From Paddington to Penzance: The record of a summer tramp from London to the Land's EndHarper, Charles G. (Charles George)
General
From Paddington to Penzance: The record of a summer tramp from London to the Land's End
Harper, Charles G. (Charles George)
England -- Description and travel
That night saw the first unpacking of our knapsacks, and the
irrevocable disappearance of their orderly arrangement. Chaos reigned
ever afterward within their ostensibly waterproof sides, for to man
is not given the gift of packing up, and we were not superior to the
generality of our sex. I remember perfectly the shower of things that
always befell o’ nights when I came to the ordeal of unpacking my
knapsack: how razors, comb and brush, pencils, and neckties and other
articles dropped from it; and, I make no doubt, it was the same with
the other man.
IV.
Chertsey we passed this morning, heated with rowing, but between
this and Laleham we were so far fortunate as to fall in with some
acquaintances on a steam-launch who took us in tow so far as Old
Windsor Lock, where we cast off and proceeded alone, landing at one of
the many slips by Eton Bridge.
Windsor and Eton claimed us for the remainder of the day for the due
pursuance of some desultory sight-seeing, but Eton chiefly, for the
sake of its College, where “her Henry,” that unhappy pious founder,
Henry VI., stands in effigy in the great quadrangle, and casts a “holy
shade,” according to Grey.
[Illustration: “HER HENRY”]
The “College of the Blessed Mary of Eton beside Windsor” has numbered
among its scholars a goodly proportion of our famous men; and many of
their names, carved on the woodwork of the schools in their schoolboy
days, remain to this day. On the doorway leading from the Upper School
into that place of dread, the headmaster’s room, may be seen carved,
in company with other well-known names, that of “W. E. Gladstone;”
and once within that apartment, your attention is drawn to the block
whereon many have suffered, in less heroic wise, and by no means so
tragically, as the martyrs of Tower Hill, but perhaps more painfully,
for birch twigs, _with_ the buds on them, must sting dreadfully. But
these things are become historical relics rather than engines of
contemporary punishment: they belong to the days of the terrific Keate
and his robustious predecessors, who were wont to regard the _fortiter
in re_ as more convincing and a better preservative of discipline than
the _suaviter in modo_.
[Illustration: W. E. GLADSTONE]
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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