Mr. Chittenden was never tired of dinning into us the astonishing merits of a pupil who had been at the school eleven or twelve years before us.  This model boy apparently had the most extraordinary mental gifts, and had never broken any of the rules.  Mr. Chittenden predicted a brilliant future for him, and would not be surprised should he eventually become Prime Minister.  The paragon had had a distinguished career at Eton, and was at present at Cambridge, where he was certain to do equally well.  From having this Admirable Crichton perpetually held up to us as an example, we grew rather tired of his name, much as the Athenians wearied at constantly hearing Aristides described as “the just.”  At length we heard that the pattern-boy would spend two days at Hoddesdon on his way back to Cambridge.  We were all very anxious to see him.  As Mr. Chittenden confidently predicted that he would one day become Prime Minister, I formed a mental picture of him as being like my uncle, Lord John Russell, the only Prime Minister I knew.  He would be very short, and would have his neck swathed in a high black-satin stock.  When the Cambridge undergraduate appeared, he was, on the contrary, very tall and thin, with a slight stoop, and so far from wearing a high stock, he had an exceedingly long neck emerging from a very low collar.  His name was Arthur James Balfour.

I think Mr. Balfour and the late Mr. George Wyndham were the only pupils of Chittenden’s who made names for themselves.  The rest of us were content to plod along in the rut, though we had been taught to concentrate, to remember, and to observe.

Compared with the manner in which little boys are now pampered at preparatory schools, our method of life appears very Spartan.  We never had fires or any heating whatever in our dormitories, and the windows were always open.  We were never given warm water to wash in, and in frosty weather our jugs were frequently frozen over.  Truth compels me to admit that this freak of Nature’s was rather welcomed, for little boys are not as a rule over-enamoured of soap and water, and it was an excellent excuse for avoiding any ablutions whatever.  We rose at six, winter and summer, and were in school by half-past six.  The windows of the school-room were kept open, whilst the only heating came from a microscopic stove jealously guarded by a huge iron stockade to prevent the boys from approaching it.  For breakfast we were never given anything but porridge and bread and butter.  We had an excellent dinner at one o’clock, but nothing for tea but bread and butter again, never cake or jam.  It will horrify modern mothers to learn that all the boys, even little fellows of eight, were given two glasses of beer at dinner.  And yet none of us were ever ill.  I was nearly five years at Chittenden’s, and I do not remember one single case of illness.  We were all of us in perfect health, nor were we ever afflicted with those epidemics which seem to play such havoc with modern schools, from all of which I can only conclude that a regime of beer and cold rooms is exceedingly good for little boys.