The Shadow of Great Britain

224: Chapter 151 The Transformation at the University of London (4K)_2 224: Chapter 151 The Transformation at the University of London (4K)_2 Arthur leaned against the tree trunk and took a drag of his cigarette.

“Do you think I’d fall for your trick?

If it were someone else saying this to me, I’d just assume they didn’t understand Britain’s parliamentary system.

But you, the all-knowing Devil, when you say this, I can only assume you have ulterior motives.

You must know that being a Member of Parliament comes with no salary.”

Therefore, usually only those who are worry-free about food and drink and own fixed properties would consider becoming a member.

Only a very small part of the members, essentially the prominent figures of the party, could gain various cabinet posts during cabinet reshuffles and receive salaries for their positions.

And the kind of backbench MP that Duke Wellington wanted me to be, not only has no income but must also vote along with the party.

It’s a job even a dumb animal could do, why would I have done it in the past?

So, even if I wanted to stay within the government, I wouldn’t step beyond the role of a civil servant.

I don’t have spare money to afford squabbling daily in Parliament.”

At this, the Red Devil couldn’t help but rub his hands together and chuckle mischievously: “Then do you think a public university like the University of London, with an annual tuition of 23 pounds and 6 shillings, could produce someone with spare money to become a Member of Parliament?”

“No, I certainly don’t think so.”

Arthur relit his pipe which had been extinguished by the wind: “But I think Mr.

Bentham would know quite a few people with spare money.

In fact, Mr.

Bentham himself could likely win an election if he ran, but given his old age and his steadfast refusal to bow to either the Tory or the Whig Party, even if he became a member, he wouldn’t be very effective, so he probably can’t be bothered to run.”

Arthur had just lit his pipe when he looked up and saw Eld, who had just come back from the restroom, standing at the entrance of the classroom building corridor, delightfully watching two young men debating.

Arthur approached and nudged Eld with his shoulder: “What are you doing?”

Unperturbed by the bump, Eld pointed at the two men and chuckled, “You don’t understand, this is the kind of amusement us classical literature researchers love, the clash between worshippers of Wordsworth and Byron.”

No sooner had Eld spoken when a fierce argument erupted between the two young men.

The brown-haired young man, face flushed, loudly accused his companion: “John, you must retract your slanderous words about Lord Byron!

Byron’s works are the poetry of human life, while all of Wordsworth’s are just flowers and butterflies.

Look at his ‘Greek War Song,’ Wordsworth couldn’t write something like that in a hundred years!”

Moved by his own words, the brown-haired young man, as if a button had been pressed, involuntarily began to recite Byron’s poetry.

“Rise, sons of Greece,

The hour of glory arrives,

Emulate your ancestors,

Not in vain be descendants of heroes!

…

Let us proudly resist

The tyranny of the Turkish despot,

Let the homeland see her sons

Stand up, break the chains!

The spirits of the former kings and sages

Come to review this battle!

…

Awake, Sparta!

Today

How can you lie down not risen?

Join with your old companion, Athens,

Quickly unite to fight the enemy!

Summon back the king sung of through ages,

Leonidas,

He who once saved you,

So strong and formidable!

Guarding the pass at Thermopylae

He heroically restrained the enemy,

Fighting fiercely against the Persian army,

Let the homeland preserve its freedom;

He led three hundred warriors,

Standing firm in battle throughout,

Like a fierce, enraged lion,

Drowning in the surging sea of blood.

Rise, sons of Greece!

Swing your spears to meet the enemy,

Let their stinking bloodstreams

Flow like rivers at your feet!”

The young man with brown hair had just finished reciting when his black-haired companion had already begun to counterattack.

“Oh, Robuck, I knew you would bring up Byron’s poem.

But don’t forget, he also wrote a pile of love poems, like the one ‘She Walks in Beauty,’”

Oh, that forehead, those bright cheeks,

So gentle, serene, and tender,

The charming smile, the radiance of her face,

All speak of a kind soul:

Her mind at peace with everything in the world,

Her heart brimming with pure love!”

Robuck, hearing this, as if he had tightly grasped something, laughed proudly, “Ha, ha, John, you have to admit defeat now, don’t you?

You know for yourself that Byron could write these lovey-dovey things.

On the level with Wordsworth in terms of romantic and pastoral themes, but when it comes to heroic epic, Byron is streets ahead of Wordsworth.

Do you realize how high Byron stood in terms of poetry?

After all, you studied at Edinburgh and then went on to study theology, now dealing with political economy and law, you’re barely related to literature.”

Eld, who had been merely spectating, couldn’t help but nod in agreement upon hearing this; he added, “Although I don’t like stereotyping people, I think this brown-haired gentleman is right, those who start with Edinburgh and then study theology usually lack literary prowess.

I know someone like that, and he, just like your friend here, is somewhat prematurely balding.

But thank heavens, my friend knows his literary capabilities are limited, so he decided to devote his life to Lamarckism.

Perhaps after going back, I could ask him if he is interested in shifting his research focus to ‘whether the premature balding trait in humans is inevitably connected to studying at the University of Edinburgh or theological studies.’”

The young man with signs of balding quickly adjusted his cap upon hearing this, and glared at Eld, “Sir, are you provoking me?”

Eld simply waved his hand, “No, no, no, you might have misunderstood; I was just commenting on literature.”

Upon saying this, Eld couldn’t help but proudly adjust his collar, hands clasped behind his back he declared, “As the first graduate in classical literature of our school and the first-time winner of the poetry contest gold medal, I personally think that Lord Byron’s level of poetry is above Wordsworth.”

Robuck, hearing someone supporting him, was overjoyed, “See, John!

These two gentlemen also support me.”

“Don’t be too happy so soon!” the young man with a balding sign cursed, and then turned his gaze toward Arthur, “Sir, do you also support Robuck?

Do you also think Byron’s level of creativity is high?”

Arthur, glancing at Eld who was making faces at him, nodded reluctantly, “Hmm.”

The young man seemed a bit deflated, but he still stubbornly pressed on, “Then how high exactly is it?”

Arthur, cornered with no way out, looked back at the academic building and gestured, “About three or four stories high, I guess.”

But soon, Arthur turned to ask, “But why are you two arguing over this kind of thing?

I think liking different poets doesn’t affect your ability to be friends.”

Upon hearing this, Robuck laughed heartily and nodded in agreement, “That’s right, I agree with this view, sir.

But John is too stubborn; he always tells me that my favorite music, drama, painting, and poetry will ultimately profoundly influence my character through resonance.

He hates Byron’s poetry and dislikes Byron’s personality even more.

So he strongly advises me not to read Byron’s works because reading those grand epics would dull my sensibilities.

He says I should read more of Wordsworth’s calm countryside stories to salvage my perceptions.

But what he doesn’t know is that I always feel my emotions are a nuisance.

Compared to the joy of resonance, I am more susceptible to the resonance of pain.

Therefore, I want to find happiness elsewhere and hope my emotions become duller, not more acute.”

Arthur, hearing this speech, felt it seemed familiar.

After thinking for a while, he suddenly slapped his forehead and said, “Wasn’t this written in last week’s ‘Westminster Review’?

Did you write that article?”

The young man, upon hearing this, merely showed slight surprise, “I didn’t expect you to have read that; it was the first article I published after taking a two-year break from writing.”

The other confessed readily, but Arthur couldn’t help but twitch his mouth slightly, “So, you are John Stuart Mill?”