I am tempted1 to give here an anecdote2 that was currently told of Gabell—though I cannot say that it occurred within my knowledge—because it is at all events a very characteristic one.
Some boy or other—he was, I fancy, a “commoner,” or one of Dr. Gabell’s private pupils—was guilty of some small delinquency which had the unfortunate effect of especially angering the Doctor, who, in his rage, without giving a second thought to the matter, wrote off a hurried letter to the boy’s father, telling him that if his son continued his present conduct he was on the high road to ruin.{126}
Unfortunately, the parent lived in one of the far northern counties. In extreme distress4 he at once left home and posted to Winchester.
Rushing, in agitation5 and anxiety, into Gabell’s study, he gasped6 out, “What is it? Tell it me at once! What has my unhappy boy done?”
“What boy?” snorted Gabell. “What do you mean? I don’t know what you are talking about!”
The father, much relieved, but more amazed, pulls out the terrible letter which had summoned him, and puts it before the much crestfallen7 “informator.”
“I had forgotten all about it!” he was compelled to own. “The boy is a good boy enough. You had better go and talk to him yourself, and—and tell him not to miss answering his name again!” The parent’s feelings and his expression of them may be imagined.
It used to be said, I remember, that of the two masters of Winchester, one snored without sleeping (Gabell), and the other slept without snoring. Gabell was, in truth, always snorting or snoring (so to call it); but the accusation9 against Williams of sleeping was, I think, justified10 only by his peculiarly placid12 and quiet manner. He was a remarkably13 handsome man; and his sobriquet14, among those of the previous generation rather than among us boys, was, “The Beauty of Holiness”—again with reference to the unruffled repose16 of his manner. We boys invariably called him “Gaffer.” Why, I know not.
Gabell, I think, had no nickname; but there was{127} a phrase among us, as common as any household word, which was in some degree characteristic of the man. Any conduct which was supposed likely to turn out eventually to the detriment17 of the actor was called “spiting Gabell;” and the expression was continually used when the speaker intended no more reference to Dr. Gabell than a man who orders a spencer has to the first wearer of that garment.
Mr. Ridding was not a popular master, though I do not know that he had any worse fault than a bad manner. It was a jaunty18, jerky, snappish manner, totally devoid19 of personal dignity. It was said that in school he was not impartial20. But by the time he became second master, on the retirement21 of Gabell, I had reached that part of the school which was under the head master, and have no personal knowledge of the matter. I do not think any boy would have gone to Ridding in any private trouble or difficulty. There was not one who would not have gone to Williams as to a father.
But in my reminiscences of the college authorities, I must not omit the first and greatest of all—the Warden22. Huntingford, Bishop23 of Hereford, was Warden during the whole of my college career. He was an aged24 man, and somewhat of a valetudinarian25. And to the imagination of us boys, who rarely saw him, he assumed something of the mystic, awe26-inspiring character of a “veiled prophet of Khorassan.” The most awful threat that could be fulminated against any boy, was that he should{128} be had up before the Warden. I do not remember that any boy ever was. He alone could expel a boy; and he alone could give leave out from college; as was testified by the appearance every Sunday of a great folio sheet, on which were inscribed27, in his own peculiar11 great square characters, each letter standing28 by itself, the names of those who had been invited by friends to dine in the town, and who were thereby29 permitted to go out from, I think, one to five. To go out of the college gates without that permission was expulsion. But it was a crime never committed. There were traditional stories of scaling of walls, but I remember no case of the kind.
There was one occasion on which every boy had an interview with the Warden—that of taking before him the “college oath,” which took place when we were, as I remember, fourteen. On a certain day in every year the “prefect of hall” made inquiry31 for all of that age who had not taken the oath, and required them to copy a sheet of writing handed to them. I cannot remember the words in which the oath was couched, but the main provisions of it were to the effect that you would never by word or deed do aught to injure the college or its revenues; that you would be obedient to the authorities; and that you would never in any way by word or deed look down on any scholar of the college, the social position of whose family might be inferior to your own. And I remember that there was appended to the oath the story of a{129} certain captain in Cromwell’s forces, who, when the Parliament troopers were about to invade, and probably sack, the college, so exercised his authority as to prevent that misfortune, being influenced thereto by the remembrance of his college oath. Before swearing, which we did with much awe, we had to read over the oath. And I well remember that if a boy in reading pronounced the word “revenue” with the accent on the first syllable32 (as it was already at that time the usual mode to do), the Warden invariably corrected him with, “Rev15ènue, boy!” It was, I suppose, an exemplification of the dictum “No innovation,” which (with the “a” pronounced as in “father,”) was said to be continually the rule of his conduct.
Probably it did not occur to him that the Herefordshire people might have considered it an innovation that Herefordshire candidates for orders should be obliged to come to be ordained33 in Winchester College Chapel34, as was the case, instead of finding their Bishop in his own cathedral church!
Bishop Huntingford was a notable Grecian, and had published a rudimentary book of Greek exercises, which was at one time largely used. I take it he was not in any larger sense a profound scholar. But I remember a story which was illustrative of his grammatical accuracy. The Dean of Winchester, Dr. Rennell, was an enthusiastic Platonist, and upon one occasion in conversation with the Warden and others, quoted a passage from Plato, in which{130} the adjective “παντων” occurred. Upon which the Bishop promptly35 denied that any such words were to be found in Plato. The controversy36 was said to have been remitted37 to the arbitrament of a wager38 of a dinner and dozen of port, when the Warden, who in fact knew nothing of the passage quoted, but knew that the Dean had said “παντων” in the masculine, when the substantive39 with which it was made to agree required the feminine, said, “No! no! πασων, Mr. Dean, πασων!” and so won his wager.
The Warden’s nickname, borne among sundry40 generations of Wykehamists, was Tupto (τυπτω), as we always supposed from that Greek verb used as the example in the Greek grammar. But I have heard from those of an earlier generation that it was quasi dicas “tiptoe,” from the fact of his father having been a dancing-master. The former derivation seems to me the more plausible41.
“Tupto” very rarely came to college chapel, and when he did so in his episcopal wig42 and lawn sleeves, it was felt by us that his presence gave a very marked additional solemnity to the occasion. Though assuredly far from being a model bishop according to the estimate of these latter days, I believe him to have been a very good man. He lived and died a bachelor, having at a very early period of his life undertaken the support of a brother’s widow and family, who had been left unprovided for. And it was reported among Wykehamists of an earlier generation than mine{131} that never was husband so severely43 ruled by a wife as the Bishop was by his sister-in-law. “Peace to his manes,” as old Cramer, the pianist, used to say, always pronouncing it monosyllabically, “mains”! His rule of Winchester College was a long and prosperous one; and as long as it lasted he was able to carry out his favourite maxim44, “No innovation!”
But when old Tupto went over to the majority, the spirit of innovation, so long repressed, began to exert itself in many directions. I am told for instance that it has been found too much for young Wykehamists of the present generation to wait for their breakfasts till ten in the morning, and that the excursion to “morning hills” before breakfast is declared to be too much for their strength. Well, I wish it may answer, as Sterne’s Uncle Toby said. But I do not think that the college during the latter years of our century can show better bills of health than it did in its earlier decades.
The dormitory arrangements are much changed, I believe, and it may be worth while to record a few reminiscences of what they were in my day.
The second or inner quadrangle of the college buildings was formed by the chapel and hall and kitchen on one side, and on the other three by the lodgings45 of the fellows and the “hostiarius” on the first floor, and the “chambers47” of the scholars on the ground floor. These chambers were seven in number. They contained therefore on an average ten beds each. But they were by no means equal{132} in size. The largest, “seventh” (for they were all known by their numbers), held thirteen beds; the smallest, “fifth,” only eight. A few years before my time, that side of the quadrangle under which were situated48 the “first” and “second” chambers was burned. And the beds and other arrangements in these two chambers were of a more modern model. In the other five the old bedsteads remained as they had been from time immemorial. They were of solid oak of two to three inches thickness in every part, and were black with age. The part which held the bed was a box, about six feet and a half long, by three wide, with solid sides some six inches deep, and supported on four massive legs. But at the head for about eighteen inches or so these sides were raised to a height of about four or five feet, and covered in. The whole construction was massive, and afforded an extremely snug49 and comfortable sleeping place, which was much preferred to the iron bedsteads in the two new chambers. Older bones might perhaps have found the oak planking under the bed somewhat hard, but we were entirely50 unconscious of any such objection.
The door in every chamber46 was well screened from the beds. There was a huge fireplace with heavy iron dogs, on which we burned in winter large faggots about four feet long. Four of such faggots was the allowance for each evening, and it was abundantly sufficient. It was the duty of the bedmakers, whose operations were all performed when we were in school, to put four faggots in each{133} chamber, which we used at our discretion51—i. e. at the discretion of the prefects in the chamber. As the eighteen prefects were distributed among the seven chambers, there were three prefects in each of the larger, and two in each of the smaller chambers. By the side of each bed was a little desk, with a cupboard above, which was called a “toys,” in which each boy kept the books he needed for work “in chambers,” and any other private property. For his clothes he had also by his bedside a large chest, of a make contemporary with the bedstead, which served him also for a seat at the desk of the “toys.” In the middle of the chamber was a pillar, around which were hung our surplices. Over the huge fireplace was an iron sconce fixed52 in the wall, in which a rushlight, called by us a “functure” was burned all night. And the “prefect in course” was responsible for its being kept duly burning. The nightly rounds of the “hostiarius” were not frequent, but he might come at any minute of any night. Suddenly his pass key would be heard in the door—for it was the rule that every chamber door should be kept locked all night; he came in with a lanthorn in his hand, and if all was right, i. e. if the functure was duly burning, every boy in his bed, and his candle put out, he merely looked around and passed on to another chamber. If otherwise, the “prefect in course” had an interview with him on the following morning. These chamber doors, which, as I have said, it was the rule to keep always locked during the night, were exceed{134}ingly massive, ironbound, and with enormous locks and hinges. Now there was a tradition in college that a certain former “senior prefect in third” (subaudi chamber) had carried the door of that chamber round the quadrangle. The Atlas53 thus remembered was a minor54 canon of the cathedral, when I was “senior prefect in third,” and the tradition of his prowess excited my emulation55. So I had the door in question taken from its hinges and laid upon my bent56 back, and caused the door of “fourth” to be carefully placed on the top of it, and so carried both doors round the quadrangle, thus outdoing the minor canon by a hundred per cent. In due proportion the feat57 should surely have made me in time a canon! But it has not done so. I think, however, that I might challenge any one of my schoolfellows of the present generation, whose constitutions are cared for by the early breakfasts, which we did not get, to do likewise—supposing, that is, the old doors to be still in existence, and in statu quo. From seven to eight we were, or ought to have been, at work, seated at our “toys” in chambers. And during that hour no “inferior” could leave the chamber without the permission of the “prefect in course.” At eight we went into chapel—or rather into the ante-chapel only—for short prayers, and after that till nine we were free to do as we pleased. Some would walk up and down “sands,” as the broad flagstone pavement below the chapel wall was called.
Each prefect in the chamber had a little table, at{135} which he sat during the evening, and which in the morning served as a washing-stand, on which it was the duty of the “junior,” who was his “valet,” to place his basin and washing things. But all “inferiors” had to perform their ablutions at the “conduit” in the open quadrangle. In severe or wet weather this was not Sybaritic! But again I say that it would have been difficult to find a healthier collection of boys than we were.
The discipline which regulated that part of college life spent “in chambers,” must have been, I think, much more lax at a former day, than it was in my time, for I remember to have heard my father, who was in college under Dr. Warton, say that Tom Warton, the head master’s brother (and the well-known author of the History of Poetry) used frequently to be with the boys “in chambers” of an evening; that he would often knock off a companion’s “verse task” for him, and that the Doctor the next morning would recognise “that rascal58 Tom’s work.” Now in my day it would have been altogether impossible and out of the question for any outsider, however much an old Wykehamist, and brother of the master, to be with us in chambers.
There was an anecdote current I remember among Wykehamists of that generation respecting “that rascal Tom,” to the effect that he narrowly missed becoming head of Trinity, of which college at Oxford59 he was a fellow, under the following circumstances. There was a certain fellow of the college, whose name need not here be recorded,{136} rather famous among his contemporaries for the reverse of wisdom or intelligence. Upon one occasion, Tom Warton, sitting in his stall in chapel close to the gentleman in question, who was reading the Psalms60, and when the latter came to the verse, “Lord, thou knowest my simpleness,” was so indiscreet as to mutter in an almost audible tone, “Ay! we all know that!” But it so chanced that not very long afterwards there was an election for the presidentship of the college, and Warton, who was a very popular man, was one of two candidates. The college, however, was very closely divided between them, and “that rascal Tom” had to apply to his “simple” colleague for his vote. “Not so simple as all that, Mr. Warton!” was the reply; and the story goes that the historian of poetry lost his election by that one vote.
And this college chapel anecdote reminds me to say, before concluding my Wiccamical reminiscences, a few words about our chapel-going in the olden time. In this department also very much of change has taken place, doubtless here at least for the better.
But it must be remembered that any change of this sort has been contemporaneous with change, at least as strongly marked in the same direction, in the general tone of English manners, sentiments, and habits. We English were not a devout62 people in the days when George the Third was king, especially as regards all that portion of the world which held aloof63 from evangelicalism and dissent64. We were not altogether without religious feeling in{137} college, but it manifested itself chiefly in the form of a pronounced abhorrence65 for those two, as we considered them, ungentlemanlike propensities66. For about three weeks at Easter time the lower classes in the school read the Greek Testament67 instead of the usual Greek authors, and the upper classes read Lowth’s Pr?lections on the Sacred Poetry of the Hebrews—a book unimpeachable68 in point of Latinity and orthodoxy, for was not the author a Wykehamist? But I do not remember aught else in the way of religious instruction, unless it were found in the assiduity of our attendances at chapel.
We went to chapel twice (including the short evening prayers in the ante-chapel) every day. On Fridays we went three times, and on Saturdays also three times; the service in the afternoon being choral. On Sundays we went thrice to chapel, and twice to the cathedral; on red-letter days thrice to chapel, and as often on “Founder’s commemoration,” and “Founder’s obit.” These latter services, as also those on Sundays and holidays, were choral. We had three chaplains, an organist, four vicars choral, and six choristers for the service of the chapel. The “choristers,” who were mentioned at a former page as carrying the “dispers” up into hall, though so called, had nothing to do with the choral service. They were twelve in number, were fed, clothed, and educated by a master of their own, and discharged the duty of waiting on the scholars as messengers, etc., at certain hours.
Our three chaplains were all of them also minor{138} canons of the cathedral. Very worthy69, good men they were—one of them especially and exceptionally exemplary in his family relations; but their mode of performing the service in the chapel was not what would in these days be considered decorous or reverential. Besides the chaplaincy of the college, and the minor canonry of the cathedral, these gentlemen—all three of them, I believe—held small livings in the city. And the multiplicity of duty which had thus to be done rendered a decree of speed in the performance of the service so often a desideratum, and sometimes an absolute necessity, that that became the most marked characteristic of the performers. In reading, or rather intoning the prayers, the habit was to allow no time at all for the choir70 to chant their “Amen,” which had to be interjected in such sort that when the tones of it died away the priest had already got through two or three lines of the following prayer. One of our chaplains, who had the well-deserved character of being the fastest of the three, we called the diver. For it was his practice in reading or intoning to continue with great rapidity as long as his breath would last, and then, while recovering it, to proceed mentally without interruption, so that we lost sight (or hearing) of him at one point, and when he came to the surface, i.e., became audible again, he was several lines further down the page; and this we called “diving.” It was proudly believed in college that this was the gentleman of whom the story was first told, that he was ready to give any man to{139} “Pontius Pilate” in the Creed71, and arrive at the end before him. But however worthy competitor he may have been in such a race, I have reason to believe that the chaplain of a certain college in Oxford was the original of the story.
Another of our three chaplains was a great sportsman. It was the practice that the lessons were always read in chapel by one of the prefects.
I remember by the bye (but this is parenthetical), that one of our number was unable to pronounce the letter “r,” and we used to scheme that it should fall to his lot to tell us that “Bawabbas was a wobber.”
Now the boy who read the lessons, sat, not in his usual place, but by the side of the chaplain who was performing the service. And it was the habit of the reverend sportsman I have referred to, to intercalate with the verses of the Psalm61 he was reading, sotto voce, anecdotes72 of his most recent sporting achievements, addressed to the youth at his side, using for the purpose the interval73 during which the choir recited the alternate verse.
As thus, on one twenty-eighth evening of the month, well remembered after some sixty years:
“On Hurstley Down yesterday I was out with Jack76 Woodburn” (this was another minor canon of the cathedral, but not one of our chaplains)....
“Sehon king of the Amorites: for his mercy endureth for ever.”
{140}
“My black bitch Juno put up a covey almost at our feet.”
“And gave away their land for an heritage: for his mercy endureth for ever.”
“Who remembered us when we were in trouble: for his mercy endureth for ever.”
“But Jack fired too soon and never touched a feather.” And so on.
Now there would be no sort of interest in recording78 that we unfortunately chanced to have at one time a very graceless chaplain, if such had been the case, which it was not. The interest lies in the fact that the gentleman in question was a worthy and excellent man in all the relations of life; that he was absolutely innocent of intentional79 impropriety; and that, as far as I can remember, we had none of us the faintest idea that we ought to have been shocked or scandalised. Such was the state of things and men’s minds “sixty years since.”
The brother of this chaplain was the manciple of the college, and was known among us as “Damme Hopkins,” from the following circumstance. His manner was a quaint80 mixture of pomposity81 and bonhomie, which made a conversation with him a rather favourite amusement with some of us. Now the manciple was a very well-to-do man, and was rather fond of letting it be known that his independent circumstances made the emoluments82 of{141} the place he held a matter of no importance to him. “Indeed,” he would say, “I spoke83 to the Bishop [the Warden] a few months ago of resigning, but the Bishop says to me, ‘No, no, Damme Hopkins, you must keep the place.’” And I have no doubt that the deficiency of dramatic instinct which thus led the worthy manciple to transfer his own phraseology to his right reverend interlocutor rendered him quite unconscious of any inaccuracy in his narration84.
We used to go twice every Sunday, as I have said, to the cathedral. But we did not attend the whole morning service. We timed our arrival there so as to reach the cathedral at the beginning of the Communion service, and to be present at that and at the sermon which followed it. We had no sermons in college chapel, save on certain special occasions, such as 5th of November, “Founder’s commemoration,” or “Founder’s obit.” On the former of these occasions a sermon used to be preached with which we had become familiar by the annual repetition of it during a succession of years. I wonder how many there are left who will remember the words, “A letter was sent, couched in the most ambiguous terms, and who so likely to detect it as the King himself?”
At the cathedral a series of benches between the pulpit and Bishop’s throne and the altar were reserved for us, so that the preacher was immediately in front and to the right of us. The surplice was used in the cathedral pulpit at the morning service, the Geneva gown at that in the afternoon. At the{142} former one of the prebendaries or the dean was the preacher, at the latter a minor canon.
I remember that we used to think a good deal of the dean’s sermons, and always attended to them—a compliment which was not often paid, to the best of my recollection, to the other preachers. Dean Rennell was a man of very superior abilities, but of great eccentricity85, mainly due to extreme absence of mind. It used to be told of him that unless Mrs. Rennell took good care, he was tolerably certain, when he went up to his room to dress for a dinner-party, to go to bed. It will be understood from what has been said of the accommodation provided for us in the cathedral, that in order to face us, the preacher, addressing himself to the body of the congregation in the choir, must have turned himself round in the pulpit. And this Rennell would sometimes do, when he thought what he was saying especially calculated for our edification. He was, as I have already mentioned, a great Platonist, and when he alluded86, as he not unfrequently did, to some doctrine87 or opinion of the Grecian philosopher, he would turn to us and say, in a sort of parenthetical aside, “Plato I mean.”
Among the stories that were current of Rennell I remember one to the effect that when upon one occasion he was posting from Winchester to London he stopped at Egham for luncheon88. A huge round of boiled beef, nearly uncut, was placed upon the table. But the dean found it was, as he thought, far too much boiled; so without more ado he cut the{143} huge mass into four quarters and helped himself to a morsel89 from the centre! The landlady90, when the mutilated joint91 was carried out, was exceedingly indignant, and insisted that a guinea should be paid for the entirety of it. The dean, much against the grain, as the chronicle goes, paid his guinea, but packed up the four quarters of the round and carried them off with him.
Further indication of his eccentricity might be seen, as I remember, in his habit of wearing in the cathedral pulpit in cold weather, not a skull92 cap, but a flat square of velvet93 on his head, with which occasionally he would in the heat of his discourse94 wipe his face, then clap it on his head again.
The cathedral, as I have had occasion to mention in a former chapter, had been undergoing a very extensive restoration, one operation in the course of which had been the removal of the organ from over the screen; and the question whether it should be replaced there or be transferred to the north transept was very earnestly, and, it was said, somewhat hotly debated by the chapter. The dean was exceedingly vehement95 in supporting the latter course, which was eventually adopted, it can scarcely be doubted by those who see the church as it now is, with entire judiciousness96.
I could, not without gratification to myself, chatter98 much more about reminiscences of the years I passed at Winchester. But I feel that the only excuse for having yielded to the temptation as far as I have must be sought in the illustrations afforded{144} by what I have written of the large changes in habits, thoughts, customs, feelings that have been wrought99 in English society and English institutions by the lapse100 of some sixty years.
And now the time had come when I, having attained101 the age of eighteen, was superannuated102 at the election in the July of 1828. It was not at that time certain whether I should or should not succeed to a fellowship at New College, for that depended upon the number of vacancies103 that might occur in the year up to the election of 1829. Eventually I missed it by, as I remember, one only. One more journey of “Speedyman” before July, 1829, announcing the marriage or the death of a fellow of New College, or the acceptance of a college living by one of them, would have made me a fellow of New College. But “Speedyman” did not make his appearance.
I left Winchester a fairly good Latin scholar, and well grounded—I do not think I can say more—in Greek; and very ignorant indeed of all else. According to what I hear of the requirements at the present day, I had no scholarly knowledge whatever of my own language. I knew nothing whatsoever104 of Anglo-Saxon, or of medi?val English. I had never—have never, I may rather say—had any English grammar in my hand from my cradle to the present hour.
It is certain, however, that the enlarged requirements in this department, to which I have referred, have somehow or other failed to banish105 from the{145} current literature of the day a vast number of solecisms, vulgarisms, and grammatical atrocities106 of all sorts, which defile107 the language to a much greater degree than was the case at the time of which I have been writing, and which would have been as abhorrent108 to me when I left Winchester as they are now.
Of arithmetic I knew nothing—I should write “know”—and of all that arithmetic should be the first step to, à fortiori, still less. In the art of writing I received the best possible instruction, for I was licked by my tutor and scourged109 by the masters if my writing was illegible110. Of less indirect tuition I had none.
There was a writing master—one Mr. Bower111, Fungy Bower he was called, why, I know not—who sat at a certain low desk in the school during; school hours. I never received from him, or saw any one else receive from him, any instruction in writing. Nor did he, to the best of my knowledge and belief, form any part of William of Wykeham’s foundation. The only purpose his presence in school appeared to serve was to mend pens and make up the weekly account of marks received by each boy which regulated his place in the class.
The register containing the account of these marks was called the “classicus paper,” and was kept in this wise. All the members of each “class”—or “form” as it is called in other schools—continually changed places while proceeding112 with the lesson before the master, each, if able to answer{146} a question which those above him could not answer, passing up above them. And part of the punishment for failing altogether in any lesson, for being as the phrase was “crippled in Virgil,” or “crippled in Homer,” was to go to the bottom of the class. Thus the order in which the class sat was continually changed. And the first business every morning was for the two boys at the head of the class to take the “classicus paper,” and mark 1. against the name of the boy at the bottom, 2. against the next, and so on; so that the mark assigned to him at the head was equal to the number in the class. And this record of the marks was handed every week to Fungy Bower to be made up, so as to indicate the place in the class held by each member of it. But though this was done weekly the account was carried on during the whole half year, so that a boy’s final place in the class was the accurate result of his diligence and success during the whole “half.”
Of course I was a cricketer—we all were, and were indeed obliged to be, whether willingly or not, until we became prefects, when, of course, those only who loved the game continued to practise it. I never was a great cricketer, but have been “long stop” quite often enough to know how great is the nonsense talked by those of the present generation, who maintain that all the elaborate precautions against being hurt which are so abundantly taken by the players of these latter days are necessitated113 by the greater force of the bowling114 as now practised.{147} In simple truth this is all bosh! though I can hardly expect a generation in cute curanda plus ?quo operata to believe a very old batter115 and fielder when he tells them so!
My favourite game was fives. We had a splendid fives court, and the game was played in a manner altogether peculiar to Winchester; now I believe—like so much else—abandoned. We used a very small ball, hardly bigger than a good-sized walnut116, and as hard as if made of wood, called a “snack.” And this was driven against the wall by a bat of quite peculiar construction. It was made, I think, of ash, and there were only two men, rivals, who could make it. It was about a yard long, the handle round, and somewhat less than an inch in diameter. It then became gradually thinner and wider, till at about the distance of six inches from the extremity117 it was perhaps an inch and a half wide, and not thicker than half-a-crown. Then it expanded and thickened again into a head somewhat of the shape of an ace30 of spades, some three inches across and half an inch thick. The thin part was kept continually well oiled—in such sort that it became so elastic118, that the heavy head might almost be doubled back so as to touch the part nearer the hand. It will be understood both that the difficulty of striking a bounding ball with this instrument was considerable, and that the momentum119 imparted to the small hard ball by the blow was very great indeed. It is true that accidents occasionally, though very rarely, happened from a{148} misdirected blow. But it does not seem necessary that the old bat should be abandoned, for our judicious97 grandsons might play with great comfort and safety in helmets!
Of course I, like most of my contemporaries, left Winchester—and indeed subsequently left Oxford—as ignorant of any modern language, save English, as of Chinese! And as for music—though Oxford and Cambridge are the only universities in Europe which give degrees in music—it is hardly an exaggeration to say that, with very rare exceptions, to have taught an undergraduate, or a boy at a public school, music, would have been thought much on a par3 with teaching him to hem8 a pocket-handkerchief. And here the present generation has the pull to a degree which it perhaps hardly sufficiently120 recognises!
It was during my last year at Winchester that I made my first attempt at authorship. Old Robbins, the grey-headed bookseller of College Street, who had been the college bookseller for many years, had recently taken a younger partner of the name of Wheeler, and this gentleman established a monthly magazine, called the Hampshire and West of England Magazine, to which I contributed three or four articles on matters Wiccamical. I have the volume before me now—perhaps the only extant copy of that long since forgotten publication. The Rev. E. Poulter, one of the prebendaries of Winchester, who had a somewhat wider than local reputation as a wit in those days, was the{149} anonymous121 contributor of a poetical122 prologue123 of such unconscionable proportions that poor Wheeler was sadly puzzled what to do with it. It was impossible to refuse or neglect a reverend prebendary’s contribution, besides that the verses, often doggerel124, had some good fun in them. So they were all printed by instalments in successive numbers, despite the title of prologue which their author gives them.
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1
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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3
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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10
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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14
sobriquet
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| n.绰号 | |
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15
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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18
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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19
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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20
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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21
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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23
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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24
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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valetudinarian
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| n.病人；健康不佳者 | |
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26
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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27
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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28
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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30
ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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31
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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32
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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33
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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34
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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36
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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37
remitted
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的过去式和过去分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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38
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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39
substantive
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| adj.表示实在的；本质的、实质性的；独立的；n.实词，实名词；独立存在的实体 | |
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40
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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41
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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42
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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43
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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44
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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45
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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46
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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47
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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48
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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49
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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50
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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51
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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52
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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53
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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54
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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55
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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56
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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57
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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58
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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59
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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60
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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61
psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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62
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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63
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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64
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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65
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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66
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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67
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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68
unimpeachable
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| adj.无可指责的；adv.无可怀疑地 | |
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69
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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70
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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71
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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72
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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73
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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74
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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75
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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76
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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77
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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78
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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79
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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80
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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81
pomposity
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| n.浮华；虚夸；炫耀；自负 | |
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82
emoluments
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| n.报酬，薪水( emolument的名词复数 ) | |
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83
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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84
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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85
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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86
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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88
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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89
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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90
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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91
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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92
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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93
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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94
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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95
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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96
judiciousness
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| n.明智 | |
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97
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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98
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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99
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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100
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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101
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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102
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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103
vacancies
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| n.空房间( vacancy的名词复数 )；空虚；空白；空缺 | |
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104
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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105
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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106
atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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107
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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108
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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109
scourged
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| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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110
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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111
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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112
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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113
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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115
batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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116
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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117
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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118
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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119
momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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120
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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121
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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122
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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123
prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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