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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 tSr^y'fc/::6yy^ce'^ ^y^/?9?J.
 
 n
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 AN ETONIAN. 
 
 By I. E. M. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. 
 
 1846.
 
 ' To preserve the past is half of immortality." 
 
 D'lSKAEH THE ElDEB.
 
 Sff/ 
 /i3C7 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The author is anxious to request any person 
 who may meet with this trifling volume to bear 
 in mind that it contains the memoir of an un- 
 worthy member of the place to which it alludes 
 — that many years have now elapsed since he 
 quitted the spot where its regulations with re- 
 gard to education have been as much altered as 
 improved. For Eton! " my heart is thine though 
 my shadow falls on a distant land." But should 
 these pages influence the judgment of any mis- 
 taken but well-meaning parent, as to liis son's 
 future destination, the writer will hope that he 
 has not exposed himself in vain. 
 
 '^'-^^GS
 
 THE 
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 BOOK THE FIRST. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Here's Harry crying !" And on the instant, 
 my brother awoke the elder ones to witness and 
 enjoy the astounding truth. 
 
 " What makes you think that ?" I replied, in 
 as resolute a tone as a throat choking with 
 anguish would admit of. 
 
 " Why, you're crying now," added another 
 brother ; " 1 see the tears shining in the moon- 
 light." 
 
 " Only a little," I at length admitted ; and^ 
 satisfied with the concession, ray numerous 
 brethren composed themselves once more to 
 sleep in the corners of the caiTiage, on their 
 way to Eton, leaving my eldest brother's pointer 
 and myself at the bottom, to our own reflections 
 
 B
 
 2 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 As for old Carlo, his still and regvUar breathing 
 evinced that his mind was as easy and comfort- 
 able as his body, sagaciously satisfying himself 
 with the evil of the day as it passed over him. 
 Here Carlo had the advantage of me, — I anti- 
 cipated the morrow. Strange and boisterous 
 school-boys, tight-pantalooned ushers, with me- 
 nacing canes, were, to my yet unsophisticated 
 mind, anything but agreeable subjects for a 
 reverie, and I felt proportionately doleful ; I 
 turned my thoughts on the past, and I was very 
 miserable. 
 
 I now learnt that I had been happy, and, for the 
 first time, appreciated that happiness. The hom's 
 of this long, weary day had appeared to be as 
 many months ; and when I ruminated on former 
 scenes, and their dear little events, I sighed in 
 bitterness, " What a time ago all this seems !" 
 And as I peered up at the moon from my abyss 
 through the window, my eyes unconsciously 
 swam with tears, when I reflected that, if at 
 home, I shoidd at this moment be taking tea 
 with my dear nurse, liUcy, and my sister's go- 
 verness, just before I went to bed. 
 
 I had now bid an eternal farewell to, doubt- 
 less, by far the dearest, — ha])piest period of 
 our existence, the dawn of life's day — that 
 enviable time when " we have no lessons ;" 
 when the colt presses, with his unshod foot, 
 the fresh and verdant meadow, while he wonders
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN, 3 
 
 at the team toiling under a noontide sun, over 
 the parched and arid fallow in the distance. 
 
 This, then, was ray first lesson of experience ; 
 and on reflection, perhaps many of us will agree 
 that, after all the vaunted troubles and anxieties 
 incident to manhood, few suqaass in intensity 
 and hopelessness the sad separation from horae 
 for a detested school ; it is real and wringing 
 anguish, though, fortunately, like flayed eels, 
 we eventually become inured to it. 
 
 I now went through, for three years at a pri- 
 vate school, the usual routine of punishment 
 and bullying preparatory for Eton ; and as these 
 were of the ordinary kind, I will at once omit 
 this epoch of my life, and commence Avith my 
 debut at that great capital of England's schools. 
 
 It may not be out of place to give here a slight 
 and rapid sketch of the scene to which these 
 immediate pages are confined, as well as of 
 other matters connected with it. 
 
 Every one knows where Windsor is, and that 
 Eton was separated from it by the Thames, 
 until united by Windsor Bridge. But, with 
 regard to the latter town, there may be some 
 confusion, for it is divided into Eton, and Eton 
 proper. This last will hereafter be distinguished 
 as " College," and is situated about half a mile 
 from the bridge, to which it is connected by tlie 
 town. 
 
 " College," I tliink, may be said to compre- 
 
 B 2
 
 4 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 hend " the school-yard," the suburbs, and " the 
 playing fields." 
 
 " The school-yard" is a spacious and respect- 
 able quadrangle ; the upper school, the church, 
 the cloisters, and long chamber, each respec- 
 tively forming a side of it. In the centre is placed 
 the statue of the founder, Henry VI. 
 
 " The upper school" is placed over an arched 
 cloister, and an ominous-looking region, in 
 Avhich, I suspect, is the magazine of birch. 
 The school is nothing more than an extensive 
 room, with its floor lined with fixed forms, and 
 the wainscot with sculptured names innumerable. 
 One is guilty of a sad omission should he quit 
 Eton without giving a crown to Cartland to per- 
 petuate his name on the immortal oak. Perhaps 
 the loss of few olden records would be more 
 deplored than its destruction, for here are regis- 
 tered many of Eton's worthiest sons ; C. I. 
 FOX, as in after life, is here pre-eminent. 
 Adjoining the upper end is another room, called 
 " the library," in which there is not a book, but 
 there is " the block," which s]ieaks volumes ; 
 and as a library may, by a little forcing, be 
 defined to be a chamber set apart for the 
 acquirement of learning, this room is not, per- 
 haps, misnamed. 
 
 This block is a very sim})le machine — merely 
 a c()U])le of steps. 1'hc victim places his knees 
 on the lower, and his elbows on the upper step ;
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 5 
 
 but if the reader will thus place himself in his 
 imagination, he will enter more immediately 
 into the spirit of the thing. 
 
 In front of him he sees a cou]ilc of little col- 
 legers, to hold aside the skirts of his coat. On 
 his left is Keate, like .Jupiter about to hurl his 
 thunderbolt ; on his right, " the birch cu])- 
 board ;" and though he can see nothing, he has 
 little doubt of what is in his rear, the instant he 
 is operated on. " Neither intemperance nor old 
 age hae, in gout or rlieumatic, an agony to 
 compare wi' a weel-laid-on whack of the tawse, 
 on a part that for manners shall be nameless." 
 
 The church, though not very remarkable for 
 its dimensions, m:iy be styled a handsome and 
 venerable Gothic edifice ; simple and regular, 
 with its sides supported by deep and lofty but- 
 tresses, the recesses of which form the boys' 
 " fives- walls ." 
 
 The cloisters form another small quadrangle. 
 Over them are built the comfortable dwellings 
 of the " College fellows," and " the College 
 library," which is somewhat more appropriately 
 furnished than that just described. 
 
 The Fellows have each been boys on the 
 foundation, having been elected, according to 
 seniority, to King's College, Cambridge, from 
 whence they have been re-elected Fellows of 
 Eton. 
 
 " Long chamber" is long enough to contain
 
 6 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 nearly the whole of the collegers, or boys on the 
 foundation, whose complement I conjecture to be 
 about seventy. This is a region of which I can 
 give but an uncertain description, for few " Op- 
 pidans" cared to venture in. When I did, it was 
 to be tossed in a blanket, so that, though elevated, 
 my survey was hasty and superficial ; but I sus- 
 pect that the entke furniture to which a col- 
 leger lays claim, is his bed and l)ureau, tables 
 and chans being here as much out of keeping 
 (if they could be kept at all) as at Stonehenge. 
 En passant — this tossing was a pastime replete 
 with the sublime and a^-ful. That their efforts 
 might be simultaneous, those who held the 
 blanket, and they were legion, made use of the 
 following neat hexameter : 
 
 " Ibis ab excusso, missus ab astra, sago." 
 
 And you go with a vengeance. " You shall fly 
 from the quivering blanket, despatched to the 
 stars." The suspense was fearful wliUe awaiting 
 the utterance of the ultimate syllable — how per- 
 fectly and permanently have I acquired this 
 pithy verse ! 
 
 The floor is ])olishcd once a year on Election 
 Friday, by " rug-riding." 'J'his is acconq)li.shed 
 by rolling a fellow up in a counterpane, here 
 properly called a rug. To either end of him is 
 attached a ro])e, to which five or six boys are 
 harnessed. The floor is now well smeared with 
 tallow-grease, over which the warm nuunmy,
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 7 
 
 rendered still hotter by friction, is now drawn 
 with delightful velocity. The polish thus ob- 
 tained is admirable, and but the slightest 
 flavoiu: of grease lingers until the ensuing elec- 
 tion. 
 
 The suburbs form a small town, composed 
 of a few large and indispensable shops, to- 
 gether will) tlie liouses of the masters and 
 dames, at whose houses the boys, not on the 
 foundation, and who are denominated " oppi- 
 dans," board and lodge. 
 
 " The playing-fields" are very extensive, and 
 subdivided into the playing-fields, " upper- 
 shooting-fields," and " lower-shooting-fields." 
 The two latter are separated from the former 
 by " poet's-walk," a lovely little peninsula, with 
 an avenue of lime-trees running through its 
 entire length. 
 
 The shooting-fields are appropriated solely 
 to cricket, and in winter are " out of bounds." 
 The playing-fields are 0])en for foot-ball in the 
 winter, and for fighting all the year round. 
 The whole is most beautifully situated on the 
 banks of the Thames, with the Little Park and 
 Windsor Castle on the opposite side. In addi- 
 tion, it is lined and studded with the stateliest 
 and most gigantic elms in ]*^>ngland. 
 
 These three divisions, the school-yard, sub- 
 urbs, and playing-fields, form in theory " the 
 bounds," which in practice are boundless, an
 
 8 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 Etonian's movements being curbed by time, 
 rather than by space. 
 
 Eton, at its foundation, was a charity-school 
 for seventy boys. In time, it received other 
 pupils. The original ones ai-e collegers, who 
 are distinguished by a coarse black gown ; the 
 latter are oppidans, literally meaning "town- 
 boys." The former may not wear white trow- 
 sers, and all are deban'ed boots, and black or 
 coloured neckcloths. 
 
 Collegers are dieted solely on mutton ; hence 
 they are familiarly and vulgarly termed " mut- 
 ton-tugs," abbreriated to " tugs," which homely 
 monosyllable they themselves derive from 
 togati, on account of their Avearing the tor/a — 
 had they not better trace their origin at once 
 from that mysterious and secret society of the 
 Thugs of India ? But their internal economy 
 should be treated with diffidence, for between 
 them and the oppidans there was ever an un- 
 defined, though " great gulf fixed." Owing 
 to this, there is a difficulty in deciding how 
 much, if any, of the following incident may be 
 authentic. As asserted above, they were con- 
 fined to mutton, the whole nnitton, and nothing 
 but the mutton, until the humane, but late 
 Mr. Godoli)liin bequeathed a sum of money, 
 to be api)ropriated in supplying them witli 
 potatoes, which henceforth accompanied the 
 nuitton, though in a state of nature ; and
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 9 
 
 as this was not contrary to the statute, and 
 as in all charities as little is done for the 
 money as is possible, the poor boys and their 
 potatoes were without remedy, until one of the 
 College Fellows kindly bequeathed an annuity 
 towards extricating them from their dilemma. 
 lie has ever since been appropriately immor- 
 talized as " Pealipo Roberts." 
 
 Each boy has a tutor, who is one of the 
 masters, of whom there are about thirteen. 
 Their chief occu])ation is in correcting, and 
 explaining the errors of their pupils' exercises. 
 At the period now s})oken of, the school con- 
 sisted of six hundred and twenty boys, pro- 
 bably the greatest number it had hitherto at- 
 tained. Pjach master's house is generally filled 
 with boarders. 
 
 The " dames" are boarding-houses, mostly 
 kept by clergymen's widows, or widows of some 
 sort ; there are also about thirteen of these. 
 
 Assistant masters are professors of French, 
 mathematics, writing, and dancing ; but they 
 are altogether independent of the college, and 
 are taken or not at the will of the parents. 
 
 There is another class of assistant masters, 
 and these are the Cads. They are the pro- 
 fessors of shooting, rowing, and cricket, and 
 liave many pupils. The most leading cha- 
 racters among them were Jack Hall, Lary 
 Miller, Pickey Powell, and Jennny Flowers ; 
 
 B 3
 
 / 
 
 10 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 but with regard to the latter there existed a 
 slight odium, owing to his religious tenets — he 
 was suspected of Mahouietanism. Lary Miller 
 ever asserted his conviction, that " Jemmy was 
 a Maho-maiden, having sui-prised him one even- 
 ing in the Brocas, lying on his stomach, wor- 
 shipping a very large mushroom." Making 
 due allowance for Lary's notorious veracity 
 and for Jemmy Flowers' religious inebriety, 
 still the circumstance of a muslu'oom, and that 
 a large one, flourishing on the Brocas, must 
 ever tlu'ow a strong air of improbability over 
 this assertion. 
 
 There is a hohday on every red-lettered 
 saint's-day in the calendar ; Avhen this, or no 
 other excuse occurs, it is termed " a regular 
 week," when Tuesday is a whole holiday, Thurs- 
 day half an one, and Saturday three-quarters. 
 
 The longest period of time a boy uninter- 
 ruptedly enjoys to himself may be said to com- 
 prise two hoiu's, commencing eacli time at 
 twelve, four, and six o'clock, on wliole and 
 half holidays ; and these periods are desig- 
 nated by the never-to-be-forgotten sounds of 
 " after twelve," " after four," and " after six." 
 
 " Whole scliool days" affect this arrangement 
 but little, the diflcrence being, tliat on holidays, 
 they are separated from eacli other, by attend- 
 ance on absence, and churcli ; and on whole 
 school-days, by school-times, of which there
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 11 
 
 are four, commencing each at eight, eleven, 
 three, and five o'clock. 
 
 The boys learn all their lessons, and do their 
 exercises, in their own rooms, going into school 
 to say or construe them. One school-time oc- 
 cupies about three-quarters of an hour. 
 
 The whole school is divided into six forms, 
 of which the sixth ranks the highest. This, 
 and the fifth form, comprise about half the 
 number of boys, for whom the lower half fag. 
 An upjDcr boy may fag a lower one to Windsor, 
 or anywhere else. 
 
 Though the river be out of bounds, half of 
 the boys dedicate themselves to boating during 
 the summer. The extent and main object of 
 their expedition is " Surly Hall," a notorious 
 public-house, tlu'ee miles up the river from 
 Windsor Bridge. Surly Hall may be said to 
 be apjjropriated to the Etonians, and here they 
 rest themselves. I never recollect one boy guilty 
 of intoxication at this place. 
 
 There arc two grand aquatic processions 
 every year up to this Surly Hall— on the 4th 
 of June, George the Third's birth-day ; and on 
 Election Saturday, towards the end of July. 
 They are beautiful gala-days, when eight or ten 
 long-boats are rowed by their crews in costume, 
 accompanied by a couple of military bands ; 
 swarms of nobility and gentry come from Lou- 
 don to enjoy them, some person of peculiar
 
 12 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 rank being " the sitter" in the leading boat ; 
 but boating is not allowed. 
 
 " Montem," so called, perhaps, from the ce- 
 remony of a boy flourishing a flag on a small 
 moimt, occm-s every third year, when the upper 
 boys are dressed as oflicers, and the fags, re- 
 sembling sailors, in white ti'owsers and blue 
 jackets. Thus they are obliged to expose them- 
 selves to a multitude, while they walk to Salt 
 Hill, where they dine. As an Eton boy, I have 
 witnessed four Montems, and could never think 
 of each but as a ridiculous, tedious, and de- 
 testable performance ; the only good resulting 
 is, that the captain of the collegers receives 
 several hundreds of pounds, wliich are collected 
 from the crowd by other collegers in fancy 
 dresses, and denominated " salt-bearers," and 
 " runners," who dun high and low for " salt."
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " How old are you, Graham ?" asked my fu- 
 ture tutor. 
 
 " Nine, if you please, sir." 
 
 " Can you do sense-verses V 
 
 " No, sir, only nonsense ones." 
 
 " Well, you arc placed in the upper Greek ; 
 be in eight-o'clock-school to-morrow. Graham," 
 calling me back, " take this order to the book- 
 seller, and he will give you the requisite school- 
 books. It is Greek grammar in the morning ; 
 get a boy to show you where the lesson is. You 
 may go." 
 
 So soon as I had procured the books, I 
 peeped into the Greek grammar, which struck 
 me as being an interesting-looking book, for 
 hitherto, I had never even seen a Greek letter. 
 I went to my Dames, where I found Tyrrel 7na, 
 and Kennedy, who shared my room, playing at 
 battledore. 
 
 " You don't care for the row, Graham, do 
 you ?" asked Tyrrel, after they had played half 
 an hour, and observing that I looked a little 
 puzzled.
 
 14 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 " Oh, that makes no difference," I sighed, 
 " but this Greek is such odd stuff, and I don't 
 know a letter in the alphabet except the four 
 first ones. Can you give us a help ?" 
 
 After a lengthened debate among us, the only 
 apparent chance for me was, that the lesson 
 should be written out in English letters, so that 
 when I re^jeated it, I should appear to know 
 my lesson. Tliis, Tyrrel good-natui-edly effected 
 for me. 
 
 At eight o'clock, then, the next morning, in 
 due routine, I approached the master in his 
 desk, under the same sui^erstitious awe as poor 
 Friday, when he cowered before the august 
 Crusoe. I would not have failed in my per- 
 formance for worlds, and now entered the desk 
 resolved on acquitting myself to perfection. 
 
 My ardour was not slightly damped when, on 
 uttering a few words, the master, with a frown, 
 demanded why I had not commenced where the 
 previous boy had left off. 
 
 " I thought, sir, that I was to begin at the 
 beginning." 
 
 " What business have you to think ?" 
 
 Counnencing, then, as he directed me, I had 
 no sooner recited fom* lines, than he ordered 
 me to " go." 
 
 " Tliiit's not all, if you please, sir." 
 
 " It's (piite enough for me ; go." 
 
 So 1 went, under the painful suspicion
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 15 
 
 that I had failed, and was to be punished ac- 
 cordingly. I was not yet aware that the suc- 
 ceeding boy went on wdth the lesson w here liis 
 predecessor had left off; and when he had said 
 his three or four lines, he likewise was dis- 
 missed, and so on — it being taken for granted, 
 that the boy knew the remainder of tlie task ; 
 but this extreme innocence of mine, when I 
 informed the master that I had not accom- 
 plished the whole lesson, is not a little amusing, 
 wlicn compared to my future career, was it not 
 for the remorse a man of crime might feel when 
 he reverts his thoughts to a time ere he had 
 transgressed. At that time I should have acted 
 similarly under every circumstance ; I intended 
 well. 
 
 " Now let us go to breakfast," said Kennedy, 
 as I retui'ued to the room. 
 
 " Will you fellows get it ready, and make the 
 tea," asked Tyrrel, " wdiile I go and lay break- 
 fast for my master ?" Kennedy and myself 
 were as yet exempt from that duty for a fort- 
 night, which is the privilege granted to each 
 new comer. 
 
 " What a lucky fellow I am," said Tyn-el, on 
 his return, " to have you two in my mess, with 
 your new set of tea-things, and a double set, 
 too ! If we manage well, they'll last us easily 
 to the holidays. Till you came, I was obliged 
 to slip into other fellows' rooms, and sharp a
 
 16 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 cup of tea. Now, let us regularly lock up every- 
 tiiing- in my cupboard, for it's quite empty ; how 
 comfortable we shall be ; and your pictures, 
 Kennedy, make the room look so nice !" 
 
 " And whit beautiful frames they have !" I 
 observed. 
 
 " The frames and glasses," replied Kennedy, 
 " Avere a present for those views about home, 
 which a sister sketched for me." 
 
 " What shall we do after twelve ?" asked 
 
 TjTTcl. 
 
 " Can't we go out in a boat ?" 
 
 It was soon aiTanged that Kennedy and 
 Tyrrel should play at cricket, and that I should 
 stay in to work at my Greek, of which another 
 lesson occurred at five-o'clock-school. At two 
 o'clock, the trio met at dinner ; after which we 
 proceeded to our room, where, soon as we en- 
 tered, Kennedy beheld each of his drawings 
 rifled of their glasses, which lay shivered to 
 pieces beneath them on the floor. 
 
 Gregory mi had, in an unlucky moment, 
 lounged into the room with a little cross-bow, 
 and had practised his skill on each in succes- 
 sion. 
 
 " Never mind, Kennedy,' said Tyrrel, " they 
 must have been broken one time or another." 
 
 I now proceeded unwarily enough to tlie 
 cloisters, where I thought I might puzzle out 
 my hieroglyphical task more in quiet.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 17 
 
 " I say, my little man, you must come and 
 bowl to me." 
 
 " I've got my lesson to learn," I replied. 
 
 " Wlien do you say it ?" inquired the fifth- 
 form boy ; and finding that it was not required 
 till five o'clock, and discrediting my singular 
 difficulty, which 1 stated to him, he at once 
 took me away, notwithstanding that, as a saving 
 clause, I asserted the privilege due to a boy's 
 first fortnight, but which, I was now told, should 
 not avail me for having told such a falsehood 
 about the lesson. In the following schooltime I 
 was, of course, " put in the bill," but was not 
 flogged, in consequence of pleading my " first 
 fault," another and too fleeting privilege of a 
 new boy. 
 
 On returning to my room in the evening, I 
 found my two friends looking unutterable things, 
 while around them lay, " like leaves in wint'rj- 
 weather," the fi-agments of our prided crockery 
 ware ! 
 
 In our absence, a boy, well knowing what he 
 was about, had come to the cupboard to sharj) 
 some tea-things, but finding, to his disappoint- 
 ment, that it was locked, he was yet determined 
 that we should not escape him. The whole was 
 unfortunately suspended, by a bit of ro})e, to a 
 large nail in the wall ; this, then, he had mali- 
 ciously cut, and the result had ]>roved fatal to the 
 whole " double set of tea-things," with the excep-
 
 18 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 tion of a pewter salt-cellar. " Well, they must 
 have been broken, one time or another," arclily 
 remarked Kennedy. 
 
 A very few days had elapsed before I had 
 become a genuine Etonian, which a boy is never 
 accounted until he has been once flogged. Not- 
 withstanding my respect of that honourable 
 title, I was still very unwilling to purchase it so 
 dearly. I had an inclination for forming my 
 own opinion upon matters, somewhat inde- 
 pendently of others ; and though, in the lower 
 part of the school, to be put in the bill, and 
 suffer accordingly, carried with it anything but 
 a reflection towards the subject of it, still, for 
 reasons of my own, I concluded that it would 
 be far more respectable to act otherwise. This, 
 then, with me, was not merely an opinion — it 
 became a principle, and one which, unfortu- 
 nately, I was most anxious to preserve invio- 
 late — unfortunately, because it must inevitably 
 be outraged. Even under the most favoui-able 
 circumstances, owing to my ignorance of its 
 rudiments, I was sensible that I nmst frequently 
 fail in my Greek tasks ; what chance, then, had 
 I, constantly thwarted in my endeavours to 
 avoid this, by hourly and capricious fagging } 
 
 This, then, wciglu'd u])on my mind in no 
 slight degree, for though exposed, from an early 
 period, " to rough it" nu)re than was common, 
 the sensitiveness of a boy's disposition will be
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 19 
 
 anything but deadened in consequence, so long 
 as he thinks for himself, and forms his own line 
 of right and wrong, though perha])s it schools 
 him ])recociously to conceal what his associates 
 may deem to be his weaknesses, though pro- 
 bably his better traits of character, should he 
 be blessed with such. This tendency was not 
 likely to be diminished by the following inci- 
 dent : — 
 
 From the moment I first left my home, which 
 was at an early period, the little religious in- 
 struction I might have received from my nurse 
 was abandoned, and never even reflected on for 
 a moment, till within a short time of my depar- 
 ture for Eton, when, by some chance train of 
 thought, I became sensible that I knew not a 
 single prayer — at least perfectly. I was well 
 aware that other boys did, though many neg- 
 lected them. To supply this my deficiency, I 
 henceforth never failed to offer up, each morn- 
 ing and evening, extemporary ones, and which, 
 though puerilely adapted to little impressions 
 or wants, yet flowed the more truly from the 
 heart, and cherished an affectionate, and there- 
 fore, ti'uly religious feeling, towards my Al- 
 mighty Father. 
 
 One morning I was awakened by the clock 
 striking the houi* in vv^hich I should have been 
 in school, when, instantly dressing myself, I 
 hurried away, and on returning to my room,
 
 •20 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 was kneeling at a chaii', when I was interrupted 
 by the dreaded vociferation of " lower boy !" 
 
 Though knowing the consequences, should I 
 be discovered, I never for a moment wavered 
 as to the course I should adopt, but continued 
 deliberately at my accustomed devotions. As 
 I was thus occupied, the fifth-fonn boy entered 
 my room to learn my reason for neglecting his 
 summons, and was for a moment startled when 
 he discovered in what manner I was employed ; 
 but, without further hesitation or compunction, 
 taking me by the collar, he inflicted a blow as 
 a punishment for my presumption. This was 
 a little too much, so instantly springing at him, 
 and taking him unawares, for a moment I ac- 
 tually beat my tyrant off, when Kennedy acci- 
 dentally presenting himself at the door, at once 
 ranged himself by my side. This made the 
 jntifid fellow pause, and finding that, though so 
 immeasurably his juniors, we were resolute, he 
 ]>rudently informed us, that so soon as we had 
 procured the captain's permission to fight with 
 him, lie would comply ; this formality existing 
 on a feud arising between an upjicr and lower 
 boy. On inquiring into the case, the captain 
 refused his consent, but added a severe tlu'cat 
 towards my aggressor. 
 
 Insignificant as they appear, these incidents 
 had lasting effects on me. With regard to the 
 first, I at once resigned myself in despair to the
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 21 
 
 bitterness of a disappointed, and almost a 
 broken spirit ; and, so far as all scholastic 
 duties were concerned, I hencefoith adopted a 
 reckless, heedless course, except that I pursued 
 it doggedly and systematically. 
 
 As to my religious duties, I was considerably 
 embarrassed, and that, because I bestowed some 
 attention upon them ; had I not, I should have 
 been as easy in this respect as most other boys. 
 However, after no little examination into the 
 subject, and, by-the-bye, confusion, I came to 
 the resolution of guiding myself as well as 1 
 could by what little knowledge I might possess; 
 and unsijiritual as this reliance on my own 
 efforts evidently was, I, in unison with it, 
 farther resolved, that should 1 omit what I 
 knew to be right, I would refrain, at all events, 
 from that which I judged to be wrong — and I 
 do not see what I could have done more. 
 
 To assist, or prevent me in my resolution, 
 things were nearly balanced. No boy had 
 been more com})letely exposed to the chance of 
 circumstance, and, in consequence, to the un- 
 biassed sway of my natural disposition, which 
 was restless in the extreme. For this there is 
 no alternative — for good or bad, work it will, 
 and in such a case idleness is indeed the root 
 of all evil. 
 
 To save me from, or rather to diminish this 
 danger, I was at that time imbued, in no trifling
 
 22 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 degree, with benevolence and candour ; and I 
 was free, also, of two qualities which I have 
 since acquired, for they are appendages as 
 common to om* natiu'es as are our limbs to our 
 bodies. I was devoid of selfishness and preju- 
 dice ; and as society is constituted, one com- 
 mences life with a bad start, destitute of such 
 accomplishments.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 23 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Of the seven days in the week, probably 
 more flogging occurs on Friday than during all 
 the others put together. On the unfortunate, 
 the shuflling, and the dense, the effect of this 
 day's ordeal has ever proved to bo most search- 
 ing. On Thursday, then, towards the conclu- 
 sion of eleven o'clock school, the boys were not 
 a little delighted, when Keate, closing the book, 
 informed them that an hour since he had been 
 honoured with a request from his Majesty that 
 the morrow might be converted into a whole 
 holiday, and that they should be indulged ac- 
 cordingly. It need hardly be stated with what 
 yells of ecstasy this announcement was received, 
 as we rushed from our seats, lightened of the 
 sombre dread of " Friday's business." 
 
 In the evening, I was summoned to the tea- 
 table of Gregory, my puissant master, to ac- 
 count, if I could, for my presum[)tuous absence 
 at a time when every fag's presence was so im- 
 peratively required. On my appearance, my 
 fellow-fag was astonished at the air of confi- 
 dence with which I advanced towards the table,
 
 24 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 guilty of such a lieinous omission. My master, 
 for some seconds, regarded me with a stern and 
 savage aspect. 
 
 " You Uttle rascal," at length he exclaimed, 
 his voice deepening under the effects of rage 
 soon to be amply gratified, " you've been toast- 
 ing these muffins with the snuffers !" At the 
 same time he confidently pointed out to me, 
 with savage delight, the single and blackened 
 mark occasioned by such an unorthodox imple- 
 ment. This was not what I was prepared for, 
 and the circumstance was, alas, but too evident, 
 and the palms of my hands were immediately 
 tingling under the strokes of my master's hair- 
 brush. 
 
 " And now," said he, pausing for a moment, 
 " I am going to give you another licking for not 
 being here in time." 
 
 " No," I exclaimed, " you have excused me a 
 fortnight's fagging ; at least, you said yesterday 
 that you would, should I ask the King for a 
 holiday to-morrow." 
 
 This was the tnith, and so, in an unguarded 
 moment, he had ex})ressed himself ; but being, 
 at the least, as anxious for a holiday as he was, 
 and sighing for a fortnight's emanci])ation from 
 slavery, I had determined to take him at his 
 word, and obey him to the letter. In a sjiirit, 
 then, of excessive innocence, or impudence — I 
 think the former, though I may have since ex-
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN, 25 
 
 changed it for the latter — I had started off for 
 the cottage in Windsor T^ark, wliere tlie King 
 was then residing, and had actually gained ad- 
 mittance without interru})tion from any one, 
 though I was now accosted by a gentleman 
 who demanded the purport of my visit. I re- 
 plied that I had come up to ask the King 
 to get us a holiday for Friday. Upon this, 
 he informed me that it was not usual for 
 strangers to see his Majesty while resident at 
 the cottage, and that I had better wait until his 
 Majesty returned to the Castle ; and then he 
 kindly walked back with me toAvards the gar- 
 den, through which 1 had ])reviously passed, and 
 there left me. Here I met Jerningham walking 
 with his mother, whom I acquainted with the 
 object of my interview with the Duke of Dor- 
 set, as he proved to be. This happened to be 
 a very fortunate rencontre for me, as Lady 
 Jerningham eventually tm-ned out to be my 
 " friend at court," and had seconded my petition 
 with success. 
 
 As the next day was a holiday entirely ori- 
 ginating with myself, I concluded that I had a 
 right to make the most of it, and enjoy it in my 
 own way. Under this impression, Kennedy 
 and I started at seven that morning, towards 
 Ferch-hole, where Lary Miller was to meet us 
 with a punt and casting-net, and we were to 
 fish our way down the river, towards Datchet. 
 
 c
 
 26 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 While awaiting him at the water's edge, among 
 other inventions to amuse ourselves, Kennedy 
 thoughtlessly snatching off my hat, set it float- 
 ing on the water ; so taking him by the collar, 
 ere I had time to reflect, I swung him well into 
 Perch-hole. The moment he scrambled out, 
 there seemed to be no doubt on either side as 
 to what was to be done. Indeed, it would be 
 impossible to say which of us struck the first 
 blow, though the question with us now was, 
 who was to give the last. Perhaps any other 
 boys, as soon as the first burst of passion had 
 exploded, would have deferred the contest to 
 another opportunity, when each might be at- 
 tended by his second ; but Kennedy breathed 
 nothing but immediate retaliation, and probably 
 he might wish to exercise himself after his im- 
 mersion. I also preferred the present time, 
 as, on giving the subject a momentary consi- 
 deration, during the early period of the fight, it 
 struck me as being most repugnant and un- 
 grateful to my feelings, to meet my greatest 
 friend in cool blood, to see which could batter 
 the other the most, and that, too, only to glut 
 the sight of hundreds. 
 
 In general, each battle at Eton is conducted 
 with all the etiquette incidental to the prize- 
 ring, under the latest regulations of the Bir- 
 mingham Youth, or ^Vhite-headed Bob. Indeed, 
 one would here conclude that it was imj)ossible
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 27 
 
 to contend without a ring, seconds, and time- 
 keeper. Notwithstanding the deficiency of these 
 desiderata, we weaved merrily away for nearly 
 an hour, during which period, perhaps from 
 being the lightest, I was prostrated three times, 
 which therefore divided the contest into but 
 three stages or rounds, during which time each 
 rested on the grass, and conscientiously recom- 
 menced our operations, tlie instant we imagined 
 that the half-minute had expired. 
 
 The clock now struck a quarter-past nine, 
 when we were reminded, that should we fight 
 on, each would be well flogged for disregard of 
 absence ; and as our occupation was barely 
 worth the penalty, we at once put on our 
 jackets, and departed in silence, to answer to 
 our names, while, as a matter of course, we 
 were to finish the battle after twelve, for my 
 holiday afforded us ample time. 
 
 This morning, therefore, for the first time, 
 we breakfasted in difiercnt rooms. Each now 
 commenced this repast with feelings far from 
 cheerfid. The anger of the moment having 
 passed away, there remained no sense of en- 
 mity between us ; and yet, in an hour or two, we 
 were to meet again, like a couple of dogs, and 
 mangle each other as we best might. 
 
 Kennedy could not but feel that he was not 
 only the strongest, but had actually been more 
 prevalent in the contest than myself; nor did 
 
 c 2
 
 28 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 he, on this accoimt, congratulate himself, when 
 he reflected that the apjjointed hour was fast 
 approaching when he must do his best to thrash 
 me still more. The sole thought that weighed 
 on my mind, was that of having quarrelled with 
 a fellow^ whom I liked far beyond myself. At 
 this moment the door opened, and Kennedy, 
 placing his rolls and butter on the table, 
 stretched his hand across it towards me, and 
 the next, we were sipping our tea together out 
 of the pewter salt-cellar, wnth no farther traces 
 of enmity, save the three unequivocal black 
 eyes we retained between us. 
 
 This subject reminds me of a very melancholy 
 one which I witnessed several years afterwards ; 
 and as I have heard it discussed so frequently, 
 and so eiToneously, I cannot help wishing, if 
 possible, to give a concise and true statement 
 of the case. In the instance alluded to, the 
 contest might be said to have terminated with 
 no unusual consequences, for the clock had 
 struck the hour in which it w^as imperative for 
 every one of us to be in liis dames for the 
 night, and the combatants were in the act of 
 putting on their coats, and all would liavc been 
 well, had not a voice, which I distinctly recol- 
 lect, excl aimed, " One nion^ round !" Which- 
 ever had now declined would have been con- 
 sidered as vanquished : they closed, struggled 
 for the fall, and the fall was fatal. The sole
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 29 
 
 cause of this luiseraljlc catastrophe was that 
 voice of a mere bystander, and of this he must 
 l)e as sensible as 1 am. I know not who he 
 may be, nor do I envy him his secret 
 
 It was now getting towards the latter end of 
 July, and I had been an Etonian nearly three 
 months. During this time I had experienced 
 a fair average of fighting, bullying, fagging, and 
 flogging, and had also acquired some useful 
 accomplishments. 1 could paddle my skiff up 
 to Surly Hall and back, swim across the river 
 at Upper Hope, and had even begun to get in 
 debt, having some weeks ago " gone tick" with 
 Joe Hyde for a couple of bottles of ginger-beer, 
 with the ])roviso of returning them when empty, 
 but which, it must be confessed, were still lying 
 at the bottom of Deadman's Hole, for the farther 
 improvement of my diving. 
 
 Having just been disappointed in my en- 
 deavours to procure a boat at Hester's, I was 
 returning towards my dames about the middle 
 of after-six, totally at a loss for anmsement. 
 Every other boy was now^ eagerly employed on 
 the river, or at cricket, and the whole college 
 was silent and deserted. As I strolled listlessly 
 along, I observed a funeral slowly issuing from 
 the church-door on its way to the burial-groimd. 
 Singular to say, this was the first instance of 
 death's doing on a fellow-being I had yet wit- 
 nessed. On its approach, I seated myself on
 
 30 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 the Long-walk wall, and watched the coffin and 
 its noiseless followers, as they glided slowly 
 before me. So soon as all had passed, I quietly 
 slid down from my seat, and accompanied the 
 procession at a little distance. 
 
 While we are young, we ai"e not only moved 
 more easily, but doubt not that every person 
 else feels as sincerely. Under this impression, 
 I accompanied the coi-pse towards its gi-ave, 
 touched with a sort of pity for the mourners, and 
 sobered by a deep and respectfid sympathy. 
 
 As I stood by the brink of the grave, I could 
 not but feel a soothing comfort and hope under 
 our affliction, so beautifully held out to us by 
 the spirit of " the service of the dead ;" and I 
 even entertained an affection for the clergyman 
 who officiated. But when I witnessed the lower- 
 ing of the coffin to its future resting-])lace — 
 heard the soft crumbling of the churcliyard soil, 
 as it dropped from the grasp of the sexton on 
 the hollow-sounding coffin, down below — the 
 anguished but stifled moan of the cliildless 
 father, who had apparently expended his hard- 
 got earnings for the interment of his child — I 
 not only repassed the gates consideral)ly affected, 
 but overpowered with an indescribable dread of 
 im})ending death. I was now ])()ssessed witli a 
 .servile love of God, arising I'rom fear ; an anxiety 
 to please and obey him, to an infinite degree.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 31 
 
 Alas ! even at this early age, how worldly- 
 minded, how pitiful, can be our motives ! 
 
 I now determined within myself, as resolutely 
 as presum})tu()usly, to " go and sin no more ;" 
 and to that effect, that very evening, dived to 
 the bottom of Deadman's Hole, and returned to 
 Joe Hyde his horribly portentous bottles.
 
 32 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A FEW weeks previous to the holidays, " the 
 old Queen" guxe a magnificent fete at Frog- 
 more, when, to form a prominent feature in the 
 day's amusements, her favourites, the Etonians, 
 were invited to play a cricket-match, for which 
 a beautiful space of lawn had already been most 
 good-naturedly prepared. 
 
 I think the first approach to royalty must 
 ever be most interesting to boys, at least it 
 was deeply so to me on this day ; for when I 
 observed the wide-swelling lawns, the broad 
 groves, and glassy lakes of this little paradise ; 
 the Queen, with the princesses and royal suite, 
 as they glided over the turf in a train of jwny- 
 carriages, lined and shining with the richest 
 satins ; the splendid and gaudy clusters of mar- 
 quees, glittering in all the i)ride of Tippoo's 
 eastern magnificence, from whom tliey had been 
 rifled, with their l)right crescents blazing in the 
 sunbeams — T found all the lovely and dearly 
 remembered fancies, conjured before my infant 
 imagination by the nursery tale, at once placed 
 in delightful reality before me. 
 
 Towards the evening, I had rambled, con-
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 33 
 
 siderubly fatigued with the restless i)leasures of 
 the day, into the most secluded parts of the 
 shrubberies, and was resting on a seat, listening 
 to the notes of a bugle band in the distance, 
 when they were interrupted by the steps of some 
 one passing quickly along the gravel walk to- 
 wards mc, and the next moment I saw a girl 
 ap])roaching the gate in front of me. I instantly 
 rose and opened it for her ; but as she passed, 
 the little girl, after a slight hesitation, inquired 
 Avith an expression of some anxiety if I had 
 seen her father. Sir George Curzon. 
 
 " I do not know your father by sight," I 
 answered, " and fear you will hardly meet with 
 him here ; for I have been more than half an 
 hour on this seat, and have seen no one at all." 
 
 " I declare," she sighed, " I do not know how 
 I shall find him, and I am quite tired, too ! 
 But will you, if you please, tell me the way 
 towards the palace — I should be much obliged 
 to you ?" 
 
 " As well as I can," I answered ; " but would 
 it not be better that I ran and inquired for 
 your lather, and brought him here, for then, 
 in the meanwhile, as you are tired, you can rest 
 yourself on this bench t" 
 
 " You are very good-natured," replied Miss 
 Curzon, as she sat down ; " but if you will only 
 ■wait until I have rested for a minute, perhaps 
 
 c 3
 
 34 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 you will go with me towards the palace, for I 
 don't like being here quite alone." 
 
 I now perceived that the poor little girl had 
 been crying. 
 
 " But why are you here by yourself ?" she 
 added, the next moment ; " have you lost your 
 way too ? But sit down, there is room for both." 
 And she looked up so kindly, while her beauti- 
 ful little hand, contrasting with the rough bench, 
 pressed it to enforce her request. 
 
 How happy was I to obey her, and yet how 
 painfidly confused ! In a word, I was out of 
 my element, this being my very first rencontre 
 with one of the softer sex ; for which reason, 
 though so many years have since passed away, 
 I cannot help reciting and recollecting it as an 
 occurrence of yesterday. 
 
 " Arc you not an Eton boy ?" demanded Miss 
 Curzon. 
 
 " Yes ; but I have been one only for a few 
 months." 
 
 " Papa says that Frederic shall be sent to 
 Eton, by and bye," she replied, rather ab- 
 stractedly. 
 
 " Perhaps, then," I answered, " I shall know 
 Jum — at least, 1 hope I may." 
 
 " Oh, it will be a long while before he joins 
 you, for he is quite little yet ; and then, you 
 know, he must be your fag, instead of your 
 friend."
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 35 
 
 " I shall never fag a brother of yours," I 
 answered. 
 
 " May I ask you some questions about this 
 horrid fagging V' demanded Miss Curzon, and 
 turning towards me. 
 
 " Of course," said I ; "as many as you 
 please." 
 
 " Have you got what they call a master ?" 
 
 " Certainly ; every lower boy must have one." 
 
 " What do you do for him ?" 
 
 " Lay his breakfast and tea-things every day, 
 and make his toast." 
 
 " Anything else ?" 
 
 " Whatever he chooses." 
 
 " And if you did not choose to do it ?" 
 
 " I should get a good thrashing ; or, in other 
 words. Miss Curzon, get a good licking." 
 
 After a brief silence, she resumed her ques- 
 tions. 
 
 " As you have been so short a time at Eton, 
 I suppose you have not yet been punished ?" 
 
 " O yes, many times. I got a capital flog- 
 ging yesterday." 
 
 " Will you tell me what you were flogged 
 for ?" 
 
 " For eating in church." 
 
 " And what could make you do that ?" 
 
 " I had been fagging all the morning, Miss 
 Curzon ; and having no time for breakfast, I
 
 36 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN, 
 
 went into church with my rolls in my pocket, 
 and one of the masters saw me eating them." 
 
 " You have quite frightened me for poor little 
 Frederic !" 
 
 " Perhaps he will be more fortunate " I 
 replied ; " so I must even wish, as you said just 
 now, that he may indeed be my fag, for then he 
 can breakfast with me every morning." 
 
 " I declare I will ask papa to place him under 
 your care, if you will let me .?" 
 
 " You cannot know. Miss Curzon, how obliged 
 1 feel to you for thinking that I would take care 
 of your brother; and depend upon it, I will." 
 
 " Yes," said the little lady, looking stedfastly 
 in my face, " I feel quite certain you would. 
 But," she added, as her own brightened with a 
 smile, " you must now fulfil your first promise 
 to me, and find my father, for I am so tired, I 
 must rest here a little longer." 
 
 " Very well," I replied ; " but how I should 
 like to talk with you here all night ! Do not 
 go away until I return." 
 
 I now hurried away in search of her father, 
 who, after many in([uiries, was pointed out to 
 me by Chrichton, though in a very inaccessible 
 position; for he was standing with other im- 
 portant personages, among whom I could discern 
 the Duke, by the side of her Majesty's poney- 
 j)haeton. 
 
 " !)(), Chrichton," I begged — "do go up to
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 37 
 
 Sir George Curzon for me ; you are more used 
 to that sort of thing than 1." 
 
 All my eloquence being thrown away upon 
 him, and on that instant thinking of my little 
 lady in the grove, I walked towards the group 
 with my hat in ray hand, witliout further hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 " If you please, Sir George Curzon, there is 
 a young lady in the shrubberies who wants you." 
 
 " I think, young sir," replied Sir George, 
 " you must make a mistake." 
 
 " No, sir. She has lost you, she says ; it is 
 Miss Curzon." 
 
 " Dear me I I thought she had been all this 
 while? with her aunt. Where is she ?" 
 
 " A little beyond that temple on the hill, 
 there," I replied, pointing with my hat. 
 
 " You need hardly go all that way yourself," 
 said the Duke, observing Sir George about to 
 follow me ; " the boy can show her here very 
 well." 
 
 " Yes, Sir George," added her Majesty ; " let 
 the little boy run and bring her." 
 
 " Well, then, my little gentleman," asked Sir 
 George, " may I ask you to do so .?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, Sir," I replied, and I was off on 
 my way towards her in a moment. 
 
 " I have found your father. Miss Curzon," 
 said I on my return, " and he has asked me to
 
 38 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 lead you to him. I hope I have not been 
 long." 
 
 " I am Sony you should have had so much 
 trouble," she answered, as she took my arm ; 
 " but we must now make haste, for it is getting 
 quite late, and I know papa wishes to go part 
 of the way home to-night." 
 
 " Do you live far from here, then ?" I rather 
 pointedly inquired. 
 
 " Oh, yes — I don't know how many miles — 
 all the way down in Cheshire ; avc took this 
 place in our road from town." 
 
 "Well, then. Miss Curzon," I said, as we 
 approached her father, " I wonder if ever we 
 shall meet again ! You cannot think how I 
 hope we may ; but now good bye, and " 
 
 " You need not leave me quite yet," she re- 
 plied, interrupting me ; " come a little fiu*ther 
 with me — what were you going to say ?" 
 
 " Though I may never see you more, nobody 
 will ever be so glad to hear that you are happy 
 as I ; for I would sooner sec you so than any 
 person I know." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you," she replied, rather 
 earnestly, " and I hope we shall be able — in- 
 deed, I am certain I shall see you again some- 
 where — I will not," she added, as Ave ap- 
 proached the circle, " I will not, if you i)lease, 
 keep your arm before them. Good bye, then ;
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. -YJ 
 
 I shall hear of you, at all. events, from my 
 brother." 
 
 She then left me, while I reluctantly directed 
 my steps towards the college, which now ap- 
 peared unwelcome and obtrusive. She was so 
 different to everything 1 had hitherto expe- 
 rienced ! — so gentle and kind— so unassuming, 
 and yet so lovely — and now to be torn away 
 find severed from such a person ! That night 
 I attempted to console myself in the following 
 effiision ; and as they are the first and last 
 lines of which I was ever guilty, shall be here 
 inserted ; for though the versification is by no 
 means faultless, they were true to my feelings 
 at the time : — 
 
 When 'midst the deepest gloom of night, 
 
 While all is still and lone, 
 A heavenly meteor flashes bright, 
 
 But floats away as soon ; 
 
 Does not the bosom of the moor 
 
 Seem doubly dnrk and drear, 
 Frowning still sterner than before 
 
 Did that false light appear ! 
 
 So, lady, have you crossed my way. 
 Brighter than cloudless morn — 
 
 So o'er this heart thy piercing ray, 
 Gleamed — and thou art gone !
 
 40 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 My first half-year as an Etonian had now 
 expired. Brief as it was, it has been to me the 
 most j)ortentous period of my existence. I 
 sometimes feel that my fate, here and hereafter, 
 has hinged upon it — this world is globular for 
 the same reason that a woman's tear is. Are 
 we the creatures of the merest chance, or of 
 eternal predestination tlu'ough all time, if there 
 be such a thing as time at all .'' The question 
 is idle ; for as we have never yet solved it, I 
 begin to think we never shall. The Almighty 
 has willed this obscurity, and therefore it is for 
 the best. 
 
 I sensitively felt that I was launched amid 
 the crowd of a bustling world, to steer and shift 
 for myself as I best might. Like otlier boys, I 
 had a tutor ; but, though a thoroughly con- 
 scientious man, he was worse than useless ; for 
 he was to be i)ractised on with such facility, 
 tliat I, with his other pupils, im])osed upon him 
 as we chose. 
 
 \Vlien I returned for the holidays to the 
 paternal roof, it was only to be fagged by my 
 elder brethren ; for here tlie fagging system, I
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 41 
 
 regret to say, was not only tolerated, but car- 
 ried out to its most deplorable extreme. 
 
 Ever distant then in our days of boyhood, 
 and that, too, while under the same roof, now 
 that the casualties of after-Ufe have dispersed 
 us, we are become, to all intents and purposes, 
 entire strangers one towards the other. 
 
 As to my father, he was, of course, wholly 
 engaged in the cares of providing for so large 
 and expensive a family ; and though a man, I 
 am persuaded, of strong and ardent affection 
 for his children, 1 can barely say that I was 
 acquainted with him. 
 
 Accustomed to this sort of distant intercoui'se 
 from my infancy, I was desirous of no other, 
 until the following occasion, which happened a 
 year or two subsequent to the present time. 
 
 I had been engaged in rather an arduous ex- 
 pedition, and, in consequence, was laid up a 
 day or two afterwards with a fever, and in con- 
 siderable danger of my life. As soon as I 
 could be removed, I was sent to my father's 
 house. In the evening, as we ranged ourselves 
 round the fire, the rest of the family, from pru- 
 dential motives, removed themselves to a dis- 
 tance. My father drew ray chair towards his 
 own, asserting that in illness one should not 
 desert the other. 
 
 By the time that I returned home, I had 
 moreover become a confirmed " shufller."
 
 42 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 This word bears, indeed, an ominous insinu- 
 ation ; but at Eton it is not so disreputable as 
 it sounds. The shuffler ever employs what 
 ingenuity he may be gifted with, in contriving 
 how he may do as little in school, and as much 
 out of it, with the least possible flogging ; and 
 it is astonishing to what a nicety this calcu- 
 lation can be reduced, and to what a degree of 
 perfection a boy's powers for it may be brought, 
 by constant and careful cultivation. 
 
 Yet I was, I think, far from being an idle 
 boy. I neglected my studies, not to become 
 listless and unemployed, but that I might earn 
 more time for other, and, as most persons 
 would think, less edifying pursuits, and was 
 therefore invariably devoted to cricket, rowing, 
 and foot-ball matches. 
 
 This, then, was the good or ill effect which 
 resulted from the chance of circumstance. My 
 father had at once concluded, that send a boy 
 to Eton, pay the yearly bills, and his education 
 was infallibly insured. 
 
 From the moment that I entered the college, 
 I had been carelessly placed far above my ac- 
 quirements ; and constant flogging was inevi- 
 table, for a year or two at least, until, ])crhaps, 
 by close application, 1 had made myself equal 
 to my daily tasks. But this was a prospect by 
 far too distant to hv entertained by a boy of 
 nine years old ; for it is the ambition of a boy
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 43 
 
 not to bu Hogged at all — not us little as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 An objection to sending a boy early to Eton 
 is, that should he have the hardihood to brave 
 frequent punishment, he may be very nearly as 
 idle as he pleases ; and at this early age, too, 
 he has not the sense to apply himself to study 
 of his own will, and that, too, while surrounded 
 by so many temptations to the contrary. 
 
 One flogging, without the slightest stigma 
 attaching to it, or reprimand, is the certain pe- 
 nalty of failure in his task. With hardihood 
 or without it, I then had no chance, though, at 
 all events, I acquired it, and that too, to such a 
 degree, and I deemed the penalty so ti'ivial, 
 that I henceforth enjoyed a delightful sense of 
 fi'eedom and independence in its way. 
 
 If I bestowed a thought on the subject at all, 
 it was to be flogged not more than once in a 
 day, if I coidd conveniently do otherwise. 
 
 Yet, in an irrational mood, I would read — I 
 would frequently steal off to some quiet spot in 
 the neighbourhood, and emjiloy myself in vari- 
 ous histories, of which reading I was always 
 very fond. My favourite retreat was up in an 
 old pollarded willow-tree, secure from fagging, 
 and therefore enjoying the distant voices in the 
 playing-fields, delightfully contrasting with the 
 quiet splash of the trout leapmg in the river 
 beneath me.
 
 44 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 Thus I obtained a respectably accurate know- 
 ledge of the Roman, Grecian, and English his- 
 tories, and a somewhat precocious insight too 
 of the characters of their various and prominent 
 actors. 
 
 As for the heroes of the fabulous ages, I was 
 completely conversant with each of their cir- 
 cumstances, and for this reason. I must ac- 
 knowledge, that, as the hour approached for 
 punishment, I was apt to be troubled in mind, 
 similarly to a patient about to undergo a dis- 
 agreeable ojseration ; but no sooner had I opened 
 Lempriere's classical dictionary, than every un- 
 pleasing anticipation was dissolved, and I 
 became totally unconscious of ^'ulg•ar realities, 
 and absorbed in its ])octical but miequivocal 
 immorality.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN KTONIAN. 45 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 In spite of the ingenuity T expended, in 
 order to imbibe as small a ipiantity of Latin 
 and Greek as was possible, and of the number 
 of persons, whom I have so frequently heard 
 declaiming against the exclusive attention paid 
 to their attainment, and with whom, during my 
 pupillage, I entirely coincided, I cannot help 
 smiling at the extent to which I have since 
 ratted in this respect. Now that I am no longer 
 forced to profit by such studies, I have arrived 
 at the conviction of their necessity. If a know- 
 ledge of our own language be desirable, they 
 afford the only means of understanding the 
 true import of the words which constitute it; 
 and when, at times, I have sufficient diffidence 
 to suspect my own capabilities of forming a cor- 
 rect opinion in the matter, and examine into 
 that of others, I have to acknowledge, not 
 only that the advocates of the dead languages 
 are the most competent judges, but that the 
 persons who oppose them the most strenu- 
 ously, are invariably those who are the least 
 conversant with them ; while the former, again, 
 are rarely heard to regret the time expended in
 
 46 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 their acquirements ; while what superior though 
 uneducated man, but has deplored his igno- 
 rance of them, and his want of opportunity to 
 acquire them ? 
 
 But I have, of late, arrived at such an ex- 
 treme as to advocate the study to the exclusion 
 of all others, with the exception of modem lan- 
 guages. My paradox is this, that which is down- 
 right indispensable for everyday life, do not 
 teach us ; for then, in spite of ourselves, we 
 must, in these subjects, become our own in- 
 structors. If, in a few years after we have left 
 the school, we possess not a respectable know- 
 ledge of such common, and easily acquired sub- 
 jects, as arithmetic, history, and geogTaphy, we 
 alone are culpable ; and the more the world 
 makes us sensible of our deficiency, the more 
 we deserve it, and the sooner we shall set about 
 to apply the remedy. Teach us, then, in boy- 
 hood, that which we Avill not, or in this case, 
 perhaps, cannot teach oiu'selves — a knowledge 
 of tlie classics. 
 
 I sometimes suspect that many persons doubt 
 of their importance, from the fact of their being 
 distinguished as the dead languages, while, per- 
 haps, they are exactly the only immortal ones 
 — unchangeable throughout all ages in their 
 primitive ])urity. In an unwary, or ])erhaps cha- 
 ritable moment, I am seized with enthusiastic 
 admiration of our forefathers' good taste in so
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 47 
 
 justly apprceiatiiif,^ the beauties of ancient lite- 
 rature, tliougli I now iind then have a misgiving 
 that it is a relic of the cloister, which had no 
 productions of its own to compete with them, 
 and its traditional authority has not yet be- 
 come extinct ; not that the moderns have pro- 
 duced such works of genius as to supersede 
 them, for those of the imagination are not to 
 be accumulated to greater perfection, from age 
 to age, like those of science. Indeed the works 
 of the ancients, relative to the latter, are now 
 only useful as instances of the progress of the 
 human mind ; nor could they be otherwise, as 
 science is more or less perfect in proportion to 
 the ages that have preceded ; as it is the last 
 man's knowledge, added to that of all his pre- 
 decessors, or, as Sir .John llerschel far better 
 expresses it, it " is the knowledge of many, or- 
 derly and methodically digested and arranged, 
 so as to become attainable by one ;" and thus 
 a respectable philosopher of the present day 
 may possess more knowledge than even such 
 powerful and original minds as those of Confu- 
 cius or Zoroaster, Aristotle or Pythagoras : he 
 is not like the goose I now see wading through 
 the mud, and that can't build its nest a jot 
 better than the sacred ones of the Capitol 
 could. 
 
 With regard to works purc'ly iniaginativt?, 
 perhaps the very converse of this will be found
 
 48 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 to be the case. The bard of Chios is not su- 
 perseded by those of the Lakes, who, as far as 
 all beauty imparted by the force of originality 
 is concerned, even labour under a disadvantage, 
 for every author is conscious that a strong me- 
 mory is a dangerous thing, and will interfere 
 with his originality in spite of himself. 
 
 If then the sublimest soarings of the human 
 imagination conveyed to our minds, and clothed 
 in all the beauties of language, are desirable, 
 we shall seldom regret the hours we have ex- 
 pended over Homer or Virgil, Demosthenes or 
 Cicero. 
 
 But although this comparatively exclusive 
 attachment to the classics may be Etona's most 
 prominent characteristic, I suspect it to be by 
 no means the most important or beneficial 
 one. 
 
 The contrast and contact, resulting from the 
 sheer multitude of varying dispositions, refined 
 by the gentlemanly tone of character indige- 
 nous to the college, afford advantages superior 
 to all the rest put together. 
 
 There are three other prominent features in 
 the economy of Eton, which 1 have touched on 
 in former pages, namely, those of fagging, 
 flogging, and attendance in church during the 
 week days. 
 
 As regards the two former intellectual cha- 
 racteristics, I must admit that 1 am unusually
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 49 
 
 obtuse ; for although boasting a long and inti- 
 mate acquaintance with both, I have never ar- 
 rived at any certain conclusion as to their good 
 or ill effects, though I have little doubt but that 
 they contain a mixture of each, only I am un- 
 certain which may preponderate. 
 
 The former might be profitable, both to the 
 fagger and the fagged, did it not commence and 
 finish at the wrong end ; for could a boy be well 
 fagged fi'om the age of fourteen to eighteen, he 
 would probabl}' be all the better for it, but 
 during this period he is unfortunately the 
 despot. Many persons conclude that the sys- 
 tem acts beneficially on the youthful members 
 of the aristocracy ; but I think the same end 
 might be attained, and more respectably, by 
 the mere jostling amid the crowd, without pro- 
 ceeding to the extremity of subjecting a boy of 
 gentlemanly feeling, to the coarse caprices of 
 a tradesman's son. I have myself requested the 
 present Marquis of D — e to walk into the 
 playing-fields each evening, with a slop-basin 
 in his hand, and milk an unusually quiet cow 
 that used to be there ; but this office fell to his 
 lot, merely from his being the only boy in my 
 dames who knew how to milk a coav — in fact, it 
 was his boast that he could milk a cow better 
 than any man in England. Lord C — stl — h, 
 too, must well remember when a great wild, 
 raw-boned Irish fellow, with a rope round his 
 
 D
 
 50 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 waist, Avould tlirow himself from Lion's Leap 
 into the river, by way of learning to swim, 
 while his lordship was appointed to pull him 
 out again ; but the particular time that I now 
 mean was, when he was all but di'owned, and 
 vociferating with Hibernian vehemence, " pull, 
 you blackguard !" every time his head emerged 
 for a moment from the bottom of the river. 
 But whatever effects this levelling process may 
 have in youtliful days, I suspect that they are 
 by no means permanent, and are completely 
 obliterated on leaving the school. 
 
 With regard to the punishment of flogging, 
 many persons condemn it, as degrading to a 
 boy's character. These same persons would, 
 probably, deem it out of place to raise their 
 hats on entering a man's shop, and perhaps 
 every one would feel it to be so in England ; 
 but in other countries, were they not to do so, 
 the shopkeeper, fi*om experience, would merely 
 attribute the omission to what he deems an in- 
 stance of ill-breeding, habitual to John Bidl ; 
 or, when he is not aware of this, he will fi-e- 
 quently decline to acconnnodate his customer. 
 I mention this instance to show, that what may 
 meet with disapprobation in one place, will not 
 do so in another ; and thus what to us at a dis- 
 tance, and in after years, may appear to be repul- 
 sive, may by no means be so considered during 
 boyhood. Again, others will say, that it ought
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 51 
 
 to be felt as a disgrace. To this, I can only 
 answer that it never will be ; for where there 
 are so many boys as at Eton, this mode of 
 punishment must frequently be adopted ; and 
 as often as it is, so certain, from its repetition, 
 will it cease to be considered in that light — it 
 is altogether a necessary evil, which flesh is 
 heir to. Should the boy have committed any- 
 thing unbecoming a gentleman, he is invariably 
 and api)ropriately punished by the manner 
 adopted towards him by his own associates, 
 and the feeling of the school in general. Let 
 flogging, then, still be tolerated as a mere phy- 
 sical and convenient inconvenience — its effect, 
 too, is but ephemeral, and soon becomes lost 
 among the things that were. 
 
 Not so will be the effects of frequent attend- 
 ance in church. Concerning these three sub- 
 jects, perhaps no two persons could be found 
 who might entertain similar opinions ; there- 
 fore, it behoves one to advance any decision as 
 regards them with caution and difl^idence ; but 
 if one of them admits of greater certainty of 
 opinion than the others, is it not that relative to 
 the frequent occuiTcnce of the church service ? 
 However the other two subjects may be op- 
 posed, some advantages may be still held out 
 in extenuation of their practice, but I cannot 
 help feeling that this cloying attendance on 
 chapel must be altogether pernicious. 
 
 D 2
 
 52 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 His religion is not to be flogged or forced into 
 a boy, like so much Latin and Greek, or even 
 to be instilled into him by a comparative 
 stranger. UntO he comes to be able to inquire 
 or think about it for himself, the duty of in- 
 sti'ucting him is exclusively incumbent on his 
 parents, or on those who are in more immediate 
 contact with him than the tutors of a college 
 can be. The superior and sufficient influence 
 of the former, in this respect, may be evidenced 
 by the fact of a little Catholic boy whom I knew, 
 duly attending church with the rest of us, and 
 afterwards leaving the school, and remaining to 
 this day as stanch a Papist as ever entered the 
 confessional. 
 
 Out of the six or seven hundred boys present 
 during divine service, should only fifty of them 
 have tlieir minds properly disposed, there would 
 be something to advance in support of the prac- 
 tice ; but that even this cannot be urged, I would 
 appeal not only to every old Etonian, but to 
 every boy of the present day. AVith the ex- 
 ception of Sunday, to which, of course, I am 
 not now alluding, a boy, in my time, would 
 almost as soon think of bringing a cricket-bat 
 into church with him as a prayer-book ; and if 
 the prayers attracted our attention at all, it was 
 but momentarily, and that merely to ascertain 
 whether the tedious cha]>lain had nearly arrived 
 at the conclusion of the service.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 53 
 
 I assume the nature of boys of the present 
 day to be similar to that of boys twenty years 
 ago ; and if so, I suspect that all these services 
 have added about as much to the growth and 
 strenj^th of their religious principles, as the 
 hundred-and-one paternosters and ave-marias 
 muttered by a monk of Camaldoli for the last 
 half century. 
 
 But was the evil merely negative, one would 
 hesitate to object to anything that has been 
 adopted for ages by a foundation so admirably 
 conducted as that of Eton, and which has ever 
 worked so well ; but an additional effect of this 
 comjjulsory attendance is to induce, by the force 
 of early habit, an indifference and callousness 
 of feeling during divine service, which but few 
 in after life have the grace to overcome. But 
 are the tutors of the College sensible of similar 
 effects within themselves ? Probably not ; for 
 there is little reason that they should, inasmuch 
 as they have been prefeiTcd to their present 
 situations, and carefully selected from a multi- 
 tude, in consequence of their very singularity in 
 this respect. 
 
 The promoters of this system seem to be 
 guided, not by how it affects the boys, but by 
 how they wish it would. While attending these 
 services with appropriate feeling themselves, I 
 suspect that they are apt to forget how different 
 was their own conduct on the same occasions
 
 54 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 in their youth ; or if not, they must imagine 
 that the rising generation has become far more 
 immaculate than their predecessors ; " but boys 
 will be boys" to the end of the chapter — and 
 here it is.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 55 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Six years have now glided away, and my 
 station as an Etonian has experienced a still 
 greater revolution. In place of being a fag, I 
 was now the puissant " captain of ray dames," 
 and had six lower boys of my own ; but my 
 greatest privilege consisted in being the pos- 
 sessor of rather more than three thousand " old 
 copies." 
 
 These are the original copies of verses on 
 various subjects which have borne the correction 
 of their authors' tutors, and which have been 
 reserved and put by, after a fair copy of them 
 has been shown up in school. 
 
 The collection now in my possession had 
 been, for years, entailed by its founder upon the 
 captain of my dames, whoever he might be, for 
 the time being. These, then, I enjoyed for four 
 years, and a subject could not well be given us, 
 but I possessed it already composed on. True, 
 I was once at a loss, when we had to produce 
 verses on the death of George III. ; but several 
 copies, simply on death, with a dash here and 
 there of my own put in to suit the present 
 occasion, sufficiently answered the purpose, at
 
 56 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 the cost of but very little literary labour. One 
 boy, I remember, actually had two old copies 
 on the death of George II., of such respectable 
 antiquity was his collection of MSS. 
 
 In addition to this inestimable treasure, I had 
 become, by this time, flogged into the school 
 routine of business, and could now, with ease, 
 perform the requisite and daily tasks, no longer 
 laying in any claim to the desig-nation of a 
 shuffler, at least to the eyes of the vulgar. 
 My four remaining years then, at Eton, formed, 
 indeed, a dream of happiness. 
 
 When not othen^•ise particularly engaged, it 
 was my delight, on the instant of coming out of 
 school, or church, to fix my eyes on some dis- 
 tant object, and to start off for it, merely, I 
 suppose, because it was out of bounds. Being 
 constantly in the habit of this, I became ac- 
 quainted with the localities of the neighboiu- 
 hood, perhaps more accurately than any other 
 boy at Eton. The two most distant points I 
 ever reached, were Staines and the race-course 
 at Ascot Heath. These excursions I ever uu- 
 dertook in solitude. 
 
 It was singular, that one of the most promi- 
 nent features in the surrounding country should 
 have been nearlv the last 1 attained. Tliis was 
 the spot wliich nuist liave attracted, one time 
 or another, the attention of every boy : it is that 
 beautiful hill of St. Leonards.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 57 
 
 Perhaps the reason that I attained it so late, 
 was, that in these rambles, I 2:)referred crossing 
 tlie country as the crow flew, and in the present 
 instance, therefore, I must have crossed through 
 the Thames, and it was a long while ere I could 
 prevail upon myself to pass by such a circuitous 
 route as Windsor and the Life Guards' barracks, 
 for an object otherwise comparatively close to 
 me. 
 
 About this time, then, I started for and 
 reached it. From that day, I have always 
 thought, that were it in my power to choose a 
 region wherein to spend my days, this should 
 be it. It is the only spot I have yet chanced 
 upon, which, when viewed from the distance, 
 with its details filled up in the imagination, de- 
 lightfully fulfils and gratifies it to the utmost. 
 What view can be more heavenly, than when 
 we look through and over the tops of the stag- 
 headed oaks, along the valley spread out be- 
 neath us, with the Thames winding and glisten- 
 ing in the sun, and the noble castle of Windsor 
 in the horizon, proudly rearing itself into the 
 sky.? 
 
 Notwithstanding this scene, I had been 
 rather earnestly observing a distant but very 
 lady-like figure walking across the grass, by the 
 side of some rails, and I felt somewhat disap- 
 pointed, and dissatisfied, when, at length, it 
 
 D 3
 
 58 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 vanished among the trees. I was now resting 
 myself at the foot of one, and deeply engrossed 
 in the desultory wanderings of a beetle on the 
 gi'oimd, between my feet. I am not conscious 
 how long a time I might have been thus amus- 
 ing myself, when I was roused by an indistinct 
 rustle close to me, and, on looking up, I saw 
 before me the lady -like figure. In the smi^rise 
 of the moment, I was possessed with a vague 
 consciousness of some former acquaintance, and 
 in the first impulse, my hand nearly reached 
 my hat, but, in doubt, I withheld it. 
 
 She, too, seemed to be in the like predica- 
 ment, bending slightly with the neck, and I 
 even fancied that her lips moved. The next 
 moment, she had passed on, and I became sen- 
 sible of the presence of " my little Frogmore 
 girl !" 
 
 Could I have the presumption to renew, at 
 this moment, such a brief and casual interview, 
 and so long ago, too } What was I to do ! Had 
 she given me a slight token of recognition, or 
 had she not.'' 
 
 At this moment, I am astonished at my de- 
 termination. In a des])erate state of agitation, 
 yet without a chance of wavering, I now rose, 
 and walked along the avenue to overtake her, 
 as she was turning down another to the right. 
 On gaining the corner, I found her a few yards 
 in advance, seated on a bench with several
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 59 
 
 otlier persons. I at once kept directly down 
 the first avenue without passing her. 
 
 Here, at last, then, had 1 once more met 
 with Miss Ciu-zon ! Yet how was she altered ! 
 She was now about sixteen, and considerably 
 above the common height of women, and her 
 figure possessed an air of far gi'eater slender- 
 ness than when I first met her. Then, too, her 
 hair, which was mostly concealed, was light — 
 now she wore a profusion of it, of a dark and 
 glossy brown. She was in deep mourning. 
 
 Every day did I direct my steps to this hal- 
 lowed spot, but in vain. She had been on a 
 visit, I suppose, and had now left the neigh- 
 bourhood. But, to my imagination, she was 
 ever present, the last ^-ision at night, and the 
 first in the morning, but I never could dream 
 about her.
 
 60 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Though ever leading a life very much at va- 
 riance with the established discipline of the 
 college, it was seldom that I was detected ; but 
 about this time, though really living in far 
 gi'eater conformity to its rules than usual, it was 
 very hard upon me that I should now meet with 
 a surprising run of ill-luck. 
 
 At one time I had become ambitious of exer- 
 cising the rites of hospitality, which was the 
 more patriotic on my part, as every article of 
 the repast had to be stolen. I had been led on 
 to this expense by a friend presenting me with 
 three bottles of port, which, of comse, would 
 need a few biscuits to accompany them ; and 
 then I thought of a dessert, and at length as- 
 cended to the determination of giving a down- 
 right su])per. 
 
 The brace of ])artridges, then, and the moor- 
 hen, I shot on the other side of Dorney Com- 
 mon ; the milk for the bread-sauce, came as 
 usual from the old black and white cow. The 
 ale, bread, knives and forks, I easily procured
 
 CONFESSrONS OF AN ETONIAN. Gl 
 
 from my dame's own suppor-table, just before 
 she and the rest of the boys entered the room. 
 An hour or two after all in the house had 
 gone to bed, my two friends and I had roasted 
 om- birds, and enjoyed ])robably such a meal 
 as we shall never again so much appreciate. 
 Had each of us preferred the partridges, the 
 affair had not gone off" so well ; but, fortunately, 
 Tyrrel very aptly began to s])eculate on the 
 virtues of the moor-hen, informing us that it was 
 undoubtedly the highly prized opru^ of the early 
 Greeks, but kindly relinquishing his share of 
 it, Kennedy enjoyed the whole of it to himself ; 
 for, though I doubted not but that the subject 
 had been classically handled, 1 obstinately re- 
 turned to my old opinion relative to the differ- 
 ence between a partridge and a tough old moor- 
 hen. These, then, had been duly respected, 
 and we were sitting round the fire, with the 
 second bottle of port looking rather foolish in 
 front of us, and were wondering at the cannons 
 which were then being fired on Windsor hill, 
 when we were alarmed on hearing somebody 
 coming quickly up the stairs. Having blown 
 out the candles, and put the bottles into my 
 drawer, we each jumped into our beds, but were 
 by no means pleased when the man-servant en- 
 tered merely to awaken and inform us, that Tim 
 Cannon had won his fight of Josh Hudson, 
 for which great event the guns were then firing.
 
 62 
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 and that, in the joy of his heart, he had got up 
 to chiiin an even bet of sixpence, which he had 
 made with Kennedy rehxtive to the result. 
 
 Such an interruption, under such comfortable 
 circumstances, was enough to rufBe any one's 
 temper ; but I was still more distressed on 
 opening the drawer to take out the wine and 
 renew om- orgies to discover, that either the 
 cork had not been firmly fixed, or omitted alto- 
 gether, for there were my shirts and neckcloths 
 almost floating in good old port. At this in- 
 stant, to add to my chssatisfaction, in walked 
 my dame ! The cannons having disturbed her, 
 she had heard the never-to-be-sufficiently-con- 
 foimded footman run up the stau's, and arisen 
 to ascertain the cause ; when, guided by our 
 voices, she now joined our party, an uninvited 
 and unwelcome guest. Indeed, we were hope- 
 lessly committed, for getting up and lighting 
 our candles and fires in the middle of the night 
 was a capital offence. 
 
 On my dame withdrawing herself, in a la- 
 mentable state of distress and disa})probation 
 of our misconduct, we instantly consulted as to 
 what was to be done to deter her fi*om com- 
 plaining of us to Kcatc. To assist our coun- 
 cils, we summoned to our aid, " Fitty Willy," 
 properly and feelingly so called from his weak- 
 ness for epilepsy ; nevertheless, he had ever 
 shown great genius for getting into scrapes, and
 
 CONFESSIONS OF A.N ETONIAN. 63 
 
 even still greater for extricating liinisclf from 
 their baneful effects, lie at once decided, with 
 all tlie assurance of an old stager, that our only 
 hope was to proceed next morning, in a body, 
 to my dame, and state the dreadful result, 
 should she complain of us, and that Ave must 
 express the deepest contrition of our delin- 
 quency. This, then, the next day, we had ac- 
 tually effected to all intents and purposes ; and 
 Kennedy was winding up the business with all 
 the fervour of Irish eloquence, when 1 unfortu- 
 nately burst into yells of laughter ! This ren- 
 dered his declamation null and void, and he 
 even gave up the point at once ; when my 
 dame, writing a note, immediately dis- 
 patched it to head-quarters. To this day do I 
 feel remorse for my martyred fellow-sufferers ; 
 for, on the morrow, never were they so pu- 
 nished, if I judge rightly from my own feelings; 
 we were compelled, moreover, to write out fifty 
 lines of Hojner every day, for a month to come, 
 and for these I had no " old copies ;" but I 
 soon managed to get into another dilemma. 
 
 In a weak moment, I had agreed with Ken- 
 nedy to sham ill and " stay out," the equivalent 
 for which is, as we are too unwell to go into 
 school, we are so, to be out of our houses, and 
 when detected are invariably flogged with exti-a 
 severity. On these occasions, too, my dame 
 sends a certificate to the master, stating our
 
 64 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 respective maladies. This time, having merely 
 acquainted her that I felt indisposed, it became 
 incumbent on her to particularise the case, I 
 being totally ignorant of the complaint she 
 was pleased to ascribe to me. Kennedy's com- 
 plaint was, that he had got a stomach-ach. 
 
 We had now before us a long day and a 
 beautiful one besides, and we decided that each 
 should jump into a skiff", and scull to Cliveden, 
 many miles up the river. This we performed 
 in a very satisfactory manner, except that, on 
 our return, just when we were opposite the 
 beautiful little village of Bray, resting on our 
 oars, and responding to each other the alter- 
 nate verses of that aquatic air, now, I fear, be- 
 come obsolete, though so full of pathos : 
 
 " Oliver and his dear, 
 His dear and Oliver — 
 John Mogs and all liis hogs, 
 His hogs and sweet John Mogs — 
 Agnes and her geese, 
 Her geese and sweet Agnes, &c." 
 
 I heard a voice close to me on the bank, 
 which, by no means, chimed with the chorus, 
 and the well-known tones of which thrilled to 
 my very soul. There was my tutor, and 1 was 
 recognised — Kennedy throw himself on his face 
 at the bottom of his boat, and floated away un- 
 detected.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 65 
 
 This catastrophe, however, prevented us not 
 from landing afterwards at Surly Hall for our 
 cigars and brandy-and-water, where it now be- 
 came Kennedy's turn to get into a scrape. 
 Owing to the numerous and vociferous applica- 
 tions of the claimants for refreshment, " Mother 
 Hall" is always prudently ensconced in her tap- 
 room, to which the means of comnumication was 
 through a square hole in the door. On the 
 present occasion, Kennedy, in his impatience, 
 had gone round to a window in lier rear. On 
 this quarter she was entirely unguarded ; and 
 he had got his head through, and was in the 
 act of securing some biscuits. At the moment, 
 our landlady was absorbed in concocting a bowl 
 of punch ; nevertheless, catching a glimpse of 
 the outstretched hand, she flew to the point of 
 attack. Kennedy would have now retreated, 
 had not his ears wedged tightly between the 
 bars, and his head become innnoveably fixed, 
 and the next moment the choleric Mother Hall 
 was thum]iing him on the head with the lemon 
 squeezer. His eloquence, so effective on most 
 occasions, now availed him nothing, and he was 
 seriously tortm*ed. I think he was a little spirit- 
 broken besides, for it was ever after a tender 
 subject with him. 
 
 Not having heard from my tutor that evening, 
 I began fondly to hope that, taking into con- 
 sideration the extent of punishment consequent
 
 66 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 on such a breach of discipline, he had kindly 
 omitted to take any further notice of the affair. 
 
 Neither of us having recovered from our in- 
 disposition, we were, of com-se, " staying out" 
 on the following day, which we had taken very 
 good care should be Friday. Instead, then, of 
 being instructively employed with the tasks of 
 that di'eadfiil day, I was comfortably seated in 
 ray room, reading " Quentin Durward," when, 
 alas ! its beautiful illusions were dissipated, and 
 I awoke to the painfiil reality of vulgar life, by 
 being summoned to Keate, now occupied in the 
 middle of eleven o'clock school. Changing, 
 then, my book, and putting my Horace under 
 my arm, I enjoyed the distinction of walking 
 " alone in my glory," up the middle of the 
 school, to Keate's desk. 
 
 " Well, Graham, what do you want here ?" 
 demanded Keate, in his humed manner. 
 
 This forgetfulness, or perhaps ignorance, on 
 his part, completely disconcerted me ; and not 
 wishing to inform against myself, 1 held my 
 tongue, hoping that some unforeseen chance 
 might yet l^ivour my* escape. But the next 
 moment, observing his choler to be rapidly on 
 the increase, 1 was conscious that this plan 
 would be worse than useless. 
 
 " I am staying out. Sir," I at length hinted. 
 
 " Staying out, are you ! Then you are 
 unwell — yes, you look very ill indeed ; ])ray.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 67 
 
 what is the matter with you ? Tyrrcl !" ho 
 vociferated, the next moment, " you had better 
 bestow your attention on the place before you 
 in the book, and I will presently examine your 
 knowledge upon the subject — you seem to be 
 very interested in the present one ; you're 
 watching, I suppose, to see how yom- fiiend 
 Graham can exert his ingenuity in getting off. 
 —Well, Graham ?" 
 
 " I have taken physic, Sir ?" 
 
 " Taken physic, have you ! Pray, what was it ?" 
 
 " A pill. Sir," I replied, not very confidently. 
 
 " Yes ; and I suppose, no doubt, that you 
 judged a (piiet row up the river would do you 
 a little good — stay, afterwards — a flogging, per- 
 haps, will have a still better effect." 
 
 As luck would have it, I was never, on any 
 occasion, so slightly punished. Keate, though 
 I never knew him to be guilty of an absent fit 
 before, entirely forgot for what he was flogging 
 me, and gave me but the average number. The 
 laugh was certainly on my side, when, just as I 
 had completed my disarranged toilet, he dis- 
 covered his error. Neither of us could forbear 
 smiling, and he congi'atulated me on my good 
 fortune. 
 
 The detection of my next peccadillo was not 
 followed by such baneful effects. They were 
 now making at Windsor Theatre great prepa- 
 rations for a night, which was to be graced with
 
 68 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 the presence of his Majesty, who had also kindly 
 condescended to order the tragedy of " War- 
 wick" on the occasion, I had amused myself 
 by going up in the day-time to witness the 
 rehearsals, and otherwise examine into the 
 economy of the stage in general. I also made 
 myself, without any evil intent at the time, 
 entirely conversant with the localities of the 
 place. To draw a full house, Mr. Betty, once 
 the Young Roscius, had been engaged to per- 
 sonate the Earl of Warwick, and admirably he 
 sustained it, too. During the performance, I 
 had crept from the gallery — here always appro- 
 priated to the Etonians — tlirough a door which 
 had been purposely made not to appear such, 
 into a place immediately over the stage. Across 
 this space stretch the enormous rollers on which 
 the scenes are wound, but in the recess where 
 I now stood was stored a confused heap of 
 theatrical lumber, such as an enormous gilt 
 lion, a dragon, a collection of clouds, and other 
 curiosities. At first I conjectured that the effect 
 below might be heiglitened by the dismissal of 
 a few of the clouds, but I feared lest they might 
 dislocate a neck or two. A similar result might 
 have occurred had I cut the ropes of the front 
 scene. At length, I determined merely to launch 
 an enormous dusty carpet on Mr. Betty's devoted 
 head below. Finding this to be far beyond my 
 single strength, 1 pi-ocurcd tlu-ee assistants, and,
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 69 
 
 at a given signal, we simultaneously launched 
 it forth. 
 
 At that moment the Young Roscius and 
 another star were fascinating the house, when 
 our gigantic bundle, lodging for a moment be- 
 tween the rollers, gradually squeezed through 
 them, and the next, enveloping our victims, 
 
 " Turned to groans their roundelay." 
 
 This occasioned an uproar throughout the 
 house, and on regaining oiu* seats, " the King- 
 maker" had crept fi-om beneath the mass, 
 leaving Edward IV. still struggling under it: 
 the former, with his moustache, ermine cloak, 
 and other appendages, in pitiable disorder, was 
 now haranguing the audience in the tone of a 
 deeply-injured man. By what means I never 
 could divine, or even suspect, but Mr. Betty 
 arrived at the originator of the deed, and, to 
 avoid more disastrous consequences, I was 
 obliged to call upon him the next day, and 
 promise never to do it again.
 
 70 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Though by no means superstitious, there was 
 one circumstance, and only one, with regard 
 to which I sometimes doubted whether it was 
 not influenced by some fatality, and the present 
 case was connected with it. 
 
 With another boy, I was passing out of the 
 archway leading upon Windsor TeiTace, in 
 order to hear the Life Guards' band, which 
 here played every Sunday evening, when once 
 more I met with Miss Curzon. She was coming 
 away, and at that instant was walking between 
 two other ladies. This time, then, there was 
 no doubt : as 1 passed, she made a very slight, 
 but slow bend of her neck ; at the same time 
 there was in her face a fixed and serious ex- 
 pression. Slight as was the recognition, it was 
 undoubted. 
 
 "Why, Graham," presently exclaimed the 
 friend I was walking with, " that lady bowed to 
 you !" 
 
 " And why should she not .^" 
 
 " And why should you blush about it so .'"
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 71 
 
 Never mind that — this ^vas, and ever has 
 been, if not the happiest, the loveliest moment 
 of my life. 
 
 On turning back, that I might, should fortune 
 favour me, obtain some farther traces of her, I 
 just glimpsed her as she entered a carriage, 
 Avhich drove away in the direction of Datchet. 
 
 Once again, then, was I at fault, still possess- 
 ing not the faintest suspicion of her reti-eat, for 
 resident in the neighbourhood I was now con- 
 fident she must be. 
 
 It was six years and more since I had heard 
 her voice. From that moment I had dwelt 
 upon it and her, with all my mind, Avith all my 
 heart, and with all my soul. But then, this 
 might have been an ideal passion, as has hap- 
 pened to many of us, and we have never been 
 less enamoured than when in the inunediate 
 presence of its object: but in this instance it 
 was very diflerent, creating a kind of ft-etful 
 happiness quite intolerable. Byron says, in 
 his ever-glowing way, that — 
 
 " Sweeter far than this, than these, than all, 
 Is first and passionate love !" 
 
 But, he should have added, what probably he 
 meant, early love. Love at twenty is as nothing, 
 unless one's a fool. Downright love exists only 
 with boyish and the wildest romance, infinitely 
 removed from every grain of common sense. I
 
 72 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 will give an instance of this boyish weakness, 
 though a ridiculous one. 
 
 There was a maid-servant in Eton, who was 
 a modest, respectable, and certainly very pretty 
 girl. Not^vithstanding the stoutness of her 
 ancle, she had made a deep impression on 
 many of the bigger boys, though probably not 
 one of them had exchanged a syllable with her. 
 This girl now became betrothed to a Windsor 
 tradesman. No sooner was this ascertained, 
 than her admu'ers let him plainly know, that 
 should he presume to prosecute his design, it 
 should cost him dearly. Several of them now 
 never met the poor fellow without insiQting 
 him ; and I remember one boy, more ardent 
 than the rest, went into his shop and fought 
 him chivalrously, like a good knight and true. 
 So high did the feud now run, that the shop- 
 keepers sided with their townsman, and for 
 months half the school was each evening en- 
 gaged in a spirited skirmish with the Windsor 
 mobility for this Fair Maid of Perth ; and I 
 believe that, in consequence of the excitement 
 they evinced on the occasion, the match was 
 postponed for nearly two years. The boy 
 who particularised himself for his pugnacious 
 prowess has since become a preacher in the 
 open fields, and a zealous suj)porter of the 
 miraculously unknown tongues. 
 
 " But these are foolish tilings to all the wise 

 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 73 
 
 and particularly so to me, thouf^h my head was 
 altogether turned, and my heart too. My days 
 were more than ever dedicated to roaming over 
 the country ; and in the evening I used to love 
 to scull my skifi'far up the stream, and then float 
 quietly down while I watched the sun setting, 
 and the luxurious yet modest forget-me-not, on 
 the banks ; then leave my boat to sit motion- 
 less on a retired stile, and listen to " the still 
 small voice" of the mysterious bat, orthe drowsy 
 soothing hum of the beetle. One of these even- 
 ings, by the bye, was productive of a little ad- 
 venture. 
 
 I had just accomplished " the shallows," and 
 was now rowing hard against the stream oppo- 
 site Boveney Church, when I was startled for 
 the moment by the sounds of a number of female 
 voices, some of which even amountcdto screams. 
 On looking over my shoulder, I now observed 
 an enormous pleasure-barge, with its deck and 
 cabin crowded with a numerous party of ladies 
 and gentlemen. It was drawn u}) the stream 
 by three or four horses. At this spot the stream 
 ran with such rapidity, that a boat which was 
 fiistened to the stern, had broken away, and the 
 ladies became, in a degree, panic-struck, when 
 they saw their only means of eounnunieation 
 with the shore quickly floating away fi-om them. 
 
 It was now for me to do my best to capture 
 it, though when I had fastened it to my skifl", 
 
 E
 
 74 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 it was with gi'eat difficulty that I could stem 
 the stream with it, and reach them. Having at 
 length succeeded in this, the instant I arrived, 
 in addition to innumerable thanks, many fair 
 and braceleted wrists were now proffering full 
 and fizzing bumpers of champagne, while others 
 showered various fruits into my skiff. 
 
 Without any hesitation, I emptied a respect- 
 able number of glasses of their contents ; and 
 having declined the rest, they were reluctantly 
 withdrawn, with the exception of one. I thought 
 I might as well take that ; I looked at its fiiir 
 and kind donor, and — there was Miss Curzon ! 
 As I raised the glass to my lips, I glanced across 
 its brim, and again the same depression of the 
 slender figure — the same expression and mix- 
 ture of fixed seriousness ! 
 
 Now, then, I at last had a certainty of glean- 
 ing some tidings of her. I saw Maberly standing 
 by her side, and, the next morning, I questioned 
 him closely, but warily, upon the subject. 
 
 " I was rather lucky, last night, Maberly," I 
 observed. 
 
 " Yes,"' he replied ; " it was no common 
 person who gave you that glass of wine. Do 
 you not think she was very lovely ?" 
 
 " ^J'here were jjcveral lovely persons," 1 
 answered. 
 
 " You know whom T mean." 
 
 " O yes," 1 prudently answered ; " she was
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 75 
 
 sitting on a sofa, close to the steerage, and gave 
 me — bless her! — the first glass of wine." 
 
 " Thank you," said Maberly ; " that was my 
 sister." 
 
 " Then she was a very nice-looking person," 
 I replied. 
 
 " Don't you recollect, now, the girl who held 
 out the last glass to you ?" 
 
 " Perfectly ; but is she the person you admire 
 so .?" 
 
 " Oh ! you know, you're near-sighted, or you 
 would have thought so." 
 
 " And who is she, after all ?" 
 
 " I am not quite certain that 1 know her 
 name," said Maberly ; " but I suppose it is the 
 same as her uncle's, Mr. St. Quentin, with whom 
 she lives there, at the Grange, by Old Windsor." 
 
 I said but little more, and withdrew, by no 
 means dissatisfied with the information 1 had 
 gained. 
 
 E 2
 
 76 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN, 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 When I look back at this period of my life, 
 though it must be with a feeling of disapproba- 
 tion — and when I coldly say disapprobation, I 
 insinuate remorse — let me confess that I still 
 do so with an undeniable leaven of envy ; envy 
 at the lawless liberty I enjoyed, not only with 
 regard to my actions, but to my conscience ; 
 revelling in a deficiency of forethought and 
 blindness of consequences, as truly delightful 
 for the present, as overwhelming and deplorable 
 for the future. 
 
 I was not aware that " coming events cast 
 their shadows before ;" and, alas ! that past 
 ones, leave them. 
 
 Ikit there was one thing of which I was aware, 
 and of which jiersons rarely are, at the time, — 
 I knew that I was happy ; yet I deemed that 
 this ought not to be, so long as I remained sub- 
 ject to any ti'ace of palpable, or, as I then 
 thought, irrational restraint. 
 
 In truth, like a good many other foolish fel- 
 lows of that age, I began to entertain no small 
 opinion of myself I now felt that it was de- 
 grading to be shut in each night, like sheep
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 77 
 
 within a fold, or to peep through the grated 
 windows Uke a felon, and that I would not rest 
 until I had freed myself from such restraints. 
 
 The impediments and risks o])])osed to my 
 design were great, but my fortune, or mis- 
 fortune, carried me through them all. 
 
 On examining the different windows of the 
 house with this intention, I at last found one 
 which I judged to offer greater facilities than 
 any other ; but as it was in the room of two 
 other boys, it became necessary that I should 
 intrust them with the matter. As, of course, 
 they were also to be participators in the benefits 
 arising from the success of our attempt, they 
 were happy to join me. 
 
 It occupied but little time to make our prepa- 
 rations for the sortie. The bars of this window 
 were placed so widely apart, that by taking off" 
 our coats and waistcoats, we could each squeeze 
 through. We had, then, only to subscribe the 
 ropes of our trunks, and saw off" the legs of our 
 chairs, and in a few minutes we possessed a 
 lengthy rope-ladder. We now went to bed, 
 appointing three o'clock in the morning for the 
 hour of our first sally. Notwithstanding the 
 height from the ground, and our suspicions of 
 the weakness of our ropes, so eager was each 
 to be the first to descend, that we drew lots for 
 the precedence. This fell to Bush, who instantly 
 commenced his descent, and the next moment,
 
 78 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 the silence of night was dispersed by the awful 
 crashing and jingling of apparently a hundred 
 panes of glass ! Both legs and half of his body 
 had passed directly through the window below. 
 We had conjectured that there had been no 
 window, but here was that of the unlucky 
 laundry. The instant he had reascended, I 
 coiled up the ladder, and retreating with it to 
 my room, threw it under my bm'eau and jumped 
 into bed, instantly expecting the whole house 
 to be in an uproar, though, as it turned out, no 
 one was awoke by the clatter. The following 
 morning, the effects were merely attributed to 
 the attempts of some villains to break into the 
 house, instead of out of it. 
 
 I had now to set about and devise some other 
 mode of egress. The place I next fixed on for 
 this puiijose was my own window. Should I 
 succeed, detection would be almost impossible, 
 every suspicion being lulled, in consequence of 
 the apparent difiiculties for such an attempt. 
 In addition to the bars^ there was a wire grat- 
 ing in front of the window, which, moreover, 
 was at the top of the house ; but, then, the 
 two windows beneath it had been economically 
 bricked up, in order to avoid an acciuiiulation 
 of the window-tax. By knotching a brcaklust- 
 knife very linely, I managed to ])ass it beneath 
 the Hat piece of iron in wliich the bar termi- 
 nated, and then to saw in two one of the nails
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 79 
 
 which fixed it. I then took out the head of 
 the nail, and tlie bar turning round the remain- 
 ing nail, as on a pivot, left a sufficient space for 
 my body to pass between it and the window- 
 frame. I had but to twist the bar back again, 
 stick in the head of the nail, and everything 
 was, apparently, in its former state. By 
 wrenching, in a slight degi-ee, the tenter-hooks, 
 I could now disengage the lower part of the 
 grating in a moment, sufficiently to pass be- 
 neath, and having constructed a sliding board 
 in the floor, under which I deposited my rope- 
 ladder, I felt entirely secure from detection, and 
 I was not mistaken. 
 
 It was indeed a joyous moment when I made 
 my first experiment, and felt my foot on the 
 dewy grass, for I deemed that 
 
 " Then the world it was inine oyster, 
 Which I with knife might open." 
 
 Among these nightly rambles, there is one 
 that will ever be, I should think, deeply im- 
 pressed upon me. 
 
 Everybody in the house had been in bed for 
 hours. As I was far too restless to doze on 
 the occasion, I had been stationary at the open 
 wdndow, counting the hours as they slowly 
 passed, and it was now getting toAvards two 
 o'clock, when I was to descend the ladder, 
 already placed and hanging from the window.
 
 80 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 In those days I was rarely troubled by low 
 spirits, but at the present moment, I must own, 
 that they partook considerably of the gloomi- 
 ness of the hour, and the scenery around. The 
 night was very dark, but I could just see the 
 ghost-like masses of the gigantic elms, as they 
 stood motionless against the gloomy sky, and 
 could even hear the quiet rippling sound of the 
 river as it glided along in the distance, the 
 night was so very still. But all this now 
 horribly contrasted with a scene I had witnessed 
 but a few hours ago on the banks of that river 
 now so deserted. 
 
 A school-fellow and friend had there been 
 drowned, and I had heard his piercing shriek 
 as he fell from his boat. His body had not yet 
 been recovered. This morning we had been 
 playing at fives together. How were he and I 
 occupied now ! I dared hardly think, and 
 then I pictured to myself his listless and lifeless 
 body rolling under the stream into some dark 
 depth : — 
 
 " And there I sat all heavily 
 As I heard the night-wind sigh — 
 Was it the wind that through some hollow stone 
 Sent that soft and tender moan !" 
 
 Just then the deep tone of the Castle death- 
 bell came swelling across the river from the 
 other side. In an instant 1 knew it was the
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 81 
 
 harbinger of death — of the Princess Charlotte ? 
 I was right — she was just then dead I 
 
 This now struck me as a frightful moment. 
 It was not from the fear of death, nor, alas ! 
 from the fear of God. What could it he ? I 
 am convinced that no one has literally trembled 
 from fear, but now my heart felt as though it 
 shivered. I stood motionless till the last and 
 least sound had reverberated through the now 
 silent court, and thei'e was nothing to be heard 
 but the beating of my own heart. There I stood 
 fixed like a statue, afraid to stir, even to heave 
 my chest to sigh — this, then, was superstition. 
 
 I gradually arose from my trance to l)e con- 
 scious of the truth ; and now even concluding it 
 to be my duty to combat against the weakness, 
 though in a joyless mood, I descended the 
 ladder. 
 
 " Time and tide tarry for no man," and I 
 think even less for me. The day had now come 
 that I was to take leave of Keate and of Eton, 
 and return to my father's house — and for what ! 
 I had not a suspicion, or whether I was des- 
 tined for the army, church, law, or for anytliiiig 
 else. The prospect, however, a])peared cloudy 
 and comfortless, and I was now to reside for 
 an indefinite period at the only place, much as 
 I did love the spot, where I ever felt niyself to 
 be in the midst of strangers. Here, apparently, 
 
 E 3
 
 82 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 I was another being than when at Eton — re- 
 served, gloomy and distrustful — cold and un- 
 feeling — wandering about the place like a soli- 
 taire, as I Avas. I had not, nor have 1 ever had, 
 an acquamtance in the county — I had never 
 been into another house. Should any friends of 
 the family be staying with them, I would take 
 my breakfast of bread and milk before the usual 
 hour, in order to avoid meeting them, and then 
 absented myself for the rest of the day, until 
 dinner-time. This last was indeed a painful 
 ordeal, especially should there be any ladies 
 present. 
 
 The truth is, circumstances, and by no means 
 my own inclinations, forced me to be mute, 
 and that, too, at times, when I would have al- 
 most given my life to have been otherwise, and 
 then I looked ashamed of myself, as I really 
 was, for my apparent deficiency of good breed- 
 ing. 
 
 But now it was that 1 was bidding larewell 
 to Eton — an eternal farewell ! now it was that 
 I felt 
 
 " How dear the schoolboy spot, 
 We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot." 
 
 I had been an Etonian for ten lovely years, 
 and — wliat had I accpiircd ? 
 
 I had, in due routine, become captain of the
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 83 
 
 Oppidans — could, on an emergency, translate 
 the dead languages — had worked myself into 
 the eleven of cricket and of foot-hall, and now 
 came forth from Keate's chamher, destined to 
 learn that " the recollections of past happiness 
 are the wiinkles of the soul."
 
 BOOK THE SECOND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The youngest of a numerous family, — now 
 that every profession is overstoeked, — has no 
 right to entertain considerable expectations. 
 Therefore, when my father endured the ex- 
 penses of my education till my twenty-third 
 year, he did far more than was incumbent on 
 himself, and far more than I, in any way, de- 
 served. It was, indeed, an expensive education, 
 and the object to be gained by it, the Church. 
 Unfortunately, my inclination for this had never 
 been ascertained, and still more unfortunately, 
 from my youth, I had ever opinions and diffi- 
 culties on religious points, thoroughly incon- 
 sistent with the established one. These I had 
 ever kept within myself, and it has been my 
 ruin. Had I earlier exposed them to my father, 
 perhaps I might have prosperously ])ursucd 
 some other profession, and been, at this mo-
 
 86 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 ment, something like an useful member of so- 
 ciety. 
 
 Finally, in opposition to my own judgment 
 and conviction, I bowed to that of others, and 
 was ordained Deacon, in St. George's Chapel, 
 Hanover Square. I now retreated to a parish 
 in a remote county, which henceforth might be 
 considered in the light of an honourable exile. 
 
 One Sunday, then, in the depth of a rainy 
 winter, I set off on my horse, with my canoni- 
 cals strapped before me in a valise, to com- 
 mence my clerical duties. On entering my 
 parish, for want of a more respectable asylum, 
 I put up at a public-house, where I changed my 
 dress, and came forth, for the first time, in the 
 character of a Divine, walking towards my 
 church, where I met with an unusually large 
 congregation assembled to hear " the new 
 parson." 
 
 Notwithstanding my lamentable deficiency 
 of self-possession, I got through the service 
 without any distressing error — I ought not to 
 have read the Absolution, that being restricted 
 to priests, nor should I have upset the cushion 
 on which I was kneeling, for, not having suffi- 
 cient confidence to replace it, I was forced to 
 liang on by my elbows to the reading-desk for 
 the remainder of the Ijitany. As for my sermon, 
 I knew it by heart, and it went off very well. I 
 think, at all times, if my sermon was a good
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 87 
 
 one, I used to get along well enough, for, as I 
 proceeded, I became interested in it. On the 
 other hand, when it was considerably below the 
 average, I became even more so, labouring to 
 gain the conclusion, like a wounded partridge 
 to reach the adjoining enclosure. 
 
 Having accomplished the service, I fondly 
 concluded that my little devoir was finished for 
 the day, and that I might now retire to collect 
 my agitated nerves in quiet, but at the porch I 
 was requested to visit an old woman who was 
 lying in the poor-house, in the last stage of a 
 dropsy. The only entrance to her chamber, or 
 rather, her loft, was by an upright ladder fixed 
 against the wall, the two upper steps of Avhich 
 were broken away. After a little manceuvring 
 in consequence of this difficulty, I entered the 
 place in the attitude of Nebuchadnezzar in the 
 act of grazing, " meekly kneeling on my 
 knees." 
 
 Like all other invalids in humble life, she 
 was anxious that I should become impressed 
 with the full extent of her suffering, and to this 
 intent was irresistibly importunate in her en- 
 ti'caties that 1 would grasp her arm, and, to my 
 horror, the next moment I saw tlie impression 
 of my lingers deeply, and, to all appearance, 
 permanently stanqjcd upon her flesh ! With 
 this ordeal she appeared satisfied, and having 
 read the prayers for the sick, I really suspect a
 
 88 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 little impressively, owing to my feelings as a 
 novice, and left upon her pillow a few shillings, 
 I do think and hope that her spirits were a 
 little brighter than before — and there was need, 
 for there were faint hopes of her descending 
 that ladder more, save for her " long home." 
 
 I once more directed my steps to the public- 
 house for my horse, whose head I now turned 
 towards a farm-house where I had Avritten to 
 procure apartments. I had proceeded but a 
 short distance, when he sunk u]) to the girths 
 in a small bog, but contrived to scramble out so 
 soon as I had dismounted. I knew beforehand, 
 that my future residence was inaccessible for 
 any description of carriage, but as I was little 
 likely to be encumbered in this way, it was a 
 matter of no consideration, but it certainly an- 
 noyed me to find that every now and then I 
 was liable to get my sermon moistened in a 
 quagmire. 
 
 In the midst, then, of these bogs was my 
 solitary abode, which enjoyed the somewhat 
 singular appellation of Pinslow. This, I fancy, 
 from its situation among the surrounding mo- 
 rasses, to have been a corru])tion of " Penin- 
 sula," as it had but one line of access. 
 
 I was destined to be .the first of my profes- 
 sion that ever resided in the parish. The salary 
 being very minute, with no parsonage-house,
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 89 
 
 hitherto each clergyman, save the one of the 
 neighbouring parisli, had conscientiously de- 
 clined the appointment. 
 
 On reaching my house, I found it to be rurally 
 situated in the centre of its straw-yard, but al- 
 together well suited to my wants. There was 
 a very good one-stalled stable, or loose box, 
 and as, on rainy days, I would throw off my 
 reading-coat, and rub down my horse for an 
 hour, this was an object of some importance. I 
 was equally fortunate with regard to my sit- 
 ting-room, for, without rising, I could reach 
 anything I wished for, from one end of it to the 
 other. A second room was sufficiently spacious 
 to hold the bed. 
 
 Towards the close of the evening, laying 
 aside etiquette, as Crusoe would in his solitary 
 isle, I went out in order to visit a curate who 
 had lately taken the parish bordering on my 
 own, and who, like myself, had just entered on 
 his noviciate. Here I found Seymour, a fellow 
 Etonian and contemporary. 
 
 Though we had never before been intimate, 
 how happy was I to meet with him. For years 
 had I been in the habit of seeing him every 
 day, when all was happiness, and now to be 
 with him again, though my prospects were as 
 gloomy as the barren moors aiound us ! I felt 
 how difterent was my regard for him to that for
 
 90 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 friends of later date. The truth is, we knew 
 each other ! 
 
 This, together with youthful and happy as- 
 sociations, is the secret of all those lasting 
 friendsliijas commenced in boyhood. We feel, 
 however we may try to conceal it, that our 
 acquaintances in later life may be playing a 
 part, or at all events, may be guided more or 
 less by interested motives ; while, on the other 
 hand, should sad experience not have taught 
 us the same policy, it will inevitably happen, 
 that sooner or later we shall have to deplore 
 our imprudence. It is not so much that we are 
 betrayed as mis'construed ; our opinions are 
 misinterpreted from ignorance of our real dis- 
 positions. This, then, is why it has become so 
 imperative on us to shroud ourselves in reserve ; 
 and, alas ! the more so as our dispositions may 
 be sanguine and ardent. Hence, too, the Lord 
 Chesterfield's scouted maxim, " Do not be, but 
 seem," though his lordship is not to be repro- 
 bated so much as the world, that compelled him 
 thus to advise his own son. But I fear I shall 
 be found fault with by both parties, as I have 
 learnt to be, but not to seem. 
 
 No wonder, then, that we hasten to renew 
 our early friendships, and throw aside all this 
 dei)lorable restraint. 
 
 " Your father is a horrid radical," I once 
 heard a boy say to the Lord Chancellor's son.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN, 91 
 
 " And your mother is his Majesty's mistress," 
 was the retort, in even plainer language. 
 
 This is adopting the other extreme, but will 
 here serve as a sample of that youthful openness, 
 however ridiculous and disagieeable, whicli 
 teaches us at once how to choose our fiiends 
 and confidants, with little fear of being mis- 
 taken ; and when we have arrived at manhood, 
 whatever number of years may have separated 
 us, we are still conscious of each other's natui'e, 
 because we have learnt, in the meantime, that 
 it never changes, in whatever degree it may 
 have done so in appearance. Let any one, for 
 a moment, bestow his attention upon some 
 prominent person of the present day, whose 
 character may contrast with what it was in 
 boyhood, and has he confidence in him ? in 
 other words, is he imposed upon with the rest? 
 He may cling to him for auld lang syne, but he 
 will be far from being deceived, while the other 
 is as conscious that he is not so. 
 
 For this reason, I have always thought well 
 of those who have carried on their early inti- 
 macy to after-life. One of them must be cre- 
 ditable to our race, for I have noticed friendship 
 between two indifferent characters ever to be 
 brief. 
 
 Seymour, poor fellow, was just now under 
 rather adverse circumstances, for he had arrived 
 here but five days, and had been confined to
 
 92 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 his bed during the four last of them, having 
 caught cold from wet feet, which I regretted the 
 more, as he had but little chance, in such a 
 country, of ever again enjoying the comfort of 
 dry ones. "When I arrived at his hovel he had 
 just come down to his sitting-room, and I think 
 I seldom recollect a more comfortless, or lu- 
 dicrous scene either. Till this moment, I sup- 
 pose, he who had roughed it as little as any 
 one, was now looking pale, wretched, and ema- 
 ciated, with his slender, gentlemanly figui^e 
 crouched close upon the comfortless fire-place. 
 Should he have the energy to stir for anything, 
 his nicely arranged hair was instantly dimmed 
 with the cobwebs and dust which it gathered as 
 it swept across the low ceiling. On the dark 
 and damp floor was scattered a number of 
 splendidly bound books, with a Wilkinson's 
 saddle. Along the wall was tidily arranged an 
 extensive collection of Hoby's boots, and a 
 hat-box, imprinted with " Lock, Saint James' 
 Street," but which article was now converted 
 into a temporary corn-bin, and was nearly full 
 of black oats.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 93 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It is but yesterday, when I felt that to be " a 
 pot-hunter"* Avas the lowest step of degrada- 
 tion ; and I was quite right, for then I lived at 
 home ; my father had an admirable kennel of 
 pointers and spaniels, a couple of well-stocked 
 manors, and a zealous keeper. But, since then, 
 " a change came o'er the spirit of my dream," 
 and my finances not so flourishing that I could 
 keep up a shooting establishment on the footing 
 which I have hitherto enjoyed. At present I 
 am provided with sustenance at the cost of one 
 shilling a meal ; but should I procure a dinner 
 elsewhere, which seldom happened, or my fish- 
 ing-rod prove effective, which it never did, a 
 proportionate deduction ensues in the cost of 
 my repast. 
 
 Once or twice, as September approached, it 
 crossed my mind that this kind of economy was 
 not entirely to be overlooked. But, no, no ! 
 True, I had got under a cloud, and " my house- 
 hold gods lie sliivered around me ;" but, to be- 
 
 * One who kills game exclusively to lessen his butcher's 
 bill.
 
 94 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 come a pot-hunter ! I had not fallen, nor would 
 I fall, so low as that. September has arrived, 
 and I have ! 
 
 To entertain a proper feeling on the subject, 
 I am fully sensible that a gentleman should 
 only destroy game, which, when killed, is tho- 
 roughly useless to him ; and being thus princi- 
 pled, I am at a loss to account for the unwonted 
 delight I experienced whenever my gun did its 
 work on the \dctim, which in a few hours was 
 to smoke on my solitary board. 
 
 Some one affirms it to be as probable for an 
 empty sack to stand upright, as for a needy 
 man to be honest. The simile is ingenious and 
 plausible, but as uncharitable. The weakness 
 I have just acknowledged is undoubtedly attri- 
 butable to my circumstances, though I trust I 
 am still beyond the reach of the graver imputa- 
 tion. But I should be ambitious of proving 
 more than this — the utter extravagance of such 
 a theory ; for it is a cruel one, and has caused 
 both mischief and misery. How many other- 
 wise inoffensive persons have I known implicitly 
 to adopt an opinion to the jircjudice of their 
 less fortunate acquaintance, merely from their 
 deficiency of the world's wealth ! But, not con- 
 tent with this, these persons, who are the very 
 people to esteem poverty as the worst of ills, 
 not satiated with his destitution, must do their 
 utmost to sink him still lower by their treatment
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 95 
 
 of liini; little suspecting, too, I should hope, 
 that the most probable means of enticing a man 
 to become a villain, is to convince him that the 
 world deems him to be such. 1 have known 
 more than one victim to this treatment, for all 
 are not gifted with independency of mind suf- 
 ficient to defy it. 
 
 Owing to an insurmountable detestation of 
 my profession, I spent but a few days of the 
 week in my parish. It was not that I was 
 careless, and indifferent for the welfare of my 
 parishioners; for, in spite of myself, I could 
 not but like them. 
 
 Beyond doubt, it is imperative on a clergy- 
 man ever to be in the heart of his parish, em- 
 ployed in bestowing, spiritually and corporally, 
 such assistance as it may fall to his share to be 
 able to bestow. As to relieving their distresses 
 arising fiom poverty, my finances were much 
 too limited to be of any avail. With regard to 
 those who were suffering on a sick bed, with 
 but slender hopes of recovery, my powers of 
 consolation were even more meagre. 
 
 I have said that my opinions widely differed 
 from those supposed to be entertained by a 
 Protestant clergyman, and particularly so on 
 the efficacy of a death-bed repentance. Could 
 it then be expected that I was thus to smear 
 myself over with hypocrisy, and to a poor 
 broken- spirited fellow-creature, looking iniplo-
 
 96 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 ringly for religious aid and comfort, utter to 
 his confiding ears such doctrines as, at that 
 time, I unhappily and foolishly thought to 
 be no more " than sounding brass, or a tinkling 
 cymbal ?" 
 
 This, then, was not to be thought of or en- 
 dured ; and, therefore, sooner than remain 
 inactive among my people, I was ever, as much 
 as possible, studiously at a distance. Still it 
 could not but annoy me, should my presence 
 have been required on any emergency, while 
 absent ; and this, thanks to my fortune, never 
 occurred, though I had many narrow escapes 
 of it. 
 
 At one time, having postponed the prepara- 
 tion of my sermon during the earlier part of the 
 week, I arrived, in consequence, at my lodgings 
 on Saturday evening, in order to get it ready 
 for the morrow. I had scarcely begun, when 
 Maria, dispensing with her lowly knock for 
 admission at the door, rushed in, and announced 
 an event which had just occuiTcd within a mile 
 of the house. 
 
 A girl of eighteen, and her sister of eight 
 years old, h;id been spending her birlh-day at 
 their grandfather's, and, after dark, had set out 
 on their return to their fiither's house, mounted 
 on an old horse, with the younger girl behind. 
 In the bottom of a valley which divided the two 
 houses, ran a little stream, but which now, from
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 97 
 
 heavy rain, had increased to a rapid and deep, 
 though still a narrow rivulet. In passing 
 through the ford, the younger girl, while raising 
 her feet to avoid the water, fell from the saddle, 
 pulling her elder sister with her. The youngest, 
 nuich frightened, rushed through the water and 
 gained the bank. The foot of the elder one 
 became entangled in the stirrup, which unfor- 
 tunately caused her head and shoulders to re- 
 main beneath the water. The horse was so 
 quiet as to stand still in the stream, grazing on 
 the bank, and was thus stationary long enough 
 for the girl to become insensible, when he 
 walked out, and her foot, on his moving, be- 
 coming once more fi'ee, her helpless little 
 sister, by the light of the moon which was then 
 shining, could just see the stream roll away the 
 body of her sister towards a deep hole a little 
 lower down, when she lost sight of her. This, 
 then, was the cause of the present interruption. 
 
 On arriving at the spot, it was disti'essing to 
 observe the insignificancy of the place, with re- 
 gard to such a melancholy event. The water 
 where she had fallen, was not more than two 
 feet in depth, and while searching for her body 
 during the night, at any place I was able to 
 jump across the stream. Yet, singular to state, 
 we never found the body till the commencement 
 of the fourth night from the accident 
 
 The corpse of this poor girl was the first I 
 
 F
 
 98 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 had ever seen. Her eldest brother had dis- 
 covered and placed it on the grass, and as he 
 and her father gazed upon it, while the moon 
 shone down upon the groupe standing motion- 
 less and silent in the gloomy ravine, never was 
 I so conscious of the intensity of the misery 
 which can beftil us — that indeed "the trail of 
 the serpent was over us all." 
 
 The funeral of this girl w^as the first at which 
 I had to officiate. It is singular that a funeral 
 consequent on an unusual death should be at- 
 tended by greater numbers than an ordinary 
 one. On this occasion, I may safely say, that 
 my little retired burial-ground, and its imme- 
 diate vicinity, were occupied by thousands. 
 
 Though always in the habit of taking great 
 exercise, I never experienced severer work than 
 on the day which brought rest to others, not 
 but that I might have avoided it. For five 
 weeks successively I have served three churches 
 each Sunday. On these days I had to walk 
 forty rriiles, and ride another forty miles, and 
 once or twice experienced heavy falls with my 
 horse. This, then, 1 sujijiose, was steeple- 
 Imnting, pro])erly so called — all this too was 
 for love, at all events, not for money. 
 
 The latter, indeed, was very scarce in this 
 part of England. My predecessor had served 
 the parish fourteen years, for twelve ])ounds ])cr 
 annum. The present rector was in the annual
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 99 
 
 receipt of forty-three pounds, out of which he 
 had to pay me, but with the aid of a Httle 
 simony, this was easily avoided, and as I took 
 no fees, I can hardly call it a lucrative appoint- 
 ment, and certainly not a sinecure. 
 
 I am fully aware of the fallacy of judging on 
 any subject, without examining both sides of 
 the question, but the following case really seems 
 to have only one : — 
 
 By great ingenuity, I should think, the sum 
 of eight hundred and forty-five pounds is dis- 
 tilled from out the peaty soil of my humble 
 parish, under the denomination of great and 
 small tithe. 
 
 From the sound, one might be led to suppose 
 that this sum was, in some slight w^ay, connected 
 with ecclesiastical purposes ; and, by-the-bye, 
 so it is exactly, for forty-three ])ounds go to the 
 rector, and the remainder is distributed among 
 three wealthy and noble families. 
 
 At first, too, one might expect that this sum 
 would, at all events, afford to pay for a perma- 
 nent and resident clergyman, with a roof over 
 his head, " be it ever so huml)le ;" but no, the 
 parish is but the receptacle for the luckless, 
 roaming deacon, and its poor parishioners are 
 ever doomed to be as sheep without a shepherd, 
 and to be fleeced accordingly. 
 
 Among these sabbatical circuits of mine, 
 there was one which, though I shall be, more 
 
 F 2
 
 100 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 than usual, guilty of egotism, I do not wish to 
 forget, it was so in keeping with the nature of 
 the countiy — primitive and stem. It was the 
 only time I was sensible of fatigue, though in 
 the present instance I had not more than two 
 churches to serve, nor was I under the necessity 
 of walking more than half of the usual distance ; 
 but I was so ill with the influenza that I was 
 doubtful of succeeding. Attempt it I would, 
 for hitherto, though invariably hurried, I had 
 never kept a congregation waiting for one mo- 
 ment. Having got upon my horse, I rode 
 him forty miles across the moors, to my own 
 church first : so far from fatiguing me, I found 
 that the fi-eshness of the air had considerably 
 added to my strength : still, the exertion of 
 reading would have proved too much, had 
 not the singers, perceiving my weakness, good- 
 naturedly chaunted the prayers which occur 
 between the lessons, just giving me breathing 
 time, and sufficient strength to finish the ser- 
 vice. The instant this was over, I walked away 
 for the other church, determined, at all events, 
 to persevere, for in a wliimsical mood I had 
 ever resolved to perform the Sunday's duty 
 punctually, in spite of time, tide, or anything 
 else. As I crossed each field, I was obliged to 
 get on the toj) of every gate in order to rest 
 myself, notwithstanding the exertion of it. On 
 coming to the fatal little stream in the valley
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 101 
 
 which divided the parishes, I became sensible 
 that I had no strength to clear it, and that, 
 should I attempt it, a total submersion must 
 inevitably be the result. I had no time to hesi- 
 tate, so at once walked througli the ford, though 
 at the time I was in a profuse and faint-like 
 perspiration. 
 
 On reaching the church, I found myself to be 
 in good time, but had not proceeded far in the 
 service, when I discovered the clerk to be in 
 such a state of drunkenness, as would have ap- 
 peared to the least fastidious, blasphemous and 
 repulsive. In this dilennna, I knew it would be 
 useless to tell a noisy boisterous fellow to hold 
 his tongue, so at once, quietly but quickly, 
 reaching his book, I placed it in my reading- 
 desk, and the fellow, without a munnur, re- 
 signed himself to his fate and went fast asleep. 
 In spite of the check which my wet clothes 
 might have occasioned, I was rapidly gaining 
 strength, and, to my surprise, got easily through 
 the duty. 
 
 At the conclusion of the service, a labourer's 
 wife came up to me with the usual fee between 
 her finger and thumb, the price of being grate- 
 ful to her God for safe deliverance in child- 
 birth. She apparently deemed me out of my 
 senses, and T had to tell her twice to keep back 
 the shilling gained by the sweat of her hus- 
 band's brow.
 
 102 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 I had next to visit a dying man, and I had a 
 dread of it. The poor fellow had been for 
 many years an open and avowed infidel, and 
 entertained an invincible hatred towards clergy- 
 men. He had, at last, consented to send for 
 me, in compliance with the entreaties of his wife. 
 Being an industrious man, he had realized suf- 
 ficient to enable him to rent a very comfortable 
 cottage, a cyder orchard, to keep a couple of 
 cows, besides having by liiiu a sum of ready 
 money. A few years back, in assisting at the 
 harvest, he had strained himself internally, and 
 induced an atrophy. On asking the wife 
 whether they were badly off, her sole reply was 
 to take a cup from the chimney-piece, and show 
 me, in heart-breaking silence, a sixpence and 
 three half-pennies ! Coavs, money, and or- 
 chard — all had disaj^peured during a lingering 
 illness, — and the ])oor old woman's inevitable 
 fate was now to await the fast approaching 
 death of a good husband, and then retire, for 
 her few remaining and widowed years, to the 
 workhouse of a distant ])arish ! 
 
 On speaking to him, I could not but admire 
 his really gentlemanly self-jiosscssion, accom- 
 panied by a tone of resjicct and kindness. After 
 I had finished the prayers for the visitation of 
 the sick, I read a few others which I had copied 
 out from some authors, selected by Paley, and 
 beautiful compositions they are ; the poor fel-
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 103 
 
 low sunk into an agony of grief, and I wish 1 
 had not read them. Was I wrong or not ? I 
 fear that I was, and am sorry for it ; but we 
 shall both know by and bye. 
 
 On returning in the evening through my own 
 church-yard, never was I so struck with its air 
 of wretchedness. It was placed in the bottom 
 of a swampy moor, confined on one side by the 
 little deere])it old church, with its boarded 
 steeple looking like a dog-hutch, and just small 
 enough to hold three parts of a cracked bell, if 
 I might judge from the tinkling of it. On 
 another side, it was protected from the bitter 
 blast by the poor-house, thus judiciously placed 
 for the benefit of the invalided paupers. It 
 was a dreary evening in February, and every- 
 thing was looking chilly and black, except, by 
 the bye, an early primrose peering out fi*om the 
 side of a crumbling tomb in the very darkest 
 corner of the whole — that looked fresh and 
 bright enough. 
 
 I suspect the sort of humour I was now in, 
 to have been occasioned cither by my illness, 
 the death-bed I had just witnessed, or the se- 
 paration for a whole week to come from a 
 person for whom I had lately found that I 
 felt " a deep and tender friendshi})." 
 
 About thirty miles from my jiarish, lived my 
 nearest neighboiu's, and with whom I had be- 
 come rather intimate. So much was this the
 
 104 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 case, that this place gradually assumed the 
 character of what I recollect " home" once 
 used to have for me, many years ago. To this 
 house I used frequently to canter over on a 
 Sunday's evening with all the delight of a 
 school-boy returning fi'om a detested school. 
 
 Until now I had thought that my benevolent 
 host had here been my greatest fi-iend ; but 
 there was another for whom, to my infinite 
 surprise, I found that I felt far more intensely. 
 Yet it was odd that, in her presence, I was ap- 
 parently cold and inattentive, and thus, perhaps, 
 it might have ever been, had she not unguard- 
 edly attracted my attention by what she meant 
 for a severe rebuke. I happened to be walking 
 with her and a gentleman whose wife had 
 lately experienced, on some occasion, a narrow 
 escape of her life ; " and so Miss Bassett I had 
 nearly become a gentleman free of incum- 
 brance, and then I should have come and pro- 
 posed to you." 
 
 " But then I should have tried to thwart you, 
 for the mere sake of opposition," was my 
 rather too free and easy reply. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Graham," she answered, " you 
 might have set your mind quite at rest on the 
 subject, for I should have i)referrcd Mr. Good- 
 riche a thousand times before you." 
 
 " For what possible reason, Miss Bassett ?" 
 1 asked, in sober earnest.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 105 
 
 " Because I could have led a quiet, happy 
 life with him — now perhaps I might have liked 
 you, and then you would have immediately be- 
 haved like a wretch, and broken my heart." 
 
 f3
 
 106 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 It was on my way to London, in company with 
 her father, that, as the sun rose, I caught a 
 glimpse in the horizon of the hill, on the other 
 side of which the abode of my family was situ- 
 ated — I may not call it home, for it is too true, 
 that " without hearts there is no home." Still, 
 how I must have loved the spot ! its woods, its 
 lawns, and its valleys ! No sooner had the 
 steamer touched at a port, than I left my 
 luggage to go on with it as it might, and jinnped 
 out, in order to take one more peep at a place 
 which set at defiance every recollection that I 
 could force to rise up in judgment against it. 
 
 Having walked twenty luiles, I stop])ed at a 
 public-house within a mile and a half of the 
 place, for some refreshment, as well as to await 
 the darkness of night. At ten o'clock I sallied 
 forth, and the first of the jKiternal estate on 
 whicli I tresjiassed was a large wood, every 
 tree of which, I might say, was an old acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Here, thtni, wliat a contrast was I conscious 
 of! Some years back, I used to range this
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 107 
 
 very wood, the sworn friend of the keeper, in 
 order to detect the poacher; and now I was 
 listening to every rustle, and peering along 
 the gloomy paths, lest I myself should be de- 
 tected by my former ally. So much did my 
 fears on this point increase on me, that I took 
 to the open fields, and gained the park. 
 
 Here at once, in spite of everything, I felt 
 myself to be on my own property, — roaming 
 about in ecstacy — visiting every tree that I had 
 planted and fenced round years ago. Each of 
 these I pruned, and even had the temerity to 
 steal into the green-house, which was close to 
 the library, and procure the gardener's saw, 
 with which I climbed up into an old Scotch 
 fir, and dismembered a large limb which over- 
 hung and injured a lime-tree I had planted in 
 the dell below. Having sawed the limb into 
 portable pieces, I concealed the whole in an 
 adjoining ])lantation. 
 
 Notwithstanding the lights in the windows 
 evinced that the inmates had not yet retired to 
 rest, I sauntered over every part of the lawn, 
 and at last walked directly up to the drawing- 
 room window. The blind was down, but the 
 shutters unclosed. By stoo])ing close to the 
 ground, and peeping beneath the blind, I could 
 survey the whole room. 
 
 Here were' two daughters and their father. 
 The eldest was fast asleep in an arm-chair ; the
 
 108 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 younger one working, and their father, as usual, 
 reading a vokmie of Sir Walter Scott, the well- 
 known binding of which I at once recognised. 
 I could not get a sight of his face, for the book 
 he held before him ; but I saw his forehead 
 and thin silvery hair. 
 
 Wliat was now my surprise, to hear a car- 
 riage, at this time of the night, driving towards 
 the house ! I instantly placed myself behind a 
 tree, close to the road-side. Curious to state, 
 at that very spot the carriage suddenly stopped, 
 and I might have touched it with my hand. 
 The horses had gibbed, owing to the steepness 
 of the ascent ; and on her inquiring into the 
 cause, I immediately recognised the voice of 
 another daughter, who, with her husband, was 
 coming on a visit to her father fi'om a distant 
 county. 
 
 1 now returned to my public-house, and was 
 off at dawn in a coach for town. Byron felt 
 from experience, when he sighed, " and oli, the 
 utter solitude of passing your own door without 
 a welcome, finding your hearth turned into a 
 tombstone, and around it the ashes of your 
 early hopes, lying cold and deserted." 
 
 In all and each of my various excursions, in 
 foul weather or in fair, I had ever one iuva- 
 riablc companion. 'J'his was my horse, and 
 his name was Clodlu)pper. He was a light
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 10^ 
 
 bay, witli a pale face. Our intimacy commenced 
 under die following circumstances : 
 
 One Saturday idternoon 1 was staying on a 
 visit with a family, many miles from my church, 
 and being therefore in great need of a horse, I 
 at once went to look through the stables of an 
 extensive horse-dealer in a neighbouring town. 
 Having ascertained the price of several likely- 
 looking horses, I ordered a large powerful one, 
 for better examination, to be led into the yard. It 
 was not unnecessary in this case ; for the animal 
 had one totally-extinguished and dreadfully- 
 disfigured eye, a broken knee, both fore-legs 
 fired, and a conspicuous spavin. 
 
 " He's a litde blemished, Mr. Turner," I ob- 
 served. 
 
 " Why, how, Sir, can you, or any other gen- 
 tleman, cxi)ect to see a great, fine, upstanding 
 horse like that ere, but what has a some'ut ?" 
 
 But as 1 did, I requested to see another. For 
 this one he asked but eighteen pounds. With 
 my own eyes I could see that he stood above 
 fifteen hands, was only just coming six, and 
 was a strong, hardy animal, with a written war- 
 ranty for soundness. All this being quite clear, 
 I could not ])ossibly account for the lowness of 
 the price, otherwise than by feeling quite con- 
 fident that tliere must be " a some'ut." 
 
 While thus deliberating, "Mr. Graham," said 
 the dealer, " will you mind what I says ? You'll
 
 110 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 never be married — you never can make np 
 your mind to nothun, I see." 
 
 On my getting into the saddle, to try him 
 along a few streets, Mr. Turner added this very 
 disinterested advice — 
 
 " Now, don't you go and hammer a good 
 horse like that ere over the hard stones. A 
 parcel of little ragged, dirty-nosed boys, run 
 athwart, and upsots a respectable individual." 
 
 I did hammer him, wasn't " upsot," and bought 
 Clodhopper, 
 
 There were two accomplishments in which I 
 think he was unrivalled — falling down without 
 breaking his knees, and in running backwards. 
 In performing the first feat, which, on an 
 average, occurred twice in three weeks, he fell, 
 without a moment's hesitation, directly on his 
 head, and instantly took a somersault on his 
 back ; so that literally he never had time to 
 break his knees, though he broke the saddle now 
 and then. The second, he could ])erform at a 
 frightful pace ; and the more one whijiped and 
 spurred, the faster he would go, and never stop 
 till he came in contact with something. One of 
 these I suspect to have been the " some'ut" — 
 unless, by-the-bye, it had been the whooping- 
 cough, or something very like it. 
 
 Jiut (.'lodho})])er's chief recommendation was, 
 that whether in winter or in summer, with oats 
 or without them, he was ever the same — stoical
 
 CONFES.SIONS OF AN ETONIAN. Ill 
 
 and indefjitigable, so long as he was on the top 
 of his legs. When eventually I had no further 
 use for his services, I sold him for a leader to 
 a coach proprietor, for seventeen pounds and a 
 dozen of bad champagne ; but I fear that the 
 unfortunate wheeler in his rear must, by this 
 time, have tumbled over him a lamentable 
 number of times. 
 
 There was another rather prominent character 
 in my establishment. This was " Old Bob." 
 
 The master whom he served was a neigh- 
 bouring farmer, but I fi-equently obtained his 
 services. His appearance was that of a veteran 
 bull-dog, seamed with the traces of youthful 
 strife, but in reality he was a pointer. Unfor- 
 tunately, too, in his younger days, the stable- 
 door had jambed his tail off" within two inches 
 of its origin, but still Bob flattered himself that 
 it was a tail, for he affected to brush the flies 
 away with it. 
 
 I think ho had a high opinion of my sliooting, 
 for, whenever I was so inclined, he despised the 
 society of any one else. As he was a selfish 
 fellow, I suspect that I was indebted for his 
 services to interested motives. He was a pot- 
 hunter, like myself, and would instantly swallow 
 anything I shot, could he but reach it first. He 
 could certainly trot very fast, but that was the 
 best pace he could accomj)lish, and liad we 
 anything like a fair start, I could distance him;
 
 112 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 and so convinced did he become of this, that 
 the moment he found me abreast of him, he 
 woidd give up the race in despair. 
 
 Considering this and other infirmities, for he 
 was stone deaf and very near-sighted, he was 
 highly creditable to his profession. 
 
 Though he frequently found game under his 
 very nose, he was perfectly aware, though his 
 mouth watered to taste it, that he had not a 
 chance until I came up and shot it. He was, 
 in consequence, the staunchest dog in the 
 country. Only once, in this respect, did I 
 know him guilty of a breach of decorum, and 
 that too, I must say, under very aggravating 
 cu'cumstances. 
 
 One sultry day, at the expense of a great 
 deal of time, and still more trouble, he had 
 carefully footed an old cock pheasant round 
 three sides of a very extensive field, and at last 
 brought him to a stand-still in a bunch of net- 
 tles, and was now patiently waiting for me to 
 come up and help him. In the meantime, an 
 unfortunate terrier had chanced upon the trail 
 of the ])heasant, and now came yapping along 
 the ditcli as hard as he could scamper. Of 
 course, liob being as deaf as a ])ost, was quite 
 unaware of this circumstance, and as the terrier 
 bruslicd rudely by him, ])oor Bob looked so 
 mortified ! lie wasn't going to find game for 
 him, so " the devil take the hindmost," became
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 113 
 
 the order of the day, and had I not shot the 
 pheasant, which they put up between them, 
 Bob was so angry, that lie would have wrung 
 the very soul out of little Whisky. 
 
 After the fatigues of a long day, Bob was 
 dozing in the fanu-yard, when the team anived 
 in the evening from market. Nobody saw Bob, 
 and Bob couldn't hear the wagon, which the 
 next moment passed over his neck, and broke 
 it.
 
 114 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The sole thing connected with my days on this 
 spot, attended by a satisfactory feeling, is the 
 remembrance of my long and quiet evenings, 
 when I did happen to spend the week in the 
 parish. It was the only period of my life that 
 I read to any effect, and I must own, that even 
 then it was no fault of mine, for it was impos- 
 sible to do otherwise. 
 
 I used to rise at one o'clock in the afternoon, 
 and go to bed at five the next morning. As to 
 late hours, as it is termed, I have no sort of 
 compunction, so long as I do not spend more 
 than the necessary quantum of the twenty -four 
 in bed. 
 
 I was agreeably surprised with the number of 
 works I crept through ; among which, my fa- 
 vourites were Byron's works throughout, with 
 his life by Moore ; Butler's Analogy, White's 
 Farriery, and Dwight's Theology, which last is 
 as full of })oetry as Childe Harold. 
 
 The last half hour of each night or morning, 
 I invariably enjoyed with my feet on the 
 fender, in dreamy contemj)lation of the past, 
 wreathed in the fumes of a cigar, and soothed
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 115 
 
 by the lowly and desultory murmurs of the 
 geese in the straw-yard beneath my window. 
 
 At the distance of about two miles from me, 
 was Winthra, a seat of his Grace the Duke of 
 Northumberland. Though the smallest of his 
 several domains, it was the most beautiful ; nor 
 was it diminutive, being six miles in circumfe- 
 rence. This paradise was placed in the centre 
 of a country which Avas hideous in the extreme. 
 Here then, was " the diamond of the desert." 
 
 We may remember that, in olden times, the 
 amorous Edgar, on the fame of Ordulph's 
 lovely daughter, despatched a confidant to her 
 distant home in order to ascertain whether her 
 beauty was of such transcendency as report de- 
 clared it. 
 
 In this spot, then, the ancient seat of the 
 Earls of Devon, the future queen, Elfrida, lived. 
 A park it has ever been, from that day to this ; 
 and as one winds his silent stej^s between the 
 stems of the giant and ruined oaks, the impres- 
 sion is, that here the spirits of Druids linger 
 and roam as the last refuge left them untouched 
 by the hand of man. ' 
 
 It contained the two sides of an extensive 
 valley, sweeping gi-adually down to the Winthra, 
 a beautiful trout-stream muruuuing along the 
 ravine. The only inhabitant of the enormous 
 mansion was a worn out and pensioned butler; 
 so that my sole companions of the solitude were
 
 116 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 the deer, and these being never or seldom 
 meddled with, had increased to multitudes ; 
 and when one observed the huge and lofty walls 
 with which the whole was shut in, he felt indeed 
 in Rasselas's happy valley. 
 
 Here, then, have I passed days and days, 
 without seeing one soul, reading, sketching, 
 fishing, and bathing. Only once was I sensible 
 of an intruder. 
 
 One bright moonlight night, I was passing 
 along by the banks of the stream, when I 
 observed on the other side something which 
 I was confident, fi'om familiar acquaintance 
 with the spot, was not wont to be there. As it 
 was lying on the pebbly beach, partly in the 
 chequered shade of a beech-tree, and partly in 
 the water, I was totally at a loss to imagine 
 what it might be, but had a strong foreboding 
 that it was a human body. A little lower down 
 there was a shallow, through which I passed ; 
 and on reaching the spot, I must acknowledge 
 that I was equally horrified to find that the 
 object of my anxiety was a freshly-killed deer. 
 The poor thing had evidently come here to 
 drink, when it li;i(l been seized upon by some 
 dog ; and I cannot express my mixture of rage 
 and remorse as I watched the damp, warm 
 vapour slowly rising from the hicerated and 
 bloody Hank, and contemplated the beautiful
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 117 
 
 but (limnied eye, glii/x'd by the pale moonlight. 
 Our peaceful sanctuary was violated ! 
 
 1 Ixnrowed the very old gun of the very old 
 butler, and watched for the moment of my re- 
 venge till daybreak, but it was never satiated. 
 
 A few montlis after this, having received an 
 invitation to a delightful residence near the sea, 
 and at the same time to meet some families of 
 the county, among whom was to be " my own 
 dear somebody," Seymour and I had set off in 
 high glee with such a break in the monotony of 
 our monastic habits.^ 
 
 That afternoon, then, I was riding by the 
 side of this " somebody." A sort of confidence 
 had arisen between us, very delightfu] and un- 
 accountable ; except simply that, on one side 
 of me, as I rode along the edge of the cliifs, 
 there was the Atlantic looking lowering and 
 stormy, mingled in the horizon with the still 
 drearier sky, broken or relieved by the contrast 
 of a very lovely girl. 
 
 At this moment it was blowing and raining 
 heavily, and, as she cantered along, my admira- 
 tion of her was anything but diminished, when 
 I witnessed the cheerful and good-natured in- 
 diflerence with which she treated a boisterous 
 day of " bleak and chill December." 
 
 Being an ardent sort of little personage, she 
 had been descanting with considerable anima- 
 tion and enthusiasm on a subject which affected
 
 118 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 her deeply. Her hair, completely dripping, was 
 hanging down her cheek, now freshened by the 
 coldness of the pelting rain. I cannot conceive 
 how anything could look more beautiful than 
 this girl did at that moment. At the same time 
 though she appeared serious and melancholy, 
 and, I think, a little out of humour too, while 
 her hat, which was too large for her, had, from 
 the wet, become quite shapeless, and appeared 
 pressed down over her face, so that I could not 
 forbear laughing, in spite of everything, though 
 at the moment I felt wofully ^Tetched ! 
 
 Interrupting herself, and looking up towards 
 the clouds, she pointed out to me, with her 
 whip, a portion of blue sky, perhaps intimating 
 a cessation of the storm. Regardless of either, 
 I coolly as thoughtlessly put my hand out to 
 take hers ! but owing to the action of our 
 horses, missed it. She never saw the attempt, 
 and I narrowly escaped making a great fool of 
 myself. 
 
 The most egi'egious act of folly, I think, a 
 man can be guilty of, is to allow himself to 
 meet with " a refusal." 
 
 We may easily have tact enough to know, 
 beforehand, the real state and probable result 
 of the case. 
 
 In the present one, this girl and her family 
 would have seen me at the bottom of the Red 
 Sea, ere ray hopes and wishes on the subject
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 119 
 
 had met with, " a consummation so devoutly 
 to be wished." 
 
 Two days afterwards, I was standing once 
 more on the deck of a steamer, with my carpet- 
 bag at my feet, bound for a foreign port. 
 
 The Churcli I have resigned for ever — my 
 parish, Winthra Park, both deserted — and my 
 humble abode ! " its hearth is desolate."
 
 BOOK THE THIRD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 We are aware that, when we " train up a child 
 in the way he should go, he will not depart 
 from it;" but fortunately, when it is that in 
 which he ought not to go, he certainly will 
 depart from it when he can. 
 
 Thus having consumed nearly half my life — 
 at all events, the better half — at a public school 
 and the University, preparatory to a profession, 
 my antipathy for which was exactly proportioned 
 by my inaptitude for it, the sole result is, that 
 I can now answer to the definition of a real 
 gentleman, " one who has no visible means of 
 a maintenance." 
 
 I begin to suspect, then, that it may be, now 
 and then, just worth while to condescend and 
 observe how a child's disposition may incline 
 him to go ; and though, as an humble disciple 
 of John Locke, I am quite sensible of the ab- 
 
 6
 
 122 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 surdity of " innate ideas," yet it is very evident 
 that, at an early period of our lives, Ave evince 
 traits which are infallibly indicative of the bent 
 of our dispositions, which are just as our natures 
 may have been constituted, and this bent is 
 better known by the name of genius. 
 
 Now it has been beneficently, and I will say 
 beautifully ordained, that an individual, by gra- 
 tifying this instirsctive impulse of his genius, 
 not only augments his own happiness, but that 
 of his species also, and, I sometimes fondly 
 hope, even that of the Creator himself. 
 
 Over an extent of country is distributed a 
 variety of soils, one adapted for one kind of 
 produce, another for another, and the aggre- 
 gate may amount to so much. Counteract this 
 arrangement, and surely the result will be far 
 inferior. Indeed, where is the agriculturist who 
 is not strictly attentive as well as acquiescent 
 to this tendency ? 
 
 How exactly, then, do I imagine this to apply 
 to the variety of dispositions among ourselves; 
 and if we follow, with regard to their natures, 
 the same economy, then shall we see how simply 
 true it is, that when we train up a child in the 
 way he should go, he will not depart from it. 
 
 The conviction of this truth makes me curious 
 to ascertain the way I ought to have gone ; not 
 that 1 am unaware of my present tastes, but 
 which, probably, are the mere effects of cduca-
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 123 
 
 tion, and consequent and acquired habits, while 
 my early ones have long since been lost or 
 " warped by the kind severity of the peda- 
 gogue." 
 
 Possessing a tolerable memory with regard to 
 events, I will, then, just rummage about its lum- 
 ber-room, and see if I cannot tumble out some 
 long-forgotten recollection on the subject, if I 
 may so express myself; but I sincerely trust 
 that it may not turn out to be a tendency for 
 the poet, or some such inclination incompatible 
 with the fortunes of the youngest of younger 
 brothers. 
 
 After some pains to effect this object, I fear 
 I must conclude that I have never evinced any 
 marked genius, one way or another, unless it be 
 for that of the vagrant ! What a shock to my 
 theory ! 
 
 Though an idle boy, I was ever a restless 
 one. Whenever I had an opportunity, I was 
 certain to give my nursery-maid the slip, and 
 ramble through the fields and coppices, though 
 at the cost of a whi])])ing, or, at all events, the 
 deprivation of my supper. I could never see a 
 distant hill, but I longed to reach its summit to 
 see what was on the other side ; and had I been 
 more conversant with holy writ, I should have 
 been ever sighing, " O, that 1 had wings like 
 the dove, for then would I flee away and be at 
 rest." In short, every spot in the distance 
 
 g2
 
 124 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 seemed to be more sunny and delightful than 
 that which I at the moment occupied. For 
 hours \Yould I lean my forehead against the 
 cold glass of the nursery window, and con- 
 template the noble hill that swelled in the 
 horizon. There, I had no doubt, was the end 
 of the world. Then would I conjecture whe- 
 ther it were possible to get there and back 
 again, and whether life was long enough for 
 such a voyage. I then fixed my eye on a large 
 beech-tree — which, blessings on it, is still stand- 
 ing — that I conjectured to be placed about 
 midway. I next counted the number of fields 
 between us, in which I included the lawn. I 
 knew that it was not a very great voyage to 
 traverse this last to the Ha-ha and back. Fol- 
 lowing up these data, I arrived at the astounding 
 conclusion that the whole original expedition 
 might be accomplished in one day ! 
 
 This, then, I had resolved to do ; but which, 
 after many failures, I never accomplished until 
 several years subsequently, when I determined 
 not only to* effect this distance, four whole 
 miles, but to push on to the sea-side, seventeen 
 miles beyond. Now, this was a voyage, and I 
 designed to ])ei'form it unknown to any one. 
 As I was ignorant of the jjrobable duration of 
 such an undertaking, 1 was anxious to take a 
 sufticient wardrobe, and therefore required a 
 valise ; but not being able to procure one, I
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 120 
 
 purloined a loni^ loatlior-legging of my father's, 
 buttoned it up, and stuffed it with my clothes, 
 and which now, when turned in at the ends, 
 and strapped to the saddle with the buttons 
 downward, would have imposed itself as a 
 respectable valise on the most experienced 
 " travelling gentleman." The next morning, I 
 rose before the sun, and squeezing through the 
 bars of the stable window, threw out the saddle 
 and bridle, went into the park up to my knees 
 in dew, caught poor little Forester, and was 
 away, while all at home were still fast asleep. 
 
 " Men are but children of a larger growth ;" 
 and in lieu of Ilorsa's-hill in front of my home, 
 I have now extended my ambition to a region, 
 which, let me confess, without any particular 
 reason, I have pictured to myself as the nucleus 
 of glaciers and avalanches — of mountains and 
 mighty rivers. At all events, thither will I now 
 hasten, if it was only to support my theory — at 
 any rate, that I may enjoy the credit of being 
 throughout a consistent character — though, by- 
 the-bye, I might just as well have been the 
 dreaded poet ! 
 
 On examining my map, I found that the 
 shortest way to the spot I had in view was to 
 go across the paddock and the Downs for the 
 sea-side, where I went on board for St. Malo, 
 and from this corner of France I nmst find my 
 way across to Geneva, at the other corner.
 
 126 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 The passage across the Channel was, as I 
 expected, far from agreeable ; for when a man 
 wishes his " native land good night" in single 
 blessedness, with but a slender purse in his 
 pocket — and as his country's shores diminish, 
 while sea-sickness increases — he cannot but cast 
 a lingering look towards the scene of his youth 
 far behind him, which he is leaving, perhaps for 
 ever, to wander he knows not whither. 
 
 Thus have I paid for that liberty, which has 
 enabled me to explore my solitary way through 
 the most interesting countries of Europe. 
 During my pilgrimage, as I have traversed the 
 monotonous plains of La Vendee, the awful 
 grandeur of the Alps, and the lovely yet sublime 
 scenery of Italy, under every aspect — in sum- 
 mer and in winter, in sunshine and in storm — 
 so have I, at times, been elated by the buoyant 
 hopes of the present, as well as bowed down to 
 the dust when I looked forward to the future. 
 1 have risen with the sun, my spirits vying 
 with the fieshness of the dawn ; but how often 
 " has my sun of hope set without a ray, while 
 the dark night of dim des})air shadowed only 
 phantoms !" Alone, and on foot, I have accom- 
 plished thousands of miles over France, Pied- 
 mont, Savoy, Switzerland, Tyrol, Lombardy, 
 and Italy — I have toiled along the dusty road, 
 beneath the noontide heat of an Italian sun, or 
 wandered over trackless Alpine heights through
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 127 
 
 the midnight storm — have rested on })rincely 
 couches, or on the wheaten straw of the pea- 
 sant — I have joined the mazourka in palaces, 
 or the tarantala in the wilds of Calabria — I 
 have revelled in the scenery of Claude, or 
 brooded over the lofty solitudes of Salvator 
 Rosa and the brigand — I have experienced the 
 frivolity of France, the dissipation of Florence, 
 the profligacy of the Venetian, the degeneracy 
 of the Roman, and vindictiveness of the Nea- 
 politan, the insincerity of the impoverished 
 noble, and the truth of honest poverty — I have 
 wondered in the gaudy sanctuary of the Papist, 
 teeming with devotees, or pondered amid the 
 nobler simplicity of the Heathen's Temple in 
 the deserts of malaria. 
 
 Like the Bohemian, I had, indeed, dearly 
 purchased this liberty ! at the cost of every tie, 
 even of religion itself, though perhaps uncon- 
 scious of it at the time. I then enjoyed robust 
 health, the main-spring of scepticism. De- 
 prived, then, of the source of true happiness, 
 and without any defined object in view, the 
 career before me was a dreary one — though for 
 the present my spirits were buoyed up by the 
 excitement attendant upon novelty.
 
 128 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 My main guide through France was the Loire, 
 which led me by a meandering route of nearly 
 five hundred miles to the neighbom'hood of 
 Lyons. 
 
 Knowing, at that time, so little of the lan- 
 guage of those who surrounded me, as actually 
 to envy the fluency of a parrot which I heard 
 chattering with, I suspect, the true Parisian 
 accent, I can scarcely account for the feeling of 
 thorough nonchalance with which I commenced 
 my pilgrimage, and which ever accompanied 
 me to its conclusion. It was seldom even that 
 I was sensible of loneliness, though I must 
 bear witness to the almost inspired truth of the 
 poet, when he says : — 
 
 " But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
 To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess. 
 And roam along, the world's tired denizen. 
 
 With none who bless us, none whom we can bless, 
 This is to be alone — this, this is solitude !" 
 
 And no one but the solitary pedestrian, en- 
 tering a crowded city in a foreign land, can 
 know this intense loneliness ; but —
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 129 
 
 " To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
 With the wild flock that never needi a fold ; 
 Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean, 
 This is not solitude ;" 
 
 and I could scarcely feel that I had even left 
 my home, when, towards the termination of my 
 first day's walk, 1 came suddenly upon our old 
 friend Blue Beard's Castle ! Le Chateau de 
 Barbe Bleu, as it was here designated. Not 
 only was 1 for the instant transported back to 
 my own country, but to the very nursery ; for 
 here, " once upon a time," lived the original 
 and redoubted Blue Beard, the dreaded hero 
 of our niu'sery romance ; and, doubtless, I en- 
 joyed the same lovely and jjeaceful ])r()S|)ect, 
 though with somewhat difierent feelings, as 
 " Sister Anne" some centuries foregone. 
 
 Never, by any event, were my early days 
 brought so vividly fresh before my mind's eye, 
 as at this moment. In those times, to my re- 
 collection, the sun seemed to have been ever 
 shining, the birds ever singing, the trees ever 
 in leaf, and everyone equally kind, and it turns 
 out to be but a silvery regretted dream, never 
 to be re-dreamed. But I comforted myself 
 with the reflection of a better man — " after all, 
 the same blue sky bends o'er all of us, though 
 the point above me might as well beam a little 
 brighter blue." But 1 have found even an 
 Italian sky to pall at last, to let us have as 
 
 G 3
 
 130 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETOTNIAN. 
 
 pleasing a variety of cloud and sunshine, as 
 the better taste of Providence will atford us 
 during our little day, and let us be content. 
 
 But the impartiality of Providence towards 
 us in this respect, is very conspicuous, or a 
 little examination into the subject will clear 
 away what few doubts we may entertain con- 
 cerning it ; otherwise, we might feel a difficulty 
 in reconciling the various degrees of happiness 
 which Ave are apt to suppose prevailed tln'ough- 
 out the world, or to exist at present between 
 different persons, with our notions of justice, 
 when we revert fi"om the present refined and 
 peacefid period, to those of barbarism and 
 bloodshed, or think of the pampered alderman 
 and the overworked and starving pauper. 
 
 Has, then, the general happiness of mankind 
 actually varied with different epochs ? Were 
 the lauded golden ages so much brighter tlian 
 these of the baser metal .'' No more so, per- 
 haps, than, in spite of Homer's assertion, were 
 the heroes who contended on the plains of Troy 
 superior in stature or force to those on the 
 plains of Waterloo. As the human constitution 
 accommodates itself to all climes, so our sense 
 of felicity fits itself to external circumstances ; 
 and thus the quantity of hapjiiness, or rather, 
 sense of enjoyment, existing at various ages of 
 the world, may not have differed more than 
 that which we suppose to exist between con-
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 131 
 
 temporaneous individuals ; and this cannot be 
 very great when we doubt whether the peasant 
 would barter his poverty for the wealth of the 
 prince, on the condition, also, of adding to his 
 own years the fifteen or twenty additional 
 winters that have silvered the hair of his su- 
 perior. Thus, at all events, a few fleeting years 
 annihilates the extremes of their lot. 
 
 The truth is, the cup of happiness is very 
 liiuited, and that of most men as replete as their 
 sense of enjoyment can admit of: more than 
 this is superfluous, wasted, and unappreciated, 
 or even, as it were, condensed by the feeling of 
 satiety which ensues ; while, on the other hand, 
 the rarer sources of happiness to another man 
 will expand and fill the cup, blessed as he is 
 with an " elasticity of spirits." Happiness, 
 too, being for the most part placed in perspec- 
 tive, becomes equally distant or inaccessible to 
 all, and seems to have been purposely placed 
 beyond our reach for the same reason that the 
 old man feigned to have concealed the treasure 
 beneath the soil in order that his sons might 
 become rich by the culture of it, which they 
 necessarily, though unwittingly, eflfected in their 
 search for the gold ; and thus our only happi- 
 ness consists in our eflbrts to attain the same, 
 though the instant we become sensible of this, 
 we find that we have then indeed exhausted the 
 cup, and like the rest that have done so before
 
 132 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 US, take a long breath, and sigh, " all is vanity !" 
 and begin to think more intently and exclu- 
 sively about the attainment of our Avishes in 
 another world ; for — 
 
 " Quand on a tout perdu, quand on n'a plus d'espoir, 
 La vie est un opprobre, at la mort un devoir." 
 
 Voltaire. 
 
 I think that our Creator never meant us to 
 be contented, and that we should always have 
 something to look forward to and fret about — 
 " It is thy vocation, Hal," — or we sink into 
 apathy, and become averse to the prospect of 
 the last great change. " Well, Mr. Graham," 
 said a once contented, but now expiring Nim- 
 rod to me, " after all you have said, give me a 
 thousand a-year, and the old bald-faced mare 
 again, and I don't care if I never see the king- 
 dom of Heaven." Or, as Johnson parodied the 
 enjoyment of the savage — " With this cow by 
 my side, and this grass at my feet, what can a 
 bull wish for more ?" Contentment ! Nothing 
 with vitality uuist, or ever will be contented, 
 save a vegetable, or a toad in the centre of a 
 rock, and he probably is sighing, with Sterne's 
 starling, " I can't get out !" 
 
 Occupation seems to be the original, or true 
 source of all enjoyment ; though for this word 
 I would substitute tliat of j)rogress, and imply- 
 ing successful occupation. My friend and I
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 1''33 
 
 each possess an estate of six thousand pounds, 
 but the former lately possessed twenty thousand, 
 and I nothing. Which of us is now the more 
 ha])pily situated ? 
 
 lloncc arises the happiness of the saint-like 
 and self-denying hermit ; his complaint, " I 
 can't get oui !" lasts as long as he does, while 
 he progresses with every flying moment; and 
 conversely, the most unhapjiy man is the idle 
 and irreligious one. Hajjpiness was mingled 
 with sorrow when Gibbon penned this most 
 interesting but melancholy passage on the ter- 
 mination of twenty years' incessant labour, and 
 which should give us a dec]) insight into the 
 philosophy of life. 
 
 " It was," says he, " on the day, or rather 
 night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between the 
 hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last 
 lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my 
 garden. After laying down uiy pen, I took 
 several turns in a bcrceau, or covered walk of 
 acacias, which conunands a prospect of the 
 country, the lake, and the mountains. The air 
 was temperate, the sky was serene ; the silver 
 orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, 
 and all nature was silent. 1 will not dissemble 
 the first emotions of joy on the recovery of my 
 freedom, and perhaps the establishment of my 
 fame. But my ])ride was soon humbled, and a 
 sober melancholy was spread over my mind, by
 
 134 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 the idea that I liad taken an everlasting leave of 
 an old and agreeable companion; and that what- 
 soever might be the future fate of my history, 
 the life of the historian might be short and pre- 
 carious." 
 
 Othello's occupation was gone. I made a 
 pilgrimage to this spot on the banks of the 
 Lake of Geneva, and reached it towards the 
 close of a summer's evening, and saw all as the 
 historian had described it; on returning the 
 next morning, the arbour and its creepers were 
 lying prostrate on the ground ! 
 
 But the general and more prosperous lot — 
 for a beneficent Creator has willed a prepon- 
 derance of hapjnness — is pictured by, probably, 
 the most pertinent and poetical simile ever de- 
 vised. Keeping in view the career of man on 
 earth, " the river," says Pliny, " springs from 
 the earth, but its origin is in heaven. Its be- 
 ginnings are insignificant, and its infancy frivo- 
 lous ; it plays among the flowers of a meadow ; 
 it waters a garden, or turns a little mill. Ga- 
 thering strength in its youth, it sometimes be- 
 comes wild and im})etuous. Impatient of the 
 restraints it meets with in the hollows among 
 the mountains, it is, ])erhaps, restless and tur- 
 bulent, cpiick in its turnings, and unsteady in 
 its course. In its more advanced age, it comes 
 abroad into the world, journeying with more 
 prudence and discretion, tlnough cultivated
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 135 
 
 fields ; and no longer headstrong in its course, 
 but yielding to circumstances, it winds round 
 what would trouble it to overcome and remove. 
 It passes through populous cities, and all the 
 busy haunts of man, tendering its services on 
 every side, and becoming the support and orna- 
 ment of the country. Now increased by nvnne- 
 rous alliances, and advanced in its course, it 
 loves peace and quiet, and in majestic silence 
 rolls on its mighty waters, until it is laid to rest 
 in the vast abyss."
 
 136 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 So long as I followed the course of the Loire, 
 I was each day surrounded, though not by- 
 magnificent, yet by a beautiful and happy kind 
 of scenery ; but as often as I quitted its banks 
 for a few days, in order that I might pursue a 
 more direct line towards the mountains of Sa- 
 voy, which now began dimly to appear in the 
 horizon, so often was I compelled to pass over 
 a level and treeless soil, and with the captive 
 of twenty years imprisonment, when led into 
 the street only to be executed at the other end, 
 I began to sigh, " O, that I might but look on a 
 green tree once more !" And I shall long re- 
 member the cheerful and delightful sensation, 
 as I again drew near the verdant tracts, and 
 then listened to the distant sound of the rapid 
 Loire. 
 
 During one of these detours, but through a 
 well-wo()d(Hl pluin, on my way towards the old 
 city of IJourges, 1 had long been pacing 
 through a deep and dusty lane formed ])ur- 
 j)Osely to exclude every breath of air, while the 
 sun appeared to be hea})ing coals of fire on my 
 devoted head. 1 was at length compelled to
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 137 
 
 sit down considerably afi'cctcd by the intense 
 heat and leg-weariness. The day was now 
 somewhat advanced, while, to all appearance, 
 there was no termination to the silent woods, 
 or, perhaps, forests on every side. 
 
 " A night in the greenwood spent, 
 Is but to-morrow's merriment ;" 
 
 but I was now so annoyed by thirst that I was 
 again compelled to rise and persevere in toiling 
 on my way, until I was so fortimate as to meet 
 with a man, whose rough and wild exterior por- 
 tended anything or everything sooner than 
 such satisfactory tidings as I was sufficiently 
 ingenious to extract from him. Conducting 
 me a little in advance, he j)ointed towards a 
 distant but gigantic cross, rearing itself up into 
 the blue sky, and then left me, apparently con- 
 fident that I should find everything needliil at 
 the foot of that cross. 
 
 Having reached this in about half an hour, I 
 observed a monastery situated in a valley be- 
 neath me. This, then, I conjectured Avas to be 
 my auherge ; for, on looking around, nothing 
 was to be seen save the aforesaid interminable 
 glades, and, what was still somewhat perplex- 
 ing, the monastery itself was a})iinrently tenant- 
 less. Having seated myself in the shade, in 
 order to contemplate some contrivance by which, 
 in a respectful manner, I might gain admittance 
 and reveal my necessities, during perhajis an
 
 138 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 hour''s suspense, I recognised not a token of 
 habitation, until at length a bell lazily tolled, 
 and echoed among the solitary woods. 
 
 Descending into the valley, I now approached 
 the portal, within which I found a person with 
 a brown freckled face, enveloped in a cowl of 
 the same colour, seated motionless on a cold 
 stone bench behind the gate. For the instant, 
 I was the rude Gaul, surveying the mysterious 
 senator of the forum ; but without insulting his 
 beard, or wasting words on the subject, I fol- 
 lowed my silent conductor through several ex- 
 tensive corridors, into a spacious and very 
 habitable salon, where a remarkable and in- 
 teresting person shortly made his appearance, 
 approaching with his hand proffered in token 
 of welcome, while his face beamed with every- 
 thing one could imagine to be associated with 
 benevolence and charity. He seemed to divine 
 by instinct that I Avas an Englishman, as 
 promptly as he did by my embarrassment that 
 I was no Frenchman, addressing me in my own 
 language with great ffuency, though, as was to 
 be expected, with a considerable accent. In- 
 forming me that I was welcome to his monas- 
 tery, he withdrew to order some refreshment. 
 Returning shortly with a monk, lie announced 
 my supjH'r ; and I shall not forget the sense of 
 humiliation I experienced, when compelled to 
 sit at table and be attended on by two persons,
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 139 
 
 each of whom was half a century my senior, 
 and one of them tliat miglit grace the proudest 
 aristocracy of lOurope, of which, indeed, this 
 abbot, Pere Antoine, was once a member in his 
 youthful days, at the court of Louis XV. 
 
 The monk who had now joined us proved to 
 be my countryman, which circumstance had 
 induced his Superior to grant him the indulgence 
 of entertaining the stranger. I may be per- 
 mitted to say indulgence, for, with a face glow- 
 ing with delight, he let me know that he had 
 not listened to his native tongue for fifteen 
 years. 
 
 My supper consisted of broth, potatoes, and 
 artichokes, which also comprised my breakfast, 
 as well as dinner, during my sojourn of three 
 days in this monastery, where they esteem even 
 fish and eggs to be too carnal. Such is the 
 austerity of their lives, that this monk, who was 
 their physician, informed me that it required 
 three entire years to become inured to it, but 
 that those who stood the ordeal mostly attained 
 a very great age. Their clothing, food, and 
 medicines are each confined to such as they 
 themselves can manufacture from the ])roduce 
 of the surrounding acres, of which tliey are the 
 cultivators. As the sun went down, the Abbot 
 and his companion, wishing me good-niglit, 
 retired to rest. On ap])roaching the window, 
 I observed another monk sauntering from the
 
 140 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 burial-ground, where, with his hands, in con- 
 fonnity to their daily custom, he had been 
 scooping out his final resting-place. 
 
 Never have I been so conscious of intense 
 loneliness and solitude ! It was now about 
 midnight, and the moon was shining brightly 
 on the Abbey lake. Not a leaf was stirring, 
 and all things as still as death, while the clear 
 evening star shone cold and motionless over 
 the dark edge of the forest, towering black and 
 gloomy in the silent distance. I was as " the 
 last man." Not a soul was breathing nearer to 
 me than the poor old monks, who, hours ago, 
 had crept to their dormitory in the farthest 
 cloister of the Abbey. 
 
 The order among whom 1 was, was that of 
 La Trappe, which is by far the most austere 
 sect in Christendom. They allow themselves 
 but five hours' sleep, and that on a bare board, 
 without putting off their clothes. They perform 
 masses each morning, from half-past two until 
 six o'clock; they deny themselves any meat 
 whatever, their meal invariably consisting of 
 some oaten bread, with a little poor wine of 
 their own growing, disguised in water ; and — 
 they never speak ! 
 
 When we reflect that what is not only the 
 great characteristic between man and the brute, 
 but perhaps tlie most wonderful and beneficent 
 gift of God to man should be thus rejected, wc
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 141 
 
 cannot but be possessed with a very sorry 
 opinion of such an unjustifiable institution. 
 
 I have now spent a few days with two of 
 them, both of whom were as agreeable, truly 
 well-bred men, as I ever met with ; but what is 
 the more remarkable is that these two old men, 
 who have lived, or rather but just existed under 
 such privations, were as good-tempered, kind- 
 hearted old persons, as it is capable for human 
 frailty to attain ; and when we consider that 
 each day is a day of penance, and that, too, 
 a monotonous penance, with not a prospect 
 beyond their walls, and none within, save their 
 burial-ground, jjerhaps there is nothing in the 
 character of man so unaccountable as such 
 overwhelming immolation, unless it be that 
 they esteem this life as so insignificant, such 
 a nothingness in comparison to eternity, and 
 that endless glories are to be earned by, com- 
 paratively speaking, momentary deprivation, 
 that they endure it as martyrs. And when, as 
 I was, in the stillness of the crumbling Abbey, 
 while its bell tolled the hour and reverberated 
 through the courts and deserted cloisters, I re- 
 membered that these poor old men, so kind, so 
 hosjjituble to the stranger, so denying, so un- 
 sparing to themselves, had liere bin-ied their 
 youth under such belief, 1 could not but from 
 my heart wish them compensation as extreme 
 as their delusion.
 
 142 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 On reaching Bourges, my attention was attracted 
 by an object widely differing from the venerable 
 Abbot. Judging from my own experience, I 
 may confidently affirm that not an Englishman 
 quits his country, but he instantly becomes 
 sensible of the comparative plainness of the 
 fairer sex. I need hardly say that I allude to 
 that of the lower orders ; for as I was circum- 
 stanced, I was but little qualified to estimate 
 the attributes of the more exclusive circles, only 
 one of whom I chanced to meet, or rather to 
 approach, during my ramble through France. 
 Whether it was from unexpectedly meeting with 
 a moderately humanised countenance suddenly 
 appearing among those I observed daily around 
 me, or that I had met with a face exquisitely 
 lovely, I will not determine. I had been await- 
 ing the arrival of the Mai Poste for Marseilles, 
 the passengers of which were expected to join 
 the table d'hote. For the last ten minutes I 
 had been contemplating a dark, nuiddy court- 
 yard beneath the window. The travellers having 
 arrived and taken their seats at the table, I sat 
 down, and was instantly startled by the face
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 143 
 
 that I observed opposite to mc, contrasted, as 
 it chanced to be, witli a dark unshaven one on 
 either side of it. The salon was nearly as 
 sombre as midnight, and tliere was a delicate 
 and oval face, brightened by a pair of large soft 
 eyes, " with fire rolling at the bottom of them !" 
 Long, long did I deplore my deficiency of the 
 organ of language ; for with such a person for 
 my vis-a-vis, I could ojien my moutli but to 
 eat ! 
 
 We are little aware how exclusively we 
 derive our opinion of others from their appear- 
 ance and manner, and so independently of the 
 sentiments they utter. Until we live among 
 those with whom we cannot converse, it is im- 
 possible to be sensible of tliis truth ; but I am 
 confident, from long experience, that it is the 
 fact. I have formed as correct an opinion of a 
 German's character, not a word of whose lan- 
 guage was intelligible to me, as of the English- 
 man's beside him, and jjcrhaps more so, as not 
 being misled by what he might choose to ad- 
 vance. And in support of this assertion, I will 
 just mention, that I have subsequently met 
 with foreigners, whom it has given me great 
 pleasm-e to meet with, again and again, and 
 that a mutual regard has existed between us, 
 though neither has, for a moment, been verbally 
 intelligible to the other. 
 
 As, then, it is so possible thus to estimate a
 
 144 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 person, I will just select the one opposite to 
 me as an interesting example, for I well re- 
 member her. She appeared to be about seven- 
 teen, and radiant with youth and freshness, but 
 accompanied with a delicacy and slenderness, 
 as excessive as could be consistent with health. 
 Her manner was completely fascinating, and 
 her voice particularly so, when you observed 
 the lips and teeth from whence it floated. She 
 was a sort of fond person, and yet with a great 
 share of humour — very talented, but all in de- 
 lightful subjection to a refined and delicate 
 feeling. Alas I the morrow^'s sun saw us, by 
 roads as opposite as our future paths through 
 life, departing from Bourges for ever. 
 
 Bidding farewell, even to a disagreeable 
 person, when you know it to he for ever, causes 
 a blank, unpleasant sensation, and therefore I 
 was now weighed down with a feeling of deso- 
 lation quite oppressive. The sole thing that 
 seemed to cling to me was my knapsack. No 
 sooner have I ever formed any sort of regard 
 for any sort of person, than Geoffrey Crayon's 
 words, " Tom, you're wanted," dole upon my 
 ear, ;ind I must away. This is the curse of the 
 traveller. And now what lias since been the 
 fate of this person ? ('onfiision overwhelm the 
 clogs and procrastination of civilised society ! 
 As Geoffrey Crayon once more bluntly states 
 it, " Done," said the devil — "Done," said Tom
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 145 
 
 Walker — so they shook liands, and struck a 
 harij^ain ;" and why coidd not she and I have 
 done the same ! But she has gone, and that 
 her days of Ufe might be brightened with 
 cloudless serenity, no one so ardently prayed, 
 as a homeless and hopeless unknown ; for I 
 found that — 
 
 " The heart like the tendril accustomed to cling, 
 Let it ixrow where it will cannot flourish alone, 
 But must lean to the nearest, loveliest thing 
 
 It can twine itself round, and make closely its own." 
 
 And, to make the matter worse, I had also at 
 this time finally to sej)arate from my oldest 
 companions, a pair of shoes. They formed the 
 last relic of my English wardrobe, and had 
 borne me over a long distance. Having really 
 an attachment for them, I placed them high up 
 in the fork of a Spanish chcstiuit tree, whither 
 I could not hel}) again climbing up, that I 
 might take a last look at them as they rested 
 pale with the dust of leagues, uncomplaining 
 though deserted. 
 
 In a few days more I had reached the heart 
 of Switzerland ; but what a contrast had I 
 ex])erienced in passing from one country to 
 the other I The whole of France, with the ex- 
 ception of my ever happy Loire, must surely 
 be the most monotonous and unpicturesque 
 tract of the whole continent ; while Switzer- 
 land presents, at every turn, a combination 
 
 H
 
 146 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 of the paradisaical and of terrific sterility. 
 
 Smiling patriarchal pastures, walled in b}' 
 
 granite monntains, frowning in eternal silence 
 
 and solitude, save when thundering with the 
 
 a\^'fiil avalanche. I said that their piles of 
 
 granite were ban'en ; but what a moment is it 
 
 to explore your way companionless, and find 
 
 them to be the source and spring of richness 
 
 and fertility to Europe, as the sun is of Avarnith 
 
 and light to the world — to pick your doubtfully 
 
 hazardous way across the glacier, and there 
 
 read great Nature's receipt for making rivers. 
 
 You find that the nearer you climb towards the 
 
 heavens, the more palpable are the works of 
 
 their Creator : — 
 
 " jMy altars are the mountains, and the ocean — 
 Earth, air, stars — all that proceed from the great Whole, 
 Who has made and will receive the soul." 
 
 As to how mine was likely to be disposed of, 
 the moment had now arrived wlien I was to 
 consider ; for not only had severe sickness 
 overtaken me, but I suspected that my death- 
 blow had been received. Severe sickness will 
 bring the stoutest of us, and the most un- 
 thinking, to reflect soberly on the past, the 
 ])resent, and the future ; at all events, it had 
 this effect on me one night, among many other 
 restless and slec]iless ones, as in solitude I 
 watched the flickering flame of the candle by 
 my bedside. As for tlic present, until the
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 147 
 
 moment of leaving my eounlry, I had l)cstowed 
 but little attention on it. It is the man of the 
 world, who is wisely engrossed with that period ; 
 and, unfortunately, I had never been gifted 
 with, or rather had never acquired, a sufficient 
 stock of common sense to enable me to ap- 
 proximate that character. 
 
 AV^e all love to contemplate and dwell on the 
 brightest side of things, simply because that is 
 the most pleasing to us ; and having but little 
 self-denial, I ever enveloped myself in the past, 
 the sunniest side of my existence. 
 
 As for the future, with regard to a life to 
 oome, for that was what I was now to think 
 about, my opinion, if it coidd be called such, la- 
 boured under confusion and inconsistency. Could 
 anything have made me more miserable than 
 another, it would have been the doubt of it ; but 
 from this I have ever been exempt, feeling as- 
 sured, that were there none, our minds would 
 no more have been created capable of enter- 
 taining an idea of it, than that our bodies would 
 have been hampered with legs for which there 
 was to be no need — and as these imply the 
 function of walking, so our idea of futurity af- 
 fords us the proof of it. Yet hajjjiy as I was 
 in its belief, 1 always regi-etted that 1 had been 
 born, notwithstanding that I was aAvare that an 
 endless sleep and non-existence must be one 
 and the same thing. My love of existence then,
 
 148 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 of some sort, must have been an acquired taste, 
 like that of the opium-eater — I would that it 
 had never commenced, but had not sufficient 
 fortitude to relinquish it. But most probably 
 this regret arose as I looked back through the 
 bright and peaceful vista of my earliest days, 
 and then fondly trusting that it could but lead 
 to some lovely period, ere I existed here ; but 
 alas ! I could recal no recollection of it, nor 
 could any one else that I knew of, with the ex- 
 ception of Pythagoras, and, perhaps, my Lord 
 Herbert of Cherbery. 
 
 But I must cut short all this absurdity, to 
 call it by the mildest term, especially as my 
 pilgrimage is drawing " towards an end, like a 
 tale that is told." 
 
 I arose from my bed a]iparently with similar 
 prejudices ere I was confined to it, but, with my 
 (ionstitution, they have ha})july received a fatal 
 blow. Had I been with others, I should pro- 
 bably have lingered in Venice until my hour 
 had come, but, as it was, what had I to stop 
 for.? 
 
 " Whether it was despair thnt iirii"ed me on, 
 God only knows — but to the very last, 
 I had the lightest foot in Ennerdale." 
 
 Many a weary mile have I since accom- 
 ])lislied in a state of health almost incredible, 
 though I am now convinced that I liave per- 
 formed n>y last; but it was a beautiful one!
 
 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 149 
 
 On the eastern shores of the Bay of Naples 
 rises the mountain of St. Angelo. For days 
 had I gazed upon it with a wistful eye, and 
 with all the eagerness of my childliood, when I 
 never saw a distant hill but I was restless 
 until T had reached it. Notwithstanding that 
 ray strength now daily diminished, my desire 
 so increased upon me, that hut a brief time had 
 elapsed ere I had gratified it. This moiuitain 
 protrudes abruptly into the Mediterranean, di- 
 viding the bay of Salerno fi*om that of Naples. 
 
 I have enjoyed the grandest scenery of Eu- 
 rope, but never, never such as this, or at such 
 a moment. The death stillness of the day 
 was appalling the air was motionless, the 
 heavens cloudless, and the deep blue sea, far, 
 far beneath me, without a ripple ; and not a 
 sound reached my ear but that of my own 
 watch. There I rested on the summit, basking 
 in the sun, and enjoying a view, if such might 
 be so called, worthy an angel's while to fly 
 down and witness, and which, I dare say, one 
 does now and then among these aerial soli- 
 tudes. 
 
 And now my feverish curiosity with regard 
 to distant countries is satisfied to the full. It 
 once was such as extended to other worlds, 
 when I would welcome death in order to in- 
 dulge it. The time is now a])proaching, then, 
 when I must set out for " that bourne from
 
 150 CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN. 
 
 which no traveller returns." My love of roam- 
 ing has happily waned with the power of grati- 
 fying it, and I am now on my return, by easy 
 stages, for the monastery of La Trappe, and I 
 trust that a few days more will place me in its 
 peaceful retirement, for I am weary. 
 
 T. f. 8«vill, rriiilcr, 4, Clinndos Street, Covcnt Garden.
 
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