y games was rendered less
bitter by the fact that I did not care about them. I well remember the
astonishment of my tutor, when he kindly asked me to luncheon on his
carriage at my first Eton and Harrow match, and I replied that I should
not be there.

"Not be at Lord's, my boy? How very strange! Why?"

"Because there are three things which I particularly dislike--heat, and
crowds, and cricket." It certainly was a rather priggish answer, but let
me say in self-defence that before I left the school I had become as
keen on "Lord's," as the best of my compeers.

That, in spite of his reprehensible attitude towards our national game,
I was still, as Mr. Chadband said, "a human boy," is proved by the
intense interest with which I beheld the one and only "Mill" which ever
took place while I was at Harrow.[11] It was fought on the 25th of
February, 1868, with much form and ceremony. The "Milling-ground," now
perverted to all sorts of base uses, is immediately below the
School-Yard. The ground slopes rapidly, so that the wall of the Yard
forms the gallery of the Milling-Ground. The moment that "Bill" was
over, I rushed to the wall and secured an excellent place, leaning my
elbows on the wall, while a friend, who was a moment later, sat on my
shoulders and looked over my bowed head. It would be indiscreet to
mention the names of the combatants, though I remember them perfectly.
One was a red-headed giant; the other short, dark, and bow-legged.
Neither had at all a pleasant countenance, and I must admit that I
enjoyed seeing them pound each other into pulp. I felt that two beasts
were getting their deserts. To-day such a sight would kill me; but this
is the degeneracy of old age.

Now that I am talking about school-fellows, several names call for
special mention. As I disliked athletics, it follows that I did not
adore athletes. I can safely say that I never admired a boy because of
his athletic skill, though I have admired many in spite of it. Probably
Sidney Pelham, Archdeacon of Norfolk, who was in the Harrow Eleven in
1867 and 1868, and the Oxford Eleven in 1871, will never see this book;
so I may safely say that I have seldom envied anyone as keenly as I
envied him, when Dr. Butler, bidding him farewell before the whole
school, thanked him for "having set an example which all might be proud
to follow--unfailing sweetness of temper, and perfect purity of life."
In one respect, the most conspicuous of my school-fellows was