

When Elder on the side heard this, he, who was originally just watching the show, couldn’t help but nod his head as he concurred, “Although I don’t like to use stereotypes to judge others, I think this brown-haired gentleman is right, those who read Edinburgh first and then furthered their studies in theology usually don’t have much of a level when it comes to literature.

I know one such person, and he’s also a bit of an ingénue, like your friend here. But thank goodness that friend of mine knew that he had no attainments in literature and decided to devote his life to Lamarckism.

Perhaps when I get back, I can ask him if he would be interested in redirecting his research to ‘whether the human trait of being English and topsy-turvy is somehow inevitably linked to attending Edinburgh University or studying theology’.”

The young man who was showing some signs of shagging hurriedly squared his hat at these words, and he glared at Elder and said, “Are you provoking me, sir?”

Elder just waved his hand when he heard this, “No, no, no, you may have misunderstood, I am just evaluating literature.”

Speaking here, Elder couldn’t help but pull his collar with pride and said with both hands behind his back, “As the first batch of Classics graduates of this school and the first ever gold medalist of the poetry competition, I personally think that Lord Byron’s level of poetry is similarly higher than Wordsworth’s.”

Roebuck was overjoyed to hear that someone was supporting him and said, “Look at that, John! These two gentlemen are also supporting me.”

“Don’t you rejoice too soon!” The thankfully topped young man scolded, and then he turned his eyes to Arthur, “Sir, are you also supporting Roebuck? Do you also think Byron’s creation is of a high standard?”

Arthur glanced at Elder, who was scowling at him, and begrudgingly nodded, “Uh-huh.”

The thankfully topped young man seemed a little deflated, but he still pressed on unconvincingly, “And just how high is it?”

Arthur was cornered by him, he looked at the school building behind him and compared it, “About three or four stories high.”

But soon, Arthur turned to ask, “But why on earth are you two arguing over something like this? I don’t think liking different poets is going to affect you being friends ah.”

Hearing this, Roebuck nodded his head in agreement with a laugh, “That’s right, and I agree with that, sir. But John’s so dead-set on it, he’s always telling me that my favorite music, plays, paintings, and poems all end up having a profound effect on my character in a resonant way.

He hated Byron’s poetry, and he hated Byron’s character even more, which is why he tried so hard to persuade me not to read Byron’s works, because reading those sweeping epic poems dulled my sense of things, and only more placid country stories like Wordsworth’s could redeem my perceptions.

But what he doesn’t know is that I’ve always felt very much in the way of my feelings. I was more susceptible to the resonance of pain than to the resonance of pleasure, and so I wanted to find pleasure elsewhere, and also wanted my feelings to become duller, not sharper.”

When Arthur heard this passage, he always felt as if he had seen it somewhere, and he pondered over it for a moment, before he said with a snap of his head, “Wasn’t this passage printed in last week’s Westminster Review? Did you write that article?”

Hearing this, the young man with the thankful top was only slightly surprised, “I didn’t realize that you actually happened to read that one, it was the first article I published after a two-year hiatus here.”

The other party admitted it openly, but Arthur couldn’t help but twitch slightly, “So, you are John Mill?”

Next chapter late

(End of this chapter)