CHAPTER II.
Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schoolsthey want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming. If arts andschools 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 bymy mother, who, being distantly related to Lord ------, (who had published"Hints upon the Culinary Art"), imagined she possessed an hereditaryclaim to literary distinction. History was her great forte; for she hadread all the historical romances of the day, and history accordingly Ihad 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 readabove 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 halfkilled for refusing, with all the pride of a Pelham, to wash tea-cups. Iwas rescued from the clutches of my tyrant by a boy not much biggerthan myself, but reckoned the best fighter, for his size, in the wholeschool. His name was Reginald Glanville: from that period, we becameinseparable, 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 hismother was a woman of some talent and more ambition. She made her houseone 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 ingredientof her establishment. There was in it no uncalled for ostentation--nopurse-proud vulgarity--no cringing to great, and no patronizingcondescension to little people; even the Sunday newspapers could notfind fault with her, and the querulous wives of younger brothers couldonly sneer and be silent.
"It is an excellent connexion," said my mother, when I told her of myfriendship with Reginald Glanville, "and will be of more use to you thanmany of greater apparent consequence. Remember, my dear, that in all thefriends you make at present, you look to the advantage you can derivefrom them hereafter; that is what we call knowledge of the world, andit is to get the knowledge of the world that you are sent to a publicschool."
I think, however, to my shame, that notwithstanding my mother'sinstructions, very few prudential considerations were mingled withmy friendship for Reginald Glanville. I loved him with a warmth ofattachment, which has since surprised even myself.
He was of a very singular character: he used to wander by the riverin the bright days of summer, when all else were at play, without anycompanion but his own thoughts; and these were tinged, even at thatearly age, with a deep and impassioned melancholy. He was so reserved inhis manner, that it was looked upon as coldness or pride, and was repaidas such by a pretty general dislike. Yet to those he loved, no one couldbe more open and warm; more watchful to gratify others, more indifferentto gratification for himself: an utter absence of all selfishness, andan eager and active benevolence were indeed the distinguishing traitsof his character. I have seen him endure with a careless goodnature themost provoking affronts from boys much less than himself; but directlyI, or any other of his immediate friends, was injured or aggrieved,his anger was almost implacable. Although he was of a slight frame, yetearly exercise had brought strength to his muscles, and activity to hislimbs; and his skill in all athletic exercises whenever (which was butrarely) he deigned to share them, gave alike confidence and success towhatever enterprise his lion-like courage tempted him to dare.
Such, briefly and imperfectly sketched, was the character of ReginaldGlanville--the one, who of all my early companions differed the mostfrom myself; yet the one whom I loved the most, and the one whose futuredestiny was the most intertwined with my own.
I was in the head class when I left Eton. As I was reckoned anuncommonly well-educated boy, it may not be ungratifying to the admirersof the present system of education to pause here for a moment, and recalwhat I then knew. I could make twenty Latin verses in half an hour;I could construe, without an English translation, all the easy Latinauthors, and many of the difficult ones, with it: I could read Greekfluently, and even translate it though the medium of a Latin version atthe bottom of the page. I was thought exceedingly clever, for I had onlybeen eight years acquiring all this fund of information, which, as onecan never recal it in the world, you have every right to suppose thatI had entirely forgotten before I was five and twenty. As I wasnever taught a syllable of English during this period; as when I onceattempted 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, renouncedher own instructions; and as, whatever school-masters may think to thecontrary, one learns nothing now-a-days by inspiration: so of everythingwhich relates to English literature, English laws, and English history(with the exception of the said story of Queen Elizabeth and LordEssex,) you have the same right to suppose that I was, at the age ofeighteen, when I left Eton, in the profoundest ignorance.
At this age, I was transplanted to Cambridge, where I bloomed for twoyears in the blue and silver of a fellow commoner of Trinity. At the endof that time (being of royal descent) I became entitled to an honorarydegree. I suppose the term is in contradistinction to an honourabledegree, which is obtained by pale men in spectacles and cottonstockings, after thirty-six months of intense application.
I do not exactly remember how I spent my time at Cambridge. I had apiano-forte in my room, and a private billiard-room at a village twomiles off; and between these resources, I managed to improve my mindmore than could reasonably have been expected. To say truth, the wholeplace reeked with vulgarity. The men drank beer by the gallon, andeat cheese by the hundred weight--wore jockey-cut coats, and talkedslang--rode for wagers, and swore when they lost--smoked in your face,and expectorated on the floor. Their proudest glory was to drive themail--their mightiest exploit to box with the coachman--their mostdelicate amour to leer at the barmaid.
It will be believed, that I felt little regret in quitting companionsof this description. I went to take leave of our college tutor. "Mr.Pelham," said he, affectionately squeezing me by the hand, "your conducthas been most exemplary; you have not walked wantonly over the collegegrassplats, nor set your dog at the proctor--nor driven tandems by day,nor broken lamps by night--nor entered the chapel in order to displayyour intoxication--nor the lecture-room, in order to caricature theprofessors. This is the general behaviour of young men of family andfortune; but it has not been your's. Sir, you have been an honour toyour college."
Thus closed my academical career. He who does not allow that it passedcreditably to my teachers, profitably to myself, and beneficially to theworld, is a narrow-minded and illiterate man, who knows nothing of theadvantages of modern education.
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