Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schools
they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming. If arts and
schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie.--The Soul’s Errand.
At ten years old I went to Eton. I had been educated till that period by
my mother, who, being distantly related to Lord ------, (who had published
“Hints upon the Culinary Art”), imagined she possessed an hereditary
claim to literary distinction. History was her great forte; for she had
read all the historical romances of the day, and history accordingly I
had been carefully taught.
I think at this moment I see my mother before me, reclining on her sofa,
and repeating to me some story about Queen Elizabeth and Lord Essex;
then telling me, in a languid voice, as she sank back with the exertion,
of the blessings of a literary taste, and admonishing me never to read
above half an hour at a time for fear of losing my health.
Well, to Eton I went; and the second day I had been there, I was half
killed for refusing, with all the pride of a Pelham, to wash tea-cups. I
was rescued from the clutches of my tyrant by a boy not much bigger
than myself, but reckoned the best fighter, for his size, in the whole
school. His name was Reginald Glanville: from that period, we became
inseparable, and our friendship lasted all the time he stayed at Eton,
which was within a year of my own departure for Cambridge.
His father was a baronet, of a very ancient and wealthy family; and his
mother was a woman of some talent and more ambition. She made her house
one of the most recherchee in London. Seldom seen at large assemblies,
she was eagerly sought after in the well winnowed soirees of the elect.
Her wealth, great as it was, seemed the least prominent ingredient
of her establishment. There was in it no uncalled for ostentation--no
purse-proud vulgarity--no cringing to great, and no patronizing
condescension to little people; even the Sunday newspapers could not
find fault with her, and the querulous wives of younger brothers could
only sneer and be silent.
“It is an excellent connexion,” said my mother, when I told her of my
friendship with Reginald Glanville, “and will be of more use to you than
many of greater apparent consequence. Remember, my dear, that in all the
friends you make at present, you look to the advantage you can derive
from them hereafter; that is what we call knowledge of the world, and
it is to get the knowledge of the world that you are sent to a public
school.”
I think, however, to my shame, that notwithstanding my mother’s
instructions, very few prudential considerations were mingled with
my friendship for Reginald Glanville. I loved him with a warmth of
attachment, which has since surprised even myself.
He was of a very singular character: he used to wander by the river
in the bright days of summer, when all else were at play, without any
companion but his own thoughts; and these were tinged, even at that
early age, with a deep and impassioned melancholy. He was so reserved in
his manner, that it was looked upon as coldness or pride, and was repaid
as such by a pretty general dislike. Yet to those he loved, no one could
be more open and warm; more watchful to gratify others, more indifferent
to gratification for himself: an utter absence of all selfishness, and
an eager and active benevolence were indeed the distinguishing traits
of his character. I have seen him endure with a careless goodnature the
most provoking affronts from boys much less than himself; but directly
I, or any other of his immediate friends, was injured or aggrieved,
his anger was almost implacable. Although he was of a slight frame, yet
early exercise had brought strength to his muscles, and activity to his
limbs; and his skill in all athletic exercises whenever (which was but
rarely) he deigned to share them, gave alike confidence and success to
whatever enterprise his lion-like courage tempted him to dare.
Such, briefly and imperfectly sketched, was the character of Reginald
Glanville--the one, who of all my early companions differed the most
from myself; yet the one whom I loved the most, and the one whose future
destiny was the most intertwined with my own.
I was in the head class when I left Eton. As I was reckoned an
uncommonly well-educated boy, it may not be ungratifying to the admirers
of the present system of education to pause here for a moment, and recal
what I then knew. I could make twenty Latin verses in half an hour;
I could construe, without an English translation, all the easy Latin
authors, and many of the difficult ones, with it: I could read Greek
fluently, and even translate it though the medium of a Latin version at
the bottom of the page. I was thought exceedingly clever, for I had only
been eight years acquiring all this fund of information, which, as one
can never recal it in the world, you have every right to suppose that
I had entirely forgotten before I was five and twenty. As I was
never taught a syllable of English during this period; as when I once
attempted to read Pope’s poems, out of school hours, I was laughed at,
and called “a sap;” as my mother, when I went to school, renounced
her own instructions; and as, whatever school-masters may think to the
contrary, one learns nothing now-a-days by inspiration: so of everything
which relates to English literature, English laws, and English history
(with the exception of the said story of Queen Elizabeth and Lord
Essex,) you have the same right to suppose that I was, at the age of
eighteen, when I left Eton, in the profoundest ignorance.
At this age, I was transplanted to Cambridge, where I bloomed for two
years in the blue and silver of a fellow commoner of Trinity. At the end
of that time (being of royal descent) I became entitled to an honorary
degree. I suppose the term is in contradistinction to an honourable
degree, which is obtained by pale men in spectacles and cotton
stockings, after thirty-six months of intense application.
I do not exactly remember how I spent my time at Cambridge. I had a
piano-forte in my room, and a private billiard-room at a village two
miles off; and between these resources, I managed to improve my mind
more than could reasonably have been expected. To say truth, the whole
place reeked with vulgarity. The men drank beer by the gallon, and
eat cheese by the hundred weight--wore jockey-cut coats, and talked
slang--rode for wagers, and swore when they lost--smoked in your face,
and expectorated on the floor. Their proudest glory was to drive the
mail--their mightiest exploit to box with the coachman--their most
delicate amour to leer at the barmaid.
It will be believed, that I felt little regret in quitting companions
of this description. I went to take leave of our college tutor. “Mr.
Pelham,” said he, affectionately squeezing me by the hand, “your conduct
has been most exemplary; you have not walked wantonly over the college
grassplats, nor set your dog at the proctor--nor driven tandems by day,
nor broken lamps by night--nor entered the chapel in order to display
your intoxication--nor the lecture-room, in order to caricature the
professors. This is the general behaviour of young men of family and
fortune; but it has not been your’s. Sir, you have been an honour to
your college.”
Thus closed my academical career. He who does not allow that it passed
creditably to my teachers, profitably to myself, and beneficially to the
world, is a narrow-minded and illiterate man, who knows nothing of the
advantages of modern education.