THE BEGINNING OF AN EDUCATION
The first discovery I made in the training depot was that I had not,
as I supposed, joined the army at all, but the navy. I was a marine.
But there was no disappointment in the discovery, for I saw in the
marine service a better opportunity to see the world. Here at last was
my school, and schooling was a part of the daily routine. In the daily
exercises of the gymnasium, I was made to feel very keenly by the
instructors the awkwardness of my body; but I was so thrilled with the
joy of the class-room, that it took a good deal of forcing to interest
me in the handling of guns, bayonets, the swinging of clubs, vaulting
of horses, and other gymnasium exercises. I could think only in the
terms of the education I most keenly desired. This was my first source
of trouble. Whatever else a soldier may be, he is a soldier first. His
chief business in life is to be a killer--a strong, intelligent,
professional killer; and nearly all energies of instruction are bent
to give him that kind of power.
The depot is on the edge of the sea, and the sea breezes with six
hours a day of drill, gave me, as it gives all recruits at that stage,
an abnormal appetite, so that the most of the Queen's pay went for
additional rations. I made rapid progress in school, and I attended
all lectures, prayer meetings, religious assemblies and social
gatherings, to exercise a talent which I already possessed, of giving
voice to my religious beliefs. But my Irish dialect was badly out of
place, and it took a good deal of courage to take part in these
things.
But more embarrassing than my attempts at public speech were my
attempts to keep up with my squad in the gymnasium and on the parade
ground. My fellow recruits were thinking in the terms of drill only,
and I was thinking in the terms of my new-found opportunity for an
education. My awkwardness made me the subject of much ridicule and
good-natured jest. It also earned for me a brief sojourn in the
awkward squad. The gymnasium was open every evening for exercise and
amusement. The first time I ventured in to get a little extra drill on
my own account, I had an experience of a kind that one is not likely
to forget. My drill sergeant happened to be there. I saw him engaged
in a whispered conference with one of the gymnasium instructors. A few
minutes later the instructor came to me and urged me to enter the
boxing contest which was going on in the middle of the floor, and
which was the favourite amusement of the evening. I had no desire for
such amusement, and frankly told him so; but he was not to be put off.
He said, "There is a rule of the gym, that men who come here in the
evening, who are very largely given their own way, are nevertheless
obliged to do what they are told; and you may escape serious trouble
by attending to my orders."
I still demurred, but was forced to the ring side, a roped enclosure,
with a pair of boxing gloves and an instructor to take care of the
proceedings. When the gloves were fastened on my hands, I noticed that
my opponent was one of the assistant instructors, and it occurred to
me that I was in for a thrashing; and I certainly was.
They must have made up their minds that a good thrashing would wake me
up from the point of view of the parade ground, and the assistant
instructor proceeded to administer it. I knew nothing whatever of
boxing, and could put up but a weak defence. I was knocked down
several times, one of my eyes partly closed, and my nose smashed, and
one of my arms rendered almost useless.
When away from the gymnasium at my barrack-room that night, I did some
hard thinking. A room-mate whose cot was next to mine, was something
of a boxer. He possessed two pairs of gloves. He had often urged me to
accommodate him as an opponent, but I had steadily refused.
On learning of my plight, he laughed loudly. So did my other
room-mates as they learned of it. That night, before "taps," I bound
myself to an arrangement by which I was to pay my room-mate two-thirds
of my regimental pay per week for instruction in handling the gloves.
He gave me an hour each night for six weeks. At the end of the first
week, I had gained an advantage over him. I had a very long reach, and
a body as lithe as a panther. I gave up prayer meetings, lectures, and
socials, and devoted my self religiously to what is called "the noble
art of self-defence."
If my drill sergeant imagined that a thrashing would wake me up, he
was a very good judge. It did. Incidentally, it woke others up, too.
It woke my new instructor up, and half a dozen of my room-mates. At
the end of my six weeks' training, by dint of perseverance and
application to the thing in hand, I had succeeded in this new type of
education thrust upon me.
During all this time, I had not visited the gymnasium in the evening,
but was remembered there by all who had noticed the process of my
awakening. One night, I modestly approached the chief instructor and
asked him if I might not have another lesson by the man who had taught
me the first. He remembered the occasion and laughed, laughed at the
memory of it, and laughed at the brogue and what he supposed to be the
temerity of my asking. In asking, I had made my brogue just a little
thicker, and my manner just as diffident and modest as possible.
"Oh, certainly," he replied, chuckling to himself.
The man who gave me my first lesson, a man of my own build and height,
appeared, also laughing as he noticed who the applicant for another
lesson was. My barrack-room instructor was on hand also, for I had
confidentially communicated to him that evening my intention to try
again.
There is something fiendish in the Celtic nature, some beast in the
blood, which, when aroused, is exceedingly helpful in matters of this
kind. In less than sixty seconds, I had demonstrated to the onlookers,
and particularly to my opponent, that I had been to school since last
meeting him. I had not been particular about fancy touches, or the
pointless, gingerbread style of showing off before a crowd. There was
a positive viciousness in my attack, which was perfectly legitimate in
such circumstances; but it was the first time I had ever felt the
beast in my blood, and I turned him loose; and if I had been made
Prime Minister of England by a miracle, I could not have felt
one-hundredth part of the pride that I did, when, inside of the first
thirty seconds, I had stretched my instructor on his back at my feet,
and in the absolute joyfulness and ecstasy of my soul, I yelled at the
top of my voice, "Hurry up, ye blind-therin' spalpeen, till I knock
yez down again!"
The man got up, and was somewhat more cautious, but utterly
unprepared to be completely mastered at his own game in five minutes;
and, when the chief instructor interfered and ordered his assistant
out of the ring, I begged for more; and so a fresh man was put in, and
another, and another, until six men had failed to tire me, or to
disturb me in the least. After the first two I laughed, laughed
loudly, in the midst of my aggressive work, and enjoyed it every
moment of the time, and, when occasionally I was the recipient of a
stinging blow, it merely added to my zest.
Next morning I found myself a hero. In the course of the night, I had
become famous in a small circle as a bruiser. In accomplishing this, I
had thrown aside for the time being my religious scruples on the
question of boxing, not only on boxing, but fighting, and I had set
aside a good deal of my prejudice in my struggle for an education, and
my success in the thing I started out to do almost unbalanced me.
I had for the first few days after this encounter a terrific struggle,
a struggle of the human soul, between my character and my reputation.
Only about one hundred and fifty men saw the encounter, but, before
parade time next morning, fifteen hundred men were acquainted with it.
It had reached the officers' mess, and, as I went back and forth, I
was pointed out as the new discovery. I finally reached a state of
mind that filled me with disgust, and I took an afternoon stroll down
the road to Walmer Castle; and just opposite the window of the room
in which the Duke of Wellington died--on the sands of Deal beach I
knelt on my knees and promised God that I "wudn't put th' dhirty
gloves on again," and I kept the promise--while in the training depot.
Early in 1882 I was drafted to headquarters near London--a trained
soldier. My forenoons were spent in parades, drills, fatigue and other
duties. In the afternoons I continued my studies. I entered into
religious work with renewed vigour, connecting myself with a small
independent church not far from the barracks. My thick Irish brogue
militated against my usefulness in the church, and in expressing
myself with warmth, I usually made it worse. In the barrack-room, my
brogue brought me several Irish nicknames which irritated me. They
were names usually attached to the Roman Catholic Irish, and having
been brought up in an Ulster community, where part of a boy's
education is to hate Roman Catholics, I naturally resented these
names. A Protestant Irishman will tolerate "Pat," but "Mick" will put
him in a fighting attitude in a moment. The only way out of the
difficulty was to rid myself of the brogue, and this I proceeded to
do.
All around me were cockney Englishmen, murdering the Queen's English,
and Scotchmen who were doing worse. I had not yet become the possessor
of a dictionary, and my chief instructors in language, and
particularly pronunciation and enunciation, were preachers and
lecturers.
With regard to literature, I was like a man lost in a forest. I had no
guide. One night I attended a lecture by Dr. J.W. Kirton, the author
of a tract called, "Buy Your Own Cherries." This tract my mother had
read to me when a boy, and it had made a very profound impression upon
me. The author was very kind, gave me an interview, and advised me to
read as my first novel, "John Halifax, Gentleman." Inside of a week I
had read the book twice, the second time with dictionary, and pencil.
The story fascinated me, and the way in which it was told opened up
new channels of improvement. I memorized whole pages of it, and even
took long walks by the seaside repeating over and over what I had
memorized.
The enlargement of my opportunities in garrison life revealed to me
something of the amount of work required to accomplish my purpose. In
the midst of people who had merely an ordinary grammar school
education, I felt like a child. When discouragement came, I took
refuge in the fact that several avenues of usefulness were open to me
in army life. I had shown some proficiency in gunnery. For a steady
plodder who attends strictly to business there is always promotion. As
a flunky, there was the incentive of double pay, the wearing of plain
clothes, and some intimate touch with the aristocracy. Many a time
one of these avenues seemed the only career open for me. I hardly knew
what an education meant; but, whatever it meant, it was a long way off
and almost out of reach. One day in going over my well-marked "John
Halifax," I came across this passage:
"'What would you do, John, if you were shut up here, and had to
get over the yew hedge? You could not climb it.'
"'I know that, and therefore I should not waste time in trying.'
"'Would you give up, then?'
"He smiled: there was no 'giving up' in that smile of his. 'I'll
tell you what I'd do: I'd begin and break it, twig by twig, till I
forced my way through, and got out safe at the other side.'"
This was a new inspiration. The difficulty was not lessened by the
inspiration, but a new method appealed to me. It was the patient
plodding method of "twig by twig." The quotation from "John Halifax"
was reinforced by one of the first things I ever read of Browning:
"That low man seeks a little thing to do,
Sees it and does it:
This high man with a great thing to pursue,
Dies ere he knows it.
That low man goes on adding one to one,
His hundred's soon hit;
This high man, aiming at a million,
Misses an unit."
The most powerful speaker I ever heard was Charles Bradlaugh. I
attended one of his lectures one Sunday afternoon in a large
auditorium in Portsmouth. I shall never forget that wonderful voice
as it thrilled an audience of four thousand people. Bradlaugh was
engaged in one of his favourite themes, demolishing God and the
theologians. It was the most daring thing I had ever heard, and my
mind and soul were in revolt. When the time for questions came, I
pushed my way to the front, was recognized by the chairman, and
mounted the platform. My lips were parched and I could scarcely utter
a word. The big man with the homely face saw my embarrassment, and
said, "Take your time, my boy; don't be in a hurry."
He had been a soldier himself, and, I supposed, as I stood there in my
scarlet tunic, Glengarry cap in hand, Bradlaugh became reminiscent.
When I got command of my voice, I said: "I want to ask Mr. Bradlaugh a
question. I have very little education and little opportunity to get
more, but I have a peace in my heart; I call it 'Belief in God.' I
don't know what else to call it and I want to ask Mr. Bradlaugh
whether he is willing to take that away from me and deprive me of the
biggest pleasure in my life, and leave nothing in its place?"
He rose from his chair, came forward, laid his hand on my shoulder,
and amid a most impressive silence, said:
"No, my lad, Charles Bradlaugh will be the last man on the face of the
earth to take a pleasure from a soldier boy, even though it be a
'belief in God!'"
The crowd wildly cheered, and I went out grateful and strengthened.
This incident had a very unusual effect upon me--an intense desire to
tell others of that belief possessed me. I was already doing this in a
small way, but I became bolder and sought larger opportunities.
About ten days later I was ordered to London as the personal bearer of
a Government dispatch. I made requisition for seven days' leave of
absence. My mission was to the Horse Guards, and after its
accomplishment I went to Whitechapel and rented a small room for a
week. I had with me a suit of plain clothes that I wore during the
daytime, but the scarlet uniform was conspicuous and soldier
Evangelists very rare, so in the mission halls and on the street
corners with the Salvation Army and other open-air preachers, I
exercised my one talent, and told the story of what I had now found a
name for--my conversion.
In the daytime I talked to costermongers, street venders, the
unemployed, and the corner loafers. One night I put my plain clothes
on and spent the night with the "wharf rats" on the banks of the
Thames.
For seven days and for seven nights I continuously told that simple
story--told it in few words, closing always with an appeal for a
change of life. I had spoken to the officer of the Horse Guards with
whom I had business of my intention, and he told me of a brother
officer who was very much interested in religious work among soldiers,
and directed me to his quarters.
The interview resulted in an invitation to a Sunday afternoon meeting
at the town house of a duke. It was the most gorgeous place I had ever
been in, and the audience was composed of the most aristocratic people
in London. I felt very much out of place and conspicuous because of my
uniform and station in life.
The first part of the meeting partook of the nature of a reception. I
watched the proceedings from the most obscure corner I could find.
Somebody rapped on the table. The hum of voices ceased, and there
stepped out, as the speaker of the afternoon, my friend of the
Possilpark Mission, Professor Drummond.
Up to that hour my theology related largely to another world, but his
explanation of a portion of Scripture was so clear and so convincing
to my simple mind, that I could neither miss its meaning nor avoid its
application. The professor was telling us that religion must be
related to life. Many years afterward I came across the treatise in
printed form. It was entitled, "The Programme of Christianity." The
officer of the Horse Guards by whose invitation I enjoyed this
privilege, introduced me to the lecturer and this personal touch,
though very slight, marked a distinct period in my development.
Drummond had pushed me out of one stage, and, by inviting me to
render an account of myself to him, inspired me into another.
My Bible studies had given me a longing to see the Holy Land. Perhaps
the longing was super-induced by the possibility of being drafted to
the Mediterranean Squadron. On inquiry I learned that the flagship of
that squadron--the _Alexandra_--had a library and a school on board,
so I made this kind of a proposition to the Almighty. I did it, of
course, with a humble spirit and a devout mind; but I did it in a very
clear and positive manner: "Give me the flagship for the sake of the
schooling I will get there, and I will give you my life!"
I prayed daily and nightly, for nearly six months for that object, and
in my anxiety over the matter I made a dicker with a man who was to
embark at the same time--that, if he should be lucky enough to get the
flagship and I should be appointed to some other ship, I would give
him a money consideration and request the commander to permit us to
exchange. This was a break in my faith, and I quickly corrected it,
leaving the entire matter in supernatural hands.
There came a time when I was sure in my mind that I would get that
ship--a time when there was no longer zest in praying for it; and
there entered into my praying phrases of gratitude instead of request.
There came also a time when I confided this assurance to my closest
friend, to whom it was all moonshine. He laughed and poked fun at the
idea. It became a barrack-room joke and I was hurt and chagrined.
The eventful morning arrived. Those for embarkation were called out
for parade in full marching order, and the roll was called. The
universe seemed to hang in the balance that morning. Finally the
moment arrived. My name was called. I took one pace to the front,
ported my arms and awaited the verdict. My name and company were
called, and this assignment: "To Her Majesty's ship _Condor_!"
My comrades giggled and were sharply rebuked: I gave vent to an
inarticulate guttural sound and was also rebuked. After parade I went
to my barrack-room, changed my uniform, and disappeared to escape
ridicule.
"What cheer, Condor?" were the first words that greeted me at reveille
next morning, and my room-mates kept it up. Sometimes the ridicule
worked overtime. Often I was on the edge of a wild outburst of passion
and resentment, but I mastered these things and went on with my
duties. At eleven o'clock in the forenoon of the day following my
assignment, we "mustered kits." This is the ordinary pre-embarkation
inspection. After inspection we packed our kits and were stood to
attention. Several corrections were made in the instructions of the
previous day. My heart almost stopped beating when my name was called
a second time.
"A mistake was made----"
The officer got no farther.
"I knew it, begorra!" I exclaimed, with flushed face and beating
heart.
The officer came close to me, looked straight into my face, and said,
"I have a good mind to put you in the guard room."
I stood still, motionless, silent.
"A mistake was made yesterday," he continued, "in appointing you to
the _Condor_. You are to go, instead, with a detachment to the
_Alexandra_, flagship of the Mediterranean Squadron."
Parade was dismissed. I went to the officer, saluted him, and begged
the privilege of an explanation. In a few words I told him my story
and of the hope of my life, and asked him to forgive me for the
interruption. He looked astonished and replied very quietly, "I am
glad you told me, Irvine. I shall be interested in your future."
On the way to the barrack-room, the spirit of exuberant merriment took
possession of me. I wanted to do something ludicrous or desperate. I
threw my pack into a corner, quickly divested myself of my tunic,
rolled up my shirt sleeves, and struck the table such a blow with my
clinched fist as to make the dishes jump off. Everybody looked around.
My face must have been a picture of facial latitude.
[Illustration: Alexander Irvine as a Marine, at the Age of Nineteen]
"Boys," I said, "here's yer last chance to oblige an Irishman!"
"What is it, Pat?" half a dozen shouted in unison.
"I want to box any three blinderin' idiots in the room, and all
together, begorra! Come on now, ye spalpeens, and show the stuff yer
made of!"
The only answer was a loud outburst of applause and laughter.
In my exuberance, I danced an Irish hornpipe, and my career in the
barrack-room was over.