Chapter II.

If I tried my best, it would take a year to describe the life in that

English Grammar School at R.... I had always been perfectly happy in

every Irish school and especially in the Royal School at Armagh. Let me

give one difference as briefly as possible. When I whispered in the

class-room in Ireland, the master would frown at me and shake his head;

ten minutes later I was talking again, and he’d hold up an admonitory

finger: the third time he’d probably say, “Stop talking, Harris, don’t

you see you’re disturbing your neighbour?” Half an hour later in despair

he’d cry, “If you still talk, I’ll have to punish you.”

Ten minutes afterwards: “You’re incorrigible, Harris, come up here” and

I’d have to go and stand beside his desk for the rest of the morning,

and even this light punishment did not happen more than twice a week,

and as I came to be head of my class, it grew rarer.

In England, the procedure was quite different. “That new boy there is

talking; take 300 lines to write out and keep quiet.”

“Please, Sir”, I’d pipe up—“Take 500 lines and keep quiet.”

“But, Sir”—in remonstrance.

“Take 1000 lines and if you answer again, I’ll send you to the

Doctor”—which meant I’d get a caning or a long talking to.

The English masters one and all ruled by punishment; consequently I was

indoors writing out lines almost every day, and every half-holiday for

the first year. Then my father, prompted by Vernon, complained to the

Doctor that writing out lines was ruining my handwriting.

After that I was punished by lines to learn by heart; the lines quickly

grew into pages, and before the end of the first half year it was found

that I knew the whole school history of England by heart, through these

punishments. Another remonstrance from my father, and I was given lines

of Vergil to learn. Thank God! that seemed worth learning and the story

of Ulysses and Dido on “the wild sea-banks” became a series of living

pictures to me, not to be dimmed even, so long as I live.

That English school for a year and a half was to me a brutal prison with

stupid daily punishments. At the end of that time I was given a seat by

myself, thanks to the Mathematical master; but that’s another story.

The two or three best boys of my age in England were far more advanced

than I was in Latin and had already waded through half the Greek

Grammar, which I had not begun, but I was better in Mathematics than any

one in the whole lower school. Because I was behind the English standard

in languages, the Form-master took me to be stupid and called me

“stupid”, and as a result I never learned a Latin or Greek lesson in my

two and a half years in the Grammar School. Nevertheless, thanks to the

punishment of having to learn Vergil and Livy by heart, I was easily the

best of my age in Latin too, before the second year was over.

I had an extraordinary verbal memory. The Doctor, I remember, once

mouthed out some lines of the “Paradise Lost” and told us in his pompous

way that _Lord_ Macaulay knew the “Paradise Lost” by heart from

beginning to end. I asked: “Is that hard, Sir!” “When you’ve learned

half of it”, he replied, “you’ll understand how hard! _Lord_ Macaulay

was a genius”, and he emphasized the “_Lord_” again.

A week later when the Doctor again took the school in literature, I said

at the end of the hour: “Please, Sir, I know the ‘Paradise Lost’ by

heart”; he tested me and I remember how he looked at me afterwards from

head to foot as if asking himself where I had put all the learning. This

“piece of impudence”, as the older boys called it, brought me several

cuffs and kicks from boys in the Sixth, and much ill-will from many of

the others.

All English school life was summed up for me in the “fagging.” There was

“fagging” in the Royal School in Armagh, but it was kindly. If you

wanted to get out of it for a long walk with a chum, you had only to ask

one of the Sixth and you got permission to skip it.

But in England the rule was Rhadamanthine; the fags’ names on duty were

put up on a blackboard, and if you were not on time, ay, and servile to

boot, you’d get a dozen from an ash plant on your behind and not laid on

perfunctorily and with distaste, as the Doctor did it, but with vim so

that I had painful weals on my backside and couldn’t sit down for days

without a smart.

The fags too, being young and weak, were very often brutally treated

just for fun. On Sunday mornings in summer, for instance, we had an hour

longer in bed. I was one of the half dozen juniors in the big bedroom;

there were two older boys in it, one at each end, presumably to keep

order; but in reality to teach lechery and corrupt their younger

favorites. If the mothers of England knew what goes on in the

dormitories of these boarding-schools throughout England, they would all

be closed, from Eton and Harrow upwards or downwards, in a day. If

English fathers even had brains enough to understand that the fires of

sex need no stoking in boyhood, they too would protect their sons from

the foul abuse. But I shall come back to this. Now I wish to speak of

the cruelty.

Every form of cruelty was practiced on the younger, weaker and more

nervous boys. I remember one Sunday morning, the half dozen older boys

pulled one bed along the wall and forced all the seven younger boys

underneath it, beating with sticks any hand or foot that showed. One

little fellow cried that he couldn’t breathe and at once the gang of

tormentors began stuffing up all the apertures, saying that they would

make a “Black Hole” of it. There were soon cries and strugglings under

the bed and at length one of the youngest began shrieking so that the

torturers ran away from the prison, fearing lest some master should

hear.

One wet Sunday afternoon in midwinter, a little nervous “Mother’s

darling” from the West Indies who always had a cold and was always

sneaking near the fire in the big schoolroom, was caught by two of the

Fifth and held near the flames. Two more brutes pulled his trowsers

tight over his bottom, and the more he squirmed and begged to be let go,

the tighter they held the trowsers and the nearer the flames he was

pushed, till suddenly the trowsers split apart scorched through, and as

the little fellow tumbled forward screaming, the torturers realized that

they had gone too far. The little “Nigger” as he was called, didn’t tell

how he came to be so scorched but took his fortnight in sick bay as a

respite.

We read of a fag at Shrewsbury who was thrown into a bath of boiling

water by some older boys because he liked to take his bath very warm;

but this experiment turned out badly, for the little fellow died and the

affair could not be hushed up, though it was finally dismissed as a

regrettable accident.

The English are proud of the fact that they hand over a good deal of the

school discipline to the older boys: they attribute this innovation to

Arnold of Rugby and, of course, it is possible if the supervision is

kept up by a genius, that it may work for good and not for evil; but

usually it turns the school into a forcing-house of cruelty and

immorality. The older boys establish the legend that only sneaks would

tell anything to the masters, and then they are free to give rein to

their basest instincts.

The two Monitors in our big bedroom in my time were a strapping big

fellow named Dick F…, who tired all the little boys by going into their

beds and making them frig him till his semen came. The little fellows

all hated to be covered with his filthy slime, but they had to pretend

to like doing as he told them, and usually he insisted on frigging them

by way of exciting himself. Dick picked me out once or twice but I

managed to catch his semen on his own nightshirt, and so after calling

me a “dirty little devil” he left me alone.

The other monitor was Jones, a Liverpool boy of about seventeen, very

backward in lessons but very strong, the “Cock” of the school at

fighting. He used always to go to one young boy’s bed whom he favored in

many ways. Henry H… used to be able to get off any fagging and he never

let out what Jones made him do at night, but in the long run he got to

be chums with another little fellow and it all came out. One night when

Jones was in Henry’s bed, there was a shriek of pain and Jones was heard

to be kissing and caressing his victim for nearly an hour afterwards. We

all wondered whether Jones had had him, or what had happened. Henry’s

chum one day let the cat out of the bag. It appeared that Jones used to

make the little fellow take his sex in his mouth and frig him and suck

him at the same time. But one evening he had brought up some butter and

smeared it over his prick and gradually inserted it into Henry’s anus

and this came to be his ordinary practice. But this night he had

forgotten the butter and when he found a certain resistance, he thrust

violently forward, causing extreme pain and making his pathic bleed.

Henry screamed and so after an interval of some weeks or months the

whole procedure came to be known.

If there had been no big boys as Monitors, there would still have been a

certain amount of solitary frigging; from twelve or thirteen on, most

boys and most girls too, practice self-abuse from time to time on some

slight provocation, but the practice doesn’t often become habitual

unless it is fostered by one’s elders and practiced mutually. In Ireland

it was sporadic; in England perpetual and in English schools it often

led to downright sodomy as in this instance.

In my own case there were two restraining influences, and I wish to

dwell on both as a hint to parents. I was a very eager little athlete:

thanks to instructions and photographs in a book on athletics belonging

to Vernon, I found out how to jump and how to run. To jump high one had

to take but a short run from the side and straighten oneself

horizontally as one cleared the bar. By constant practice I could at

thirteen walk under the bar and then jump it. I soon noticed that if I

frigged myself the night before, I could not jump so well, the

consequence being that I restrained myself, and never frigged save on

Sunday and soon managed to omit the practice on three Sundays out of

four.

Since I came to understanding, I have always been grateful to that

exercise for this lesson in self-restraint. Besides, one of the boys was

always frigging himself: even in school he kept his right hand in his

trousers’ pocket and continued the practice. All of us knew that he had

torn a hole in his pocket so that he could play with his cock; but none

of the masters ever noticed anything. The little fellow grew gradually

paler and paler until he took to crying in a corner, and unaccountable

nervous tremblings shook him for a quarter of an hour at a time. At

length, he was taken away by his parents: what became of him afterwards,

I don’t know, but I do know that till he was taught self-abuse, he was

one of the quickest boys of his age at lessons and given like myself to

much reading.

This object-lesson in consequences had little effect on me at the time;

but later it was useful as a warning. Such teaching may have affected

the Spartans as we read in history that they taught their children

temperance by showing them a drunken helot; but I want to lay stress on

the fact I was first taught self-control by a keen desire to excel in

jumping and in running, and as soon as I found that I couldn’t run as

fast or jump as high after practicing self-abuse, I began to restrain

myself and in return this had a most potent effect on my will-power.

I was over thirteen when a second and still stronger restraining

influence made itself felt, and strangely enough this influence grew

through my very desire for girls and curiosity about them.

The story marks an epoch in my life. We were taught singing at school

and when it was found that I had a good alto voice and a very good ear,

I was picked to sing solos, both in school and in the church choir.

Before every church festival there was a good deal of practice with the

organist, and girls from neighbouring houses joined in our classes. One

girl alone sang alto and she and I were separated from the other boys

and girls; the upright piano was put across the corner of the room and

we two sat or stood behind it almost out of sight of all the other

singers; the organist, of course, being seated in front of the piano.

The girl E… who sang alto with me was about my own age: she was very

pretty or seemed so to me, with golden hair and blue eyes and I always

made up to her as well as I could, in my boyish way. One day while the

organist was explaining something, E... stood up on the chair and leant

over the back of the piano to hear better or see more. Seated in my

chair behind her, I caught sight of her legs; for her dress rucked up

behind as she leaned over: at once my breath stuck in my throat. Her

legs were lovely, I thought, and the temptation came to touch them; for

no one could see.

I got up immediately and stood by the chair she was standing on.

Casually I let my hand fall against her left leg. She didn’t draw her

leg away or seem to feel my hand, so I touched her more boldly. She

never moved, though now I knew she must have felt my hand, I began to

slide my hand up her leg and suddenly my fingers felt the warm flesh on

her thigh where the stocking ended above the knee. The feel of her warm

flesh made me literally choke with emotion: my hand went on up, warmer

and warmer, when suddenly I touched her sex: there was soft down on it.

The heart-pulse throbbed in my throat. I have no words to describe the

intensity of my sensations.

Thank God, E…. did not move or show any sign of distaste. Curiosity was

stronger even than desire in me; I felt her sex all over and at once the

idea came into my head that it was like a fig (the Italians, I learned

later, call it familiarly “fica”); it opened at my touches and I

inserted my finger gently, as Strangways had told me that Mary had

taught him to do; still E… did not move. Gently I rubbed the front part

of her sex with my finger. I could have kissed her a thousand times out

of passionate gratitude.

Suddenly as I went on, I felt her move and then again; plainly she was

showing me where my touch gave her most pleasure: I could have died for

her in thanks; again she moved and I could feel a little mound or small

button of flesh right in the front of her sex, above the junction of the

inner lips: of course it was her clitoris. I had forgotten all the old

Methodist doctor’s books till that moment; this fragment of long

forgotten knowledge came back to me: gently I rubbed the clitoris and at

once she pressed down on my finger for a moment or two. I tried to

insert my finger into the vagina; but she drew away at once and quickly,

closing her sex as if it hurt, so I went back to caressing her tickler.

[Illustration]

Sudden the miracle ceased. The cursed organist had finished his

explanation of the new plain chant, and as he touched the first notes on

the piano, E… drew her legs together; I took away my hand and she

stepped down from the chair: “You darling, darling”, I whispered; but

she frowned, and then just gave me a smile out of the corner of her eye

to show me she was not displeased.

Ah, how lovely, how seductive she seemed to me now, a thousand times

lovelier and more desirable than ever before. As we stood up to sing

again, I whispered to her: “I love you, love you, dear, dear!”

I can never express the passion of gratitude I felt to her for her

goodness, her sweetness in letting me touch her sex. E… it was who

opened the Gates of Paradise to me and let me first taste the hidden

mysteries of sexual delight. Still, after more than fifty years I feel

the thrill of the joy she gave me by her response, and the passionate

reverence of my gratitude is still alive in me.

This experience with E… had the most important and unlooked for results.

The mere fact that girls could feel sex pleasure “just as boys do”

increased my liking for them and lifted the whole sexual intercourse to

a higher plane in my thought. The excitement and pleasure were so much

more intense than anything I had experienced before that I resolved to

keep myself for this higher joy. No more self-abuse for me; I knew

something infinitely better. One kiss was better, one touch of a girl’s

sex.

That kissing and caressing a girl could inculcate self-restraint is not

taught by our spiritual guides and masters; but is nevertheless true.

Another cognate experience came at this time to reinforce the same

lesson. I had read all Scott and his heroine Di Vernon made a great

impression on me. I resolved now to keep all my passion for some Di

Vernon in the future. Thus the first experiences of passion and the

reading of a love story completely cured me of the bad habit of

self-abuse.

Naturally after this first divine experience, I was on edge for a second

and keen as a questing hawk. I could not see E… till the next

music-lesson, a week to wait; but even such a week comes to an end, and

once more we were imprisoned in our solitude behind the piano; but

though I whispered all the sweet and pleading words I could imagine, E…

did nothing but frown refusal and shake her pretty head. This killed for

the moment all my faith in girls: why did she act so? I puzzled my brain

for a reasonable answer and found none. It was part of the damned

inscrutability of girls but at the moment it filled me with furious

anger. I was savage with disappointment.

“You’re mean!” I whispered to her at long last and I would have said

more if the organist hadn’t called on me for a solo which I sang very

badly, so badly indeed that he made me come from behind the piano and

thus abolished even the chance of future intimacies. Time and again I

cursed organist and girl, but I was always on the alert for a similar

experience. As dog fanciers say of hunting dogs, “I had tasted blood and

could never afterwards forget the scent of it.”

Twenty-five years or more later, I dined with Frederic Chapman, the

publisher of “The Fortnightly Review”, which I was then editing; he

asked me some weeks afterwards had I noticed a lady and described her

dress to me, adding, “She was very curious about you. As soon as you

came into the room she recognized you and has asked me to tell her if

you recognized her; did you?”

I shook my head: “I’m near-sighted, you know”, I said, “and therefore to

be forgiven, but when did she know me?”

He replied, “As a boy at school; she said you would remember her by her

Christian name of E….”

“Of course I do”, I cried, “Oh! please tell me her name and where she

lives. I’ll call on her, I want (and then reflection came to suggest

prudence) to ask her some questions”, I added lamely.

“I can’t give you her name or address”, he replied, “I promised her not

to, but she’s long been happily married I was to tell you.”

I pressed him but he remained obstinate, and on second thoughts I came

to see that I had no right to push myself on a married woman who did not

wish to renew acquaintance with me, but oh! I longed to see her and hear

from her own lips the explanation of what to me at the time seemed her

inexplicable, cruel change of attitude.

As a man, of course, I know she may have had a very good reason indeed,

and her mere name still carries a glamour about it for me, an

unforgettable fascination.

My father was always willing to encourage self-reliance in me: indeed,

he tried to make me act as a man while I was still a mere child. The

Christmas holidays only lasted for four weeks; it was cheaper for me,

therefore, to take lodgings in some neighboring town rather than return

to Ireland. Accordingly the Headmaster received the request to give me

some seven pounds for my expenses and he did so, adding moreover much

excellent advice.

My first holiday I spent in the watering-place of Rhyl in North Wales

because a chum of mine, Evan Morgan, came from the place and told me

he’d make it interesting for me. And in truth he did a good deal to make

me like the people and love the place. He introduced me to three or four

girls, among whom I took a great fancy to one Gertrude Hanniford. Gertie

was over fifteen, tall and very pretty, I thought, with long plaits of

chestnut hair; one of the best companions possible. She would kiss me

willingly; but whenever I tried to touch her more intimately, she would

wrinkle her little nose with “Don’t!” or “Don’t be dirty!”

One day I said to her reproachfully: “You’ll make me couple ‘dirty’ with

‘Gertie’ if you go on using it so often.” Bit by bit she grew tamer,

though all too slowly for my desires; but luck was eager to help me.

One evening late we were together on some high ground behind the town

when suddenly there came a great glare in the sky, which lasted two or

three minutes: the next moment we were shaken by a sort of earthquake

accompanied by a dull thud.

“An explosion!” I cried, “on the railway: let’s go and see!” And away we

set off for the railway. For a hundred yards or so Gertie was as fast as

I was; but after the first quarter of a mile I had to hold in so as not

to leave her. Still for a girl she was very fast and strong. We took a

footpath alongside the railway, for we found running over the wooden

ties, very slow and dangerous. We had covered a little over a mile when

we saw the blaze in front of us and a crowd of figures moving about

before the glare.

In a few minutes we were opposite three or four blazing railway

carriages and the wreck of an engine.

“How awful!” cried Gertie. “Let’s get over the fence”, I replied, “and

go close!” The next moment I had thrown myself on the wooden paling and

half vaulted, half clambered over it. But Gertie’s skirts prevented her

from imitating me. As she stood in dismay, a great thought came to me:

“Step on the low rail, Gertie”, I cried, “and then on the upper one and

I’ll lift you over. Quick!”

At once she did as she was told and while she stood with a foot on each

rail hesitating and her hand on my head to steady herself, I put my

right hand and arm between her legs and pulling her at the same moment

towards me with my left hand, I lifted her over safely but my arm was in

her crotch and when I withdrew it, my right hand stopped on her sex and

began to touch it:

It was larger than E…’s and had more hairs and was just as soft but she

did not give me time to let it excite me so intensely.

“Don’t!” she exclaimed angrily: “take your hand away!” And slowly,

reluctantly I obeyed, trying to excite her first; as she still scowled:

“Come quick!” I cried and taking her hand drew her over to the blazing

wreck.

In a little while we learned what had happened: a goods train loaded

with barrels of oil had been at the top of the siding; it began to glide

down of its own weight and ran into the Irish Express on its way from

London to Holyhead. When the two met, the oil barrels were hurled over

the engine of the express train, caught fire on the way and poured in

flame over the first three carriages, reducing them and their

unfortunate inmates to cinders in a very short time. There were a few

persons burned and singed in the fourth and fifth carriages; but not

many. Open-eyed we watched the gang of workmen lift out charred things

like burnt logs rather than men and women, and lay them reverently in

rows alongside the rails: about forty bodies, if I remember rightly,

were taken out of that holocaust.

Suddenly Gertie realised that it was late and quickly hand in hand we

made our way home: “they’ll be angry with me”, said Gertie, “for being

so late, it’s after midnight.” “When you tell them what you’ve seen!” I

replied, “they won’t wonder that we waited.” As we parted I said,

“Gertie dear, I want to thank you—” “What for” she said shortly. “You

know”, I said cunningly, “it was so kind of you”—she made a face at me

and ran up the steps into her house.

Slowly I returned to my lodgings, only to find myself the hero of the

house when I told the story in the morning.

That experience in common made Gertie and myself great friends. She used

to kiss me and say I was sweet: once even she let me see her breasts

when I told her a girl (I didn’t say who it was) had shown hers to me

once: her breasts were nearly as large as my sister’s and very pretty.

Gertie even let me touch her legs right up to the knee; but as soon as I

tried to go further, she would pull down her dress with a frown. Still I

was always going higher, making progress; persistence brings one closer

to any goal; but alas, it was near the end of the Christmas holidays and

though I returned to Rhyl at Easter, I never saw Gertie again.

When I was just over thirteen I tried mainly out of pity to get up a

revolt of the fags, and at first had a partial success, but some of the

little fellows talked and as a ringleader I got a trouncing. The

Monitors threw me down on my face on a long desk: one sixth form boy sat

on my head and another on my feet, and a third, it was Jones, laid on

with an ashplant. I bore it without a groan but I can never describe the

storm of rage and hate that boiled in me. Do English fathers really

believe that such work is a part of education? It made me murderous.

When they let me up, I looked at Jones and if looks could kill, he’d

have had short shrift. He tried to hit me but I dodged the blow and went

out to plot revenge.

Jones was the head of the cricket First Eleven in which I too was given

a place just for my bowling. Vernon of the Sixth was the chief bowler,

but I was second, the only boy in the lower school who was in the Eleven

at all. Soon afterwards a team from some other school came over to play

us: the rival captains met before the tent, all on their best behaviour;

for some reason, Vernon not being ready or something, I was given the

new ball. A couple of the masters stood near. Jones lost the toss and

said to the rival captain very politely, “If you’re ready. Sir! we’ll go

out.” The other captain bowed smiling, my chance had come:

“I’m not going to play with you, you brute!” I cried and dashed the ball

in Jones’s face.

He was very quick and throwing his head aside, escaped the full force of

the blow; still the seam of the new ball grazed his cheek-bone and broke

the skin: everyone stood amazed: only people who know the strength of

English conventions can realise the sensation. Jones himself did not

know what to do but took out his handkerchief to mop the blood, the skin

being just broken. As for me, I walked away by myself. I had broken the

supreme law of our schoolboy honor: never to give away our dissensions

to a master, still less to boys and masters from another school; I had

sinned in public, too, and before everyone; I’d be universally

condemned.

The truth is, I was desperate, dreadfully unhappy, for since the

breakdown of the fags’ revolt the lower boys had drawn away from me and

the older boys never spoke to me if they could help it and then it was

always as “Pat.”

I felt myself an outcast and was utterly lonely and miserable as only

despised outcasts can be. I was sure, too, I should be expelled and knew

my father would judge me harshly; he was always on the side of the

authorities and masters. However, the future was not to be as gloomy as

my imagination pictured it.

The Mathematical Master was a young Cambridge man of perhaps six and

twenty, Stackpole by name: I had asked him one day about a problem in

algebra and he had been kind to me. On returning to the school this

fatal afternoon about six, I happened to meet him on the edge of the

playing field and by a little sympathy he soon drew out my whole story.

“I want to be expelled. I hate the beastly school”, was my cry. All the

charm of the Irish schools was fermenting in me: I missed the kindliness

of boy to boy and of the masters to the boys; above all the imaginative

fancies of fairies and “the little people” which had been taught us by

our nurses and though only half believed in; yet enriched and glorified

life,—all this was lost to me. My head in especial, was full of stories

of Banshees and fairy queens and heroes, half due to memory, half to my

own shaping, which made me a desirable companion to Irish boys and only

got me derision from the English.

“I wish I had known that you were being fagged”, Stackpole said when he

had heard all, “I can easily remedy that”, and he went with me to the

schoolroom and then and there erased my name from the fags’ list and

wrote in my name in the First Mathematical Division.

“There”, he said with a smile, “you are now in the Upper School where

you belong. I think”, he added, “I had better go and tell the Doctor

what I’ve done. Don’t be down-hearted, Harris”, he added, “it’ll all

come right.”

Next day the Sixth did nothing except cut out my name from the list of

the First Eleven: I was told that Jones was going to thrash me but I

startled my informant by saying: “I’ll put a knife into him if he lays a

hand on me: you can tell him so.”

In fact, however, I was half sent to Coventry and what hurt me most was

that it was the boys of the Lower School who were coldest to me, the

very boys for whom I had been fighting. That gave me a bitter foretaste

of what was to happen to me again and again all through my life.

The partial boycotting of me didn’t affect me much; I went for long

walks in the beautiful park of Sir W. W— near the school.

I have said many harsh things here of English school life; but for me it

had two great redeeming features: the one was the library which was open

to every boy, and the other the physical training of the playing fields,

the various athletic exercises and the gymnasium. The library to me for

some months meant Walter Scott. How right George Eliot was to speak of

him as “making the joy of many a young life.” Certain scenes of his made

ineffaceable impressions on me though unfortunately not always his best

work. The wrestling match between the Puritan, Balfour of Burleigh and

the soldier was one of my beloved passages. Another favorite page was

approved, too, by my maturer judgment, the brave suicide of the little

atheist apothecary in the “Fair Maid of Perth.” But Scott’s finest work,

such as the character painting of old Scotch servants, left me cold.

Dickens I never could stomach, either as a boy or in later life. His

“Tale of Two Cities” and “Nicholas Nickleby” seemed to me then about the

best and I’ve never had any desire since to revise my judgment after

reading “David Copperfield” in my student days and finding men painted

by a name or phrase or gesture, women by their modesty and souls by some

silly catchword; “the mere talent of the caricaturist”, I said to

myself, “at his best another Hogarth.”

Naturally the romances and tales of adventure were all swallowed whole;

but few affected me vitally: “The Chase of the White Horse” by Mayne

Reid, lives with me still because of the love-scenes with the Spanish

heroine, and Marryat’s “Peter Simple” which I read a hundred times and

could read again tomorrow; for there is better character painting in

Chucks, the boatswain, than in all Dickens, in my poor opinion. I

remember being astounded ten years later when Carlyle spoke of Marryat

with contempt. I knew he was unfair, just as I am probably unfair to

Dickens: after all, even Hogarth has one or two good pictures to his

credit, and no one survives even three generations without some merit.

In my two years I read every book in the library, and half a dozen are

still beloved by me.

I profited, too, from all games and exercises. I was no good at cricket;

I was shortsighted and caught some nasty knocks through an unsuspected

astigmatism; but I had an extraordinary knack of bowling which, as I

have stated, put me in the First Eleven. I liked football and was good

at it. I took the keenest delight in every form of exercise: I could

jump and run better than almost any boy of my age and in wrestling and a

little later in boxing, was among the best in the school. In the

gymnasium, too, I practiced assiduously; I was so eager to excel that

the teacher was continually advising me to go slow. At fourteen I could

pull myself up with my right hand till my chin was above the bar.

In all games the English have a high ideal of fairness and courtesy. No

one ever took an unfair advantage of another and courtesy was a law. If

another school sent a team to play us at cricket or football, the

victors always cheered the vanquished when the game was over, and it was

a rule for the Captain to thank the Captain of the visitors for his

kindness in coming and for the good game he had given us. This custom

obtained too in the Royal Schools in Ireland that were founded for the

English garrison, but I couldn’t help noting that these courtesies were

not practiced in ordinary Irish schools. It was for years the only thing

in which I had to admit the superiority of John Bull.

The ideal of a gentleman is not a very high one. Emerson says somewhere

that the evolution of the gentleman is the chief spiritual product of

the last two or three centuries; but the concept, it seems to me, dwarfs

the ideal. A “gentleman” to me is a thing of some parts but no

magnitude: one should be a gentleman and much more: a thinker, guide or

artist.

English custom in the games taught me the value and need of courtesy,

and athletics practiced assiduously did much to steel and strengthen my

control of all my bodily desires: they gave my mind and reason the

mastery of me. At the same time they taught me the laws of health and

the necessity of obeying them.

I found out that by drinking little at meals I could reduce my weight

very quickly and was thereby enabled to jump higher than ever; but when

I went on reducing I learned that there was a limit beyond which, if I

persisted, I began to lose strength: athletics taught me what the French

call the juste milieu, the middle path of moderation.

When I was about fourteen I discovered that to think of love before

going to sleep was to dream of it during the night. And this experience

taught me something else; if I repeated any lesson just before going to

sleep, I knew it perfectly next morning; the mind, it seems, works even

during unconsciousness. Often since, I have solved problems during sleep

in mathematics and in chess that have puzzled me during the day.

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SCHOOL DAYS IN ENGLAND.