the Romans, and I don’t know what, and learned more than I could tell—or
he either, for he soon forgot a great deal of it. But, they were not
always learning; they had the merriest games that ever were played. They
rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter; they
were active afoot, and active on horseback; at cricket, and all games at
ball; at prisoner’s base, hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more
sports than I can think of; nobody could beat them. They had holidays
too, and Twelfth cakes, and parties where they danced till midnight, and
real Theatres where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise out of
the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at once. As to
friends, they had such dear friends and so many of them, that I want the
time to reckon them up. They were all young, like the handsome boy, and
were never to be strange to one another all their lives through.
Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller lost
the boy as he had lost the child, and, after calling to him in vain, went
on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while without seeing
anything, until at last he came to a young man. So, he said to the young
man, “What do you do here?” And the young man said, “I am always in
love. Come and love with me.”
So, he went away with that young man, and presently they came to one of
the prettiest girls that ever was seen—just like Fanny in the corner
there—and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair like Fanny, and dimples like
Fanny’s, and she laughed and coloured just as Fanny does while I am
talking about her. So, the young man fell in love directly—just as
Somebody I won’t mention, the first time he came here, did with Fanny.
Well! he was teased sometimes—just as Somebody used to be by Fanny; and
they quarrelled sometimes—just as Somebody and Fanny used to quarrel; and
they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every day, and
never were happy asunder, and were always looking out for one another and
pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas-time, and sat close to
one another by the fire, and were going to be married very soon—all
exactly like Somebody I won’t mention, and Fanny!
But, the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his
friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never did,
went on upon his journey. So, he went on for a little while without
seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged gentleman. So,
he said to the gentleman, “What are you doing here?” And his answer was,
“I am always busy. Come and be busy with me!”
So, he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they went on
through the wood together. The whole journey was through a wood, only it
had been open and green at first, like a wood in spring; and now began to
be thick and dark, like a wood in summer; some of the little trees that
had come out earliest, were even turning brown. The gentleman was not
alone, but had a lady of about the same age with him, who was his Wife;
and they had children, who were with them too. So, they all went on
together through the wood, cutting down the trees, and making a path
through the branches and the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and
working hard.
Sometimes, they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper
woods. Then they would hear a very little, distant voice crying,
“Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!” And presently they
would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came along, running
to join them. When it came up, they all crowded round it, and kissed and
welcomed it; and then they all went on together.
Sometimes, they came to several avenues at once, and then they all stood
still, and one of the children said, “Father, I am going to sea,” and
another said, “Father, I am going to India,” and another, “Father, I am
going to seek my fortune where I can,” and another, “Father, I am going
to Heaven!” So, with many tears at parting, they went, solitary, down
those avenues, each child upon its way; and the child who went to Heaven,
rose into the golden air and vanished.
Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the gentleman,
and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where the day was
beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He saw, too, that his
hair was turning grey. But, they never could rest long, for they had
their journey to perform, and it was necessary for them to be always
busy.
At last, there had been so many partings that there were no children
left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady, went upon
their way in company. And now the wood was yellow; and now brown; and
the leaves, even of the forest trees, began to fall.
So, they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were
pressing forward on their journey without looking down it when the lady
stopped.
“My husband,” said the lady. “I am called.”
They listened, and they heard a voice a long way down the avenue, say,
“Mother, mother!”
It was the voice of the first child who had said, “I am going to Heaven!”
and the father said, “I pray not yet. The sunset is very near. I pray
not yet!”
But, the voice cried, “Mother, mother!” without minding him, though his
hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face.
Then, the mother, who was already drawn into the shade of the dark avenue
and moving away with her arms still round his neck, kissed him, and said,
“My dearest, I am summoned, and I go!” And she was gone. And the
traveller and he were left alone together.
And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the end of
the wood: so near, that they could see the sunset shining red before them
through the trees.
Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the traveller
lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no reply, and when
he passed out of the wood, and saw the peaceful sun going down upon a
wide purple prospect, he came to an old man sitting on a fallen tree.
So, he said to the old man, “What do you do here?” And the old man said
with a calm smile, “I am always remembering. Come and remember with me!”
So the traveller sat down by the side of that old man, face to face with
the serene sunset; and all his friends came softly back and stood around
him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the young man in love, the
father, mother, and children: every one of them was there, and he had
lost nothing. So, he loved them all, and was kind and forbearing with
them all, and was always pleased to watch them all, and they all honoured
and loved him. And I think the traveller must be yourself, dear
Grandfather, because this what you do to us, and what we do to you.
THE SCHOOLBOY’S STORY.
[1853]
BEING rather young at present—I am getting on in years, but still I am
rather young—I have no particular adventures of my own to fall back upon.
It wouldn’t much interest anybody here, I suppose, to know what a screw
the Reverend is, or what a griffin _she_ is, or how they do stick it into
parents—particularly hair-cutting, and medical attendance. One of our
fellows was charged in his half’s account twelve and sixpence for two
pills—tolerably profitable at six and threepence a-piece, I should
think—and he never took them either, but put them up the sleeve of his
jacket.
[Picture: Schoolboy with book: illustrated by Fred Walker]
As to the beef, it’s shameful. It’s _not_ beef. Regular beef isn’t
veins. You can chew regular beef. Besides which, there’s gravy to
regular beef, and you never see a drop to ours. Another of our fellows
went home ill, and heard the family doctor tell his father that he
couldn’t account for his complaint unless it was the beer. Of course it
was the beer, and well it might be!
However, beef and Old Cheeseman are two different things. So is beer.
It was Old Cheeseman I meant to tell about; not the manner in which our
fellows get their constitutions destroyed for the sake of profit.
Why, look at the pie-crust alone. There’s no flakiness in it. It’s
solid—like damp lead. Then our fellows get nightmares, and are bolstered
for calling out and waking other fellows. Who can wonder!
Old Cheeseman one night walked in his sleep, put his hat on over his
night-cap, got hold of a fishing-rod and a cricket-bat, and went down
into the parlour, where they naturally thought from his appearance he was
a Ghost. Why, he never would have done that if his meals had been
wholesome. When we all begin to walk in our sleeps, I suppose they’ll be
sorry for it.
Old Cheeseman wasn’t second Latin Master then; he was a fellow himself.
He was first brought there, very small, in a post-chaise, by a woman who
was always taking snuff and shaking him—and that was the most he
remembered about it. He never went home for the holidays. His accounts
(he never learnt any extras) were sent to a Bank, and the Bank paid them;
and he had a brown suit twice a-year, and went into boots at twelve.
They were always too big for him, too.
In the Midsummer holidays, some of our fellows who lived within walking
distance, used to come back and climb the trees outside the playground
wall, on purpose to look at Old Cheeseman reading there by himself. He
was always as mild as the tea—and _that’s_ pretty mild, I should hope!—so
when they whistled to him, he looked up and nodded; and when they said,
“Halloa, Old Cheeseman, what have you had for dinner?” he said, “Boiled
mutton;” and when they said, “An’t it solitary, Old Cheeseman?” he said,
“It is a little dull sometimes:” and then they said, “Well good-bye, Old
Cheeseman!” and climbed down again. Of course it was imposing on Old
Cheeseman to give him nothing but boiled mutton through a whole Vacation,
but that was just like the system. When they didn’t give him boiled
mutton, they gave him rice pudding, pretending it was a treat. And saved
the butcher.
So Old Cheeseman went on. The holidays brought him into other trouble
besides the loneliness; because when the fellows began to come back, not
wanting to, he was always glad to see them; which was aggravating when
they were not at all glad to see him, and so he got his head knocked
against walls, and that was the way his nose bled. But he was a
favourite in general. Once a subscription was raised for him; and, to
keep up his spirits, he was presented before the holidays with two white
mice, a rabbit, a pigeon, and a beautiful puppy. Old Cheeseman cried
about it—especially soon afterwards, when they all ate one another.
Of course Old Cheeseman used to be called by the names of all sorts of
cheeses—Double Glo’sterman, Family Cheshireman, Dutchman, North
Wiltshireman, and all that. But he never minded it. And I don’t mean to
say he was old in point of years—because he wasn’t—only he was called
from the first, Old Cheeseman.
At last, Old Cheeseman was made second Latin Master. He was brought in
one morning at the beginning of a new half, and presented to the school
in that capacity as “Mr. Cheeseman.” Then our fellows all agreed that
Old Cheeseman was a spy, and a deserter, who had gone over to the enemy’s
camp, and sold himself for gold. It was no excuse for him that he had
sold himself for very little gold—two pound ten a quarter and his
washing, as was reported. It was decided by a Parliament which sat about
it, that Old Cheeseman’s mercenary motives could alone be taken into
account, and that he had “coined our blood for drachmas.” The Parliament
took the expression out of the quarrel scene between Brutus and Cassius.
When it was settled in this strong way that Old Cheeseman was a
tremendous traitor, who had wormed himself into our fellows’ secrets on
purpose to get himself into favour by giving up everything he knew, all
courageous fellows were invited to come forward and enrol themselves in a
Society for making a set against him. The President of the Society was
First boy, named Bob Tarter. His father was in the West Indies, and he
owned, himself, that his father was worth Millions. He had great power
among our fellows, and he wrote a parody, beginning—
“Who made believe to be so meek
That we could hardly hear him speak,
Yet turned out an Informing Sneak?
Old Cheeseman.”
—and on in that way through more than a dozen verses, which he used to go
and sing, every morning, close by the new master’s desk. He trained one
of the low boys, too, a rosy-cheeked little Brass who didn’t care what he
did, to go up to him with his Latin Grammar one morning, and say it so:
_Nominativus pronominum_—Old Cheeseman, _raro exprimitur_—was never
suspected, _nisi distinctionis_—of being an informer, _aut emphasis
gratîa_—until he proved one. _Ut_—for instance, _Vos damnastis_—when he
sold the boys. _Quasi_—as though, _dicat_—he should say, _Pretærea
nemo_—I’m a Judas! All this produced a great effect on Old Cheeseman.
He had never had much hair; but what he had, began to get thinner and
thinner every day. He grew paler and more worn; and sometimes of an
evening he was seen sitting at his desk with a precious long snuff to his
candle, and his hands before his face, crying. But no member of the
Society could pity him, even if he felt inclined, because the President
said it was Old Cheeseman’s conscience.
So Old Cheeseman went on, and didn’t he lead a miserable life! Of course
the Reverend turned up his nose at him, and of course _she_ did—because
both of them always do that at all the masters—but he suffered from the
fellows most, and he suffered from them constantly. He never told about
it, that the Society could find out; but he got no credit for that,
because the President said it was Old Cheeseman’s cowardice.
He had only one friend in the world, and that one was almost as powerless
as he was, for it was only Jane. Jane was a sort of wardrobe woman to
our fellows, and took care of the boxes. She had come at first, I
believe, as a kind of apprentice—some of our fellows say from a Charity,
but _I_ don’t know—and after her time was out, had stopped at so much a
year. So little a year, perhaps I ought to say, for it is far more
likely. However, she had put some pounds in the Savings’ Bank, and she
was a very nice young woman. She was not quite pretty; but she had a
very frank, honest, bright face, and all our fellows were fond of her.
She was uncommonly neat and cheerful, and uncommonly comfortable and
kind. And if anything was the matter with a fellow’s mother, he always
went and showed the letter to Jane.
Jane was Old Cheeseman’s friend. The more the Society went against him,
the more Jane stood by him. She used to give him a good-humoured look
out of her still-room window, sometimes, that seemed to set him up for
the day. She used to pass out of the orchard and the kitchen garden
(always kept locked, I believe you!) through the playground, when she
might have gone the other way, only to give a turn of her head, as much
as to say “Keep up your spirits!” to Old Cheeseman. His slip of a room
was so fresh and orderly that it was well known who looked after it while
he was at his desk; and when our fellows saw a smoking hot dumpling on
his plate at dinner, they knew with indignation who had sent it up.
Under these circumstances, the Society resolved, after a quantity of
meeting and debating, that Jane should be requested to cut Old Cheeseman
dead; and that if she refused, she must be sent to Coventry herself. So
a deputation, headed by the President, was appointed to wait on Jane, and
inform her of the vote the Society had been under the painful necessity
of passing. She was very much respected for all her good qualities, and
there was a story about her having once waylaid the Reverend in his own
study, and got a fellow off from severe punishment, of her own kind
comfortable heart. So the deputation didn’t much like the job. However,
they went up, and the President told Jane all about it. Upon which Jane
turned very red, burst into tears, informed the President and the
deputation, in a way not at all like her usual way, that they were a
parcel of malicious young savages, and turned the whole respected body
out of the room. Consequently it was entered in the Society’s book (kept
in astronomical cypher for fear of detection), that all communication
with Jane was interdicted: and the President addressed the members on
this convincing instance of Old Cheeseman’s undermining.
But Jane was as true to Old Cheeseman as Old Cheeseman was false to our
fellows—in their opinion, at all events—and steadily continued to be his
only friend. It was a great exasperation to the Society, because Jane
was as much a loss to them as she was a gain to him; and being more
inveterate against him than ever, they treated him worse than ever. At
last, one morning, his desk stood empty, his room was peeped into, and
found to be vacant, and a whisper went about among the pale faces of our
fellows that Old Cheeseman, unable to bear it any longer, had got up
early and drowned himself.
The mysterious looks of the other masters after breakfast, and the
evident fact that old Cheeseman was not expected, confirmed the Society
in this opinion. Some began to discuss whether the President was liable
to hanging or only transportation for life, and the President’s face
showed a great anxiety to know which. However, he said that a jury of
his country should find him game; and that in his address he should put
it to them to lay their hands upon their hearts and say whether they as
Britons approved of informers, and how they thought they would like it
themselves. Some of the Society considered that he had better run away
until he found a forest where he might change clothes with a wood-cutter,
and stain his face with blackberries; but the majority believed that if
he stood his ground, his father—belonging as he did to the West Indies,
and being worth millions—could buy him off.
All our fellows’ hearts beat fast when the Reverend came in, and made a
sort of a Roman, or a Field Marshal, of himself with the ruler; as he
always did before delivering an address. But their fears were nothing to
their astonishment when he came out with the story that Old Cheeseman,
“so long our respected friend and fellow-pilgrim in the pleasant plains
of knowledge,” he called him—O yes! I dare say! Much of that!—was the
orphan child of a disinherited young lady who had married against her
father’s wish, and whose young husband had died, and who had died of
sorrow herself, and whose unfortunate baby (Old Cheeseman) had been
brought up at the cost of a grandfather who would never consent to see
it, baby, boy, or man: which grandfather was now dead, and serve him
right—that’s my putting in—and which grandfather’s large property, there
being no will, was now, and all of a sudden and for ever, Old
Cheeseman’s! Our so long respected friend and fellow-pilgrim in the
pleasant plains of knowledge, the Reverend wound up a lot of bothering
quotations by saying, would “come among us once more” that day fortnight,
when he desired to take leave of us himself, in a more particular manner.
With these words, he stared severely round at our fellows, and went
solemnly out.
There was precious consternation among the members of the Society, now.
Lots of them wanted to resign, and lots more began to try to make out
that they had never belonged to it. However, the President stuck up, and
said that they must stand or fall together, and that if a breach was made
it should be over his body—which was meant to encourage the Society: but
it didn’t. The President further said, he would consider the position in
which they stood, and would give them his best opinion and advice in a
few days. This was eagerly looked for, as he knew a good deal of the
world on account of his father’s being in the West Indies.
After days and days of hard thinking, and drawing armies all over his
slate, the President called our fellows together, and made the matter
clear. He said it was plain that when Old Cheeseman came on the
appointed day, his first revenge would be to impeach the Society, and
have it flogged all round. After witnessing with joy the torture of his
enemies, and gloating over the cries which agony would extort from them,
the probability was that he would invite the Reverend, on pretence of
conversation, into a private room—say the parlour into which Parents were
shown, where the two great globes were which were never used—and would
there reproach him with the various frauds and oppressions he had endured
at his hands. At the close of his observations he would make a signal to
a Prizefighter concealed in the passage, who would then appear and pitch
into the Reverend, till he was left insensible. Old Cheeseman would then
make Jane a present of from five to ten pounds, and would leave the
establishment in fiendish triumph.
The President explained that against the parlour part, or the Jane part,
of these arrangements he had nothing to say; but, on the part of the
Society, he counselled deadly resistance. With this view he recommended
that all available desks should be filled with stones, and that the first
word of the complaint should be the signal to every fellow to let fly at
Old Cheeseman. The bold advice put the Society in better spirits, and
was unanimously taken. A post about Old Cheeseman’s size was put up in
the playground, and all our fellows practised at it till it was dinted
all over.
When the day came, and Places were called, every fellow sat down in a
tremble. There had been much discussing and disputing as to how Old
Cheeseman would come; but it was the general opinion that he would appear
in a sort of triumphal car drawn by four horses, with two livery servants
in front, and the Prizefighter in disguise up behind. So, all our
fellows sat listening for the sound of wheels. But no wheels were heard,
for Old Cheeseman walked after all, and came into the school without any
preparation. Pretty much as he used to be, only dressed in black.
“Gentlemen,” said the Reverend, presenting him, “our so long respected
friend and fellow-pilgrim in the pleasant plains of knowledge, is
desirous to offer a word or two. Attention, gentlemen, one and all!”
Every fellow stole his hand into his desk and looked at the President.
The President was all ready, and taking aim at old Cheeseman with his
eyes.
What did Old Cheeseman then, but walk up to his old desk, look round him
with a queer smile as if there was a tear in his eye, and begin in a
quavering, mild voice, “My dear companions and old friends!”
Every fellow’s hand came out of his desk, and the President suddenly
began to cry.
“My dear companions and old friends,” said Old Cheeseman, “you have heard
of my good fortune. I have passed so many years under this roof—my
entire life so far, I may say—that I hope you have been glad to hear of
it for my sake. I could never enjoy it without exchanging
congratulations with you. If we have ever misunderstood one another at
all, pray, my dear boys, let us forgive and forget. I have a great
tenderness for you, and I am sure you return it. I want in the fulness
of a grateful heart to shake hands with you every one. I have come back
to do it, if you please, my dear boys.”
Since the President had begun to cry, several other fellows had broken
out here and there: but now, when Old Cheeseman began with him as first
boy, laid his left hand affectionately on his shoulder and gave him his
right; and when the President said “Indeed, I don’t deserve it, sir; upon
my honour I don’t;” there was sobbing and crying all over the school.
Every other fellow said he didn’t deserve it, much in the same way; but
Old Cheeseman, not minding that a bit, went cheerfully round to every
boy, and wound up with every master—finishing off the Reverend last.
Then a snivelling little chap in a corner, who was always under some
punishment or other, set up a shrill cry of “Success to Old Cheeseman!
Hooray!” The Reverend glared upon him, and said, “_Mr._ Cheeseman, sir.”
But, Old Cheeseman protesting that he liked his old name a great deal
better than his new one, all our fellows took up the cry; and, for I
don’t know how many minutes, there was such a thundering of feet and
hands, and such a roaring of Old Cheeseman, as never was heard.