LEAVING the stormy latitude of High Beech, we retrace our steps to the classic shades of Oxford, where we find the undergraduate Tincroft, some three months after our last parting with him, again quietly ensconced in his rather dingy rooms at Queen's. The time which had thus passed away had not been altogether unprofitably spent by him. He had, for one thing, put himself to school. It is said that a man who is his own lawyer has a fool for a client; and I have been told that when a doctor is seriously ill, he generally consults a brother Galen—whether or not it is because he has little faith in his own prescriptions, I have no means of knowing.
On a parity of reasoning, and on the same principle, it would seem that when a man sees occasion to put himself to school, he should not be his own schoolmaster; and yet it is not so. There is, of course, one Teacher of whom all ought to learn, and the neglect of whose instructions is infinite loss. But next to Divine instructions, it is almost important that every man should school himself, listening to his own reason and conscience. And this John Tincroft had done.
First, as to his faint hopes of ever succeeding to the inheritance which he believed to be his, he was kindly enough but faithfully recommended by his monitor to forget them. He was reminded of the law's proverbial delays, and especially of the wearying and wearing and disappointing perplexities of a Chancery suit.
He was told in this new school (for it was new to him) that even if he could and did obtain possession of the Tincroft estate, to which he thought he had a right, and which it now seemed possible would be his—say, if he should live another fifty years—it would not be worth having.
"Therefore," said the schoolmaster, "dismiss it from your mind altogether; and if it must be still battled about, let the lawyers do it."
And John said, "I will."
Next, "You have been shamefully neglecting your preparations for India these many weeks," quoth the schoolmaster; "you know you have."
John hung his head.
"Now this won't do. You know quite well, John, that you are not over-bright. You have no genius; you are not a genius."
"Not a bit of one," John readily acknowledged.