line of action he adopts. The dull or idle boy has to be clever and quick in another way. He has continually to practise himself in solving the difficult problem of saying a lesson without the labour of learning it, and escaping the pain of a "licking," and at the same time richly deserving it. Here is full scope for cunning and ingenuity and contrivance. Here is an opportunity for the practice of that "coolness," that "self-possession," that "self-mastery," which are amongst the distinguishing marks of a genuine Englishman. Here that strange abnormal system of "shirking" comes in, which is thoroughly countenanced and established at Eton.* A boy who has the "face" to go straight through his lesson, construing his Latin or Greek author in the presence of his tutor "with the English translation written word for word over the Latin or Greek," must have indeed already acquired a presence of mind and an assurance, certainly not Christian, still, (we shall be reminded,) likely to be most useful, in "the great world of business and society." On no other ground but this can we conjecture so odious a practice receiving the support of the professors of the school. Its influence towards formation of character is too obvious to require development.

Again, when verses have to be presented, stupid or idle boys prefer doing them vicariously-employing one who is fond of indulging in that art, and clever at it, to write the verses for them. Here, though all the boast about honour, and delicacy, and fine feeling seems to be proved a myth, still there is a higher development, one to which the former has invariably to play but a very secondary part-the "bravado" and pluck of taking your chance of getting through, and the inexpressible pleasure of "doing" the tutor. Mr. Hemyng gives a characteristic instance in the case of his hero " Butler Burke." reader should notice the tone and spirit throughout; it is very suggestive of the high-mindedness, manliness, and "freemasonry of honour," and of "the conventional morality of schoolboys," of which there has been so much boasting lately. Butler Burke had employed a boy named "Terminus" to write his verses for him :

The

After tea Burke wrote out the verses. Terminus. . . . going to the pupil-room, he laid them on the tutor's desk, and sitting down waited for his turn to have them looked over. Ten minutes elapsed and Mr. Wynne took up Butler Burke's copy, and exclaimed

"Burke !"

Burke was by his side in a moment, and watched Mr. Wynne as he read

Report, Evidence, Eton, Mr. Walford, M.A., Q. 8,179. + Ibid., Q. 8, 180.

every line, moving his pen slowly over the words, to be in readiness for the obliteration of any error. . . . Still there was no mistake. Butler Burke began to feel uneasy; he 'generally had half-a-dozen errors at least-sometimes many more. Mr. Wynne reached the end of the copy without making one erasure. Having done so, he looked up into Butler Burke's face dubiously.

"This is a capital set of verses, Burke, if

Then he hesitated, and Butler Burke wondered what was coming next. "If you did them yourself," continued Mr. Wynne.

"Now, answer me honestly. Are these verses your own composition?" Butler Burke was strongly tempted to say "Yes, Sir; they are indeed, I give you my word they are," for he knew that Mr. Wynne would be bound to believe him, as it was impossible to prove the contrary. . . . But he was not in the habit of telling falsehoods, and he possessed a species of pride which rebelled against the practice of deception. "If I tell the truth," he argued, "he will let me down easy."

"Yes, sir."

"You acknowledge that they are not your own?”

"Very well.

...

In order to express my sense of dissatisfaction at your

conduct, I shall most certainly put you in the bill."

He was to be flogged. On leaving the tutor the boys did not fail to notice that Burke was dejected.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Fisher, "What's the row? You look down on your luck."

"So I am."

"What has happened?"

"It isn't anything that has happened; it is something that is going to happen."

"Oh !" said Lascelles, "pitch us your pitiful story."

"Story, God bless you, I have none to tell, sir!" said Burke, "except this, that I cribbed my verses; my tutor bowled me out, and is going to have me swiped."

"Oh! it won't hurt you-wake you up a little," exclaimed Lascelles. . . . "It's nothing when you're used to it. It stings a little at first-but that's all. Don't be cut up, man alive!"

"It serves him right! I'm so beastly glad," cried a voice from an invisible corner, which Burke at once recognized as his old enemy, Abbott. "You shut up," exclaimed Burke, " or I'll lick you!"

"You'll get it to-morrow," continued Abbott, disregarding this warning; I wouldn't be you. You'll get it tighter for being so jolly cocky last half. I should like to be there and hear you sing out."

Burke made a dive through the crowd; but Abbott slipped like an eel through his grasp

Burke walked on, and passing by Purefoy's room, slipped in.

"I am going to be flogged, Purefoy!" he exclaimed.

"Flogged! what for?" cried Purefoy, laying down his book, and looking up.

"Oh! I have come to a great grief. I went up town with Montrose, and got a fellow to do my verses for me. My tutor asked me if they were my own."

"Why, were they so execrably bad?”

"Not at all; they were wonderfully good. There wasn't a mistake in the whole copy. Well, I told my tutor the truth, and I am infernally sorry now I ever did; if I'd told him a cram, I should have got off all right. It's the last time he ever gets the truth out of me, I'll take my oath."

He goes for punishment :

Butler Burke and his companions in misfortune, preceded by Strabo, crept like unwilling snails up the steps; two lower boys of inquisitive tendencies followed them, and when the door of the switching room was shut, they had the hardihood to look through the key-hole, taking it in turns to enjoy that privilege. There was a whistling noise as of something being violently propelled through the air, then a dull thud was heard, as it came in contact with some foreign substance, and in more than one instance a dismal groan was heard. But the lower boys, who were evidently adamantine and cast-iron, instead of shuddering, actually laughed, and seemed to enjoy the furtive spectacle immensely.*

These characters are said by the public press to be "types of the Etonians." Again,-" The boys are good healthy flesh and blood boys, who go through their share of toils and vexations, amuse themselves, and get into scrapes without cant or affectation." The public appears to recognize in these specimens the rudiments of pattern men. And so they are,— of pattern Englishmen. Now the whole of the above scene arose from vicarious verse making. That one idle act of the Eton hero created numberless occasions for the outward expression of British blood. The "situations" in which he found himself, and the sentiments and resolutions they engendered, the opportunity the "lower boys" had of feasting on the pain of big companions, their genuine instinct for blood and adventure, the thrill of content which ran through their veins as they were drinking it all in "through the key-hole," and their delight as they heard "thud" after "thud," and groan after groan following "the whistling noise through the air" of the master's rod; all this, which has "grown up out of no

* P. 175.

preconceived plan," must have acted and re-acted upon the impressionable characters of the boys, and done as much, nay more, to bring out the genuine English "stuff" in them than any amount of scholarship. Indeed, we believe of three reasons this is not the least why Eton has the reputation of turning out a character so purely English,-why she is in this respect by all proclaimed to carry off the palm-that there is less scholarship at Eton than at the other public schools. The genuine Englishman is rough, burly, and more bold than polished. Pagan classics draw out the English "stuff" indeed, as we have said; but they put a gloss upon it which is not part of its natural texture. Paganism-Greek paganismwas a much more highly finished thing than English naturalism has ever been. In the Greeks the intellect predominates; in Englishmen the strong, bold, hardy physique. Scholarship makes the man more intellectual and less animal. The power which belongs to his tissues, his bone, his sinew, is partially reduced, and a larger development takes place in his intelligence, and by degrees he loses that high tension of muscular vigour which acted so strongly upon the character of his mind. He becomes a student, an Englishman, indeed, but sublimated by science. The thorough unadulterated Englishman-that type which the nation most admires-is not a finished, delicateminded scholar. And if the Royal Commissioners think to preserve the physical strength of the rough material, they had better be careful of "modern languages and sciences," and think again before they give any very great impetus to perfect scholarship. In certain cases muscle and mind may, perhaps, be both developed to some high perfection; but this is quite the exception. In the long run, according to all experience, what is taken out in the one is lost in the other. And here we would have it observed that we by no means wish to imply, from what we have said, that muscle should be preferred to mind,-merely this, that if the Commissioners wish to preserve a certain quality, they should go the right way about it.

But, after all, the great motive power in forming the character of the English boy is not so much in the objectmatter of knowledge, and in the results which flow from dullness or idleness, as in the influence of boy upon boy, and of the "public opinion" which is generated in the school. The schoolboy's world is the society of his companions, his principles those recognized by that noisy turbulent little world, and their sanction, the "conventional morality of schoolboys." His code of honour, his views of right and wrong, grow out of the expediency of the moment, stiffened

by British pride. For instance, to lie to a companion, if it be done from cowardice, is mean; to "shirk," or tell a lie to a tutor or a master, is no disgrace. You take your chance to get a "licking," and altogether it is rather a "plucky" thing to do. To rob a companion might result in a "college licking," which, in his evidence, Mr. Č. G. Lyttelton calls "a very solemn ceremonial;" but to kill fowls, steal ducks', swans', and other eggs from carefully-kept preserves,-to smash trays of figures off the heads of Italian hawkers, is a legitimate and glorious pastime. Anything that can be construed into pluck, and daring, and fearlessness, meets with universal approbation. Anything in the shape of adventure, with a high spice of danger and devilry, is the very thing of all others which a public schoolboy revels in. To give an instance of how the character finds occasion for development, here is an example from "Butler Burke," which, we believe, illustrates most perfectly its speciality.

Burke and Montrose were stealing watercresses from a cottager:

Suddenly a man came out of a cottage and exclaimed

"Go away from there; go away, you young thieves, or I'll set the dog on you."

"I shall go when I like, and not before," replied Montrose.

"We'll see about that,” cried the man, who ran to a kennel and unfastened a very determined-looking bull-dog.

"Hie on! hie on ! Loo, dog! stick to 'em!" cried the man, clapping his hands.

"I say," exclaimed Burke, "we had better bunk, I think, don't you? It is getting rather unpleasant."

"Don't alarm yourself," replied Montrose; "I think I know how to manage him. A mad dog once flew at me in Edinburgh, but he didn't bite me."

Butler Burke drew back to a respectful distance, and left Montrose to fight the battle. Montrose did not seem at all frightened; he continued picking watercresses until the dog was on the opposite side of the bank. The animal did not stop a moment; he drew himself together and jumped across. Montrose was ready for his opponent; the leap was at least three feet, and on reaching the opposite bank the dog rolled over on its side. Montrose did not lose this opportunity; he took a run and kicked the brute on the jaw sending him headlong into the stream. The dog was partially stunned, but he swam to land, and began to climb up the bank; another tremendous kick sent him rolling once more into the water, but game to the last he again made to the shore. . . . The third time he kicked the dog he made the beast's teeth rattle like castanets; but as the animal had a footing on the ground, it was difficult to dislodge him. Butler Burke ran up and dealt the dog a coup de pied which was administered with such force that it broke its leg;