And in case I should appear to be a very unworthy member of a house whose party feelings were so decided, but luckily so harmless, I may mention that I had as much right as anybody to call myself a Jacobite, and could boast, like some of them, of having had an ancestor hanged, seeing that my maternal great-grandfather, John Leyburne, was tried at Liverpool at the sanguinary assizes held there in 1716, for his adherence to the Chevalier Saint George, and afterwards executed at Garstang, near which place he had resided.
I easily found out that my father was no great favourite with Mrs. Mervyn. She had never approved of the match, and thought his conduct towards his wife wholly inexcusable. Indeed, and with some justice, she laid my mother’s early death at his door. Three years later on, when news came from India that he had married again, and, having exchanged into another regiment just sent out, did not mean to return for some time, she declared she was not at all surprised at his proceedings. “He never estimated poor Clara at her true value,” she said—” never understood her quiet and deep affection. Alas! poor girl, she is now entirely forgotten, and her place supplied by some other thoughtless young creature sent out on speculation for a husband. Well, whoever she may be, for I know nothing of her beyond her name, Bertha Honeywood, she has got no great prize, and it is to be hoped may be better treated than her predecessor. Captain Clitheroe seems not only to have forgotten his first wife, but all belonging to her,” she added, looking hard at me; “it is well that some one was attached to poor orphan Clara, and for her sake will watch over the child she has left behind her.”
Mrs. Mervyn had been always kind to me, but after this news she became even kinder than before. Remittances for my maintenance and education were regularly received from my father, but he expressed no interest whatever concerning me, and entered into no explanations as to his future intentions respecting me.
The Anchorite’s was situated at the foot of a woody eminence overlooking the Yale of the Ater, on whose banks it stood. It derived its appellation from an old religious cell, the ruins of which could still be traced in the garden. A shady walk beneath a row’ of elms led to the brink of the Ater, and on the greensward and slopes were many old trees, probably contemporary with the retreat, and in especial an ancient yew, which must have numbered centuries when the hermit built his cell. Through openings in the grove sheltering the house might be caught glimpses, about three miles off, of the smoke-canopied town of Cottonborough, whose nulls had already invaded some of the neighbouring heights commanding the circuitous windings of the river. Though not large, the house was commodious; comprehending a good sombre-looking dining-room, wainscoted with oak, and full of dusky oak furniture; a fine old oak staircase, highly polished; and an admirable library, full of old books. A deeply-embayed window, with stone mullion frames, looked from the library into the garden, and adjoining it was a small octagonal chamber, like an oratory, with windows full of stained glass, emblazoned with the arms of various Lancashire families.
Mrs. Mervyn was very hospitable, but her invitations were chiefly confined to clergymen, and a day seldom passed that one or two reverend gentlemen did not dine with her; and, as these excellent members of society are not supposed to despise the good things of the world, and the dinners at the Anchorite’s were unexceptionable, a refusal was seldom experienced. Mrs. Mervyn had some fine old plate, and on state occasions the sideboard and table blazed with it, but ordinarily her dinners were more comfortable than showy. A clergyman always sat at the foot of the table, and, on the high days just alluded to, perhaps a bishop, or the warden of the Collegiate Church, an archdeacon, or some eminent clerical dignitary, would support her on the right and left. I have already said that she possessed a capital cook in Molly Bailey, whose Prestonpans cutlets, Hanoverian calf’s head with Nonjuror sauce, baked Derwentwater pike with Brunswick pudding inside, Charles Edward’s jugged hare, Earl of Mar’s game pie, and Sacheverell puffs, were much enjoyed, notwithstanding their designations. Mr. Comberbach took care that the cellar should be well stocked with the finest old port and Madeira (champagne or hock were never given), and as Mrs. Mervyn never stinted her wine, while the reverend gentleman who sat at the bottom of the table was fully aware of her hospitable wishes, and carefully seconded them himself, her guests were always plentifully supplied. The Rev. Barton Lever, the divine in question, was a fellow of the Collegiate Church, and a very estimable, excellent man, a sound scholar, a lover of black-letter books, fond of antiquarian researches, and no mean poet. He officiated as Mrs. Mervyn’s almoner, recommended worthy objects for her bounty, and distributed, unostentatiously, as she desired, the large sums devoted by her to charitable uses.
Thus, though in effect an orphan, for my father seemed to care so little about me, that I might almost as well have been without him, I had a very kind friend and a very good home; and I had, besides, some other kind friends and relatives, whom I shall hereafter introduce to the reader.
I must postpone further description of Mrs. Mervyn till I arrive at the period of my life when I was old enough to understand more fully the excellences of her character, and was permitted to take part at her hospitable entertainments, and make acquaintance with her guests. Several years must be passed over with the mere mention of their flight. In a word, I may say that the days of my childhood were happy, but dull, for I had few playmates. I was like a boy brought up in a monastery, or like Rasselas in the Happy Valley; for, though I had the run of the house and the garden, I was not permitted to stray beyond their precincts. Thus, I envied those who had more freedom than I had, and longed for the time when I should be sent to a public school. I had excellent private instruction, but I yearned for the company of other boys; and at last, when I was nearly twelve years old, Mrs. Mervyn reluctantly yielded to my wishes, and sent me to the Cottonborough Free Grammar School.
But, alas! the gratification of the wish was followed by immediate repentance and regret. Hitherto, I had not been conscious of my own happiness. The knowledge came too late. I would now willingly have gone back to my quiet life and easy studies at the Anchorite’s, but very shame prevented me.
CHAPTER II.
AN ACCOUNT OF MY SCHOOLDAYS, SCHOOLFELLOWS, AND SCHOOLMASTERS — MR. ABEL CANE PROVES THAT HE IS ABLE TO CANE — DR. LONSDALE ADOPTS A DIFFERENT MODE OF TUITION — JOHN BRIDEOAKE — A BUNKER’S HILL HERO — A BOY DROWNED.
FOUNDED by a benevolent bishop, in the early part of the sixteenth century, well endowed, and subsequently enriched by a great number of exhibitions and scholarships, the Cottonborough Free Grammar School has always maintained a high reputation for sound classical instruction, and though not ranking with Eton or Harrow as a fashionable place of education, from the circumstance of its being situated in a large manufacturing town, which has deterred some persons of good family from sending their sons to it, it has turned out many excellent scholars, who have cut a figure at the universities, and distinguished themselves afterwards in the various walks of life.
I cannot say much in praise of the architectural beauty of the school; for, if truth must be spoken, it was exceedingly ugly; and, though a very old foundation, the building was comparatively modern, and did not date back, from the period of which I write, more than twenty or thirty years. It was raised on a high sandstone bank overlooking the little river Ink, not far from its confluence with the Ater; and viewed on this side, in connexion with the old and embrowned walls adjoining it, its appearance was not unpicturesque, — certainly more pleasing than when viewed from the crowded and noisy thoroughfare by which it was approached. It was a large, dingy, and smoke-begrimed brick building, with copings of stone, and had so many windows that it looked like a lantern. In front, between the angles of the pointed roof, was placed a stone effigy of the bird of wisdom, which seemed to gaze down at us with its great goggle eyes as we passed by, as if muttering, “Enter this academic abode over which I preside, and welcome, but you’ll never come out as clever as I.” What the school wanted in antiquity was supplied by a venerable p
ile contiguous to it, which in remote times had been part of the collegiate establishment of the Old Church of Cottonborough; but in the reign of James the First, falling into the hands of a wealthy and munificent merchant of the place, it was by him devoted to the foundation of a hospital for the maintenance and education of a certain number of poor lads, and to the creation, for public use and benefit, of a large and admirable library within its walls. This was the Blue-Coat Hospital and Library, for which Cottonborough has reason to be grateful.
Adjoining our modem iron rails was a venerable stone gateway, with an arched entrance opening upon the broad playground of the Blue-Coat Hospital, which as far surpassed anything we possessed as its college-like halls and refectories exceeded our formal school in beauty; while the blank black walls of another part of the structure, composed of a stone so soft and friable that it seemed to absorb every particle of smoke that approached it, formed a little court in front of our door of entrance, and the flight of stone steps conducting to it. The school was divided into two rooms, each occupying a whole floor, and the lower school — in those days a very confined, dirty-looking place, utterly unworthy of such an establishment — was reached by a flight of steps descending from the little court I have described. But, happily, I knew nothing from personal experience of this dark and dismal hole, being introduced at once to the upper school, which, if it had no other merit, was airy and spacious enough. There were four fireplaces and four tables, those at either extremity being assigned to the head master and the second master, and the others to the two ushers. Each master had two classes, so that there were eight in all. The walls were whitewashed, and, like the flat roof, without any decoration whatever, unless the oak wainscoting at the back of the boy’s benches, which surrounded the whole schoolroom, can be so considered. These benches, the desks in front of them, and the panels behind, were of the hardest oak; and it was well they were so, for they had to resist the ravages of a thousand knives. In some places they were further secured with clamps of iron. Everybody cut his name on the desks or wainscot, like the captives in state prisons in the olden time; and amongst these mementoes I suppose I have somewhere left mine. I know that while once carving it on the leads of the Collegiate Church I nearly carved off my forefinger. The place was not so light as might be conceived from the multitude of windows, for they were never cleaned, and the panes of glass were yellow and almost tawny from the reeky atmosphere.
On entering the school, the buzz of so many tongues was prodigious, and almost took away the power of thought or study; but after awhile one got used to it, and the noise did not affect you in the least. When the din rose to too high a pitch, loud cries of “Silence, you boys!” would be heard, accompanied by the rapping of a cane on the table, or the dreadful sounds of a punishment would produce a partial lull; and then might be heard the deep sonorous voice of the archi-didasculus, Doctor Lonsdale, mouthing out a passage from Æschylus or Aristophanes, rumbling away like distant thunder, or the sharp, high-pitched voice of the hypo-didasculus, Mr. Cane. We began the day’s work betimes, and prayers were read both at morn and at eventide. On winter evenings, when the school was lighted up by tapers, the twinkling light of which fell upon the boys as they knelt at prayer, while no sound was heard but that proceeding from the reader of the devotional exercises, I used to think the scene striking enough. But it was gone in a moment. No sooner were prayers over, than everybody seized his hat and books; boxes were hastily clapped-to, tapers extinguished; the hurried trampling of departed footsteps succeeded — and all vanished like a dream.
The Reverend Abel Cane, under whose care I was first placed, was a sound classical scholar, but a severe disciplinarian. He was one of those who believe that a knowledge of Latin and Greek can be driven into a boy, and that his capacity may be sharpened by frequent punishment. Under this impression he was constantly thrashing us. In his drawer he had several canes of various lengths, and of various degrees of thickness, tied with tatching-end to prevent them from splitting; and for all these he found employment. While calling us round for punishment he got as red in the gills as a turkey-cock, and occasionally rose up to give greater effect to the blows. Some boys were so frightened that they couldn’t learn their tasks at all, and others so reckless of the punishment which they knew must ensue, whether or not, that they intentionally neglected them. I have seen boys with “blood-blisters,” as they called them, on their hands, and others with weals on their backs, but I do not recollect that the castigation did them any good, but the very reverse. But our preceptor had other ingenious modes of torture. He would make us stand in the middle of the school for a whole day, and even longer — sometimes on one leg; and the effect of balancing in this posture, with a heavy dictionary in hand, and a Virgil under the arm, was ludicrous enough, though rather perplexing. It must not be imagined that I escaped the cane. I had enough of it, and to spare, both on shoulders and hands. Notwithstanding our dread of him, we used to play Mr. Cane a great many tricks. We notched his canes so that they split when he used them; put gravel into the keyhole of his drawer; mingled soot with his ink; threw fulminating balls under his feet; and even meditated blowing him up with gunpowder. An adventurous youth essayed the effect of a burning-glass on his ear, but was instantly detected, and called round for punishment. Another tried to throw the rays from a bit of looking-glass into his eye, and shared the same fate. With all his discipline, if our dreaded master were called out of school for a few minutes, the greatest row would commence. The boys sitting at either end of the form would place their feet against the edge of the desks, and squeeze up those between them so unmercifully that they roared again. Books, volleys of peas from tin-cases, and other missiles, were discharged at the occupants of the opposite forms; and the miserable fellows in the middle of the school became marks for their comrades, and returned the aggression in the best way they could. These disturbances were, of course, witnessed by the ushers, but they rarely mentioned them; and Doctor Lonsdale was too far off to hear what was going on; and I don’t think he altogether approved of the second master’s severity. To a new boy, it was dreadful to hear Mr. Cane cry out to some offender, “Come round, you stew-ew-pia as-s-s!” hissing like a serpent as he uttered the final word of scorn; dreadful to witness the writhings of the victim as he underwent castigation; still more dreadful to hear the words addressed to himself, intensified as they were by the furious looks that accompanied them. In some cases Mr. Cane drove all the capacity they possessed out of the boys’ heads. There was one poor little fellow, Devereux Frogg, whose wits could never be stimulated. Poor Devereux! how I pitied him, and tried to help him, and crammed him — but it was of no use. When we went up he was so frightened that all went out of his head, and the daily drubbing ensued. And there were others like him. Mr. Cane was a fresh-complexioned man, with good features, and a handsome aquiline nose; he was scrupulously neat in his attire, and wore a long gold watch-chain, which he twirled about when walking, or when excited; and he had a habit of thinking aloud. “What strange contradictions of character some persons offer. Out of school Mr. Cane was very amiable and good-tempered, fond of music, and cultivated a taste for poetry. I hated him cordially then; but I learnt to like him afterwards, and now I lament in him the lost friend.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 438
