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.

The Grange, Mr. Chittenden's house, was one of the most perfect
examples of a real Queen Anne house that I ever saw. Every r