CHAPTER VIII

_Reminiscent Narrative_

Reminiscent narrative is the grown-up prototype of the nursery

favorite, “A story about the time when you were about my size.” Many

people have found pleasure in writing their reminiscences, and have

discovered that it is much pleasanter to write about the past than

about the present, for it is often easier to discern and to tell the

truth about events which no longer vitally concern us, than about

those which still move our emotions deeply. We are able to write

about our “dead selves” with a certain measure of affectionate or at

least sympathetic detachment. Mistakes and achievements now long past

may be recorded without smacking either of a Uriah Heep ’umbleness

or of an uncomfortably priggish smugness. This detached tone runs

through much reminiscent writing, and may become explicit in such a

passage as Miss Portor’s, “I love the Raphael baby, and I am proud

ever to have been so proud ... but before the other one that is me

... I bow my head on my hands.”

There are two obvious sources of interest in reminiscent narrative.

The first is suggested by Hudson’s title, _Far Away and Long Ago_.

Every one likes to know what other people ate and wore and said and

did in other times and places. If other people’s experiences interest

you, so will yours interest them. In a country so varied in surface

and so wide in extent as the United States, scarcely two people in a

group of adults will have had exactly the same early surroundings,

and if we take into consideration the large admixture of foreigners

with their old world background, we must realize that the

“step-daughter of the prairie” brings a new vista to the forest bred,

and such a book as _Upstream_ records a struggle entirely unknown to

those born and reared in typical American security. It is easy enough

to see romance in other people’s lives, but it is hard to see it in

our own. A friend of mine who was born in a foreign country and whose

family was long a part of the diplomatic service in many places tells

how as a little girl she once burst out crying in the midst of one of

her mother’s stories of her own quiet childhood in an obscure fishing

village. “I shall never have any stories to tell my children; I’ve

never been anywhere,” sobbed this juvenile globe trotter, consumed

with envy of an experience, which, though pale and quiet, had for her

the fascination of the remote and the unknown.

But even dwellers in the most familiar places have command of a sure

spring of interest; for greater than our curiosity about material

things is our interest in the inner life of the individual, how and

why he laughed or wept, loved or hated--in brief, how he reacted to

the elements that the fates mix in some measure in every life. We

wish to know not merely what he did, but why he did it, and how he

felt about it. Miss Portor’s reminiscences give us only two events,

the taking of the two photographs, but she is able to tell us so

much about her own feelings toward them, both then and now, that we

live with her in those events. If you in like manner seize upon the

unforgettable experiences of your own life, the feelings which still

burn in your memory, you will not lack material upon which to try

your hand.

In method, reminiscent narrative varies widely, depending upon its

purpose. Madame Soskice tells us the stories of her childhood

without explanation or apology just as she felt about them as a

child. Neither her work nor _The Burglars_ shows any concern as to

how the reader may regard the children pictured. Their naïve ideas

and grotesque misapprehensions are neither explained nor apologized

for. Their deeds and ideas stand, as children always stand, sublimely

unrelated to an adult world. “The little boy” in the selection from

Lord Frederick Hamilton, on the other hand, is seen through the eyes

and memory of an older person; his ideas are frequently explained,

and we sympathize with his groping toward adult standards. In some

cases it is interesting to notice how a piece of reminiscence is

given an effect of unity by means of emphasis upon some important

element. Miss Portor, in _The Photograph_, uses the two events as a

framework upon which to stretch her picture of her family, of the

village, and of her own process of growing up. Even more strikingly,

Nevinson uses Greek as a unifying device for his account of

Shrewsbury School. The very landscape, the pupils’ amusements, their

attitude toward their various studies and toward athletics are all

illuminated for us by some relationship to his early study of Greek.

Another writer might find such a unifying device in athletics, in his

nationality, in his feeling toward school or toward his choice of a

profession, in his experiences earning money, or in the influence of

some member of his family.

Whatever method is used, most beginners will profit by observing the

following points:

1. Begin without apology or mock heroics. Your reader is not

obliged to read unless he chooses. The reluctant story teller is a

bore in conversation; he is insufferable in print.

2. Give only enough explanation to enable the reader to follow the

story in hand. Observe how ruthlessly and how happily Mr. Grahame

has shorn off related but extraneous details of time, place, names,

and consequences in his pursuit of the burglars.

3. On the other hand, be generous with illuminating, picturesque,

and characteristic details--“the little boy with bare legs,” Harold

climbing down the porch “like a white rat,” and the cook’s wooden

leg. Remember that the reader cannot supply the details which are

so clear to your own mind.

F. del P.

MY FATE

LUDWIG LEWISOHN

In October, 1893, after an oral examination which, thanks to my

mother’s instruction, I passed with ease, I was admitted to the High

School of Queenshaven. The school building is plain and dignified,

somewhat after the fashion of an English mansion of the eighteenth

century. What the school has become in recent years I do not know.

I have heard rumours of courses in bookkeeping and shorthand and

other dexterities that have nothing to do with the education of

youth. In my time it was a good school. The pupils were all boys and

they were taught by men. They were young enough to be grounded in

the necessities of a liberal education without having their callow

judgment consulted, and to be caned when they were lazy or rowdy.

The school had one grave fault: Greek was an elective study. Through

this fault my life sustained an irreparable loss. Yet when I consider

what might have happened to my mind if the school had been like the

High Schools of 1921, I am filled with a sense of gratitude. For I

was enabled to lay the foundations of a sound and permanent knowledge

of Latin and French; I was taught to study with thoroughness and

accuracy under pain of tangible and very wholesome penalties, and

it was not the fault of the school that my mind was and is all but

impervious to any form of mathematical reasoning.

I passed into the rough and tumble of school life with a distinct

shudder. There was no direct hazing but there was a good deal of

rather cruel horse-play. You were apt to be tripped up and thrown

on your back, to have pins and needles stuck viciously into you, to

be held under the pump until you nearly choked. Also, during the

first year, I was taunted with being a foreigner and a Jew. One boy

especially tormented me--a tallish fellow with a huge mouth always

distorted by idiotic laughter, hateful, offstanding ears and small,

greenish eyes. I was no match for him in strength and he persisted

in cuffing and thumping and taunting me. I tried to avoid him, for

I shrank from the thought of touching him as shudderingly as I did

from his touch. Then, one day he clapped me brutally on the back and

yelled with laughter. Two scarlet lights danced before my eyes and I

leapt at his throat. Boys hurried from all sides of the playground

and formed a ring around us. Cries arose: “Fight fair!” I remembered

how the contemptuous thoughts raced through my brain. Fight fair! Oh

yes, give the over-grown lout a chance to trounce me as a reward for

months of bruises and insults. I didn’t want to fight him and suffer

more undeserved pain and humiliation. I wanted to hurt him, to hurt

him so effectively that he would never again dare lay his red, bony

claws on me. I did. A teacher had to come into the yard and order me

to be torn from my gasping and bloody victim. I had no trouble after

that....

Gradually, too, I fell in with a group of boys that belonged to

the gentler families of Queenshaven. I shall have more to say of

them later, for these classmates passed together through school and

college with me and so lived on terms of daily intimacy with me for

eight years. Through their companionship, at all events, I soon felt

at home in the school, an equal among equals in play and study.

I have said that our teachers were men. Real men, I hasten to add,

not the spiritual starvelings who are content nowadays with the

wage-slavery of the High School. The salaries of these Queenshaven

teachers were rather better than such salaries are today and the

purchasing power of money was of course far greater. The principal

was the only man I have ever known who truly embodied the peculiar

ideal of the Christian gentleman. He had both sweetness and strength,

profound piety and wide charity. I can still see the beautiful

benevolence in his searching blue eyes and hear his clear, bell-like

voice. I do not know whether he consciously thought of the methods

of Arnold of Rugby; it is certain that he practiced them. The better

natured of my schoolmates and I never resented his punishments; we

knew he was incapable of inflicting them until in his kind and manly

judgment forgiveness would have been morally harmful to the offender.

His influence and example drew me back to the Methodist church.... It

is a sad reflection that this good man’s end was pitiful. A trusted

brother in the church absconded with all our principal’s modest

savings. They were small enough, for he was liberal in his charities

beyond the bounds of discretion. But this blow both in its moral and

in its physical aspect overwhelmed him. He fell into a state of

melancholia and I remembered him, in later years, a mild, vague-eyed,

broken figure on the Queenshaven streets.

I shall not linger over the burly and severe but sound pedagogue who

taught us history and physics nor over the graceful youth--still

young and vivid in his middle age--who taught French and German

with a stringent accuracy and sternness that added virility to

his Greek profile and his curving locks. It is on our teacher of

Latin that I must dwell. I cannot estimate his influence over me.

To this day I find myself using locutions and mannerisms that are

ultimately traceable to him. He was--I beg his pardon for writing

of him as in the past, but to me he lives only in the past, though

admirably and fruitfully to others in the present--he was the son

of an Italian gentleman, obviously of gentle lineage and exquisite

breeding. His face and head and hands and form had in them something

indescribably Roman. Roman of the empire. But for his severer modern

morals he might have been a friend of Petronius and, like him, an

_arbiter elegantiarum_. Or, from another point of view, a gentleman

of the age of Queen Anne--a friend of Addison. Of course this does

not render the whole man. But he was singularly free from all the

modern maladies of the soul--a devout Catholic with a frugal and

pagan delight in the good things of the world, a lover of the arts

without morbid intensity or perverting ambitions, a believer in that

golden mean which he interpreted so well. I need hardly say that the

particular objects of his tireless and exquisite zeal were Vergil and

Horace and, among English writers, Milton and Tennyson and Thackeray.

As a teacher he was strict, though always with a light

touch--stinging the lazy and loutish by some ironic turn of speech.

He taught us to appreciate a fine and mellow Latinity as well as the

human warmth and living power of the literature we read. But he was

tireless, too, in the humbler portions of his task. I find I know my

Latin accidence and syntax better to-day than graduate students who

“major” in Latin at our universities. And I can still hear his voice

as, repeating some line of Vergil, he first awakened me to the magic

of a great and perfect style:

“... et jam nox umida coelo

praecipitat suadentque cadentia sidera somnos.”

It was in the third year of High School. He was teaching us to scan

Vergil. We were repeating a passage in unison. Suddenly he swung on

his heels and pointed his finger straight at me: “That is the only

boy who has a natural ear for verse!” he cried. A keen, strange

quiver went through me. I realized the meaning suddenly of that

constant scribbling which I had been impelled to during the preceding

months. I had a gift for literature! I knew it now; I never doubted

it again. My fate had found me.

Ludwig Lewisohn. _Upstream._ By permission of

Boni and Liveright, Publishers.

THE PHOTOGRAPH

LAURA SPENCER PORTOR

In the days when I was a child--before “films” were so much as

heard of--there was a photographer, a certain photographer, very

particular, who might have figured in the Arabian Nights as some one

of importance.

A photographer was then very much a person in the community. If we

were a people of nicety as to precedents, I think he would have

stood, in all our reckonings, fourth in the realm: minister, doctor,

lawyer--_photographer_--with mere bankers, cooks, icemen, aldermen,

and mayor, following subservient. Everyone, sometime, somehow,

sooner or later, came at last to the photographer. In the flat glass

show case that hung outside the steps leading to his upper parlor,

they all hung, some of them fiercely in high collars, some of them

frightened, in low ones; but all there.

I was prepared for a visit to the “photograph parlor” with some

occasion, I assure you, the process being long, painstaking, and full

of admonition. I was now nearly three years old and there was needed,

I suppose, an official photograph to send to distant and inquiring

aunts and uncles.

I recall the photographer perfectly, or my composite recollections

of later years--for he remained long with us--serve me perfectly. He

had masses of curly hair through which he often temperamentally ran

his delicate long fingers; a poetic personality; and eyes that never

left you for so much as an instant, once the real ordeal had begun;

and an index finger that flew up and remained rigid at unaccountable

moments. He had imagination; for he was repeatedly referring to a

little bird, and asking me to look at it, which I did my utmost to

see, but which for me was never there.

After sundry final preparations I was ushered into the strange

“parlor.” I was parted from my mother’s hand, as a ship from her

moorings; was for a moment lost, then saved; for the photographer

took me in tow. I was guided to a velours chair, and allowed, no,

assisted, to climb upon it. There was some talk on the photographer’s

part, I believe, of naturalness. Then, almost immediately, he began

dancing back and forth intensely, fantastically, with lithe poses

and bendings of his lissom body this side and that; his eyes half

closed, fixed all the while on me, with a rapt attention I had never

before received.

“A _lit_-tle more to one side! There!”

He even took my head delicately between his terribly firm fingers and

turned it ever so little. Why? I should have preferred it as it was.

At last his assistant under his direction--a rather elderly man he

was, and disillusioned I think, bent, and with long fingers too, but

bony and no hair to run them through--placed some sort of a terrible

iron thing I never saw nor could have imagined at the back of my head.

During all this, the photographer’s eyes never left me. What was it

he saw? Then up flew his forefinger.

“So! Keep that!”

(Keep what?)

He flew like a dragon fly to the hooded instrument, ducked his head

under the hood, lost his own head, it seemed, took on the hooded head

of the instrument, _became_ the instrument as it were, so that it

now had human arms and legs clothed in a checked suit, and in this

metamorphic condition, proceeded with an unaccountable section of the

Eleusinian mysteries.

So, this was the manner in which one had one’s picture taken! Was

that all? Bless you, no! We had but begun! He suddenly turned into a

man again, and the instrument degenerated into a mere instrument.

We made, I cannot imagine, how many false starts. The index finger

would fly up. I would be recommended to watch the little bird I could

not see. The old assistant would stand ready to click the instrument.

The photographer would count three. So! Now! Off we were, surely!

But no! Something was suddenly altogether a mistake. What was the

matter? I wish I could tell you. I suppose I must have altered

infinitesimally his precious pose. So, _da capo_. Well! Now! There!

So! Up would go the index finger. We are off now!

No! by my strapped slippers, we are not! Spoiled again!

Then he would run his fingers really wildly through his hair.

Patience! Reconstruction. I knew I was not to blame. I was healthy

and well disposed, and eager to do my part, but he wanted something

better than the best.

I do not know how long he worked feverishly, but I have still the

perfectly good-natured, secure, contented likeness which seems to

have resulted--not because of, but in spite of all this frenzy;

a baby likeness showing as nothing else in the world could the

immeasurable distance between our two worlds, his and mine.

I was showing it laughingly, perhaps a little wistfully, to an artist

friend of mine the other day. He appeared to be startled almost by

its certainty, its poise.

“Good Lord, how wise! How _secure_! It is like the Raphael babies!

I’ve always thought they _knew_; some knowledge you could not shake.”

The mistake is, of course, to limit the observation to the Raphael

babies. Of course children of that age _do_ know, but it is a sad

mistake to say you cannot shake their knowledge. This I can prove

to you, if you are in doubt, by another photograph, taken two years

later, when I was of the tenderly advanced age of five. It was no

official photograph like the first, but a hasty unofficial matter, an

emergency affair, a tintype, and taken in a hurry. And this is its

story:

There was in our home, as in most homes of its class of that day, a

deep tradition of family affection. We were told, I cannot imagine

how early, that we must love one another. In the prayers we said at

night, tiny as we three youngest ones were, we asked God severally to

bless each member of the household, naming them, before we severally

asked Him to “make us a good girl”; and these petitions, linked with

a shadow and possibility of our perhaps “dying before we waked,” gave

love, I am inclined to think, in our inadequate conception of it a

certain solemn tone.

I was an impressionable child, and easily devoted. Besides my much

elder brothers and sisters, I had two sisters rather close to my own

age. A day came when the one nearest to me in years went away with

some older relative, an aunt, I believe, to the East, for a long

visit; eight months indeed.

I know I must at first have missed her very much. But I think I had

always a certain zest for life. The wind blew as mysteriously in the

tree tops as it ever did; the birds built in quite as fascinating

half-secret places; the lilacs waved incredible plumes announcing

that the roses were about to arrive. Amid all this present glory the

sister who was absent faded gradually, in my memory.

Who can trace the beginnings of terror in early years? I wakened at

last to the hideous realization that I had lost her; not in a bodily

sense, not in a sense of absence or loneliness, for I knew she was

in the world still, but in a terrible sense--as though a witch had

caught me by the hair, or I had caught my feet in the hideous net

of some spell--she was obliterated--_I could not remember what she

looked like!_

There are terrors of many kinds in life. I know. I have met not a

few; but for abysmal terror, that realization, it sometimes seems

to me, leads them all. Blackness without a gleam of light, depth

without a bottom. Downright mental panic. I know I made a few

desperate efforts. “Jeanette!” Her name I knew, and often heard

spoken; I could remember things she had done and said; but not form

or feature.

My mother was away that day; but I was blessed by a special

providence with an older sister some seventeen years older than

myself--who was compounded of all that was best and most sympathetic

in the world. I rushed to her; was held close in her arms; but could

tell her nothing for sobbing.

When she at last got the circumstances from me, her delicate handling

of it was, I think, very nearly as good as the mercy of God; only it

was debonair besides, in good measure.

She kissed me, and laughed, and said that she was just thinking that

minute that in all that time Jeanette might have forgotten what I

looked like! (Think of the delicacy of her putting it that way!) So,

let us go to the photographer’s and have a little tintype taken of

myself; let us send it this very day to Jeanette; and let us ask her

to send us one of herself in return.

So, my disloyalty was blotted out, and all tears were wiped away from

my eyes. I was dressed quickly, a lace fichu was put about my neck,

my drooping leghorn was set upon my head; I think I must have felt

that goodness and mercy would follow me all the days of my life and I

would dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

No appointment was necessary. There was no art to the taking of this

picture. It was to be a tintype precisely because these partook of

immediacy and expedition. The young temperamental photographer with

his zeal for perfection was not even there; only the old one, bent,

kind, disillusioned.

Well, it is a different picture, I tell you, that second one--utterly

different. Good God! What life does to one! And how early it begins!

That complacent, secure, Raphael child, who knew everything, and was

so sure--for how short a while was she allowed her knowledge and

her sovereignty! Then, the second and unofficial photograph! Such a

darling child, but one whose scepter had been finally taken from it.

Already a certain nostalgia had irrevocably touched me. I only tell

you the truth: every line of that photograph droops--not tragically,

but enough, enough. Already, you could not mistake it, that child had

sounded the depths of its own fallible humanity.

I have both photographs beside me. I love the Raphael baby, and I am

proud ever to have been so proud--and to have had that pride recorded

by the all-seeing sun and a temperamental photographer with a passion

for perfection; but before that other one that is me--(how much

sadness already; and how soon!) before that other one I bow my head

on my hands.

By kind permission of the author, Laura Spencer

Portor.

MY CHILDHOOD

LORD FREDERICK HAMILTON

I was born the thirteenth child of a family of fourteen, on the

thirteenth day of the month, and I have for many years resided at

No. 13 in a certain street in Westminster. In spite of the popular

prejudice attached to this numeral, I am not conscious of having

derived any particular ill-fortune from my accidental association

with it.

* * * * *

Looking down the long vista of sixty years with eyes that have

already lost their keen vision, the most vivid impression that

remains of my early childhood is the nightly ordeal of the journey

down “The Passage of Many Terrors” in our Irish home. It had been

decreed that, as I had reached the mature age of six, I was quite

old enough to come down-stairs in the evening by myself without the

escort of a maid, but no one seemed to realize what this entailed on

the small boy immediately concerned. The house had evidently been

built by some malevolent architect with the sole object of terrifying

little boys. Never, surely, had such a prodigious length of twisting,

winding passages and such a superfluity of staircases been crammed

into one building, and as in the early “sixties” electric light had

not been thought of, and there was no gas in the house, these endless

passages were only sparingly lit with dim colza-oil lamps. From his

nursery the little boy had to make his way alone through a passage

and up some steps. These were brightly lit, and concealed no terrors.

The staircase that had to be negotiated was also reassuringly bright,

but at its base came the “Terrible Passage.” It was interminably

long, and only lit by an oil lamp at its far end. Almost at once a

long corridor running at right angles to the main one, and plunged

in total darkness, had to be crossed. This was an awful place, for

under a marble slab in its dim recesses a stuffed crocodile reposed.

Of course in the daytime the crocodile _pretended_ to be very dead,

but every one knew that as soon as it grew dark, the crocodile came

to life again, and padded noiselessly about the passage on its scaly

paws seeking for its prey, with its great cruel jaws snapping, its

fierce teeth gleaming, and its horny tail lashing savagely from side

to side. It was also a matter of common knowledge that the favourite

article of diet of crocodiles was a little boy with bare legs in a

white suit.

Even should one be fortunate enough to escape the crocodile’s jaws,

there were countless other terrors awaiting the traveller down this

awe-inspiring passage. A little farther on there was a dark lobby,

with cupboards surrounding it. Anyone examining these cupboards by

daylight would have found that they contained innocuous cricket-bats

and stumps, croquet-mallets and balls, and sets of bowls. But as soon

as the shades of night fell, these harmless sporting accessories were

changed by some mysterious and malign agency into grizzly bears,

and grizzly bears are notoriously the fiercest of their species. It

was advisable to walk very quickly, but quietly, past the lair of

the grizzlies, for they would have gobbled up a little boy in one

second. Immediately after the bears’ den came the culminating terror

of all--the haunt of the wicked little hunchbacks. These malignant

little beings inhabited an arched and recessed cross-passage. It

was their horrible habit to creep noiselessly behind their victims,

tip ... tip ... tip-toeing silently but swiftly behind their prey,

and then ... with a sudden spring they threw themselves on to

little boys’ backs, and getting their arms around their necks, they

remorselessly throttled the life out of them. In the early “sixties”

there was a perfect epidemic of so-called “garrotting” in London.

Harmless citizens proceeding peaceably homeward through unfrequented

streets or down suburban roads at night were suddenly seized from

behind by nefarious hands, and found arms pressed under their chins

against their windpipe, with a second hand drawing their heads back

until they collapsed insensible, and could be despoiled leisurely

of any valuables that they might happen to have about them. Those

familiar with John Leech’s _Punch Album_ will recollect how many of

his drawings turned on this outbreak of garrotting. The little boy

had heard his elders talking about this garrotting, and had somehow

mixed it up with a story about hunchbacks and the fascinating local

tales about “the wee people,” but the terror was a very real one

for all that. The hunchbacks baffled, there only remained a dark

archway to pass, but this archway led to the “Robbers’ Passage.” A

peculiarly bloodthirsty gang of malefactors had their fastnesses

along this passage, but the dread of being in the immediate

neighbourhood of such a band of desperadoes was considerably modified

by the increasing light, as the solitary oil lamp of the passage was

approached. Under the comforting beams of this lamp the little boy

would pause until his heart began to thump less wildly after his

deadly perils, and he would turn the handle of the door and walk

into the great hall as demurely as though he had merely traversed an

ordinary everyday passage in broad daylight. It was very reassuring

to see the big hall blazing with light, with the logs roaring

on the open hearth, and grown-ups writing, reading, and talking

unconcernedly, as though unconscious of the awful dangers lurking

within a few yards of them. In that friendly atmosphere, what with

toys and picture-books, the fearful experiences of the “Passage of

Many Terrors” soon faded away, and the return journey upstairs would

be free from alarms, for Catherine, the nursery-maid, would come to

fetch the little boy when his bedtime arrived.

Catherine was fat, freckled, and French. She was also of a very

stolid disposition. She stumped unconcernedly along the “Passage

of Terrors,” and any reference to its hidden dangers of robbers,

hunch-backs, bears, and crocodiles only provoked the remark, “Quel

tas de bêtises!” In order to reassure the little boy, Catherine took

him to view the stuffed crocodile reposing inertly under its marble

slab. Of course, before a grown-up the crocodile would pretend to be

dead and stuffed, but ... the little boy knew better. It occurred

gleefully to him, too, that the plump French damsel might prove more

satisfactory as a repast to a hungry saurian than a skinny little

boy with thin legs. In the cheerful nursery, with its fragrant peat

fire (we called it “turf”), the terrors of the evening were quickly

forgotten, only to be renewed with tenfold activity next evening, as

the moment for making the dreaded journey again approached.

The little boy had had the _Pilgrim’s Progress_ read to him on

Sundays. He envied “Christian,” who not only usually enjoyed the

benefit of some reassuring companion, such as “Mr. Interpreter,”

or “Mr. Greatheart,” to help him on his road, but had also been

expressly told, “Keep in the midst of the path, and no harm shall

come to thee.”

This was distinctly comforting, and Christian enjoyed another

conspicuous advantage. All the lions he encountered in the course

of his journey were chained up, and could not reach him provided

he adhered to the Narrow Way. The little boy thought seriously of

tying a rolled-up tablecloth to his back to represent Christian’s

pack; in his white suit, he might perhaps then pass for a pilgrim,

and the strip of carpet down the centre of the passage would make an

admirable Narrow Way, but it all depended on whether the crocodile,

bears, and hunchbacks knew, and would observe the rules of the game.

It was most improbable that the crocodile had ever had the _Pilgrim’s

Progress_ read to him in his youth, and he might not understand that

the carpet representing the Narrow Way was inviolable territory.

Again, the bears might make their spring before they realized that,

strictly speaking, they ought to consider themselves chained up. The

ferocious little hunchbacks were clearly past praying for; nothing

would give them a sense of the most elementary decency. On the whole,

the safest plan seemed to be, on reaching the foot of the stairs, to

keep an eye on the distant lamp and to run to it as fast as short

legs and small feet could carry one. Once safe under its friendly

beams, panting breath could be recovered, and the necessary stolid

look assumed before entering the hall.

There was another voyage, rich in its promise of ultimate rewards,

but so perilous that it would only be undertaken under escort. That

was to the housekeeper’s room through a maze of basement passages.

On the road two fiercely-gleaming roaring pits of fire had to be

encountered. Grown-ups said this was the furnace that heated the

house, but the little boy had his own ideas on the subject. Every

Sunday his nurse used to read to him out of a little devotional book,

much in vogue in the “sixties,” called _The Peep of Day_, a book with

the most terrifying pictures. One Sunday evening, so it is said, the

little boy’s mother came into the nursery to find him listening in

rapt attention to what his nurse was reading him.

“Emery is reading to me out of a good book,” explained the small boy

quite superfluously.

“And do you like it, dear?”

“Very much indeed.”

“What is Emery reading to you about? Is it about Heaven?”

“No, it’s about ’ell,” gleefully responded the little boy, who had

not yet found all his “h’s.”

Those glowing furnace-bars; those roaring flames ... there could be

no doubt whatever about it. A hymn spoke of “Gates of Hell” ... of

course they just called it the heating furnace to avoid frightening

him. The little boy became acutely conscious of his misdeeds. He had

taken ... no, stolen an apple from the nursery pantry and had eaten

it. Against all orders he had played with the taps in the sink. The

burden of his iniquities pressed heavily on him; remembering the

encouraging warnings Mrs. Fairchild, of _The Fairchild Family_, gave

her offspring as to their certain ultimate destiny when they happened

to break any domestic rule, he simply dared not pass those fiery

apertures alone. With his hand in that of his friend Joseph, the

footman, it was quite another matter. Out of gratitude, he addressed

Joseph as “Mr. Greatheart,” but Joseph, probably unfamiliar with the

_Pilgrim’s Progress_, replied that his name was Smith.

The interminable labyrinth of passages threaded, the warm,

comfortable housekeeper’s room, with its red curtains, oak presses

and a delicious smell of spice pervading it, was a real haven of

rest. To this very day, nearly sixty years afterwards, it still

looks just the same, and keeps its old fragrant spicy odour. Common

politeness dictated a brief period of conversation, until Mrs.

Pithers, the housekeeper, should take up her wicker key-basket and

select a key (the second press on the left). From that inexhaustible

treasure-house dates and figs would appear, also dried apricots

and those little discs of crystallised apple-paste which, impaled

upon straws, and coloured green, red and yellow, were in those days

manufactured for the special delectation of greedy little boys. What

a happy woman Mrs. Pithers must have been with such a prodigal wealth

of delicious products always at her command! It was comforting,

too, to converse with Mrs. Pithers, for though this intrepid woman

was alarmed neither by bears, hunchbacks, nor crocodiles, she was

terribly frightened by what she termed “cows,” and regulated her

daily walks so as to avoid any portion of the park where cattle

were grazing. Here the little boy experienced a delightful sense of

masculine superiority. He was not the least afraid of cattle, or of

other things in daylight and the open air; of course at night in

dark passages infested with bears and little hunchbacks.... Well, it

was obviously different. And yet that woman who was afraid of “cows”

could walk without a tremor, or a little shiver down the spine, past

the very “Gates of Hell,” where they roared and blazed in the dark

passage.

From _The Days Before Yesterday_ by Lord

Frederick Hamilton. Copyright 1920, George H.

Doran Company, Publishers.

SHREWSBURY SCHOOL

HENRY W. NEVINSON

“High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam,

Islanded in Severn Stream;

The bridges from the steepled crest

Cross the water east and west.

“The flag of morn in conqueror’s state

Enters at the English gate;

The vanquished eve, as night prevails,

Bleeds upon the road to Wales.”

--_A Shropshire Lad._

In my old school upon the Severn, I can see now that we were not

educated at all: no scientific methods were tried upon us. I doubt

if any of the masters had ever heard there was such a thing as a

science of education. To them education was a natural process which

all decent people went through, like washing: and their ideas upon

it were as unscientific as was our method of “swilling,” when we ran

down naked from the bedrooms to sheds in the backyards, sluiced cold

water over us with zinc basins, and then came dripping back to dry

upstairs. And yet I do remember one young mathematician whose form

by the end of his hour was always reduced to a flushed and radiant

chaos: and when the other masters complained he replied that this

was part of his “system.” So I suppose that he at all events was

scientific, and had possibly studied Pädagogik in Germany.

The others were content to teach what they had learned, and in the

same manner. Most of them were Shrewsbury boys themselves, and

because Greek had been taught there for more than three centuries,

they taught Greek. Of course, we had Latin too, and up to the sixth

form, our time was equally divided between the two languages; but

Latin, as being easier and rather more connected with modern life,

never ranked so high, and we turned to it with the relief which most

men feel when the ladies rise from the dinner table. Latin prose, it

is true, was thought more of than Greek prose, and no doubt there

was some instinctive reason why. I suspect that in reality it is

the more difficult: for it was the unconscious rule of our ancient

tradition that of two subjects the more difficult was the better

worth learning, provided always that both were entirely useless.

Of Greek our knowledge was both peculiar and limited. We were

allowed no devices to make the language in the least interesting,

no designs, or pictures, or explanations. We had no idea what the

Greek plays looked like on the stage, or why Demosthenes uttered

those long-winded sentences. We knew nothing of the Dantesque pride

underlying the tortured prose of Thucydides, and when a sixth-form

master told us that the stupendous myth at the end of the Phaedo

appeared to him singularly childish, we took no notice of the remark

one way or the other. We only knew that the passage was easy, just as

Homer was easy, and the choruses hard. The greater part of the school

believed that Greek literature was written as a graduated series of

problems for Shrewsbury boys to solve, and when a sixth-form boy was

asked by a new master whether he did not consider the Prometheus a

very beautiful play, he replied that he thought it contained too many

weak caesuras.

So there was nothing in the least artistic about our knowledge. No

one expected to find either beauty or pleasure in what we read, and

we found none. Nor were we scientific; we neither knew nor cared

how the Greek words arose, or how the aorists grew, and why there

were two of them, like Castor and Pollux. After all these things

do the Germans seek, but us they never troubled. Our sole duty was

to convert, with absolute precision, so much Greek into so much

English. No possible shade of meaning or delicate inflection on the

page was allowed to slide unnoticed. The phases of every mood with

all its accompanying satellites were traced with the exactitude of

astronomy. No one cared much about beauty of language provided the

definite meaning was secure. Yet beauty sometimes came by accident,

just as happiness comes, and I first learned what style is from the

renderings of the head-boy when he mounted the “rostrum.” He was

himself an antique Roman; his eagle nose, wide mouth, and massive

chin, the low, broad brow, with black curls growing close to the

square-backed head, were made to rule nations. But not long since

he died in the serviceable obscurity of a mastership, for which his

knowledge of Greek was his only qualification. It is true he was our

captain of football, but he owed that position to his Greek rather

than his play.

When as a new boy I was first taken for a walk out of bounds on a

Sunday afternoon by one of the upper sixth, who is now an earthly

saint, we went to a hillside with a long blue vision of western

mountains, and while I had no thought or eyes for anything but

them, he continued to talk quietly of Greek--the significance of

various forms, the most telling way of turning this meaning or that,

especially, I remember, the cunning idioms by which the idea of

“self” might be rendered in verse, either with emphasis or modesty.

So it was. The school breathed Greek, and through its ancient

buildings a Greek wind blew. To enter the head-room--a dim, panelled

chamber which the upper sixth used as a study--was to become a

scholar. I doubt if good Greek verse could be written anywhere else.

Winged iambics fluttered through the air; they hung like bats along

the shelves, and the dust fell in Greek particles. Now the school

is moved to the further side of the river, and its grey and storied

stone is exchanged for cheerful brick. Our old head-room has become

the housekeeper’s parlor in some citizen’s dwelling, but on the

hearthstone at eventide beside her petticoats squats the imperishable

Lar, real as a rat, though not so formidable, and murmurs iambics to

himself.

Other subjects besides Greek were taught, but no one ever learned

them. There was French, for instance, taught by an aged Englishman

who had outlived three generations of mortal head-masters, and,

besides his wig, was supposed gradually to have acquired an

artificial body that would last forever. To us he was important

because he registered the punishments, and had the reputation of a

very bloodhound for detecting crime. Certainly he was the best comic

reader I ever heard, and when he read prayers at night the whole

school used to howl like a rising and falling wind, following the

cadence of his voice. But nobody learned French of him. Once, because

I had shown him decent politeness he assigned me a prize. I could

honestly say I knew less French than any one this side the Channel;

and yet I should never have outlived a certain stigma attaching to

imaginary knowledge of anything so paltry, if nature had not given me

the power of running long distances without fatigue. But, unhappily

for me, to prove that power I had to wait from summer till autumn,

when the school huntsman led out his pack in white to scour the wild

country west of the town--a country of yellow woods and deep pools,

where water-fowl rose, and of isolated limestone hills, the promise

of Wales. Each run followed a course fixed by old tradition. Foxes

were seldom sent out, and were never supposed to be caught. We ran

for the sake of running, just as we learned Greek for the sake of

learning it.

Mathematics were held in scarcely less contempt than French. We

had two wranglers to teach us, but they never taught anyone.

Their appearance in form was hailed with indecent joy. As one

of the classical masters said, it was like the “Cease fire” on

a field-day, and the whole body of boys abandoned themselves at

once to relaxation. In the lower forms far-sailing darts were seen

floating through the air as at a spiritualist seance; in the upper

we discussed the steeple-chase or did Greek verses. A boy who really

knew any mathematics was regarded by ourselves and the masters as

a kind of freak. There was no dealing with him. His mathematical

marks got him into forms beyond his real knowledge--his knowledge

of Greek. He upset the natural order of things. He was a perpetual

ugly duckling, that could not emit iambics. So his lot was far from

enviable, and happily I remember only two such cases.

In the sixth, it was Saturday mornings which were given to this

innocent pursuit of mathematics, and to it we owed our happiest hours

of peace. To go up School Gardens on a bright summer day, to cross

the leisurely street of the beautiful country town, to buy breakfast

(for an ancient tradition kept us strenuously underfed), to devour it

slowly and at ease, knowing there was only mathematics before us that

morning, to be followed by the long afternoon and Sunday--that was a

secure and unequalled joy, and whenever mathematics are mentioned,

I still feel a throb of gratitude for those old pleasures. Our one

lesson on Sunday was a difficulty to the masters. Of course there

was the Greek testament to fall back upon, but its Greek was so easy

and so inferior to ours that it became a positive danger. We were

sometimes given a Latin catechism, by some Protestant Father of the

sixteenth century, denouncing Transubstantiation, but that also we

had to read with caution lest it should influence our Latin prose.

Once we waded through Dr. Westcott’s _Gospel of the Resurrection_,

a supposed concession to those of us who were going to Oxford. On

Sunday evenings we learnt cantos of the _In Memoriam_ by heart, and

explained them next morning by suggesting how they might be turned

into Greek or Latin lyrics. Then the real labor of life began again

with Greek, and so the weeks rolled on without a change. Once, it

is true, our greatest master got an afternoon hour for the teaching

of wisdom to the sixth, and we really tried to listen, for he stood

six foot four and had been captain of football at Oxford. But it

was no good. Wisdom was far too easy and unimportant for us, and we

let her voice cry in vain. Of such diversions as physical science

or mechanics we never even heard, though their absence was perhaps

sufficiently compensated for by the system of fagging, under which

all the lower forms learnt the arts of lighting fires and plain

cooking for the upper sixth. The new-boys were also practiced in

public oratory, having in turn to proclaim the athletic announcements

for the day, standing on the breakfast-table. The proclamation began

with “O-Yes!” three times repeated, and ended with “God save the

Queen, and down with the Radicals!” Anyone was at liberty to throw

bread, sugar, or boots at the crier during his announcement; and many

of my schoolfellows have since displayed extraordinary eloquence on

public platforms and in the pulpit.

In politics our instruction was entirely practical. For centuries

the school had been divided into bitterly hostile camps--day-boys

and boarders--doing the same work, sitting side by side in form,

but never speaking to each other or walking together, or playing

the same games. No feud of Whig and Tory, or Boer and Briton,

was so implacable as ours. “Skytes” we called them, those hated

day-boys, for whom the school was founded--mere Scythians, uncouth

and brutish things that sacrificed the flesh of men and drank from

a human skull. Out of school hours we did not suffer them within

school gates. They were excluded even from the ball-court, except for

fights. They were compelled to pay for separate football and cricket

fields; and in football they adopted the vulgar rules of Association,

while we aristocrats of tradition continued to cherish an almost

incomprehensible game, in which, as in a Homeric battle, the leaders

did the fighting, while the indistinguishable host trampled to and

fro in patient pursuit of a ball which they rarely touched, but

sometimes saw. The breach may have begun when Elizabeth was Queen,

or in the days of Cavaliers and Roundheads, and there is no knowing

how long it would have lasted but for the wisdom of that wise master

already mentioned. Whilst I was still there, myself a red-hot

boarder, he began delicately to reason, amid the choking indignation

of both sides, whose rancor increased as reason shook it. No reformer

ever set himself to a task so hopeless, and yet it was accomplished.

Within a year we were playing football under Association rules

together, and before the old school was removed the wrath of ages was

appeased.

For the rest, I cannot say that the ingenuous art of Greek, though we

learnt it faithfully, softened our manners much, or forbade us to be

savages. One peculiar custom may stand for many as an instance of the

primitive barbarity which stamps upon any abnormal member of a herd.

Since the last Pancratium was fought at Olympia, no such dire contest

has been seen among men as our old steeple-chase. Clad in little

but gloves--a little which grew less with every hundred yards--the

small band of youths tore their way through bare and towering hedges,

wallowed through bogs, plunged into streams and ponds, racing over a

two miles of country that no horse would have looked at. The start

was at the Flash side of the Severn, and if I had cleared the first

stream and the hedge beyond it with one clean bound, as my young

brother did, I would have it engraved on my tombstone: “He jumped the

Flash ditch, R. I. P.” The winner of the race was, of course, the boy

who came in first; but the hero of the school was he from whom the

most blood was trickling at the finish, and who showed the bravest

gashes on his face as he walked down the choir of St. Mary’s at next

morning’s service. The course for the display of all this heroism

was marked by the new boys, whose places as “sticks” were allotted

by the huntsman the day before, the whole school accompanying them,

and by immemorial custom the most unpopular new-boy of the year

was always set at the last post,--a slippery stump of ancient tree

projecting in the very midst of a particularly filthy pond. As we

drew nearer and nearer the place, all of us advancing at a gentle

trot, one could see the poor creature growing more and more certain

that he was the boy. We all exchanged smiles, and sometimes his name

was called out, for all, except himself, had agreed who it would

probably be. At last the pond was reached, and we stood round it

in a thick and silent circle, awaiting the public execution of a

soul. The boy’s name was called. He came sullenly forward and made

a wild leap for the stump. Invariably he fell short, or slipped

and plunged headlong into the stagnant water, whilst we all yelled

with satisfaction. Wallowing through the black slush and duckweed,

he clambered on to the tree at last, and stood there in the public

gaze, declared the most hateful boy in the school. Upon himself the

ceremony had not always the elevating effect at which, I suppose, we

aimed. For I remember one disappointed moralist in the fourth form

remarking, “Frog’s pond doesn’t seem to have done that fellow any

good. He wants kicking again.”

It is all gone now--Frog’s pond, the steeple-chase, and the runners.

The old school itself has been converted into a museum, and in

the long raftered room where we learnt Greek, a crocodile with

gaping jaws, stuffed monkeys, and some bottled snakes teach useful

knowledge to all who come. When last I was there, they were teaching

a blue-nosed boy to make squeaks on the glass with his wetted finger,

and he was getting on very well. But from my old seat (under the

crocodile) I could see beyond the Berwick woods the wild and tossing

hills, already touched with snow, just as when I used to watch the

running light upon them, and envy the lives folded in their valleys.

Close in front was the bend of the river where Bryan’s Ford swings

past Blue Rails, just as it ran one night, still longer ago, when

Admiral Benbow as a little boy launched his coracle for the sea. In

a shining horseshoe the river sweeps round the spires on Shrewsbury

Hill. The red castle guards the narrows, and east and west the Welsh

and English bridges cross the water. Below the English bridge I never

cared to discover what might come, for the river ran down towards the

land of dulness, opposite to the course of adventure and the sun.

But to follow up the stream, to scrape across her shingly fords, to

watch for the polished surface of her shoals, and move silently over

the black depths where no line had reached a bottom--let me die, as

Wordsworth says, if the very thought of it does not always fill me

with joy! Incalculable from hour to hour, the river never loses her

charm and variety. In a single night the water will rise twenty feet,

and pour foaming through the deep channel it has been cutting for so

many years. Along its banks of sandstone and loam the dotterels run,

and rats and stoats thread the labyrinth of the flood-washed roots.

There the bullfinches build, kingfishers dig their “tunnelled house,”

moorhens set their shallow bowl of reeds, and sometimes a tern flits

by like a large white swallow. On tongues of gravel, where the

current eddies under the deep opposite bank, red cattle with white

faces used to come down in summer and stand far out in the stream,

ruminating and flicking their tails, or following us with wondering

eyes as we ran naked over the grass and fell splashing into the

water. Severn water is full of light and motion. Never stopping to

sulk, it has no dead and solid surface, but is alive right through,

reflecting the sunshine, green with long ribbons of weed, orange

from the pebbly bed, and indigo where the unbreaking crests of its

ripples rise. As it passes beneath deep meadows, and under the solemn

elms, it whispers still of the mountains from which it came. Into the

midst of hedgerow villages and ordered fields it brings its laughing

savagery, telling of another life than theirs, of rocks and sounding

falls and moorland watersheds. Other rivers may be called majestic,

and we talk of Father Tiber and Father Thames, but no one ever called

the Severn Father, or praised her but for her grace; for she is like

the body and soul of a princess straight from a western fairyland--so

wild and pliant, so full of laughter and of mystery, so uncertain

in her gay and sorrowing moods. On my word, though the science

of education must be a very splendid thing, untaught, untrained,

uninstructed as we Shrewsbury boys would now be considered, I would

not change places with the most scientifically educated man in

England, who had never known a river such as that.

From _Changes and Chances_ by Henry W. Nevinson.

Copyright by Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc.

THE BURGLARS

KENNETH GRAHAME

It was much too fine a night to think of going to bed at once, and

so, although the witching hour of nine P. M. had struck, Edward and

I were still leaning out of the open window in our nightshirts,

watching the play of the cedar-branch shadows on the moonlit lawn,

and planning schemes of fresh deviltry for the sunshiny morrow.

From below, strains of the jocund piano declared that the Olympians

were enjoying themselves in their listless impotent way; for the new

curate had been bidden to dinner that night, and was at the moment

unclerically proclaiming to all the world that he feared no foe.

His discordant vociferations doubtless started a train of thought

in Edward’s mind, for he presently remarked, _à propos_ of nothing

whatever that had been said before, “I believe the new curate’s

rather gone on Aunt Maria.”

I scouted the notion; “Why, she’s quite old,” I said. (She must have

seen some five-and-twenty summers.)

“Of course she is,” replied Edward scornfully. “It’s not her, it’s

her money he’s after, you bet!”

“Didn’t know she had any money,” I observed timidly.

“Sure to have,” said my brother with confidence. “Heaps and heaps.”

Silence ensued, both our minds being busy with the new situation thus

presented: mine, in wonderment at this flaw that so often declared

itself in enviable natures of fullest endowment,--in a grown-up man

and a good cricketer, for instance, even as this curate; Edward’s

(apparently) in the consideration of how such a state of things,

supposing it existed, could be best turned to his own advantage.

“Bobby Ferris told me,” began Edward in due course, “that there was a

fellow spooning his sister once----”

“What’s spooning?” I asked meekly.

“O I dunno,” said Edward indifferently. “It’s--it’s--it’s just a

thing they do, you know. And he used to carry notes and messages and

things between ’em, and he got a shilling almost every time.”

“What, from each of ’em?” I innocently inquired.

Edward looked at me with scornful pity. “Girls never have any money,”

he briefly explained. “But she did his exercises, and got him out

of rows, and told stories for him when he needed it--and much better

ones than he could have made up for himself. Girls are useful in some

ways. So he was living in clover, when unfortunately they went and

quarrelled about something.”

“Don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” I said.

“Nor don’t I,” rejoined Edward. “But anyhow the notes and things

stopped, and so did the shillings. Bobby was fairly cornered, for

he had bought two ferrets on tick, and promised to pay a shilling

a week, thinking the shillings were going on for ever, the silly

young ass. So when the week was up, and he was being dunned for the

shilling, he went off to the fellow and said: ‘Your broken-hearted

Bella implores you to meet her at sundown. By the hollow oak as of

old, be it only for a moment. Do not fail!’ He got all that out of

some rotten book, of course. The fellow looked puzzled and said:

“‘What hollow oak? I don’t know any hollow oak.’

“‘Perhaps it was the Royal Oak?’ said Bobby promptly, ’cos he saw he

had made a slip, through trusting too much to the rotten book; but

this didn’t seem to make the fellow any happier.”

“Should think not,” I said, “the Royal Oak’s an awful low sort of

pub.”

“I know,” said Edward. “Well, at last the fellow said, ‘I think I

know what she means: the hollow tree in your father’s paddock. It

happens to be an elm, but she wouldn’t know the difference. All

right: say I’ll be there.’ Bobby hung about a bit, for he hadn’t

got his money. ‘She was crying awfully,’ he said. Then he got his

shilling.”

“And wasn’t the fellow riled,” I inquired, “when he got to the place

and found nothing?”

“He found Bobby,” said Edward indignantly. “Young Ferris was a

gentleman, every inch of him. He brought the fellow another message

from Bella: ‘I dare not leave the house. My cruel parents immure

me closely. If you only knew what I suffer. Your broken-hearted

Bella.’ Out of the same rotten book. This made the fellow a little

suspicious, ’cos it was the old Ferrises who had been keen about the

thing all through. The fellow, you see, had tin.”

“But what’s that got to--” I began again.

“O I dunno,” said Edward impatiently. “I’m telling you just what

Bobby told me. He got suspicious, anyhow, but he couldn’t exactly

call Bella’s brother a liar, so Bobby escaped for the time. But when

he was in a hole next week, over a stiff French exercise, and tried

the same sort of game on his sister, she was too sharp for him, and

he got caught out. Somehow women seem more mistrustful than men.

They’re so beastly suspicious by nature, you know.”

“I know,” said I. “But did the two--the fellow and the sister--make

it up afterwards?”

“I don’t remember about that,” replied Edward indifferently: “but

Bobby got packed off to school a whole year earlier than his people

meant to send him. Which was just what he wanted. So you see it all

came right in the end!”

I was trying to puzzle out the moral of this story--it was evidently

meant to contain one somewhere--when a flood of golden lamplight

mingled with the moon-rays on the lawn, and Aunt Maria and the new

curate strolled out on the grass below us, and took the direction of

a garden-seat which was backed by a dense laurel shrubbery reaching

round in a half-circle to the house. Edward meditated moodily. “If we

only knew what they were talking about,” said he, “you’d soon see

whether I was right or not. Look here! Let’s send the kid down by the

porch to reconnoitre!”

“Harold’s asleep,” I said; “it seems rather a shame----”

“O rot!” said my brother; “he’s the youngest, and he’s got to do as

he’s told!”

So the luckless Harold was hauled out of bed and given his

sailing-orders. He was naturally rather vexed at being stood up

suddenly on the cold floor, and the job had no particular interest

for him; but he was both staunch and well disciplined. The means of

exit were simple enough. A porch of iron trellis came up to within

easy reach of the window, and was habitually used by all three of

us, when modestly anxious to avoid public notice. Harold climbed

deftly down the porch like a white rat, and his night-gown glimmered

a moment on the gravel walk ere he was lost to sight in the darkness

of the shrubbery. A brief interval of silence ensued; broken suddenly

by a sound of scuffle, and then a shrill long-drawn squeal, as of

metallic surfaces in friction. Our scout had fallen into the hands of

the enemy!

Indolence alone had made us devolve the task of investigation on

our younger brother. Now that danger had declared itself, there

was no hesitation. In a second we were down the side of the porch,

and crawling Cherokee-wise through the laurels to the back of the

garden-seat. Piteous was the sight that greeted us. Aunt Maria was

on the seat, in a white evening frock, looking--for an aunt--really

quite nice. On the lawn stood an incensed curate, grasping our

small brother by a large ear, which--judging from the row he was

making--seemed on the point of parting company with the head it

completed and adorned. The gruesome noise he was emitting did not

really affect us otherwise than æsthetically. To one who has tried

both, the wail of genuine physical anguish is easily distinguishable

from the pumped-up _ad misericordiam_ blubber. Harold’s could clearly

be recognised as belonging to the latter class. “Now you young--”

(whelp, I think it was, but Edward stoutly maintains it was devil),

said the curate sternly; “tell us what you mean by it!”

“Well leggo of my ear then!” shrilled Harold, “and I’ll tell you the

solemn truth!”

“Very well,” agreed the curate, releasing him, “now go ahead, and

don’t lie more than you can help.”

We abode the promised disclosure without the least misgiving; but

even we had hardly given Harold due credit for his fertility of

resource and powers of imagination.

“I had just finished saying my prayers,” began the young gentleman

slowly, “when I happened to look out of the window, and on the lawn

I saw a sight which froze the marrow in my veins! A burglar was

approaching the house with snakelike tread! He had a scowl and a dark

lantern, and he was armed to the teeth!”

We listened with interest. The style, though unlike Harold’s native

notes, seemed strangely familiar.

“Go on,” said the curate grimly.

“Pausing in his stealthy career,” continued Harold, “he gave a low

whistle. Instantly the signal was responded to, and from the adjacent

shadows two more figures glided forth. The miscreants were both armed

to the teeth.”

“Excellent,” said the curate; “proceed.”

“The robber chief,” pursued Harold, warming to his work, “joined his

nefarious comrades, and conversed with them in silent tones. His

expression was truly ferocious, and I ought to have said that he was

armed to the t----”

“There, never mind his teeth,” interrupted the curate rudely;

“there’s too much jaw about you altogether. Hurry up and have done.”

“I was in a frightful funk,” continued the narrator, warily guarding

his ear with his hand, “but just then the drawing-room window opened,

and you and Aunt Maria came out--I mean emerged. The burglars

vanished silently into the laurels, with horrid implications!”

The curate looked slightly puzzled. The tale was well sustained, and

certainly circumstantial. After all, the boy might really have seen

something. How was the poor man to know--though the chaste and lofty

diction might have supplied a hint--that the whole yarn was a free

adaptation from the last Penny Dreadful lent us by the knife-and-boot

boy?

“Why did you not alarm the house?” he asked.

“’Cos I was afraid,” said Harold sweetly, “that p’raps they mightn’t

believe me!”

“But how did you get down here, you naughty little boy?” put in Aunt

Maria.

Harold was hard pressed--by his own flesh and blood, too!

At that moment Edward touched me on the shoulder and glided off

through the laurels. When some ten yards away he gave a low whistle.

I replied with another. The effect was magical. Aunt Maria started

up with a shriek. Harold gave one startled glance around, and then

fled like a hare, made straight for the back-door, burst in upon the

servants at supper, and buried himself in the broad bosom of the

cook, his special ally. The curate faced the laurels--hesitatingly.

But Aunt Maria flung herself on him. “O Mr. Hodgitts!” I heard her

cry, “you are brave! for my sake do not be rash!” He was not rash.

When I peeped out a second later, the coast was entirely clear.

By this time there were sounds of a household timidly emerging; and

Edward remarked to me that perhaps we had better be off. Retreat

was an easy matter. A stunted laurel gave a leg-up on to the garden

wall, which led in its turn to the roof of an out-house, up which,

at a dubious angle, we could crawl to the window of the box-room.

This overland route had been revealed to us one day by the domestic

cat, when hard pressed in the course of an otter-hunt, in which the

cat--somewhat unwillingly--was filling the title _rôle_; and it had

proved distinctly useful on occasions like the present. We were

snug in bed--minus some cuticle from knees and elbows--and Harold,

sleepily chewing something sticky, had been carried up in the arms of

the friendly cook, ere the clamour of the burglar-hunters had died

away.

The curate’s undaunted demeanour, as reported by Aunt Maria, was

generally supposed to have terrified the burglars into flight, and

much kudos accrued to him thereby. Some days later, however, when he

had dropped in to afternoon tea, and was making a mild curatorial

joke about the moral courage required for taking the last piece of

bread-and-butter, I felt constrained to remark dreamily, and as it

were to the universe at large: “Mr. Hodgitts! you are brave! for my

sake, do not be rash!”

Fortunately for me, the vicar also was a caller on that day; and it

was always a comparatively easy matter to dodge my long-coated friend

in the open.

Kenneth Grahame, _The Golden Age_. Copyright by

Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc. By permission of the

publishers.

THE KITCHEN

JULIET SOSKICE

The kitchen was at the end of a stone passage at the foot of a flight

of stone steps. I liked to go there, but I was not really allowed

to. I liked it best of all in the evening when the servants had

finished supper, and sometimes the cook would let me sit on a chair

in the corner near the stove. She was rather an ill-tempered cook,

though she often used to laugh. She had been in the family ever

since my mother was quite a little girl. She had a dark yellow face

and brown eyes and black hair. It was quite straight like tape, and

she scraped it back from her forehead and did it in a funny knob

behind. It wasn’t black really, but she used an excellent hair dye,

and said, what did it matter if it came off on the pillow cases? She

said nobody need look their age if only they would take the trouble

to look young. But she didn’t look young herself, because she was so

bony and her face so dreadfully wrinkled. She looked very nice though

when she laughed and showed her false white teeth. They looked whiter

than other people’s false teeth, because her face was so yellow and

her eyes so dark. Occasionally she flew into an awful temper and

swore so dreadfully that it shocked every one who heard her. But at

other times she was quite cheerful and told very funny stories.

She had a treacherous friend who was a hunch-backed lady. They both

loved the same gentleman, but he couldn’t marry them because he had a

wife already. The hunch-backed lady used to come in the evening and

sit down in the kitchen and say how ill the wife was, and that she

couldn’t last much longer; but she did. The hunch-backed lady said

that as soon as she was dead the gentleman they loved would want to

marry the cook, and that he really loved her much better than his

wife. The cook believed it, and she said if he had only known his

mind when they were young together all the bother would have been

saved.

The hunch-backed lady wore a woolly black cloak, and a big fur on her

shoulders to hide the hunch, a black velvet bonnet with strings and

sparkling jet ornaments, and an expensive gold watch-chain. She had a

very heavy face with her chin right on her chest, and light blue eyes

and a handsome curly fringe. She used to drink quantities of tea out

of a saucer, very hot, but the cook said she really liked whisky much

better when she could get it.

Once she ceased coming and the cook went to look for her, and she

found out that the wife had really been dead all the while, and the

hunch-backed lady had got married to the gentleman they loved. He

didn’t want to be married, but she made him. She was afraid that if

the cook had known his wife was dead she would have made him first.

There was a page-boy in this house too, but not an anarchist. He wore

no buttons, and he had to stop down in the kitchen and help the cook

because of her “poor leg.”

She got it through going out to buy three pounds of fish at the

fishmonger’s and slipping on a piece of orange-peel outside the

door. It used to give way just at the most awkward moments, and she

said she almost believed it knew and did it on purpose. If she had a

saucepan in her hand, or a piece of toast, or a leg of mutton it was

all the same--she had to put it down on the floor and clutch herself

round the knee to pull her leg straight again. Everybody knew about

it, and the first thing they said when they came into the kitchen

was, “Good-morning, cook, and how’s your poor leg?” and then she told

them about it. When she sat down the boy used to arrange a chair in

front of her for her to rest it on.

He had a fat, red face, and he was always smiling. The cook said

she wouldn’t have believed that any living mouth could stretch so

far. It used to make people angry, because whenever they looked

at him he smiled, even when there was nothing at all to smile at.

My grandfather said he was like the man in Shakespeare who smiled

and was a villain. He liked eating apples and a sweet-stuff called

stick-jaw that glued his teeth together. The cook said he was the

biggest liar that ever walked the earth. He always pretended he had

a serious illness and he must go and see the doctor. But instead

he went and played in Regent’s Park. Once he tied his face up in

a bandage for two days and said that he was going to the dentist

to have a double tooth out. And he borrowed a huge cart-horse from

one of the stables in the mews and went for a ride on it, without

a saddle, and with an old piece of rope instead of reins; and that

was how he got found out. The horse insisted on going past the house

when it wanted to return to its stable. He tugged at it as hard as he

could to make it go home round the back way, but it refused, and the

cook was on the area steps and saw him. She said she wouldn’t have

been so certain if he hadn’t had an enormous apple in one hand. When

he came next day, he said it was the dentist’s horse, and he had sent

him for a ride on it to get rid of the effects of laughing gas. But

we knew the very stable where it lived, and so he was dismissed.

The housemaid was Irish, and she couldn’t read or write, but she

believed in ghosts. She had been a long time in the family too, and

she was very fat, with a big pink face and little beady eyes. She

was the kindest person I ever knew. Whenever we liked anything she

had she always wanted to give it to us, and it really grieved her if

we wouldn’t have it. She gave away all her money to the beggars at

the garden gate and if she heard of any of us being ill or punished

it made her cry, just as if she herself were in trouble. She used to

fall about a great deal. If there was any place she could fall into

she always did. She said she had measured her length upon every free

space of ground in the house, and bumped her head on every stair, and

caught her foot in every rug and carpet. But she didn’t let it worry

her. One night, when she was standing on the slippery little knob at

the end of the bannisters to light the gas outside the studio door,

she fell off and lay quite still with her leg doubled under her until

the family had finished dinner, because she didn’t want to disturb

them by calling out. Once she fell into the drawing-room with a

great big tea-tray when there was a tea-party and alarmed the guests

exceedingly. But my grandmother was not angry. She said nothing at

all, but helped her to get up and pick the tea-things up again.

She believed in ghosts most firmly. She said that her mother had seen

so many in Ireland that she simply took no notice of them. They were

in every room in the house and up and down the stairs. They used to

ring the bells when nothing was wanted and knock people about when

they got in their way, and whenever anybody died or anything was

going to happen they made a horrible noise outside the windows in

the night. Once, she said, she passed a woman nursing her own head

on a stone by the roadside, and they just looked at one another, but

neither of them spoke.

A gentleman in a nightshirt had hanged himself from a hook in the

middle of the ceiling in the servants’ bedroom, before my grandfather

came to the house, and the housemaid said his spirit haunted the

top storey. She woke up one night and saw a figure standing in the

middle of the room and looking at her. She knew it was the same

gentleman, because he still wore his nightshirt and had the rope

round his neck, and he was standing just underneath the place where

the hook would have been had it not been taken down when the ceiling

was whitewashed. He was looking at her fixedly. If he had looked the

other way he might have noticed the cook in the other bed as well,

and that would have been some relief. But he didn’t. He gazed and

gazed as though his heart was going to break. She was so frightened

that she shook the bed with trembling; and she shut her eyes and

put her hand under the pillow and got out her rosary, and said five

“Hail Mary’s.” And when she opened them again he was still there,

only not quite so solid. After another five he had got so misty that

she could see the furniture through him, and after the third five he

had disappeared. But she was so terrified, she said, that she didn’t

get a wink of sleep that night, and when she woke in the morning her

nightdress and sheets were quite damp with terror.

The cook didn’t believe it. She said it was pure popery. She was sure

no ghost could possibly come in in the night like that without her

noticing it, because she was such a light sleeper. But as a matter

of fact, she snored so dreadfully that my grandfather once asked a

builder for an estimate for padding the walls of the servants’ room

all round so that she couldn’t be heard on the floor underneath, but

she was so offended that it wasn’t padded.

They sometimes used to laugh at the housemaid in the kitchen for

being a Catholic. But she didn’t care. She stuck to her religion.

She was so certain that the Virgin Mary was taking care of her, or

she would have been worse hurt in the dreadful accidents she used to

have. She said no living being could have stood it without divine

protection. When she was doing something that she thought really

might be dangerous, she just said, “Jesus, Mary, Joseph, help!” and

took more care, and nothing happened.

The cook said why she didn’t like Catholics was because she thought

they were wicked for burning the Protestants alive on posts in the

streets in the olden days when there were no police. I said that

the Protestants burnt the Catholics first, but she was offended.

She said that no Protestant would ever have thought of such a thing

if it hadn’t been put into their heads by bad example. They argued

so angrily about which burnt the other first that the housemaid

put her apron over her head and sat down on a chair and began to

cry aloud like the Irish do at funerals. But then she left off and

went upstairs to do her work, and she tumbled about so badly in

the bedroom over the studio that my grandfather got down from his

painting chair to go upstairs and see what the matter was, and when

he found out why she was crying he was very angry. He stumped right

downstairs to the top of the kitchen flight and with his spectacles

on top of his head, his palette in one hand and his paint-brush in

the other. It was difficult for him to get downstairs because of his

gout. But he did, and put his head over the bannisters and forbade

the subject ever again to be mentioned in the kitchen. And it was

not, and they were quite good friends again after that.

The person who most hated Catholics was Mrs. Hall, the wife of the

most pious cabman in the mews at the corner. She was the beautiful

woman who sat in the barge and nursed the healthy baby that had been

painted as twins. She was so beautiful that it was quite remarkable.

Her hair was jet black, and when one day she sat down in a chair

in the kitchen and let it down for us to see it trailed upon the

floor. Her eyes were dark blue and extremely big and bright, but the

doctor said that the brightness was unnatural, and that later she

might go blind. She was very tall, and whenever she stood she used

to look strong and composed and like the statues that stand round on

pedestals in museums. Her husband used to say God punished her for

her sins by not giving her a baby.

The husband went to a chapel where any one who liked could get up and

preach, and the others were obliged to listen. He preached every time

he got a chance, and he said he never felt inclined to stop. He loved

his fellow creatures so much that he felt compelled to save their

souls. He always carried a bundle of tracts about in his pocket, and

when any one paid him his fare he gave them some free of charge in

exchange. My grandfather used to say to him, “It’s no good, Hall, I’m

past all redemption,” because he didn’t want the tracts, but Mr. Hall

stuffed a bundle into the pocket of his overcoat while he was helping

him to get out of the cab. Mrs. Hall said that he wrestled with God

for his soul in private. They were allowed to do that at his chapel.

He was so religious that he thought both Catholics and Protestants

were wicked. He said the mistake that everybody made was to think

there was more than one door open into Heaven. He said, “Is there

more than one door open into Heaven? No! And why is there not more

than one door open into Heaven? Because if there was more than one

door open into Heaven there would be a draught in Heaven. And would

the Lord tolerate a draught in Heaven? No!” That was part of one of

his sermons. It really meant that it was only the door of his chapel

that led into Heaven, and that other people hadn’t got a chance.

Some people said he was a handsome man, but I didn’t think so. He was

small and his hair was such a bright yellow that it looked as if it

had been painted. He had strawberry-coloured cheeks and his nose was

deadly white. Whenever he met a very nice young girl he used to take

her to prayer-meeting, because he loved her soul. He knew a great

many. His wife was angry because he took so much trouble about their

souls, and the more he loved them the more she hated them. She used

to cry and tell the cook which particular one he was saving then, and

the cook used to say “The saucy hussy! I’d save ’er, and ’im too!”

* * * * *

The kitchen was really pleasantest of all in the evening when they

were resting after supper. Sometimes there were quite a lot of people

there. The charwoman used to unscrew her wooden leg and lean it up

against her chair. She said you couldn’t think what a relief it gave

her. But, of course, if she’d had to get up suddenly for anything

before she’d had time to screw it on again she would certainly

have fallen. The cook had her leg up on the chair in front of her

and talked about them. But the charwoman talked most. She was a

middle-sized woman with greasy greeny-greyish hair, and there always

seemed to be perspiration on her face. She talked whatever she was

doing. She talked so much that people could never understand how she

got through all the work she did. At first it was disturbing, like

rain pattering on a roof, but after a time you wouldn’t notice it.

She said that her husband and her husband’s mother and her husband’s

father had all got wooden legs. She said that it was fate, and when

the doctor in the hospital had told her that her right must go it

was hardly any shock to her. She had a little girl called Sarah, and

whenever she had anything the matter with her the first thing she

always did with her was to test her legs at once. Even if it was only

a cold or something wrong at quite another end of her body she always

did. The housemaid said that it was tempting Providence to talk like

that, but she didn’t care.

She talked most of all with Mrs. Catlin, the woman who did fine

needlework and used to make my grandfather’s shirts. She was a

caretaker in one of the great big houses in Ormonde Terrace, and she

used to look so young and innocent that everybody called her the

“little woman,” when she wasn’t there. When she had finished some

work she used to bring it round in the evening after her babies were

in bed, and then she’d stand near the dresser and talk, but she never

sat down round the table with the others. She was rather plump and

she always looked pink and clean as though she’d come straight out of

a bath. She had nice fluffy hair and blue eyes, and her nose turned

up just a little at the end, but gently and not suddenly like Tommy

Haughty’s mother’s. She talked a good deal too, but she had a pretty

tinkling voice. She said when you’d been shut up in a great big

barracks of a place the whole day long you simply must let loose or

burst. Sometimes she and the charwoman talked both at once for a long

time. They seemed not to hear at all what the others said, but it

made no difference. Cook said it was like pandemonium in a hailstorm

when those two get together.

From _Chapters from Childhood_ by Juliet Soskice.

Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc.

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF REMINISCENT NARRATIVE

The editors have found these additional selections very useful in

teaching reminiscent narrative:

Adams, Henry. _The Education of Henry Adams_, the early chapters.

Houghton Mifflin Company.

Burroughs, John. _My Boyhood._ Doubleday, Page & Company.

Hudson, W. H. _Far Away and Long Ago._ E. P. Dutton & Company.

Lubbock, Percy. _Earlham_, particularly the early chapters. Charles

Scribner’s Sons.

Muir, John. _The Story of My Boyhood and Youth._ Houghton Mifflin

Company.

Pater, Walter. _The Child in the House._