Meanwhile the fateful year 1820, when I was to be translated from the
world of Harrow, and know nothing more of its friendships, quarrels, and
politics, was at hand. At the election of July in that year was to begin
my Winchester life. I certainly looked forward to it with a feeling of
awe approaching terror, yet not untempered by a sense of increased
dignity and the somewhat self-complacent feeling of one destined by fate
to meet great and perilous adventures, and acquire large stores of
experience.
The sadness of departure was tempered also, as I remember, by the
immediate delight of a journey to be performed. Certainly it was not the
unmixed delight with which Rousseau contemplated his _voyage à faire et
Paris au bout_. Something very different lay at the end of my _voyage_.
Nevertheless, so intense was my delight in “the road” at that time (and
to a great degree ever since), that the sixty miles journey to be
performed was a great alleviation.
The expedition was to be made with my father in his gig. A horse was to
be sent on to Guildford, and by dint of starting at a very early hour,
and there changing horses, the distance was to be performed in one day.
We were to travel, not by the more generally used coach road by Hounslow
and Bagshot, but over the district called the Hog’s Back from Guildford
to Farnham--chiefly, as I remember, for the sake of showing me that
beautiful bit of country. For to my father beautiful scenery was as
great a delight as it has always been to myself.
At Farnham there was time, while the horse was being baited at “The
Bush,” for us, after snatching a morsel of cold meat, to visit hurriedly
the park and residence of the Bishop of Winchester. I, very contentedly
trotting by the side of my father’s long strides, was much impressed by
the beauty of the park. But, as I remember, my mind was very much
exercised by the fact, then first learned, that the Bishop’s diocese
extended all the way to London. And I think that it seemed somehow to my
child’s mind that the dignity of my position as one of William of
Wykeham’s scholars was enhanced by the enormous extent of the diocese of
his successor.
We reached Winchester late in the evening of the day before the
election, putting up, not at “The George,” or at “The White Hart,” as
most people would have done, but at the “Fleur de Lys,” pronounced
“Flower de Luce,” a very ancient, but then third-rate hostelry, which my
father preferred, partly probably because he thought the charges might
be less there, but mainly because it is situated in the vicinity of the
college, and he had known and used it of old. We spent the evening at
the house of Dr. Gabell, the head master, an old friend of my father’s,
where his eldest daughter, an intimate friend of my mother’s, who had
often been a visitor in Keppel Street, made much of me.
And the next day I became a Wykehamist! And the manner of so becoming
was in this wise. The real serious business of the six electors--three
sent from New College, and three belonging to Winchester, as has been
set forth on a previous page--consisted in the examination of those
scholars, who, standing at the top of the school, were in that year
candidates for New College. All the eighteen “prefects,” who formed the
highest class in the school, were examined; but the most serious part of
the business was the examination of the first half dozen or so, who were
probably superannuated at the age of eighteen that year, and who might
have a fair chance of finding a vacancy at New College (if there were
not one at that present moment) in the course of the ensuing twelve
months. And this was a very fateful and serious examination, for the
examiners in “the election chamber” would, if the examination disclosed
due cause, change the order of the roll as it came up to them, placing a
boy, who had distinguished himself, before another, who had not done so.
And as the roll thus settled was the order in which vacancies at New
College were taken, the work in “the chamber” was of life-long
importance to the subjects of it.
Very different was the “election” of the children, who were to go into
Winchester. Duly instructed as to the part we were to play, we went
marvelling up the ancient stone corkscrew stair to the mysterious
chamber situated over the “middle gate,” _i.e._ the gateway between the
outer court and the second quadrangle where the chapel, the hall, and
the chambers are. The “election chamber” always maintained a certain
character of mystery to us, because it was never opened or used save on
the great occasion of the annual election. In that chamber we found the
six solemn electors in their gowns waiting for us; especially the Bishop
of Hereford, who was then Warden of Winchester College, an aged man with
his peculiar wig and gown was an object of awe. No Bishop had in those
days dreamed as yet of discarding the episcopal wig.
And then the examination began as follows: “Well, boy, can you sing?”
“Yes, sir.” “Let us hear you.” “‘All people that on earth do dwell,’”
responded the neophyte--duly instructed previously in his part of the
proceeding--without attempting in the smallest degree to modify in any
way his ordinary speech. “Very well, boy. That will do!” returned the
examiner. The examination was over, and you were a member of William of
Wykeham’s college, _Sancta Mariæ de Winton prope Winton_. “_Prope_
Winton,” observe, for the college is situated outside the ancient city
walls.
The explanation of this survival of the _simulacrum_ of an examination
is that the ancient statutes require that candidates for admission as
scholars must be competently instructed _in plano cantu_--in plain
chant; the intention of the founder being that all his scholars should
take part in the choral service of the chapel.
I and my fellow novices thus admitted as scholars in that July of 1820
were not about to join the school immediately. We had the six weeks
holidays before us, the election taking place at the end of the summer
half year. Election week was the grand festival of the Wykehamical year.
For three days high feast was held in the noble old hall. The “high
table” was spread on the dais, and all old Wykehamists were welcome at
it. The boys in the lower part of the hall were regaled with mutton pies
and “stuckling.” That was their appointed fare; but in point of fact
they feasted on dishes or portions of dishes sent down from the
abundantly-spread high table, and the pies were carried away for the
next morning’s breakfast. I do not think anybody ate much “stuckling”
beyond a mouthful _pro formâ_. It was a sort of flat pastry made of
chopped apples and currants. And the specialty of it was that the apples
must be that year’s apples. They used to be sent up from Devonshire or
Cornwall, and sometimes were with difficulty obtained. Then there was
the singing of the Latin grace, with its beautiful responses, performed
by the chapel choir and as many others as were capable of taking part in
it. The grace with its music has been published, and I need not occupy
these pages with a reprint of it. And then in the afternoon came the
singing of “Domum” on the fives court behind the school, by the whole
strength of the company.
Nine such election weeks did I see, counting from that which made me a
Wykehamist in 1820 to that which saw me out a superannuate in 1828. I
did not get a fellowship at New College, having narrowly missed it for
want of a vacancy by one. I was much mortified at the time, but have
seen long since that probably all was for the best for me. It was a mere
chance, as has been shown at a former page, whether a boy at the head or
nearly at the head of the school went to New College or not.
The interesting event of a vacancy having occurred at New College,
whether by death, marriage, or the acceptance of a living, was announced
by the arrival of “speedyman” at Winchester College. “Speedyman,” in
conformity with immemorial usage, used to bring the news on foot from
Oxford to Winchester. How well I remember the look of the man, as he
used to arrive with all the appearance of having made a breathless
journey, a spare, active-looking fellow, in brown cloth breeches and
gaiters covered with dust. Of course letters telling the facts had long
outstripped “speedyman.” But with the charming and reverent spirit of
conservatism, which in those days ruled all things at Winchester,
“speedyman” made his journey on foot all the same!
Of course one of the first matters in hand when this fateful messenger
arrived was to regale him with college beer, and right good beer it was
in those days. In connection with it may be mentioned the rather
singular fact, that, whereas all other supplies from the college buttery
to the boys--the bread, the cheese, the butter, the meat--were
accurately measured, the beer was given absolutely _ad libitum_. In fact
it was not _given_ out at all, but taken. Thrice a day the way to the
cellar was open, a back stair leading from the hall to the superb old
vaulted cellar, with its central pillar and arches springing from it in
every direction. All around were the hogsheads, and the proper tools for
tapping one as soon as another should be out. And to this cellar the
boys--or rather the junior boys at each mess--went freely to draw as
much as they chose.
And the beer thus freely supplied was our only beverage, for not only
was tea or coffee not furnished, it was not permitted. Some of the
prefects (the eighteen first boys in college) would have “tea-messes,”
provided out of their own pocket money, and served by their “fags.” But
if, as would sometimes happen, either of the masters chanced to appear
on the scene before the tea-things could be got out of the way, he used
to smash them all, using his large pass key for the purpose, and saying
“What are all these things, sir? William of Wykeham knew nothing, I
think, of tea!”
We used to breakfast at ten, after morning school, on bread and butter
and beer, having got up at half-past five, gone to chapel at half-past
six, and into school at half-past seven. At a quarter to one we again
went up into hall. It was a specialty of college phraseology to suppress
the definite article. We always said “to hall,” “to meads” (the
playground), “to school,” “to chambers,” and the like. The visit to hall
at that time was properly for dinner, though it had long ceased to be
such. The middle of the day “hall” served in my day only for the purpose
of luncheon (though no such modern word was ever used), and only those
“juniors” attended whose office it was to bring away the portions of
bread and cheese and “bobs” (_i.e._ huge jugs) of beer for consumption
in the afternoon.
Sunday formed an exception to this practice. We all went up into “hall”
in the middle of the day on Sunday, and dined on roast beef, the
noontide dinner consisting of roast beef on that day, boiled beef on
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, and baked plum pudding on
Friday and Saturday. But the boiled beef, with the exception of certain
portions reserved for the next morning’s breakfast of the seniors of the
messes, or companies into which the “inferiors” (_i.e._, non-prefects)
were divided, was not eaten, but given away. During the war Winchester
had been one of the depots of French prisoners, and the beef in question
was then given to them. When there were no more Frenchmen it was given
to twenty-four old women who were appointed to do the weeding of the
college quadrangles. It must be understood that this arrangement was
entirely spontaneous on the part of the boys, though it would have been
quite out of the question for any individual to say that he for his part
would eat his own beef. How all this may be now I know not. Probably the
college, under the enlightened guidance of Her Majesty’s Commissioners,
have seen the propriety of providing the youthful Wykehamists with table
napkins and caper sauce, while the old women go without their dole of
beef. On the Friday and Saturday the pudding was carried down out of
hall by the juniors for consumption during the afternoon.
At about a quarter-past six, at the conclusion of afternoon school, we
went up into hall for dinner--originally, of course, supper. This
consisted of mutton, roast or boiled, every evening of the year, with
potatoes and beer. But it was such mutton as is not to be found in
English butchers’ shops nowadays, scientific breeding having improved it
from off the face of the land. It was small Southdown mutton, uncrossed
by any of the coarser, rapidly-growing, and fat-making breeds. And that
it should be such was insured by the curious rule, that, though only a
given number of pounds of mutton were required and paid for to the
contractor, the daily supply was always to be one sheep and a half. So
that if large mutton was sent it was to the loss of the contractor.
Furthermore it was the duty of the “prefect of tub” to see that the
mutton was in all ways satisfactory. The “prefect of tub” was one of
the five boys at the head of the school; another was the “prefect of
hall”; a third “prefect of school”; and the fourth and fifth “prefects
of chapel.” These offices were all positions of emolument. That of the
“prefect of tub” was far the most so, and was usually held by the senior
college “founder,” or boy of “founder’s kin,” during his last year
before going to New College. The titles of the other offices explain
themselves, but that of “prefect of tub” requires some elucidation.
In the hall, placed just inside the screen which divided the buttery
hatches from the body of the hall, there was an ancient covered “tub.”
In the course of my eight years’ stay at Winchester this venerable
tub--_damnosa quid non diminuit dies?_--had to be renewed. It was
replaced by a much handsomer one; but, as I remember, the change had
rather the effect on the popular mind in college of diminishing our
confidence in the permanency of human institutions generally. The
original purpose of this tub was to receive fragments and remains of
food, together with such portions--“dispers” we called them--of the
evening mutton supper as were not duly claimed by the destined recipient
of them at his place at the table, that they might be given to the poor;
and the “prefect of tub” was so called because it was part of his office
to see that this was duly done. It was also his duty to preside over the
distribution of the aforesaid “dispers”--not _quasi dispars_, as might
be supposed by those who can appreciate the difference between a prime
cut out of a leg of mutton and a bit of the breast of a sheep, but
“_dispers_” from _dispertio_. Now the distribution in question was
effected in this wise. The joints were cut up in the kitchen always
accurately in the same manner. The leg made eight “dispers,” the
shoulder seven, and so on. The “dispers” thus prepared were put into
four immense pewter dishes, and these were carried up into hall by four
choristers under the superintendence of the “prefect of tub” and
distributed among the fifty-two “inferiors”--_i.e._, non-prefects. The
eighteen prefects dined at two tables by themselves. Their joints were
not cut into “dispers,” but were dressed by the cook according to their
own orders, paid for by themselves according to an established tariff
drawn with reference to the extra expense of the mode of preparation
ordered. The long narrow tables were six in number, ranged on either
side of the noble hall, exactly as in a monastic refectory. The dais was
left unoccupied, save at election time, when the “high table” was spread
there. At the first two tables on the left hand side as one entered the
hall, the eighteen prefects dined.
This bloated aristocracy was supplied with plates to eat their dinner
from. The populace--mere mutton _consumere nati_--the fifty-two
inferiors, had only “trenchers,” flat pieces of wood about nine inches
square. These fifty-two “inferiors” were divided into eight companies,
and occupied the remaining four tables. But this division was so
arranged that one of the eight seniors of the “inferiors” was at the
head of each company, and one of the eight juniors at the bottom of
each, the whole body being similarly distributed. And each of these
companies occupied a different table every day, the party who sat at the
lowest table on Monday occupying the highest on Tuesday, and so on. So
that when the “prefect of tub” entered the hall at the head of the
procession of four choristers, carrying the four “gomers” (such was the
phrase) of dispers, he proceeded first to the table on the opposite side
of the hall to that of the prefects, and saw that the senior of the mess
occupying that table selected as many of the most eligible dispers as
there were persons _present_. If any junior were absent by authority of,
or on the business of, any prefect, his disper was allowed to be taken
for him. This senior of the mess, it may be mentioned _obiter_ was
called, for some reason hidden in the obscurity of time, the
“candlekeeper.” Assuredly neither he nor his office had any known
connection with the keeping of candles. Any dispers remaining unclaimed
at the end of his tour of the hall belonged to “the tub.”
In return for the performance of this important office, the “prefect of
tub” was entitled to the heads, feet, and all such portions of the sheep
as were not comprised in legs, shoulders, necks, loins, and breasts, as
well as to the dispers of any individuals who might from any cause be
absent from college. Of course he did not meddle personally with any of
these perquisites, but had a contract with the college manciple, the
value of which was, I believe, about £80 a year. Such was the “prefect
of tub.”
Orderly conduct in hall generally, which did not imply any degree of
violence, was maintained by the “prefect of hall,” the dignity of whose
office, though it was by no means so profitable as that of the “prefect
of tub,” ranked above that of all the other “officers.” No master was
ever present in hall.
But the most onerous and important duty of the prefect of hall consisted
in superintending the excursion to “hills,”--_i.e._ to St. Catherine’s
Hill, which took place twice on every holiday, once on every
half-holiday during the year, and every evening during the summer
months. On these occasions the “prefect of hall” had under his guidance
and authority not only William of Wykeham’s seventy scholars, but the
whole of the hundred and thirty pupils of the head master, who were
called commoners. The scholars marched first, two and two (with the
exception of the prefects who walked as they pleased), and then followed
the commoners. And it was the duty of the prefect of hall to keep the
column in good and compact order until the top of the hill was reached.
Then all dispersed to amuse themselves as they pleased. But the prefect
of hall still remained responsible for his flock keeping within bounds.
St. Catherine’s Hill is a notably isolated down in the immediate
neighbourhood of Winchester, and just above the charming little village
of St. Cross. There is a clump of firs on the top, and the unusually
well marked circumvallation of a Roman (or British?) camp around the
circle of the hill. The ditch of this circumvallation formed our
“bounds.” The straying beyond them, however, in the direction of the
open downs away from the city, and from St. Cross, was deemed a very
venial offence by either the prefect of hall or the masters. But not so
in the direction of the town. It was the duty of the three “juniors” in
college--one of whom I was during my first half-year--to “call _domum_.”
When the time came for returning to college one of those three walked
over the top of the hill from one side to the other, while the other two
went round the circumvallation--each one half of it--calling perpetually
“_Domum ... domum_” as loudly as they could. All the year round we went
to “morning hills” before breakfast, and to afternoon hills about three.
In the summer we went, as I have said, every evening after “hall,” but
not to the top of the hill, only to the water-meads at the foot of it,
the object being to bathe in the Itchen.
Many of the Winchester recollections most indelibly fixed in my memory
are connected with “hills.” It seems impossible that sixty years can
have passed since I stood on the bank of the circumvallation facing
towards Winchester, and gazed down on the white morning mist that
entirely concealed the city and valley. How many mornings in the late
autumn have I stood and watched the moving, but scarcely moving masses
of billowy white cloud! And what strange similitudes and contrasts
suggested themselves to my mind as I recently looked down from the
heights of Monte Gennaro on the Roman Campagna similarly cloud hidden!
The phenomenon exhibited itself on an infinitely larger scale in the
latter case, but it did not suggest to me such thick-coming fancies and
fantastic imaginings as the water-mead-born mists of the Itchen!
There were two special amusements connected with our excursions to St.
Catherine’s Hill--badger baiting and “mouse-digging,” the former
patronised mainly by the bigger fellows, the latter by their juniors.
There was a man in the town, a not very reputable fellow I fancy, who
had constituted himself “badger keeper” to the college. It was his
business to provide a badger and dogs, and to bring them to certain
appointed trysting places at “hill times” for the sport. The places in
question were not within our “bounds,” but at no great distance in some
combe or chalk-pit of the neighbouring downs. Of course it was not
permitted by the authorities; but I think it might easily have been
prevented had any attempt to do so been made in earnest. It seems
strange, considering my eight years’ residence in college, that I never
once was present at a badger baiting. I am afraid that my absence was
not caused by distinct disapproval of the cruelty of the sport, but
simply by the fact that my favourite “hill-times” occupations took me
in other directions.
Nor, probably for the same reason, was I a great mouse-digger. Very many
of us never went to “hills” unarmed with a “mouse-digger.” This was a
sort of miniature pickaxe, which was used to dig the field-mice out of
their holes. The skill and the amusement consisted in following the
labyrinthine windings of these, which are exceedingly numerous on the
chalk downs, in such sort as to capture the inmate and her brood without
injuring her, and carry her home in triumph to be kept in cages provided
_ad hoc_.
There was--and doubtless is--a clump of firs on the very centre and
summit of St. Catherine’s Hill. They are very tall and spindly trees,
with not a branch until the tuft at the top is reached. And my great
delight when I was in my first or second year was to climb these. Of
course I was fond of doing what few, if any, of my compeers could do as
well. And this was the case as regarded “swarming up” those tall and
slippery stems. I could reach the topmost top, and gloried much in doing
so.
But during my later years the occupation of a hill morning which most
commended itself to me was ranging as widely as possible over the
neighbouring hills. Like the fox in the old song, I was “off to the
downs O!” As I have said, the straying beyond bounds in this direction,
away from the town, was considered a very light offence; but I was apt
to make it a somewhat more serious one by not getting back from my
rambling, despite good running, till it was too late to return duly with
the main body to college. It was very probable that this might pass
without detection, if there were no roll-call on the way back. But it
frequently happened that “Gaffer” (such was Dr. Williams’s sobriquet
among us) on his white horse met us on our homeward march, and stopped
the column, while the prefect of hall called names. As these escapades
in my case occurred mainly during my last three years, I being a prefect
myself owed no allegiance to the authority of the prefect of hall. But
the roll-call revealing my absence would probably issue in my having to
learn by heart one of the epistles of Horace. Prefects learned their
“impositions” by heart, “inferiors” wrote them.
Every here and there the sides of these downs are scored by large
chalk-pits. There is a very large one on St. Catherine’s Hill on the
side looking towards St. Cross; and this was a favourite scene of
exploits in which I may boast myself (’tis sixty years since!) to have
been unrivalled. There was a very steep and rugged path by which it was
possible to descend from the upper edge of this chalk-pit to the bottom
of it. And it was a feat, in which I confess I took some pride, to take
a fellow on my shoulders (not on my back), while he had a smaller boy on
_his_ shoulders, and thus with two living stories on my shoulders to
descend the difficult path in question. And the boy in the middle--the
first story--could not be a very small one, for it was requisite that
_he_ also should hold and balance his burthen thoroughly well. I think I
could carry _one_ very _little_ boy down now!
It was the “prefect of hall” who managed the whole business of our
holidays--as they would be called elsewhere--which we called “remedies.”
A “holiday” meant at Winchester a red-letter day; and was duly kept as
such. But if no such day occurred in the week, the “prefect of hall”
went on the Tuesday morning to the head master (Wiccamice “informator”)
and asked for a “remedy,” which, unless there were any reason, such as
very bad weather, or a holiday coming later in the week, was granted by
handing to the prefect a ring, which remained in his keeping till the
following morning. This symbol was inscribed “_Commendat rarior usus._”
But in addition to these important duties the “prefect of hall”
discharged another, of which I must say a few words, with reference to
the considerable amount of interest which the outside world was good
enough to take in the subject a few years ago, with all that accurate
knowledge of facts, and that discrimination which people usually display
when talking of what they know nothing about.
It was the “prefect of hall,” who ordered the infliction of a “public
tunding.” The strange phrase, dropped by some unlucky chance into ears
to which it conveyed no definite meaning, seems to have inspired vague
terrors of the most terrific kind. Very much nonsense was talked and
printed at the time I refer to. But the following simple and truthful
statement of what a public tunding was, may enable those, who take an
interest in the matter, to form some reasonable opinion whether the
infliction of such punishment were a good or a bad thing.
At the conclusion of the evening dinner or supper, whichever it may be
called, the “prefect of hall” summoned the boys to the dais for the
singing of grace. Some dozen or so of boys, who had the best capacities
for the performance, were appointed by him for the purpose, and the
whole assembly stood around the dais, while the hymn, _Te de Profundis_,
was sung. When all were thus assembled, and before the singers
commenced, the culprit who had been sentenced to a tunding stepped out,
pulled off his gown, and received from the hands of one deputed by the
“prefect of hall,” and armed with a tough, pliant ground-ash stick, a
severe beating. I never had a tunding; but I have no doubt that the
punishment was severe, though I never heard of any boy disabled by it
from pursuing his usual work or his usual amusements. It was judiciously
ordered by the “prefect of hall” for offences deemed unbecoming the
character of a Wykehamist and a gentleman, and _only_ for such. Any such
petty larceny exploits as the scholars at some other “seats of learning”
are popularly said to be not unfrequently guilty of, such as robberies
of orchards or poultry-yards or the like, would have inevitably entailed
a public tunding. Any attempt whatsoever to appropriate unduly either
by fraud or violence anything sent to another boy from home--any portion
of a “cargo,” as such despatches were called--and _à fortiori_ any money
or money’s value, would have necessitated a public tunding. The
infliction was rare. Many half years passed without any public tunding
having been administered. And my own impression is, that the practice
was eminently calculated to foster among us a high tone of moral and
gentlemanlike feeling.
These reminiscences of the penal code that was in vigour among ourselves
are naturally connected with those referring to the subject of corporal
punishment in its more official form.
On one of the whitewashed walls of the huge schoolroom was an
inscription conceived and illustrated as follows: “_Aut disce!_” and
there followed a depicted book and inkstand; “_Aut discede!_” followed
by a handsomely painted sword, as who should say, “Go and be a soldier!”
(offering that as an alternative for which no learning was needed, after
the fashion of a day before examinations for commissions were dreamed
of!); and then lastly, “_Manet sors tertia cædi_,” followed by the
portraiture of a rod.
But this rod is of so special and peculiar a kind, and so dissimilar
from any such instrument as used elsewhere, that I must try to explain
the nature of it to my non-Wiccamical readers. A stick of some hard
wood, beech I think it was, turned into a shape convenient to the hand,
about a yard long, and with four grooves about three inches long and as
large as a cedar pencil, cut in the extremity of it, formed the handle.
Into these four grooves were fitted four slender apple twigs about five
feet long. They were sent up from Herefordshire in bundles, cut and
prepared for the purpose, and it was the duty of the “prefect of school”
to provide them. These twigs, fitted into the grooves, were fixed by a
string which bound them tightly to the handle, and a rod was thus
formed, the four-fold switches of which stood out some foot--or more
than that towards the end--from each other.
The words “flog,” or “flogging,” it is to be observed, were never heard
among us, in the mouth either of the masters or of the boys. We were
“scourged.” And a scourging was administered in this wise. At a certain
spot in the school--near the seat of the “informator,” when he was the
executioner, and near that of the “hostiarius” or under master when he
had to perform--in front of a fixed form, the patient kneeled down. Two
boys, any who chanced to be at hand, stepped behind the form, turned the
gown of a collegian or the coat tails of a commoner over his shoulders,
and unbuttoned his brace buttons, leaving bare at the part where the
braces join the trousers a space equal to the diameter of a
crown-piece--such was the traditional rule. And aiming at this with more
or less exactitude the master inflicted three cuts. Such was a
“scourging.”
Prefects, it may be observed, were never scourged.
The “best possible instructors” of this enlightened age, who never treat
of subjects the facts of which they are not conversant with, have said
much of the “cruelty,” and the “indecency” of such infliction of
corporal punishment, and of the moral degradation necessarily entailed
on the sufferers of it. As to the cruelty, it will be readily understood
from the above description of the rod, that it was quite as likely as
not that no one of the four twigs, at either of the three cuts, touched
the narrow bare part; especially as the operator--proceeding from one
patient to another with the utmost possible despatch, and with his eyes
probably on the list in his left hand of the culprits to be operated
on--had little leisure or care for aiming. The fact simply was that the
pain was really not worth speaking of, and that nobody cared the least
about it.
The affair passed somewhat in this wise. It is ten o’clock; the morning
school is over; and we are all in a hurry to get out to breakfast. There
are probably about a dozen or a score of boys to be scourged. Dr.
Williams, as well beloved a master as ever presided over any school in
the world, has come down from his seat, elevated three steps above the
floor of the school, putting on his great cocked hat as he does so. He
steps to the form where the scourging is to be done; the list of those
to be scourged, with the reasons why, is handed to him by the prefect,
charged for the week with this duty, together with the rod. He calls
“Jones” ... swish, swish, swish!... “Brown” ... swish, swish, swish!...
“Robinson” ... swish, swish, swish! as rapidly as it can be done. Each
operation takes perhaps twenty seconds. Having got through the list, he
flings the rod on the ground, makes a _demi-volte_ so as to face the
whole school, taking off his hat as he does so, and the “prefect of
school” who has been waiting on the steps of the master’s seat, with the
prayer-book open in his hand, instantly reads the short prayer with
which the school concludes, while those who have been scourged stand in
the background hurriedly readjusting their brace buttons so as not to be
behind hand at the buttery hatch for breakfast. Of any disgrace attached
to the reception of a scourging, no one had any smallest conception.
Of the cruelty of the infliction the reader may judge for himself. Of
the indecent talk about indecency he may also know from the above
accurate account what to think. The degree of “moral degradation”
inflicted on the sufferers may perhaps be estimated by a reference to
the roll of those whom Winchester has supplied to serve their country in
Church and State.
The real and unanswerable objection to the infliction of “corporal
punishment,” as it was used in my day at Winchester, was that it was a
mere form and farce. It caused neither pain nor disgrace, and assuredly
morally degraded nobody. I have been scourged five times in the day;
not because, as might be supposed, I was so incorrigible that the master
found it necessary to go on scourging me, but simply because it so
chanced. I had, say, come into chapel “tardè,” _i.e._ after the service
had commenced; I had omitted to send in duly my “vulgus”; I had been
“floored” in my Horace; I had missed duly answering “sum,” when on
returning from “hills” “Gaffer” had met the procession on his grey horse
and caused the “prefect of hall” “to call names,” the reason being that
I had been far away over the downs to Twyford, and had not been able to
run back in time; and an unlucky simultaneousness of these or of a dozen
other such sins of omission or commission had occurred, which had to be
wiped off by a scourging by the “hostiarius” at the morning school, and
another by the “informator;” by a third from the former at “middle
school,” when the head master did not attend; by a fourth from the
“hostiarius” at evening school, and a fifth from the “informator” the
last thing before going out to dinner at six. But this was a rare _tour
de force_, scarcely likely to occur again. I was rather proud of it, and
wholly unconscious of any “moral degradation.”
I have spoken of the “informator” putting on his cocked hat when about
to commence his work of scourging. I am at a loss to account for his
having worn this very unacademical costume. It was a huge three-cornered
cocked hat very much like that of a coachman on state occasions; and
must, I take it, have been a survival from about the time of Charles
the Second. It has, I believe, been since discarded.
The mention above of a “vulgus” requires some explanation. Every
“inferior,” _i.e._ non-prefect, in the school was required every night
to produce a copy of verses of from two to six lines on a given theme;
four or six lines for the upper classes, two for the lowest. This was
independent of a weekly “verse task” of greater length, and was called a
“vulgus,” I suppose, because everybody--the _vulgus_--had to do it. The
prefects were exercised in the same manner but with a difference.
Immediately before going out from morning or from evening school, at the
conclusion of the day’s lesson, the “informator” would give a theme, and
each boy was expected then and there without the assistance of pen,
paper, or any book, to compose a couple, or two couple, of lines, and
give them _vivâ voce_. He got up, and scraped with his foot to call the
master’s attention when he was ready; and as not above five or ten
minutes were available for the business, a considerable degree of
promptitude was requisite. The theory was that these
compositions--“varying” was the term in the case of the prefects, as
“vulgus” in that of the inferiors--should be epigrammatic in their
nature, and that Martial rather than Ovid should be the model. Of course
but little of an epigrammatic nature was for the most part achieved; but
great readiness was made habitual by the practice. And sometimes the
result was creditable to something more than readiness.
I am tempted to give one instance of such a “varying.” It belonged to an
earlier time than mine--the time when _Decus et tutamen_ was adopted as
the motto cut on the rim of the five-shilling pieces. The author of the
“varying” in question had been ill with fever, and his head had been
shaved, causing him to wear a wig. _Decus et tutamen_ was the theme
given. In a minute or two he was ready, stood up, and taking off his
wig, said, “_Aspicite hos crines! duplicem servantur in usum! Hi mihi
tutamen nocte_”--putting the wig on wrong side outwards; “_Dieque
decus_,” reversing it as he spoke the words. The memory of this
“varying” lives--or lived!--at Winchester. But I do not think it has
ever been published, and really it deserves preservation. I wish I could
give the author’s name.
When at the end of the summer holidays in that year, 1820, I returned to
college, again brought down to Winchester by my father in his gig, I
confess to having felt for some short time a very desolate little waif.
As I, at the time a child barely out of the nursery, look back upon it,
it seems to my recollection that the strongest sense of being shoved off
from shore without guidance, help, or protection, arose from never
seeing or speaking to a female human being. To be sure there was at the
sick-house the presiding “mother”--Gumbrell her name was, usually
pronounced “Grumble”--but she was not a fascinating representative of
the sex. An aged woman once nearly six feet high, then much bent by
rheumatism, rather grim and somewhat stern, she very conscientiously
administered the prescribed “black-dose and calomel pill” to those under
her care at the sick-house. To be there was called being “continent;” to
leave it was “going abroad”--intelligibly enough. Tea was provided there
for those “continent” instead of the usual breakfast of bread and butter
and beer; and I remember overhearing Mother Gumbrell, oppressed by an
unusual number of inmates, say, “Talk of Job indeed! Job never had to
cut crusty loaves into bread and butter!”
I saw the old woman die! I was by chance in the sick-house kitchen--in
after years, when a prefect--and “Dicky Gumbrell,” the old woman’s
husband, who had been butler to Dean Ogle, and who by special and
exceptional favour was allowed to live with his wife in the sick-house,
was reading to her the story of Joseph and his Brethren, while she was
knitting a stocking, and sipping occasionally from a jug of college beer
which stood between them, when quite suddenly her hands fell on to her
lap and her head on to her bosom, and she was dead! while poor old Dicky
quite unconsciously went on with his reading.
But I mentioned Mother Gumbrell only to observe that she, the only
petticoated creature whom we ever saw or spoke with, was scarcely
calculated to supply, even to the imagination, the feminine element
which had till then made so large a part of the lives of ten-year-old
children fresh from their mother’s knee.
Perhaps the most markedly distinctive feature of the school life was the
degree in which we were uninterfered with by any personal
superintendence. The two masters came into the school-room to hear the
different classes at the hours which have been mentioned, also, when we
were “in chambers” in the evening, either during the hour of study which
intervened between the six o’clock dinner and the eight o’clock prayers
in the chapel, or during the subsequent hour between that and nine
o’clock, when all went, or ought to have gone, to bed; and subsequently
to that, when all were supposed to be in bed and asleep, we were at any
moment liable to the sudden unannounced visit of the “hostiarius” or
second master. The visit was a mere “going round.” If all was in order,
it passed in silence, and was over in a minute. If any tea-things were
surprised, they were broken, as before mentioned. If beer, or traces of
the consumption of beer, were apparent, that was all right. The supply
of a provision of that refreshment was recognised, it being a part of
the duty of the bedmakers to carry every evening into each of the seven
“chambers” a huge “nipperkin” of beer, “to last,” as I remember one of
the bedmakers telling me when I first went into college, “for all
night.” The supply, as far as my recollection goes, was always
considerably in excess of the consumption. If all was not in order,
“the prefect in course”--_i.e._ the prefect who in each chamber was
responsible for due order during the current week--was briefly told to
speak with the master next morning. And this comprises about all the
personal intercourse that took place between us and the masters.
Not that it is to be understood that any hour of our lives was left to
our own discretion as to the employment of it; but this was attained by
no immediate personal superintendence or direction. The systematised
routine was so perfect, and so similar in its operation to the movements
of some huge irresistible machine, that the disposal of each one of our
hours seemed to be as natural, as necessary, and as inevitable as the
waxing and waning of the moon. And the impression left on my mind by
eight years’ experience of such a system is, that it was pre-eminently
calculated to engender and foster habitual conceptions of the paramount
authority of _law_, as distinguished from the dictates of personal
notions or caprices; of self-reliance, and of conscious responsibility
in the individual as forming an unit in an organised whole. Of course
the eighteen prefects were to a much smaller degree coerced by the
machine, and to a very great degree active agents in the working of it.
And I was a prefect during three years of my eight in college. But at
first, when a little fellow of, say, ten years old, entered this new
world, it was not without a desolate sensation of abandonment, which it
needed a month or two’s experience to get the better of.
All this, however, was largely corrected and modified by one admirable
institution, which was a cardinal point in the Wiccamical system. To
every “inferior” was appointed one of the prefects as a “tutor.” It was
the duty of this tutor to superintend and see to the learning of his
lessons by the inferior, and the due performance of his written “prose”
and “verse tasks,” to protect him against all ill-usage or “bullying,”
and to be in all ways his providence and friend. These appointments were
made by the “informator.” The three or four senior prefects had as many
as seven pupils, the junior prefects one or two only; and the tutor
received from the parents of each pupil, by the hands of the master, two
guineas yearly.
In order rightly to understand the working of all these arrangements, it
must be explained that each individual’s place in “the school” and his
place “in college” were two entirely different things. The first
depended on his acquirements when he entered the college and his
subsequent scholastic progress. The latter depended solely on his
seniority “in college.” The junior in college was the last boy whose
nomination succeeded in finding a vacancy in any given year; and he
remained “junior” till the admission of another boy next year, when he
had one junior below him, and so on. Thus it might happen, and
constantly did happen, that a boy’s junior in college might be much
above him in the school, either from having come in at a later age, or
from being a better prepared or cleverer boy. And all the arrangements
of the domestic college life, the fagging, &c., depended wholly on
juniority “in college,” and had no reference to the place held by each
in the school. But all this seniority and juniority “in college” ceased
to operate in any way as soon as the individual in question became a
prefect. He had then equal authority over every “inferior,” whether such
inferior were his senior or junior in college.
It is evident, therefore, that the prefect’s authority was frequently
exercised over individuals older, bigger, stronger than himself; and for
the due and regular working of this system it was necessary that the
authority of the prefect should be absolute and irresistible. It was
traditionally supposed in college that for an “inferior” to raise his
hand against a prefect would be a case of expulsion. Whether expulsion
would have actually followed, I cannot say, for during my eight years’
residence in college I never remember such a case to have occurred. I
have heard my father and other old Wykehamists of his day declare that
no such absolute authority as that of a prefect at Winchester existed in
England, save in the case of the captain of a man-of-war. It should be
observed, however, in modification of this, that any abuse of this
authority in the way of bullying or cruelty would at once have been
interfered with by that other prefect, the victim’s tutor. An appeal to
the master would have been about as much thought of as an appeal to
Jupiter or Mars.