Part 3

Let me here remark, as a physician, that, had not my constitution been faultless, the scarlet fever would have seized on my kidneys or my heart, and have maimed me for life, allowing me, perhaps, twenty years in which to complete my survey of the world. But I passed unscathed through the ordeal, a sort of inoculation that renders one death-proof so long as it is not worth while to die. How did I get home through that long journey? In doing so I anticipated a two days’ instalment of my now near-approaching oblivion.

My recovery was rapid, and, now that I had a brother as my familiar, I was ready to set him a bad example, and to perpetrate whatever mischief our united talents could invent. Our most obvious opportunity was, after we had watched our neighbour at Heavitree sweeping his gravel walks, to throw rubbish on them over the fence, that he might have the labour in which he delighted, over again. We would then retire unseen, and, as we thought, into the security of non-detection, too young to know the value of circumstantial evidence. But the nonsense of children is little worth repeating, except to babes, and I cannot emulate those wonderful geniuses who can even turn metaphysics into fairy tales. I cannot resist giving an account of the finest ride I ever had in my life.

It was at Heavitree, where, near the churchyard and parsonage, there was a large meadow, which I and my brother often crossed on our rambles. One day we encountered a large sow there. I coaxed my way up to it, and leapt on to its back, when it started off at a tremendous gallop, needing neither whip nor spur. My seat kept safe, and I was carried round the meadow at a fabulous pace, no doubt amid gruntings the most terrific. This ride seemed to realize in me a state of existence surpassing all common pleasure; it was a taste of glory.

My leave of funereal absence, which was so soon converted into a holiday, was prolonged without difficulty on the certificate of Mr. Harris, a leading surgeon of Exeter, who was good nature itself; but he must have seen that I was malingering. I must have remained at home nearly a year. By this time I was intelligent enough to understand my mother and her history, and my brother was not behind me in that respect. She instilled into our minds a contempt for the Hake family, some of whom were in trade; but this was most unjust, for their moral tone was high, and they were a credit to the middle class. Their position in life had changed since the generation previous; but family pride had remained to them, and that is sometimes the parent of honour—if not its father, its mother at least. On the other hand, she was never tired of her own family distinction; her father and two of her brothers, the third being still a boy, had in her eyes the attributes of nobility. But all this was in the warmth of her own imagination and love; for no one else thought so. They were respectable and respected—that was all. Those who are really great are not aware of it, for it never occupies their thoughts.

The time came for me to be returned to my owners, the masters of the school—a change that gave me neither pleasure nor pain. I cannot recall the time when I did not feel myself the subject of destiny against which I had no instinct of resistance. So amenable was I to the mastery of circumstances, that all things happened as a matter of course, and I knew no protest. When my illnesses began, I was the subject of diarrhœal disorder, and I was brutally treated. I was put into a room with a tub of cold water to cleanse my miserable self, when the boys, hearing of my wretched plight, broke in upon me with a broom, and did the work of scrubbing me. My feeling was that I must bear it; my consolation was that it would not last. Soon afterwards I was taken to the sick ward and treated with humanity.

VII.

My governor, as was called the one who gave a boy his presentation, made an attempt to have me kept in London, but I was still thought too young, and I reached Hertford again, where I remained for perhaps another year; but after the August holidays, I was established in the Newgate Street school.

The Wallingers had settled at Seaford, in a house on the Crouch, to which a good garden was attached, and in this my uncle plied the spade and grew vegetables. It was a gentlemanly residence, standing high and overlooking the sea.

At Seaford I spent my first holidays, and made a large acquaintance there. It was the property of the Earl of Chichester and Mr. Ellis, and it returned two members to the House of Commons at the dictation of its owners. Mr. Canning once had the honour of representing, I cannot say the borough, but the gentlemen to whom it belonged. During his proprietorship Mr. Ellis was created Lord Seaford; he afterwards succeeded to the family title of Howard de Walden.

A row of houses led from the beach up to the Crouch on the left side; opposite to this was an open field. One of these houses Mr. Ellis kept as his occasional residence. It was entirely in the French style, had a long walled garden, and was very picturesque. The man cook of this gentleman sometimes visited Seaford, and took up his abode in the family house, bringing with him his hounds and horses.

A cousin of mine, Henry Shore, who was also in the school, passed the August holidays at Seaford with our relations. His mother was the youngest of the four Miss Gordons. She married into a very considerable family, the Shores of Maresbrook Park, near Sheffield, an elder branch, of which the younger was Shore of Tapton, who took the name, afterwards, of Nightingale. He had two daughters, Florence and Penelope. The first of these, as is well known, remained single; the second married Sir Harry Verney.

It may be of interest to mention that these ladies took their names from the country of their birth, the one being born at Florence, the other at Athens.

This was my first opportunity of learning my aunt’s character, which was a very singular one. It was necessary to her that she should be the first person in her circle, wherever that lay. At Seaford she found no difficulty. It was then an obscure town with a few good families in it, among them the clergyman, the Reverend Mr. Carnegie and his wife; Mr. Verral, the surgeon, a man of great talent and skill, with his wife and children; and Captain Evans, the agent of the borough owners, whose business it was to see that the taxes were paid up, or to pay them himself, ready for an election, and never to press for rent. Then there were gentlemen farmers in the neighbourhood, a peculiar class—men of capital and education, devoted chiefly to the breeding of sheep. Every one has heard of Southdown mutton; in those days it was in plenty. Ellman of Glynde and Lord Chichester were great among its producers, and it was never killed till it was six years old. No venison equalled it in flavour, and, regrettable to say, it is now unknown in the market; if it still exists in perfection, it may be at Stanmer Park and at Glynde.

The greatest of our aunt’s accomplishments was keeping house—of all else she was ignorant in the extreme; but, by the aid of a small dictionary, she kept the spelling of her letters pretty correct, and by tact she concealed her ignorance of all human knowledge. She expected to be looked up to by her neighbours, and she required this homage of her relations, one and all. I and my cousin had to meet a heavy tax to retain her favour. She would spoil our morning by sending us on errands to her tradesmen, not in one round, but to one at a time, with a written order, which held us on the trudge up to the time of luncheon. She made us her _pensionnaires_, and she had the firm belief that she honoured and delighted us in thus keeping us employed. Her remaining sister, Mrs. Gwynne, lived at Denton, a village on the Newhaven side of the downs, three miles off. The Rev. William Gwynne, the husband of this lady, was the rector of the parish.

Mrs. Wallinger was very fond of this sister, who was a cautious and sentimental flatterer, and witty beyond all common measure. She was never at a loss for anecdotes of the most amusing kind. Her husband was a stout, showy man, a good talker and a lover of wine, which did not suffice him without a long double nightcap of brandy, gin, or rum. He and Captain Wallinger adapted themselves admirably to each other, and the two families met at each other’s table often.

There was a houseful of children at Denton Rectory, ending in five sons and two daughters, brought up without a view to education, both boys and girls. Notwithstanding this, one of the five sons became an Australian judge, and another entered the Church, though at first an M.D. Mr. Gwynne had a passion for shooting; he cared more for his dogs than for his own cubs. He was, however, a kind man, with a manner that made him appear interested in every one he met with.

VIII.

As I have got so near to the remarkable family of Gwynnes, I must say a few more words about them.

Mr. Gwynne was one of six brothers and two sisters. One brother was a very artful lawyer of imposing demeanour, and was highly respected by all who did not know him.

Another brother, whose position in life—the head of the Legacy Office—was so good that all men spoke well of him, married a not good-looking Jewess. A third brother was also in the law, but the time came when he forewent his licence, perhaps owing to some irregularities in his practice; but he was the most true-hearted of the lot, and had one of the sweetest of daughters. He had a practice still, but it was attended with certain disabilities. Two brothers remained; both attained rank in the East India Company’s service. They were, like the rest, very fine men, and, being soldiers, they were of unimpeachable honour.

Then there were two sisters, who, as is always the case in slack families, were a credit to society. These two ladies were both well settled in life.

My uncle was the most unfortunate of the family; too much for the day was the good thereof, so he allowed his affairs to drift in whatever direction they liked, and that was towards bankruptcy, of course.

He was indulgent towards his family, though perhaps a little ironical towards his wife, who would repeat all that passed concerning him with the greatest glee. After a quarrel, in which he said ill-natured things, she would say, “If that is your opinion of me, Gwynne, why did you marry me?” “My dear Henrietta,” he would reply, “it was for your present beauty and your future expectations.” And she would tell this story with fits of laughter.

These, my uncle and aunt, were frequent guests at Glynde, the residence of a Lord and Lady Hampden, who took much pleasure in Mrs. Gwynne’s society on account of her great wit.

One evening, after dinner, Lady Hampden spoke warmly in favour of one of the farmers, dwelling on his truthfulness and honesty.

“My dear Lady Hampden,” said Mrs. Gwynne, “you do not know that man; I can assure you that, with the exception of my dear husband, he is the greatest liar in the county.”

My uncle, Captain Wallinger, would sometimes drive me over to Denton, and we generally reached the parsonage in time to see a general rush of the boys from the house and premises. They were so dirty, so ill-clad and unkempt, they did not dare to face their uncle. Mr. Gwynne was seldom at home; his time was fully employed in keeping appointments with dog-fanciers, horse-dealers, gunsmiths, and the like. He allowed the parish to take care of itself, or to be cared for by the farmers or his wife; and as he preached _extempore_, he had no sermons to prepare. He was very fluent, which he accounted for by saying that he looked at the congregation as he would do on a field of cabbage-stalks. I have no doubt that, when preaching to others, he was sincere, and that he preached to himself at the same time. But he was not one of those self-martyrs who annoy themselves through life with religious dogmas. Still, he was not a mere agnostic in canonicals, but true to his belief, though he did not avail himself personally of this advantage.

There was not a tree in the village, except a willow that wept over a mud pond on the roadside by the church, as some sanctified parties do over the worthless dead; yet Denton could be compared to nothing but the backwoods of a colony, so rugged an aspect did the Gwynne boys give to the place. They were the talk of the neighbourhood for miles around. They could, nevertheless, satirize and very cleverly mock those who looked down on their doings. One or two of them, once on a visit at the Wallingers’, followed their aunt, by invitation, up to the drawing-room. She knew them of old, and while they ascended the stairs she turned round suddenly, when she met the sight she expected—one was making hideous faces at her, the other was squaring his fists at her back.

“Dear me! You seem amused,” was her only reproof; but she secretly enjoyed it, for everything was grateful to her that stamped others as her inferiors.

IX.

I was now to enter on a new life. My home was to be a monastic one, which three hundred years before had been the residence of mitred abbots. A king had expelled these from their Gothic dominion; another and a better king had given it to his children, among whom in these latter days were Coleridge, Leigh Hunt, and Charles Lamb. And now I was to be there, to tread in their steps, to pace the same ancient cloisters, to catch the same earnest mood in pacing them.

The place was more like a university than a school. Four classical masters to teach us the languages of Athens and Rome; two writing-masters, who themselves wrote like copper-plate, and made us do likewise, besides teaching us figures.

Then we had playgrounds by the acre. One looking on Little Britain through lofty palisades, on which same ground were the residences of the masters and of certain dignitaries, among them that of the treasurer, always a City magnate, and to us inscrutably great. The counting-house was in the grounds, as well as the head and junior master’s houses, together with the office and house of the steward. With all these buildings, the playground was not crowded; and apart, in the large open space on the north side, stood the grammar school.

Now that the institution is to be removed, the character of the boys will change, and all its traditions end. The cloisters and garden within their quadrangle, with the monkish dormitories and other old places, have hitherto shaped the minds of the boys, and this influence will cease, and the feeling will vanish that the school owed its foundation to a king. It was in this feeling that the pride of the boys lay; it indulged them in the belief that they were superior to all other boys. They thought of their royal founder almost as if they were descended from him, and honoured their very dress from its similarity to that which the youthful sovereign himself wore.

In my time the cloisters were Gothic, as originally built; half a century ago they were reconstructed into Saxon or some other contemptible pattern, which has perpetuated the architect’s ignorance, insensibility, and bad taste up to the present. But it signifies little; all will be swept away and covered with shops, where the name of Homer will nevermore be heard. But Parliament, in sympathy with open spaces, may grant the necessary million. Not they!

But nothing was intended to last for ever, if we except—what?

The genius of the place affected me very soon, I felt myself growing into monkhood. I preferred the sombre cloister to the playground, and for that reason I often had to be alone there, not in steady thought, but under involuntary emotions which ran through me like an underground current. Then, the suggestiveness of some of the inscriptions on the walls, thus, “Here lies a benefactor, let no one move his bones.” This I used to regard as a very pathetic appeal, as if the bones were very comfortable where they were yet in constant dread of being disturbed. Had nothing been said they might have been safer from the antiquarian.

But I should mention that the first ordeal I was put through was to fight. Every boy knew whom he could fight; this was required of him for the benefit of his public. A boy named Yardley was selected to test my pugnacious powers. We were of a height, both tall, and of about the same age. We were taken into a private yard. Of fighting I knew nothing; but I had a quick eye and was quick of limb. More than this I had dramatic imagination, and to this it was that I owed my victory. I pictured to myself a tiger springing at his prey, and with this example I leapt at my antagonist from some distance, and my fists covered his face and eyes almost before he knew that I was upon him. He had not a moment’s chance, he floundered each time that I was upon him.

This encounter was never forgotten by the boys, and I was never asked to fight again.

X.

Theodore Watts, as he told me twenty years ago, holds the opinion that Shakespeare wrote private poetry in a separate book while composing his dramas, and that he gave such portions of it as he could make fit, to certain of his characters. He thought, if I remember aright, that the soliloquy and the dagger-scene were morsels of this sort. It certainly must strike one that “the law’s delay” and “the insolence of office” were not prominent grievances in Hamlet’s career.

When I was about eleven years old I became owner of Rowe’s “Shakespeare,” which has in it a wonderful little life of the bard. He quotes the marvellous passage beginning with—

“She never told her love,”

and, as far as memory serves me, it was to declare that poetry of such exquisite beauty was not to be found in any other writer, ancient or modern. I have since often thought that nothing in the context fairly led up to an idea of such magnitude, and that the passage was one of Shakespeare’s interpolations. Be this as it may, it had an elevating effect on me which has lasted me for life; it gave me a sense of perfect excellence. It may appear ridiculous to say that it not only made me envious of the greatest of writers, but that it depressed me, in turn, with the feeling that I could never equal it, however long I might live!

No other writer at that time affected me similarly, except Virgil, when I came to that passage which depicts the breaking of the waves on the prow of the vessel and the receding of the cities and lands (_terræque urbesque recedunt_). After we reached our beds at night the boys were wont to “coze” in literary cliques round some favourite tale-teller, who would relate marvellous stories of knights and ladies, with much about genii, fairies, and witches. Though I never heard anything to that effect, I have always thought that Coleridge must have lent himself to such delights for the pleasure of others, and that “Christabel” was unconsciously an outcome of these romantic entertainments.

Many of the boys were great readers of forbidden story, and smuggled books into the school, the penalty of which, on being found out, was a flogging. The books in question were romances of enchanted castles; of beautiful young women, the prisoners of tyrants; of subterraneous passages and solitary cells. I would give much to possess a circulating library of that day. Such a one I found at Seaford, and devoured whenever my holidays came round. The novel, as reintroduced by Plumer Ward, and imitated greedily by Bulwer and Disraeli, was then unknown.

“Tremaine,” like all new conceptions which are accordant with the average mentality of great Britons, became epidemic, and floated over the reading world as a new sensation. It was succeeded by “De Vere,” while Walter Scott was winding up the business of romance. The success of these works started a fresh “novel” epoch, now, too, worn out, only lingering till such successors as Walter Besant and Louis Stevenson are ready to sweep them from view. This is so true that it is almost a disgrace to write a novel.

It must not, however, be forgotten that Dickens fired a bomb into library shelves, and that Thackeray gave us his own character in novelistic shape.

All great things appear in epochs, which hitherto have had a limited duration. Witness the rise and fall of sculpture in Greece, of epic and drama there; of painting in Italy, beginning with Titian and Raphael as late as the sixteenth century; of music in Germany and Italy, now on the point of extinction. Poetry, too, has had its day from Shakespeare to Coleridge, and is now dead. The present is the epoch of invention, and that will die out.

Music has never been of the highest quality in a free country. The northern nations, England, America, the great Colonies, produce no musical genius; Italy and Germany have ceased to do so since they came into the enjoyment of freedom.

Science itself, now rampant, is but of an epoch. But, amid all this, religion is enduring.

Some will say, We now have the Press; that will maintain and resuscitate all that is good or beautiful! Not so; it is but of an epoch, and is already _blasé_. It does not lead; it only “follows the leader,” as in a game played by a child.

Nothing that has been and has died out, will be revived. The skeleton, an osseous Apollo, will remain, and that is all.

These dry bones cannot live, O son of man!

XI.

The masters of the school in my time were a certain set of reverends named Rice, Lynam, and the Trollopes. I was more or less under all, none of whom were in sympathy with boys. Rice was called “cuddy,” a word in our vocabulary signifying “severe.” He beat the boys with a fury worthy of a bastard son of the Eumenides.

To see that man of the fist, rod, and cane spending his force on a little boy, now leaving the autograph of his four fingers, in red and white, on the infant’s cheek, sending him reeling half-way up the room, while the robes he wore were flung fluttering into the air, was a sight worthy of the demons, and would have made for them a _matinée_.

Lynam was a quiet man. He heard the boys their lessons, but never explained them. Under him I had the Greek and Latin grammars so well by heart, that, give me a week to look them over, I could repeat them now! We had to say them, year after year, but there was no teaching. When he got rid of a class he was at once at his own work, and that probably was “The Lives of the Roman Emperors,” published after his decease.

Trollope was of the neuter gender. He must have been paralyzed at some period of his life, for his articulation was jumbled; he rolled one word into another before it took sound, and he dragged a leg after him as a Scotchman would a haddock. But his father, the doctor, carried the divinity, in which he had graduated, about his person. His shovel hat, his robes, all bespoke that heavenly dandy, a dignitary of the Church Catholic and Apostolic. He looked worthy the order of the black silk pinafore.

In those days, and long after, an English clergyman dressed like a gentleman; he now wears a black livery, and he looks like a bishop’s footman, in mourning, with his master, for some dead archbishop.

The school was truly classical and nothing else, except for the teaching of “spongy” Reynolds and “hacky” Clark—the writing and arithmetic masters—the affix of this first being due to a nose which was amorphous and appeared to belong to the class _Porifera_, or sponges, while that of the second was due to a guttural crackling sound of the man’s voice.

To do Reynolds justice, he was not impatient, and he was painstaking with his pupils. To facilitate his arithmetical instruction he wrote two lines of verse which were _naïve_—they ran thus:—

“Profit and loss accounts are plain; We debit loss and credit gain.”

But his supreme merit was that of substituting geographical for moral texts in our copy-books. One I remember, for small text, was, “Batavia in Java, capital of the Dutch settlements.”