St. Winifred's; or, The World of School

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  St Winifred's, or The World of School, by Frederic W. Farrar.

  ________________________________________________________________________The story is another one about the intimate details of a life in a boys'boarding school in late Victorian England. Farrar, having himselfattended such a school, then later been an assistant master at another,Harrow School, then Head Master of Marlborough College, was well placedto write about such a school, and in some ways it is a better book thanhis much more famous "Eric".

  There are a number of very well-written and moving episodes in thisbook, and the only thing that spoils the books is Farrar's habit ofputting quotations from Latin and Greek into his books. Because of theproblem of rendering Greek script into European script, to no greatpurpose, we have omitted all the longer Greek quotations at the start ofsome of the chapters.

  We have thoroughly enjoyed creating this e-book for you, and we hopethat you will enjoy it as much as we have. We made a transcriptionduring March and April 2003, and then made a second transcription usinga different edition, in January 2008.

  ________________________________________________________________________ST. WINIFRED'S, OR, THE WORLD OF SCHOOL, BY FREDERIC W. FARRAR.

  CHAPTER ONE.

  WALTER'S HOME.

  The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love, Meet in the ruddy light!

  Mrs Hemans.

  "Good-bye, Walter; good-bye, Walter dear! good-bye!" and the last noteof this chorus was "Dood-bye," from a blue-eyed, fair-haired girl of twoyears, as Walter disengaged his arms from his mother's neck, and spranginto the carriage which had already been waiting a quarter of an hour toconvey him and his luggage to the station.

  It is the old, old story: Mr Evson was taking his son to a large publicschool, and this was the first time that Walter had left home. Nearlyevery father who deigns to open this little book has gone through thescene himself; and he and his sons will know from personal experiencethe thoughts, and sensations, and memories, which occupied the minds ofWalter Evson and his father, as the carriage drove through the gardengate and the village street, bearing the eldest boy of the young familyfrom the sacred and quiet shelter of a loving home, to a noisy andindependent life among a number of strange and young companions.

  If you have ever stood on the hill from which Walter caught a lastglimpse of the home he was leaving, and waved his final farewell to hismother, you are not likely to have forgotten the scene which was thenspread before your eyes. On the right-hand side, the low hills, coveredwith firs, rise in gentle slopes one over the other, till they reach thehuge green shoulder of a mountain, around whose summits the clouds aregenerally weaving their awful and ever-changing diadem. To the left,between the road and a lower range of wooded undulations, is a deep andretired glen, through which a mountain stream babbles along its hurriedcourse, tumbling sometimes in a noisy cataract and rushing wildlythrough the rough boulder stones which it has carried from the heights,or deepening into some quiet pool, bright and smooth as glass, on themargin of which the great purple loosestrife and the long fern-leavesbend down as though to gaze at their own reflected beauty. In front,and at your feet, opens a rich valley, which is almost filled as far asthe roots of the mountains by a lovely lake. Beside this lake the whitehouses of a little village cluster around the elevation on which thechurch and churchyard stand; while on either shore, rising among thefir-groves that overshadow the first swellings of the hills, are a fewsequestered villas, commanding a prospect of rare beauty, and giving alast touch of interest to the surrounding view.

  In one of these houses--that one with the crowded gables not a hundredfeet above the lake, opposite to which you see the swans pluming theirwings in the sunlight, and the green boat in its little boathouse--livedthe hero of our story; and no boy could have had a dearer or lovelierhome. His father, Mr Evson, was a man in easy, and almost in affluentcircumstances, who, having no regular occupation, had chosen for himselfthis quiet retreat, and devoted all his time and care to the educationof his family, and the ordinary duties of a country gentleman.

  Walter was the eldest child, a graceful, active, bright-eyed boy. Up tothis time--and he was now thirteen years old--he had had no otherteaching but that of his father, and of a tutor, who for the last yearhad lived in the house. His education, therefore, differed considerablyfrom that of many boys of his own age, and the amount of book knowledgewhich he had acquired was small as yet; but he was full of thatintelligent interest in things most worth knowing, which is the best andsurest guarantee for future progress.

  Let me pause for a moment to relate how a refined and simple-heartedgentleman had hitherto brought up his young boys. I do not pronouncewhether the method was right or wrong; I only describe it as it was, andits success or failure must be inferred from the following pages.

  The positive teaching of the young Evsons did not begin too early. Tillthey were ten or twelve years old nearly all they did know had come tothem either intuitively or without any conscious labour. They wereallowed almost to live in the open air, and nature was their wise andtender teacher. Some object was invented, if possible, for every walk.Now it was to find the shy recesses of the wood where the wildstrawberries were thickest, or where the white violets and the rarestorchis flowers were hid; or to climb along the rocky sides of the glento seek the best spot for a rustic meal, and find mossy stones andflower-banks for seats and tables near some waterfall or pool.

  When they were a little older their father would amuse and encouragethem until they had toiled up even to the very summit of all the nearesthills, and there they would catch the fresh breeze which blew from thefar-off sea, or gaze wonderingly at the summer lightning flashing behindthe chain of hills, or watch, with many playful fancies, the longgorgeous conflagration of the summer sunset. And in such excursionstheir father or mother would teach them without seeming to teach them,until they were thoroughly familiar with the names and properties of allthe commonest plants, and eagerly interested to secure for their littlecollections, or to plant in their gardens, the different varieties ofall the wild flowers that were found about their home. Or, again, whenthey sat out in the garden, or wandered back in the autumn twilight fromsome gipsy party, they were taught to recognise the stars and planets,until Mars and Jupiter, Orion and Cassiopeia, the Pleiads and theNorthern Crown, seemed to look down upon them like old and belovedfriends.

  It was easy, too, and pleasant, to teach them to love and to treattenderly all living things--to observe the little black-eyed squirrelwithout disturbing him while he cracked his nuts; to watch themistle-thrush's nest till the timid bird had learned to sit therefearlessly, and not scurry away at their approach; and to visit thehaunts of the moorhen without causing any consternation to her or herlittle black velvet progeny. Visitors who stayed at the house werealways delighted to see how all creatures seemed to trust the children:how the canary would carol in its cage when they came into the room; howthe ponies would come trotting to the boys across the field, and theswans float up and plume their mantling wings, expecting food andcaresses, whenever they came in sight.

  The lake was a source of endless amusement to them; summer and winterthey might have been seen bathing in its waters, till they were boldswimmers, or lying to read their books in the boat under the shade ofthe trees, or rowing about till the little boy of six years was allowedto paddle himself alone to the other side, and even when the waves wererough, and the winds high, the elder ones were not afraid to ventureout. In short, they were healthy and manly mountain-boys, with alltheir senses admirably exercised, and their powers of obse
rvation sowell trained, that they sometimes amazed their London cousins bypointing to some falcon poised far-off above its prey, which was but aspeck to less practised eyes, or calling attention to the sweetness ofsome wood-bird's note, indistinguishable to less practised ears.

  Even in such lessons as these they would have made but little progressif they had not been trained in the nursery to be hardy, modest,truthful, unselfish, and obedient. This work had effectually been donewhen alone it _can_ be effectually done, in the earliest childhood, whenthe sweet and plastic nature may acquire for all that is right and goodthe powerful aid of habit, before the will and the passions are fullyconscious of their dangerous and stubborn power.

  Let no one say that I have been describing some youthful prodigies.There are thousands such as I describe in all happy and well-orderedEnglish homes; there might be thousands more if parents spent a morethoughtful care upon the growth of their children; there will be many,many thousands more as the world, "in the rich dawn of an ampler day,"in the gradual yet noble progress of social and moral improvement,becomes purer and holier, and more like Him Who came to be the ideal ofthe loftiest, yet the lowliest, of the most clear-sighted, yet the mostloving, of the most happy, and yet the most humble manhood.