Confessions of an Etonian

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Chapter I

It is not pleasant to confess one's faults ; and it is for that reason, doubtless, among others, that, although I have many times begim, I have as often relinquished the writing of these Memoirs. Tliere is another embarrassment, also, which I feel at the commencement; personal records, if written by the party himself, must necessarily assume the air of being egotistical; and this involves the risk of becoming as disagreeable to the reader as the \mter. But, on the other hand, it is clear that such histories cannot be related VOL. I. n with the faithfulness which is desirable by any other than the party who alone can possess a knowledge of all the facts, and who has that exact understanding of the secret causes which have led to particular results, which can never be perfectly known to an extraneous biographer. It is not, as in chess, where the looker-on often sees more than the players ; in the game of life it is only the player who knows the secret motives which have impelled him to make the unaccountable moves which puzzle the bystanders.

And this leads me to make an observation which I trust may be excused in this place; namely, that great caution ought to be exercised in judging of other men's actions, as no one can pretend to say what may be the hidden reasons which might justify or excuse the particular act or lijie of conduct pursued by any "person ; the world sees only the last link of the chain of causes necessitating certain consequences, and . which, without the explanation which a knowledge of the antecedent series could give, may seem imprudent and blameable« But, unhappily, people are always ready to take for granted all the ill that they hear of another, while they d^nur at the good as hypothetical.

But no one can be so intimately acquainted \^ith the inward workings of another man^s mind, as to presume to say, with certainty, that the particular reasons which appear on the surface were the sole causes, unmixed and uninfluenced by other motives, which led to particular acts. In this respect, every man's mind is its ONVTi mystery.

To be sure, novel and romance \^Titers describe, >vith all the ease in the world, and A>ith an accm'acy which is astonishing, not only the sayings and doings of their heroes and heroines, but also their secret thoughts ; nay, more : those ingenious writers have the art to make known to us what the said heroes and heroines would have thought on remarkable occasions, if they had had the opportunity. Tliese extraordinary revelations of unuttered words and of unengendered thoughts,

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4 C0NF£SSI0N8 OF

I must say, have always seemed to me very droll; for my wonder has been — ^in common with other readers, I dare say — how the narrator contrived to become acquainted with the thoughts which were unknown to the thinkers themselves. But in fiction, I presume, those contradictions and discrepancies are allowable.

But there certainly is an advantage attending narrations in the third persoiit which such histories as these are necessarily deprived of ; you may praise yourself in the third person, Init you cannot in the first. People Mill allow you to abuse yom'self as much as you please, and the worse you make yourself out to be, the more charmingly candid they will consider you : but you must take care how you touch the other side of the picture; self-praise is always suspicious. With this consideration, no wonder there are so few honest biographies. It is more difficult to write truth than fiction.

However, as my purpose is not to >vrite a romance but a history, I must put up with this inconvenience as well as I can.

Perliapfi, after all, I should hare abandoned the task in despair if I had not happened to light on a passage in some author, whose name I forget, which stimulated me aiiiew to the exertion, and which I shall transcribe for the benefit of my readers, and for mj own justification for placing these pages before the public :

" It would be a great benefit to society," says the writer, " if those who pretend to give accoimts of their own lives would really reveal the truth to the world, and frankly confess the various causes which have led to their failure or success in any particular pursuit; and who would have the courage also to state with sincerity the errors into which they have been drawn, and the faults which they have committed. 5 Such analyses of private life," adds the author, " would serve as illustrations, and as beacons to preserve others from the dangers of the shoals and quicksands with which the voyage of life is unhappily beset."

It is for the object thus expressed that I have at last determined to complete the design which for a long period of time has furnished me with matter for meditation ; and it would be some solace to me in my retirement if I could hope to be the means, in some degree, of usefully warning other voyagers on the ocean of life to avoid the rock on which I have split.

AN ETONIAN.

Chapter II

I WILL begin really at the beginning; and it is the more necessary that I should do so, as the main evil which has pursued me through life began to exercise its influence before I was bom; and I have pleased myself in my fanciful moments by endeavouring to derive excuse and consolation from the fatality which has seemed to overpower me in the various mishaps which have befallen me.

In fact, I began life "on tick;" my old nurse has related to me, with considerable exultation on her part, that I was ** a monstrous large child," and that my excellent mother, having been deceived in her calcidations as to the infantine habiliments provided on such occasions, there was a dreadful hurry and bustle when I presented myself in such unexpected proportions. My worthy father jocosely suggested that I might be temporarily acconmiodated in one of his jack-boots, but the nurse scouted that idea with indignation; and after a prodigious quantity of excitement, which furnished abundant matter for conversation during her month of supreme authority, it was fortunately discovered that the coachman's wife was provided with baby linen on her own account, of superior dimensions, and it was taken possession of accordingly.

Whether this opportutie provision was the result of her having constantly before her eyes the gigantic backs of our fat coach-horses and their capacious cloths, I cannot pretend to say ; but I have no doubt that this borrowing of swaddlingclothes from the equine department of the household had the effect of imbuing me with a decided predilection for the stables. Indeed, from this circumstance, the coachman's wife was pleased to regard me as a part of the stable establishment, and almost as a child of her own, the loan of her baby's clothes having invested her with the character of a sort of foster-mother ; so that my communication with her and her husband and the horses were of a more frequent and famitiar nature than would otherwise have been permitted. How this familiarity wiih the stable-yaxd affected my fortunes will be seen in the sequel.

There was another accident that attended my first introduction to the world, which must not be omitted. My father, who, with many excellent qualities, was rather careless and forgetful in money matters, had forgotten to provide himself with some of the current coin of the realm to represent the doctor's fee, which, on such occasions, from praiseworthy and immemorial custom, is always considered a ready-money transaction. He was obliged, therefore, to borrow the needful from the apothecary ; that is to say, he would have borrowed it, but the apothecary had nothing about him but phials and potions ; so that the doctor, for that time, was obliged to go without his fee, which the nurse declared was " unlucky.** Here was " tick" the second.

To the superstitious, this beginning of life on borrowed capital might have been considered ominous of my future destiny.

But it is proper, for the better understanding of this history, that I should say a few words more of the character of my father; for moral, like physical diseases, cannot be correctly understood, without taking into account "hereditary dispositions.'* It is a delicate point, I am aware, for a son to treat of ; but important as it is to cherish the feelings of filial respect and duty, truth is more important still.

My excellent parent was a most honourable man, and possessed of many good qualities, but I must own that he had one failing ; he was disregardful of money. It was in vain that primitive copy-books had told him to " take care of the pence, and the pounds would take care of themselves ; " he had a sovereign contempt for taking care of the pence and the poim-ds too. And he gave away his money as freely as he spent it. In opposition to that most useful maxim, which teaches that " money makes money,'* he constantly acted on the principle that it was a sort of duty, on the part of those who had money, to distribute, and not to hoard it ; adopting, I presume,, on this point, the aphorism of the learned Bacon, that " money is like muck, of no use unless it be spread."

Well, it must be confessed that my worthy father spread it about in all directions ; lending to the embarrassed, giving to the indigent, and bestowing it on all sorts of charities, without strictly reckoning the proportions of his donations in relation to liis capital and income. Now, as I have said, tliis, in my opinion, was a failing, and was calculated to imbue his children with false ideas of the economy of money ; and I, for one, came to inherit, as it were, the loose notions of its value and its uses, which I observed to be domestically prevalent from my childliood. I was brought up in the habit of considering money as a something to be spent, without having it impressed on me, by precept and example, that it was a somethiiig also to be earned; and especially that, in most cases, it must be earned before it can be spent. I have had occasion, in my experience through life, to observe that there is an unhappy class, unfortunately too numerous in these days, who follow the practice of spending the money first and procuring it afterwards. However, I shall have to speak more of these matters by-and-by. I must first relate my youthful adventures.

There was one anecdote, however, which I must not omit to mention, as it is a curious circumstance, and tends to illustrate the fatality to which I have already alluded as being attached to my existence ; my very name was borrowed from the healhen vocabulary. The reason of this may be best explained by the foUowing dialogue, which took place between my father and mother shortly after I had gladdened the paternal mansion by my arrival.

Chapter III

"My dear/* began my mother to my father, as he sat by her bedside, talking over such family affairs as he judged it suitable to discourse on to an invalid, " it's very odd ; but I can't, for my life, decide on a name for baby. It worries me night and day !"

"I thought you had decided long ago," said my father.

" So I had ; but then I had the idea it would be a girl, and you see it's a boy, so that the hunting for a name is to begin all over again!"

*' Suppose you call him by my name," suggested my father ; ** it's usual, isn't it?"

" Good heavens ! my dear, how can you think of such a thing ! What ! call the poor little dear, * Jenkin ; * it would be a cruelty to the poor child to let him be Jenkined all the days of his life. Think of what you have sufltered yourself!**

" That's very true/* replied my father, feelingly.

" Haven't I always been obliged to call you by your surname," continued my mother, " although it seems unnatm*al sometimes to do it ; but how could I call vou * Jenkin?'"

My father was silent ; although a man may be afflicted with a cacophonous name, he doesn't like to have the charge of it brought too pointedly against him.

" I always tliink," resumed my mother, ** that it's more affectionate in a family to •call one's husband by his Christian name ; although some think it is not so stylish."

"Well," said my father, with a slight shade of testiness in his tone, " there are plenty of names to pick and choose from. Call him anything you Uke — only have done with it."

"Well, then, do you propose a name;

poor little fellow, he seems quite wretched without one ! — No one knows what to call him.'*

" Suppose we say William ? " said my father.

" Then he wiU be called * Bill;* I hate that word * BiU."

"George, then?"

" It's the gamekeeper's name ; — ^that won't do."

"Thomas?"

" I shouldn't like him to be called * Tom.' " . " What do you say to Jolm ?"

" It 's as bad as the others ; it always comes to Jack, and that sounds to my ears so horrid vulgar. Besides, somehow one's footman is always called John ; and then that's always awkward, and makes confusion. To be sure, we can make one's servant change his name to any one that doesn't interfere with one's own ; but really," continued my mother, getting excited and a little angry at the diflBlculty, " there ought to be a law to prevent the common people from using the same names as ourselves ! Why don't you go into Parliament, my dear, and propose something of the sort ?"

*^ A seat in Parliament is an expensive thing to purchase, my dear," replied my father ; " there 's our neighbour, Trentham, his borough cost him five thousand pounds, besides the beer ; to say nothing of the bore of making speeches at the election, and calling the rascals that yon buy with your money, * Worthy and independent electors,' and so forth. But this has nothing to do with fi Tiding a name for our boy. The shortest way, after all, will be to call him Jenkin ?" •

" I would rather die !" said my mother. "What do you think that poor innocent boy would be able to do with such a name as Jenkin tacked to him aU the days of his Ufa? No! Tom, Jack, Dick, Bill— any name but that ! I should never be able to look him in the face after such an infliction !"

"What the devil!" my father began; but, checking himself immediately, in consideration of ray mother's delicate condition, — "for Heaven's sake, my dear," he resumed, " choose for yourself. Here," he continued, taking a Prayer-book from a shelf, and blowing the dust off it, — " here 's the list of them all ; I will read them through, from top to bottom, and you can stop me when you come to one that you like ? "

" I don't like any of them," replied my mother, pettishly ; " they are all so common. I should like our boy to have some name to distinguish liim from ordinary people ; something uncommon."

There was a print of Leander crossing the Hellespont opposite the bed, for which my father had a great affection, from its having been long in the family, but which my mother abominated, as it always gave her the idea, as she insisted, of catching cold; but on this occasion it was the fortunate means of bringing the matrimonial discussion to a conclusion. My father and mother had both fixed their eyes on it musingly. The exigency of the case, perhaps, — ^for the difficulty of finding a name unpolluted by vulgar appropria- VOL. I. c tion threatened to leave me without any name at all — ^inspired my father with a bright idea.

" What do you say/' said he, " to LeanderP That's a classic name."

" And uncommon," said my mother.

" I never heard any one called by that name before, certainly," said my father; **but it's a well-sounding name, at any rate,"

" You don't think it would be considered indelicate?" said my mother, turning her eyes to the picture, doubtingly.

" Not a bit," said my father ; " our boy, though he may bear the name of the hero, won't go about in the streets in that style."

" Well," said my mother, hesitatingly, " if you don't think there 's anything improper in it "

" Nonsense," said my father ; " it 's as good a name as any other, for that matter. So, if you 're content, let it be so settled."

And so it was settled; and with the joint consent of the consulting parties, the of the present Memoirs was, with the proper ceremonies, named Leander; differing from that celebrated enthusiast, however, in one particular, that whereas the ancient hero passed much of his time, by all accounts, in a cold bath, his namesake passed most of his life in hot water.

I shall pass oyer the time between infancy and that stage of boyhood which qualified me for a public school, although there are many creditable anecdotes of my precocity and sagacity extant, wliich could not fail to interest maternal bosoms. But I do violence to my own feelings, and suppress them. My reply to an invitation of my nurse to have a **bone" of a chicken, when I could just lisp, " Yes, with some meat on it," was certainly very clever ; but I do not dwell on these points, lest I should fatigue the general reader. There was a story of mine, also, about two gravel-carts, which, unlike the celebrated ** story without an end," wliich has received so large a share of popular approbation, had neither ending nor beginning, but which was considered so remarkable an indication of early genius, that I be-

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3lt^ CONFESSIONS OF

lioYo it was the main cause of confirming uiy father in Ms purpose of sending me to a public school, in order that my talents might have the opportunity of being properly developed. As to my saying, on the occasion of my wearing, for the first time, a splendid new beaver hat, with a feather, and looped up in front, on an illumination night, when the bells were ringing joyfully, and the crowds of people were pleased to exercise their most sweet voices in loud huzzas for they did not know exactly what, — I repeat, as to my saying, " What a fuss the people make about my new hat!" I consider that exclamation has received more applause than it deserved. But, as I said before, I shall pass over those matters, and proceed with the naiTative of my school experience, as the habits which I acquired there had so powerftd an effect on the course of my after-life.

Neither shall I give more than a passing word to the fellowship which existed between me and a long-tailed pony, of which, througli the interest of my friend the coachman, before I was eight years of age, I became the acknowledged possessor. But I shall never forget the sorrow of the parting which necessarily took place between me and " Kory,*' when I was sent to Eton College, two years after. The parting from my father and mother I bore, as I was told to bear it, " like a man ;" but the parting with the pony was a very different affair. I was convinced at the time that he felt it as much as I did. This was my " first gi-ief." However, I consoled myself gradually for the separation ; and, I remember, I used to cherish the figure of Pegasus which adorned the title-page of an Ovid's " Metamorphoses," which I borrowed from a third-form bov, from the resemblance which I fancied it bore to my own pony ; and I attribute to the circumstance of that accidental illustration the decided predilection which I conceived for the poetry of the Latin classics. But the event of my introduction to public life at Eton is deserving of a separate chapter.

Chapter IV

It is now many years since that memorable day when I made my entry, with much dignity, on my long-tailed pony, at the renowned College of Eton. This indulgence of a last ride on the pony, was a sort of compromise which I made vnth my mother, and I do not doubt helped considerably towards the facility of my departure, for the first time, from home. She was very much affected at the separation, not being quite reconciled to my being launched, at so tender an age, in the vortex of a public school; and she was earnest in impressing on me the importance of never getting wet feet, as she had heard that the environs of Eton were of a marshy description ; and of remembering always to put oq my nightcap when I went to bed, an admonition which, I am sorry to say, I mnch neglected, as the said nightcaps, having been expressly con* structed for the occasion of a manly fashion, — that is to say, shaped like a sugar-loaf, with a white cotton tassel at the superior extremity, for what reason I have never been able to understand, — I found th^n so convenient for keeping marbles in, that they were always appropriated to that or similar uses. She particularly cautioned me, also, to take care not to sleep in a damp bed; a caution which was very proper, but which, in my case, was superfluous, insomuch as I do not remember that it ever mattered to me, or aifected my rest in the least, whether my sheets were damp or dry; for, ia truth, I always made but one sleep of it, and never was able to " enjoy my bed," as the saying is ; for as soon as I laid my head on my pillow I fell fast asleep, and never woke till I had to get up the next morning, — except on one occasion, when I was put in the black list, and had to

I ruminate on the ambicipation of the verydisagreeable consequence of the next morning. But of this I shall have to speak in its order.

My kind mother added to her verbal admonitions various mementos of home, in the sliape of a huge cake of a superior quality, and sundry pots of jam, as substantial consolations. These matters, with my other luggage, were despatched the day before by the stage, and their appearance excited no little merriment among my new associates, and I was in danger • of being complimented by the appellation of " mamma's boy," which it cost me three severe fights and some temporary damage to the bridge of my nose to get rid of.

At last, however, after repeated embraces, and a promise, to be kept sacred on my part, of Avriting home once a week, I was permitted to leave the paternal mansion, my father accompanying me on horseback the whole of the way, attended by the coachman, who had obtained special permission to take the place of one of the grooms, in consideration of liis attacliment to my person.

As the distance was more than thirty miles, we dined on the road, — althougli'I must say, notwithstanding my outward appearance of fortitude, I had not much appetite ; and the pony, the coaclunan said, was " oflF his feed." However, the liberality of my father at the little Adllage inn, about three miles from the college, formed a favourable introduction for me, of which I took advantage in after-times. But I must not anticipate.

All journeys must come to an end at last, as some one has sapiently observed, and so did ours; but, as my ride came nearer and nearer, my heart became fuller and fuller ; and somehow I could not enjoy satisfactorily the picturesque scenery Avliich my father pointed out to me in the neighbourhood of Windsor. The atmosphere appeared to me a little misty, and my pony Avent sluggislily, as if he, too, partook of my iri'esistible depression.

And now, like a stone rolling down-hill, which, although not quite a neAV simile.

is the best that I can call to mind at the moment, our pace seemed to grow quicker as we approached our term. We rode through the town of Windsor, and my father desired me to remark the magnificent site of the Castle, which I endeavoured to do; but I cannot say that I was particularly penetrated by its appearance at that time. We clattered over the stones down the steep street, which some presentiment told me led direct to Eton, crossed the bridge over the Thames, the theatre of my future exploits, before I expected it, and stood within the precincts of the college.

" Now, my boy,'' said my father, *^ you are in Eton."

I called up as good a smile as I could, but I fancy it was a very poor one ; and I must confess I heartily wished I was at home. I do beUeve that if I had been on my own leg& I should have stood stockstill ; but being borne, like an involimtary agent, by my pony, I was carried on irresistibly to my fate. I looked around me, however, to see what sort of a place I was in, and I saw nothing to alarm me : but still it was " going to school ;" and the sensations eng^iderod by that occurrence are, I have reason to believe, never of an agreeable nature. But on we went.

Passing Christopher's, celebrated for its "bishop," on our left, we skirted the sausage-shop on the same side, and rode by the domiciles of Yonge and Bethell, flanked by Knapp's and the long wall on our right; thence pursuing our course, amidst a silence and solitude which struck me as mysterious and awful, — but as it was during school-hours, all the boys were engaged at lessons, — ^we passed Waight's, turned Mother Trot's at the comer, and passing by Sumner's on our right hand, and leaving Drury's on our left, we pushed our way to the very outskirt of the inhabited portion of the Etonian domains, and drew up in the court-yard of a square brick mansion, which was tenanted by a lady of the name of Angelo; and albeit she was a " Miss," one of the privileged " dames" of the college.

A man-servant appeared ; we dismounted from our horses ; my father introduced me to the lady, who was to stand in loco parentis on the female side, and after the usual -compliments he took his leave, taking me with liim to "Christopher's" to have a glass of A\dne before parting. We were shown into a rather gloomy-looking room fronting the street, and a bottle and glasses were provided with a promptitude which showed that the waiter was used to the order.

My father sat down and pulled up his top-boots, which he regarded meditatively for a brief space, and then addressed me gravely in the following terms :

*' Leander, you are but young as yet, but you are old enough to imderstand me. This is the first time that vou have been from home, and your mother is very anxious about you. Always be a good boy, and attend to what your tutor says to you; and take care that you don't cut your fingers with yoiu' hack-knife ; I remember your mamma was very particular about that. And remember that you are now at the first school in the kingdom ; it was founded by Henry VI. ; the very first,

AX ETONIAN. 2ft

and the most expensive, I understand; Harrow and Westminster are good, Harrow especially; I know that, because I was brought up there myself, and there was one of the best packs of hoimds. — However, that is not the question now; you must attend to your studies. Greek and Latin are the main points here. Every gentleman must understand Greek and Latin ; that is, he must have studied them in his youth so as not to appear ignorant when things are talked about in Greek and Latin, — such as Homer and Vii'gil^ People don't talk Greek and Latin now, at least I never heard them, and that is why they are called the dead languages. But they are very useftd, nevertheless, in a variety of ways, not necessary for me to mention at present, because your tutor wiU explain all that to you. And one thing that I have to impress upon you is,. always to speak the truth, and always to act like a gentleman. Don't quarrel, and don't fight — if you can help it ; I know that your mother has cautioned you about that. But, at the same time, I don't wish you to be a poltroon ; so that, as I say, don't get into a fight if you can help it ; but if you can't help it, why — ^then you must act according to circumstances. Don't borrow money of your schoolfellows ; that's a very mean thing to do ; but always lend to any one that wants it ; we ought always to be free and generous to one another, and people always have a oontempt for a miserly disposition. But you must not spend your money extravagantly; that would be wrong again.