In those days a very primitive state of things prevailed in the Norwich
churches. A clergyman, newly ordained, provided for by a title at St.
George's, Colegate, was exercised by finding the large well-thumbed
folio Prayer-book in the church marked with certain hieroglyphics.
Amongst these O and OP frequently recurred. On the curate making inquiry
of the clerk if there were any instructions he ought to follow during
the service, he was informed that his active predecessor had established
a choir and had reopened an organ closed from time immemorial. He had
done this without any reference to the incumbent, who was so deaf that
he could hear neither organ nor choir. Thus it happened that when they
came to the "Venite," the incumbent read, as usual, the first verse.
From long usage and habit he knew, to a second, the moment when the
clerk would cease reading verse two, and then commenced reading the
third verse, the clerk below him making frantic signs with his hand,
which were quite incomprehensible: and it was not until the reading of
the fifth verse that he understood he had better be silent
altogether, and leave the field to the organ and choir, of whose
performances he had not heard one single sound. He was determined not to
be taken aback again, so, consulting with the clerk, he elicited when
the performances of the organ would take place, and marked these for his
guidance with a large O or OP--_organ plays_.
When the curate of whom I have spoken was first ordained, the incumbent
gave him instructions as to what he was to do. Afterwards he found him
visiting and over-zealous for the age, and said, "Now don't do too much
in the parish, and _never_ give anything away." The curate expressed
surprise, when he added, "If you _want_ to give, always come to me"--a
suggestion the curate never failed to carry out. The rector had a very
poor opinion of clergymen who wrote fresh sermons every week. "I've only
got two sermons for every Sunday in the year, and I preach them all
every year. I don't see why I should trouble myself to write any more,
for when I preach them, I find I don't recollect them myself, so it's
quite impossible the congregation should." As reminiscences of a type of
clergyman very common at this time, but nearly extinct now, these notes
seem worth recording.
Most of the Norfolk clergy were then old-fashioned conservatives of the
first water. One day at a clerical dinner-party at the Palace, the
Bishop, probably with the view of improving the taste of his guests,
said, "When I first came into this diocese, I found the clergy would
drink nothing but port. I used every means I could think of to alter a
taste I could not myself enter into. All failed. At last I hit upon
something which I thought was sure to be successful. I told my
wine-merchant to send me the best of all other wines and the nastiest of
port. But the clergy still insisted upon drinking the nasty port. So,
when I felt my plan had failed, I wrote to my wine-merchant again, and
told him to let them have it good."
The Bishop used to be greatly amused by an epitaph in Bergh Apton
Church, which said that the man commemorated was "very free of his
port," meaning that he was very hospitable (from _portcullis_), but the
common people always thought it meant that he drank a great deal of
port.
My dear old uncle was a capital bishop, and his clergy gradually learnt
to think him so. But it was a sailor he had wished to be. He had been
better fitted for that profession originally. Indeed, when he was a very
little child he had such a passion for the sea, that once when he was
missed from his cot, he was found asleep on the high shelf of a
wardrobe, having climbed up there because he thought it was like a
berth. Through life he was one of those men who never want presence of
mind, and this often stood him in good stead. One Advent Sunday it was
the Bishop's turn to preach in the cathedral, where the soldiers in the
barracks usually attend the service: but it was terrible weather, and,
with due regard to their pipe-clay, they were all absent that morning.
The Bishop had prepared his sermon especially for the soldiers he
expected to hear it, and he had no other. But he was quite equal to the
occasion, for, after he had given out the text, he began--"Now _this_ is
the sermon I should have preached if the soldiers had been here," and
went on, without concerning himself further about their absence.
On another occasion he fell fast asleep in the cathedral during the
sermon. At the end, when the choir broke out into the "Amen," he
suddenly awoke. In that moment he could not collect himself to remember
the words of the blessing, but, "Peace be with you" he exclaimed very
solemnly, and it did quite well.
"Uncle Norwich," with his snow-white hair and black eyebrows, and his
eager impetuous manner, was a somewhat startling figure to come upon
suddenly. There was a private door in the wall in a remote corner of the
palace-garden. A rather nervous clergyman who lived close by had passed
it for years, and had never seen it open. His curiosity was greatly
excited about it. One day when he was passing, he could not resist the
impulse, and looking up and down the road, and seeing neither the Bishop
nor any of the Stanley family about, though very shy, he stooped down to
peep in at the keyhole. At that moment the Bishop's key entered the lock
on the other side, the door flew open, and he found himself confronted
by the Bishop in person!
It was soon after we left Norwich that Jenny Lind, then at the height of
her fame, went to stay at the Palace, and great was the family
enthusiasm about her. My aunt conceived an affection for her which was
almost maternal. Arthur Stanley admired her exceedingly, in spite of his
hatred of music, but amused her when he said, "I think you would be
_most_ delightful if you had no voice."
At the end of August I returned to Harrow.
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Harrow, Sept. 10._--Alas! our form is under Mr. Oxenham. He has
the power of flogging, and does flog very often for the least
fault, for he really enjoys it. He is such an old man, very old,
very sharp, very indolent, very preachy. Sometimes he falls asleep
when we are in form, and the boys stick curl-papers through his
hair, and he never finds it out. He always calls his boys 'stupid
little fools,' without meaning anything particular by it. This
morning he said to me, 'Stuff and nonsense, stupid little fool;
don't make yourself a stupider little fool than you are.' He is
always called 'Billy.'"
"_Sept._--I have been racket-fagging all afternoon. It is such
dismal work. You have to stand in one corner of the square court
and throw all the balls that come that way to the 'feeders,' who
throw them to the players when they are wanted. The great amusement
of P., one of those I fag for, is to hit the racket-balls with all
his might at the fags, and he tried to cut me off a great many
times, but missed. At last P. said, 'I'll go and get another fag
instead of that young beast Hare,' and he went, but he never came
back, or the fag either.
"One day our room bought a pipkin, saucepan, and frying-pan to cook
things in, but Mrs. Collins (the matron) took away the frying-pan,
and the others were bagged. But we got another pipkin, and one
night as we were cooking some potatoes, in little slices as we have
them at home, they made such a smell that Mrs. Collins came up, and
told Simmy, and he was very angry, and would not let us have fires
for a week, and _said_ we should all have extra pupil-room; but
fortunately he forgot about that."
A. P. STANLEY _to_ A. J. C. H.
"_University College, Oxford, Oct. 16._--The Goblin presents his
compliments to the Ghost, and will give him a leaf of a bay-tree
from Delphi, a piece of marble from Athens, and a bit of tin from
the Cassiterides, on condition that the Ghost can tell him where
those places are, and where the Goblin shall send these treasures."
A. J. C. H. _to_ A. P. STANLEY.
"Delphi is the capital of Phocis and the seat of the oracle in
Greece. Athens is capital of Attica in Greece, and the Cassiterides
are islands in the Western Ocean. The Ghost presents his
compliments to the Goblin, thanks him very much, tells him where
the places are, and begs him to send the things from those places
to the usual haunt of the Ghost. The Ghost has communicated the
Goblin's stories of the beautiful Hesketh and Mrs. Fox to the boys
at night. The Ghost flitted up Harrow church-steeple yesterday, and
was locked up inside. Farewell, Goblin, from your most grateful
cousin--the Ghost."
This letter reminds me how I used to tell stories to the boys in our
room after we had gone to bed: it was by them that I was first asked to
"tell stories."
The winter of 1847-48 was one of those which were rendered quite
miserable to me by the way in which I was driven to the Rectory, where
Aunt Esther made me more wretched than ever, and by being scarcely ever
permitted to remain in my own dear home. I fear that in later days I
should have acted a part, and pretended to _like_ going to the Rectory,
when it would instantly have been considered unnecessary, the one
thought in the mind of all the family being that it was a duty to force
me to do what I disliked; but at that time I was too ingenuous to
indulge in even the most innocent kinds of deception. My own brothers,
Francis and William, who were now at Eton, came to the Rectory for part
of their holidays, but their upbringing and their characters had so
little in common with my own, that we were never very intimate, though I
rather liked them than otherwise. They hated the Rectory, and got away
from it whenever they could.
Of all the miserable days in the year, Christmas was the worst. I
regarded it with loathing unutterable. The presents of the quintessence
of rubbish which I had to receive from my aunts with outward grace and
gratitude. The finding all my usual avocations and interests cleared
away. The having to sit for hours and hours pretending to be deeply
interested in the six huge volumes of Foxe's "Book of Martyrs," one of
which was always doled out for my mental sustenance. The being
compelled--usually with agonising chilblains--to walk twice to church,
eight miles through the snow or piercing marsh winds, and sit for hours
in mute anguish of congelation, with one of Uncle Julius's interminable
sermons in the afternoon, about which at that time I heartily agreed
with a poor woman, Philadelphia Isted, who declared that they were "the
biggest of nonsense." Then, far the worst of all, the Rectory and its
sneerings and snubbings in the evening.
My mother took little or no notice of all this--her thoughts, her heart,
were far away. To her Christmas was simply "the festival of the birth of
Christ." Her whole spiritual being was absorbed in it: earth did not
signify: she did not and could not understand why it was not always the
same with her little boy.
I was not allowed to have any holidays this year, and was obliged to do
lessons all morning with Mr. Venables, the curate.[47] At this I wonder
now, as every day my health was growing worse. I was constantly sick,
and grew so thin that I was almost a skeleton, which I really believe
now to have been entirely caused by the way in which the miseries of my
home life preyed upon my excessively sensitive nervous disposition.
And, instead of my mind being braced, I was continually talked to about
death and hell, and urged to meditate upon them. Towards the close of
the holidays I was so ill that at last my mother was alarmed, and took
me to a Mr. Bigg, who declared that I had distinct curvature of the
spine, and put my poor little back into a terrible iron frame, into
which my shoulders were fastened as into a vice. Of course, _with_ this,
I ought never to have been sent back to Harrow, but this was not
understood. Then, as hundreds of times afterwards, when I saw that my
mother was really unhappy about me, I bore any amount of suffering
without a word rather than add to her distress, and I see now that my
letters are full of allusions to the ease with which I was bearing "my
armour" at school, while my own recollection is one of intolerable
anguish, stooping being almost impossible.
That I got on tolerably well at Harrow, even with my "armour" on, is a
proof that I never was ill-treated there. I have often, however, with
Lord Eustace Cecil (who was at Harrow with me), recalled since how
terrible the bullying was in our time--of the constant cruelty at
"Harris's," where the little boys were always made to come down and box
in the evening for the delectation of the fifth form:--of how little
boys were constantly sent in the evening to Famish's--half-way to the
cricket-ground, to bring back porter under their greatcoats, certain to
be flogged by the head-master if they were caught, and to be "wapped" by
the sixth form boys if they did not go, and infinitely preferring the
former:--of how, if the boys did not "keep up" at football, they were
made to cut large thorn sticks out of the hedges, and flogged with them
till the blood poured down outside their jerseys. Indeed, what with
fagging and bullying, servility was as much inculcated at Harrow in
those days as if it was likely to be a desirable acquirement in after
life.
I may truly say that I never learnt anything useful at Harrow, and had
little chance of learning anything. Hours and hours were wasted daily on
useless Latin verses with sickening monotony. A boy's school education
at this time, except in the highest forms, was hopelessly inane.
In some ways, however, this "quarter" at Harrow was much pleasanter than
the preceding ones. I had a more established place in the school, and
was on more friendly terms with all the boys in my own house; also,
with my "armour," the hated racket-fagging was an impossibility. I had
many scrambles about the country with Buller[48] in search of eggs and
flowers, which we painted afterwards most carefully and perseveringly;
and, assisted by Buller, I got up a sort of private theatricals on a
very primitive scale, turning Grimm's fairy stories into little plays,
which were exceedingly popular with the house, but strictly forbidden by
the tutor, Mr. Simpkinson or "Simmy." Thus I was constantly in hot water
about them. One day when we had got up a magnificent scene, in which I,
as "Snowdrop," lay locked in a magic sleep in an imaginary cave, watched
by dwarfs and fairies, Simmy came in and stood quietly amongst the
spectators, and I was suddenly awakened from my trance by the _sauve qui
peut_ which followed the discovery. Great punishments were the result.
Yet, not long after, we could not resist a play on a grander
scale--something about the "Fairy Tilburina" out of the "Man in the
Moon," for which we learnt our parts and had regular dresses made. It
was to take place in the fifth form room on the ground-floor between the
two divisions of the house, and just as Tilburina (Buller) was
descending one staircase in full bridal attire, followed by her
bridesmaids, of whom I was one, Simmy himself suddenly appeared on the
opposite staircase and caught us.
These enormities now made my monthly "reports," when they were sent
home, anything but favourable; but I believe my mother was intensely
diverted by them: I am sure that the Stanleys were. A worse crime,
however, was our passion for cooking, in which we became exceedingly
expert. Very soon after a tremendous punishment for having been caught
for the second time frying potato chips, we formed the audacious project
of cooking a hare! The hare was bought, and the dreadful inside was
disposed of with much the same difficulty and secrecy, and in much the
same manner, in which the Richmond murderess disposed of her victims;
but we had never calculated how long the creature would take to roast
even with a good fire, much more by our wretched embers: and long before
it was accomplished, Mrs. Collins, the matron, was down upon us, and we
and the hare were taken into ignominious custody.
Another great amusement was making sulphur casts and electrotypes, and
we really made some very good ones.
My great love for anything of historic romance, however, rendered the
Louis Philippe revolution the overwhelming interest of this quarter, and
put everything else into the shade. In the preceding autumn the murder
of the Duchesse de Praslin had occupied every one, and we boys used to
lie on the floor for hours poring over the horrible map of the
murder-room which appeared in the "Illustrated," in which all the pools
of blood were indicated. But that was nothing to the enthusiastic
interest over the sack of the Tuileries and the escape of the Royal
Family: I have never known anything like it in after life.
I have often heard since much of the immoralities of a public-school
life, but I can truly say that when I was there, I saw nothing of them.
A very few boys, however, can change the whole character of a school,
especially in a wrong direction. "A little worm-wood can pollute a hive
of honey," was one of the wise sayings of Pius II. I do not think that
my morals were a bit the worse for Harrow, but from what I have heard
since of all that went on there even in my time, I can only conclude it
was because--at that time certainly--"je n'avais pas le goût du peché,"
as I once read in a French novel.
At Easter, 1848, I left Harrow for the holidays, little imagining that I
should never return there. I should have been very sorry had I known it.
On the whole, the pleasurable "adventures" of a public-school life had
always outweighed its disagreeables; though I was never in strong enough
health for any real benefit or enjoyment.