"DEAD FLIES," OR "YE SHALL BE AS GODS".
In the twilight, in the evening, in the black and dark night.
Proverbs seven, 9.
At Roslyn, even in summer, the hour for going to bed was half-past nine.
It was hardly likely that so many boys, overflowing with turbulent
life, should lie down quietly, and get to sleep. They never dreamt of
doing so. Very soon after the masters were gone, the sconces were often
relighted, sometimes in separate dormitories, sometimes in all of them,
and the boys amused themselves by reading novels or making a row. They
would play various games about the bedrooms, vaulting or jumping over
the beds, running races in sheets, getting through the windows upon the
roofs, to frighten the study-boys with sham ghosts, or playing the
thousand other pranks which suggested themselves to the fertile
imagination of fifteen. But the favourite amusement was a bolstering
match. One room would challenge another, and stripping the covers off
their bolsters, would meet in mortal fray. A bolster well wielded,
especially when dexterously applied to the legs, is a very efficient
instrument to bring a boy to the ground; but it doesn't hurt very much,
even when the blows fall on the head. Hence these matches were
excellent trials of strength and temper, and were generally accompanied
with shouts of laughter, never ending until one side was driven back to
its own room. Many a long and tough struggle had Eric enjoyed, and his
prowess was now so universally acknowledged, that his dormitory, Number
7, was a match for any other, and far stronger in this warfare than most
of the rest. At bolstering. Duncan was a perfect champion; his
strength and activity were marvellous, and his mirth uproarious. Eric
and Graham backed him up brilliantly; while Llewellyn and Attlay, with
sturdy vigour, supported the skirmishers. Ball, the sixth boy in Number
7, was the only _faineant_ among them, though he did occasionally help
to keep off the smaller fry.
Happy would it have been for all of them if Ball had never been placed
in Number 7; happier still if he had never come to Roslyn School.
Backward in work, overflowing with vanity at his supposed good looks, of
mean disposition and feeble intellect, he was the very worst specimen of
a boy that Eric had ever seen. Not even Barker so deeply excited Eric's
repulsion and contempt. And yet, since the affair of Upton, Barker and
Eric were declared enemies, and, much to the satisfaction of the latter,
never spoke to each other; but with Ball--much as he inwardly loathed
him--he was professedly and apparently on good terms. His silly love of
universal popularity made him accept and tolerate the society even of
this worthless boy.
Any two boys talking to each other about Ball would probably profess to
like him "well enough," but if they were honest, they would generally
end by allowing their contempt.
"We've got a nice set in Number 7, haven't we?" said Duncan to Eric one
day.
"Capital. Old Llewellyn's a stunner, and I like Attlay and Graham."
"Don't you like Ball, then?"
"Oh yes; pretty well."
The two boys looked each other in the face, and then, like the
confidential augurs, burst out laughing.
"You know you detest him," said Duncan.
"No, I don't. He never did me any harm that I know of."
"Hm!--well, _I_ detest him."
"Well!" answered Eric, "on coming to think of it, so do I. And yet he's
popular enough in the school. I wonder how that is."
"He's not _really_ popular. I've often noticed that fellows pretty
generally despise him, yet somehow don't like to say so."
"Why do you dislike him, Duncan?"
"I don't know. Why do you?"
"I don't know either."
Neither Eric nor Duncan meant this answer to be false, and yet if they
had taken the trouble to consider, they would have found out in their
secret souls the reasons of their dislike.
Ball had been to school before, and of this school he often bragged as
the acme of desirability and wickedness. He was always telling boys
what they did at "his old school," and he quite inflamed the minds of
such as fell under his influence by marvellous tales of the wild and
wilful things which he and his former school-fellows had done. Many and
many a scheme of sin and mischief at Roslyn was suggested, planned, and
carried out, on the model of Ball's reminiscences of his previous life.
He had tasted more largely of the tree of the knowledge of evil than any
other boy, and, strange to say, this was the secret why the general
odium was never expressed. He claimed his guilty experience so often as
a ground of superiority, that at last the claim was silently allowed.
He spoke from the platform of more advanced iniquity, and the others
listened first curiously, and then eagerly to his words.
"Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil." Such was the temptation
which assailed the other boys in dormitory Number 7; and Eric among the
number. Ball was the tempter. Secretly, gradually, he dropped into
their too willing ears the poison of his immorality.
In brief, this boy was cursed with a degraded and corrupting mind.
I hurry over a part of my subject inconceivably painful; I hurry over
it, but if I am to perform my self-imposed duty of giving a true
picture, of what school-life _sometimes_ is, I must not pass it by
altogether.
The first time that Eric heard indecent words in dormitory Number 7, he
was shocked beyond bound or measure. Dark though it was, he felt
himself blushing scarlet to the roots of his hair, and then growing pale
again, while a hot dew was left upon his forehead. Ball was the
speaker; but this time there was a silence, and the subject instantly
dropped. The others felt that a "new boy" was in the room; they did not
know how he would take it; they were unconsciously abashed.
Besides, though they had themselves joined in such conversation before,
they did not love it, and, on the contrary, felt ashamed of yielding to
it.
Now, Eric, now or never! Life and death, ruin and salvation, corruption
and purity, are perhaps in the balance together, and the scale of your
destiny may hang on a single word of yours. Speak out, boy! Tell these
fellows that unseemly words wound your conscience; tell them that they
are ruinous, sinful, damnable; speak out and save yourself and the rest.
Virtue is strong and beautiful, Eric, and vice is downcast in her awful
presence. Lose your purity of heart, Eric, and you have lost a jewel
which the whole world, if it were "one entire and perfect chrysolite,"
cannot replace.
Good spirits guard that young boy, and give him grace in this his hour
of trial! Open his eyes that he may see the fiery horses and the fiery
chariots of the angels who would defend him, and the dark array of
spiritual foes who throng around his bed. Point a pitying finger to the
yawning abyss of shame, ruin, and despair that even now perhaps is being
cleft under his feet. Show him the garlands of the present and the
past, withering at the touch of the Erinnys in the future. In pity, in
pity, show him the canker which he is introducing into the sap of the
tree of life, which shall cause its root to be hereafter as bitterness,
and its blossom to go up as dust.
But the sense of sin was on Eric's mind. How _could_ he speak? was not
his own language sometimes profane? How--how could he profess to
reprove another boy on the ground of morality, when he himself said and
did things less dangerous perhaps, but equally forbidden?
For half an hour, in an agony of struggle with himself, Eric lay silent.
Since Ball's last words nobody had spoken. They were going to sleep.
It was too late to speak now, Eric thought. The moment passed by for
ever; Eric had listened without objection to foul words, and the
irreparable harm was done.
How easy it would have been to speak! With the temptation, God had
provided also a way to escape. Next time it came, it was far harder to
resist, and it soon became, to men, impossible.
Ah, Eric, Eric! how little we know the moments which decide the
destinies of life. We live on as usual. The day is a common day, the
hour a common hour. We never thought twice about the change of
intention which by one of the accidents--(accidents!)--of life
determined for good or for evil, for happiness or misery, the colour of
our remaining years. The stroke of the pen was done in a moment which
led unconsciously to our ruin; the word was uttered quite heedlessly on
which turned for ever the decision of our weal or woe.
Eric lay silent. The darkness was not broken by the flashing of an
angel's wing, the stillness was not syllabled by the sound of an angel's
voice; but to his dying day Eric never forgot the moments which passed,
until, weary and self-reproachful, he fell asleep.
Next morning he awoke, restless and feverish. He at once remembered
what had passed. Ball's words haunted him; he could not forget them;
they burnt within him like the flame of a moral fever. He was moody and
petulant, and for a time could hardly conceal his aversion. Ah, Eric!
moodiness and petulance cannot save you, but prayerfulness would; one
word, Eric, at the throne of grace--one prayer before you go down among
the boys, that God in His mercy would wash away, in the blood of His
dear Son, your crimson stains, and keep your conscience and memory
clean.
The boy knelt down for a few minutes, and repeated to himself a few
formal words. Had he stayed longer on his knees, he might have given
way to a burst of penitence and supplication--but he heard Ball's
footstep, and getting up he ran downstairs to breakfast; so Eric did not
pray.
Conversations did not generally drop so suddenly in dormitory Number 7.
On the contrary, they generally flashed along in the liveliest way, till
some one said "good-night;" and then the boys turned off to sleep. Eric
knew this, and instantly conjectured that it was only a sort of respect
for him, and ignorance of the manner in which he would consider it, that
prevented Duncan and the rest from taking any further notice of Ball's
remark. It was therefore no good disburdening his mind to any of them;
but he determined to speak about the matter to Russell in their next
walk.
They usually walked together on Sunday. Dr Rowlands had discontinued
the odious and ridiculous custom of the younger boys taking their
exercise under a master's inspection. Boys are not generally fond of
constitutionals, so that on the half-holidays they almost entirely
confined their open-air exercise to the regular games, and many of them
hardly left the playground boundaries once a week. But on Sundays they
often went walks, each with his favourite friend or companion. When
Eric first came as a boarder, he invariably went with Russell on Sunday,
and many a pleasant stroll they had taken together, sometimes
accompanied by Duncan, Montagu, or Owen. The latter, however, had
dropped even this intercourse with Eric, who for the last few weeks had
more often gone with his new friend Upton.
"Come a walk, boy," said Upton, as they left the dining-room.
"Oh, excuse me to-day, Upton," said Eric, "I'm going with your cousin."
"Oh, very well," said Upton, in high dudgeon; and hoping to make Eric
jealous, he went a walk with Graham, whom he had "taken up" before he
knew Williams.
Russell was rather surprised when Eric came to him and said, "Come a
stroll to Fort Island, Edwin--will you?"
"Oh yes," said Russell cheerfully; "why, we haven't seen each other for
some time lately! I was beginning to fancy that you meant to drop me,
Eric."
He spoke with a smile and in a rallying tone, but Eric hung his head;
for the charge was true. Proud of his popularity among all the school,
and especially at his friendship with so leading a fellow as Upton, Eric
had _not_ seen much of his friend since their last conversation about
swearing. Indeed, conscious of failure, he felt sometimes uneasy in
Russell's company.
He faltered, and answered humbly, "I hope you will never drop _me_,
Edwin, whatever happens to me. But I particularly want to speak to you
to-day."
In an instant Russell had twined his arm in Eric's as they turned
towards Fort Island; and Eric, with an effort, was just going to begin
when they heard Montagu's voice calling after them--
"I say, you fellows, where are you off to? may I come with you?"
"Oh yes, Monty, do," said Russell; "it will be quite like old times; now
that my cousin Horace has got hold of Eric, we have to sing `When shall
we three meet again?'"
Russell only spoke in fun; but, unintentionally, his words jarred in
Eric's heart. He was silent and answered in monosyllables, so the walk
was provokingly dull. At last they reached Fort Island, and sate down
by the ruined chapel looking on the sea.
"Why, what's the row with you, old boy?" said Montagu, playfully shaking
Eric by the shoulder; "you're as silent as Zimmerman on Solitude, and as
doleful as Harvey on the Tombs. I expect you've been going through a
select course of Blair's Grave, Young's Night Thoughts, and Drelincourt
on Death."
To his surprise Eric's head was still bent, and, at last, he heard a
deep suppressed sigh.
"My dear fellow, what is the matter with you?" said Russell,
affectionately taking his hand; "surely you're not offended at my
nonsense?"
Eric had not liked to speak while Montagu was by, but now he gulped down
his rising emotion, and briefly told them of Ball's vile words the night
before. They listened in silence.
"I knew it must come, Eric," said Russell at last, "and I am so sorry
you didn't speak at the time."
"Do the fellows ever talk in that way in either of your dormitories?"
asked Eric.
"No," said Russell.
"Very little," said Montagu.
A pause followed, during which all three plucked the grass and looked
away.
"Let me tell you," said Russell solemnly; "my father (he is dead now,
you know, Eric), when I was sent to school, warned me of this kind of
thing. I had been brought up in utter ignorance of such coarse
knowledge as is forced upon one here, and with my reminiscences of home,
I could not bear even that much of it which it was impossible to avoid.
But the very first time such talk was begun in my dormitory, I spoke
out. What I said I don't know, but I felt as if I was trampling on a
slimy poisonous adder, and, at any rate, I showed such pain and distress
that the fellows dropped it at the time. Since then I have absolutely
refused to stay in the room if ever such talk is begun. So it never is
now, and I do think the fellows are very glad of it themselves."
"Well," said Montagu, "I don't profess to look on it from the religious
ground, you know, but I thought it blackguardly, and in bad taste, and
said so. The fellow who began it threatened to kick me for a conceited
little fool, but he didn't; and they hardly ever venture on that line
now."
"It is more than blackguardly, it is deadly," answered Russell; "my
father said it was the most fatal curse which could ever become rife in
a public school."
"Why do masters never give us any help or advice on these matters?"
asked Eric thoughtfully.
"In sermons they do. Don't you remember Rowlands's sermon not two weeks
ago on Kibroth-Hattaavah? But I for one think them quite right not to
speak to us privately on such subjects, unless we invite confidence.
Besides, they cannot know that any boys talk in this way. After all, it
is only a very few of the worst who ever do."
They got up and walked home, but from day to day Eric put off performing
the duty which Russell had advised, viz.--a private request to Ball to
abstain from his offensive communications, and an endeavour to enlist
Duncan into his wishes.
One evening they were telling each other stories in Number 7. Ball's
turn came, and in his story the vile element again appeared. For a
while Eric said nothing, but as the strain grew worse, he made a faint
remonstrance.
"Shut up there, Williams," said Attlay, "and don't spoil the story."
"Very well. It's your own fault, and I shall shut my ears."
He did for a time, but a general laugh awoke him. He pretended to be
asleep, but he listened. Iniquity of this kind was utterly new to him;
his curiosity was awakened; he no longer feigned indifference, and the
poison of evil communication flowed deep into his veins.
Oh, young boys, if your eyes ever read these pages, pause and beware.
The knowledge of evil is ruin, and the continuance in it is moral death.
That little matter--that beginning of evil--it will be like the
snowflake detached by the breath of air from the mountain-top, which, as
it rushes down, gains size and strength and impetus, till it has swollen
to the mighty and irresistible avalanche that overwhelms garden and
field and village in a chaos of undistinguishable death.
Kibroth-Hattaavah! Many and many a young Englishman has perished there!
Many and many a happy English boy, the jewel of his mother's heart--
brave and beautiful and strong--lies buried there. Very pale their
shadows rise before us--the shadows of our young brothers who have
sinned and suffered. From the sea and the sod, from foreign graves and
English churchyards, they start up and throng around us in the paleness
of their fall. May every schoolboy who reads this page be warned by the
waving of their wasted hands, from that burning marle of passion where
they found nothing but shame and ruin, polluted affections, and an early
grave.