perfection of the art is only attained in the pass-examinations of the
Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. Then all considerations of
conscience or sportsmanship are flung aside, and the cribber cribs, not
to gain distinction or outstrip his rivals, but to get over a
troublesome fence by hook or crook and have done with it. There was once
a Freshman at Cambridge whose name began with M. This accident of
nomenclature placed him during his Little Go examination in the next
seat to a burly young man whom he recognised with a thrill of awe as the
President of the C.U.B.C., whose devotion to aquatic sports had so far
prevented him from clearing the academic fence just mentioned, and who
now, at the beginning of his third year, was entering, in company with a
collection of pink-faced youths fresh from school, upon his ninth
attempt to satisfy the examiners in Part One of the Previous
Examination.
Our friend, having completed his first paper, quitted the Senate House
and returned to his rooms, to fortify himself with luncheon before the
next. During the progress of that meal a strange gyp called upon him,
and proffered a note, mysteriously.
"From Mr. M----, sir," he said, mentioning the name of the Freshman's
exalted neighbour in the examination room.
The Freshman opened the note with trembling fingers. Was it possible
that he had been singled out as a likely oar already?
* * * * *
The note was brief, but to the point. It said:
"_Dere Sir,
Please write larger.
Yours truly,
J. M----._"
III
However, this is a digression. Let us return for the last time to Arthur
Robinson's three divisions of youthful humanity. Class A he found
extraordinarily dull. They required little instruction and no
supervision; in fact, they were self-educators of the most automatic
type. Class B were a perpetual weariness to the flesh. They gave no
trouble, but their apathy was appalling. However, a certain amount of
entertainment could be extracted from studying their methods of evading
work or supplying themselves with refreshment. There was the ingenious
device of Master Jobling, for instance. Mr. Robinson noted that this
youth was in the habit, during lecture-time, of sitting with his elbows
resting on his desk and his chin buried in his hands, his mouth, or a
corner thereof, being covered by his fingers. His attitude was one of
rapt attention, and his eyes were fixed unwinkingly upon the lecturer.
Such virtue, coming from Master Jobling, roused unworthy suspicions in
the breast of Arthur Robinson. He observed that although the youth's
attitude was one of rigid immobility, his facial muscles were agitated
from time to time by a slight convulsive movement. Accordingly, one day,
he stepped swiftly across the room, and taking Master Jobling by the
hair, demanded an explanation. It was forthcoming immediately, in the
form of a long thin indiarubber tube, of the baby's-bottle variety; one
end of which was held between Master Jobling's teeth, while the other
communicated, _via_ his right sleeve, with a bottle of ginger-beer
secreted somewhere in the recesses of his person. From this reservoir he
had been refreshing himself from time to time by a process of suction.
Mr. Robinson, who believed in making the punishment fit the crime,
purchased a baby's "soother" from the chemist's, and condemned Jobling
to put it to its rightful use during every school-hour for the rest of
the week. He was only allowed to remove it from his lips in order to
answer a question.
Class C, the professional malefactors, Mr. Robinson found extremely
attractive. They appeared to possess all the character and quite half
the brains of the form. But this is a permanent characteristic of the
malefactor, and is most discouraging to the virtuous.
Once, early in his career, Robinson was badly caught. On entering his
form-room one winter evening, when darkness had fallen and the gas was
ablaze, his eye fell upon the great plate-glass window which filled the
south wall of the room. Form-room windows are not usually supplied with
blinds, and this window stood black and opaque against the darkness of
night. Right in the centre of the glass was a great white star, which
radiated out in all directions in a series of splintered cracks.
Mr. Robinson knew well what had happened. Some one had hurled a stone
inkpot against the window. Only last week he had had occasion to
discourage target-practice of this kind by exemplary measures. He
addressed the crowded form angrily.
"Who broke that window?"
"It is not broken, sir," volunteered a polite voice.
Arthur Robinson was a young man who did not suffer impudence readily.
"This is not precisely the moment," he rapped out, "for nice
distinctions. The window is cracked, starred, splintered--anything you
like. I want the name of the boy who damaged it. At once, please!"
Silence. Yet it was not the sullen, obstinate silence which prevails
when boys are endeavouring to screen one another. One would almost have
called it silent satisfaction. But Arthur Robinson was too angry and not
sufficiently experienced to note the distinction. Naming each boy by
name, he demanded of him whether or no he had broken the window. Each
boy politely denied the impeachment. One or two were courteous to the
point of patronage.
Suddenly, from the back bench, came a faint chuckle. Arthur Robinson,
conscious of a sickly feeling down his spine, rose to his feet and
approached the splintered window. The form watched him with breathless
joy. Hot faced, he rubbed one of the rays of the star with his fingers.
It promptly disappeared.
The window was undamaged. The star was artistically executed in white
chalk.
Malefactors have their weak spots, too.
One afternoon Mr. Robinson held an "extra." That is to say, he brought
in a body of sinful youths, composed of the riff-raff of his form, for a
period of detention, and set them a stiff imposition to write out. About
half-way through the weary hour he produced from his locked desk an old
cigarette-box containing sundry coins. Laying these out before him, he
proceeded to count them. The perfunctory scratching of pens ceased, and
the assembled company, most of whom had been unwilling contributors to
the fund under review, gazed with lack-lustre eyes at their late
property.
"Fourteen-and-nine," announced Mr. Robinson cheerfully. "That is the sum
which I have collected from you this term in return for the loan of such
useful articles as pens and blotting-paper. I know my charges are high;
but then I am a monopolist to people who are foolish enough to come in
here without their proper equipment. Again, though threepence may seem
a fancy price for a small piece of blotting-paper, it is better to pay
threepence for a piece of blotting-paper than use your handkerchief,
which is worth a shilling. However, the total is fourteen-and-nine. What
shall we do with it? Christmas is only a fortnight off, and I propose,
with your approval, to send this contribution of yours to a society
which provides Christmas dinners for people who are less lavishly
provided for in that respect than ourselves. If it interests you at all,
I will get the Society's full title and address and read them to you."
Arthur Robinson was out of the room for perhaps three minutes. When he
returned he was immediately conscious, from the guilty stillness which
reigned, and the self-conscious air of detachment with which everybody
was writing, that something was amiss. He glanced sharply at the little
pile of money on his desk.
It had grown from fourteen-and-ninepence to twenty-seven-and-sixpence.
Life is full of compensations--even for schoolmasters.
CHAPTER SIX
SCHOOL STORIES
One of the most striking features of the present-day cult of The Child
is the fact that whereas school stories were formerly written to be read
by schoolboys, they are now written to be read--and are read with
avidity--by grown-up persons.
This revolution has produced some abiding results. In the first place,
school stories are much better written than they were. Secondly, a
certain proportion of the limelight has been shifted from the boy to the
master, with the result that school life is now presented in a more true
and corporate manner. Thirdly, school stories have become less romantic,
less sentimental, more coldly psychological. They are tinged with adult
worldliness, and, too often, with adult pessimism. As literature they
are an enormous advance upon their predecessors; but what they have
gained in _savoir faire_ they appear to have lost in _joie de vivre_.
Let us enter upon the ever-fascinating task of comparing the old with
the new.
To represent the ancients we will take that immortal giant, _Tom Brown_.
With him, as they say in legal circles, _Eric_. Many people will say,
and they will be right, that Tom Brown would make a much braver show for
the old brigade if put forward alone, minus his depressing companion.
But we must bear in mind that it takes more than one book to represent a
literary era. We will therefore call upon Tom Brown and Eric Williams
between them to represent the schoolboy of a bygone age.
Most of us make Tom Brown's acquaintance in early youth. We fortify
ourselves with a course of him before going to school for the first
time--at the age of twelve or thereabouts--and we quickly realise, even
at that tender age, that there were giants in those days.
Have you ever considered Tom Brown's first day at school? No? Then
observe. He was called at half-past two in the morning, at the Peacock
Inn, Islington, and by three o'clock was off as an "outside" upon the
Tally-Ho Coach, in the small hours of a November morning, on an
eighty-mile drive to Rugby.
[Illustration: THE FAG: "SIC VOS NON VOBIS"]
He arrived at his destination just in time to take dinner in Hall,
chaperoned by his new friend East; and then, _duce_ Old Brooke, plunged
into that historic football match between the Schoolhouse and the
School--sixty on one side and two hundred on the other. Modern
gladiators who consider "two thirty-fives" a pretty stiff period of play
will be interested to note that this battle raged for three hours,
and that the Schoolhouse were filled with surprise and rapture at
achieving a goal after only sixty minutes' play. ("A goal in an hour!
Such a thing had not been done in a Schoolhouse match these five
years.")
In the course of the game Tom was knocked over while stopping a rush,
and as the result of spending some minutes at the bottom of a heap of
humanity composed of a goodly proportion of his two hundred opponents,
was finally hauled out "a motionless body." However, he recovered
sufficiently to be able to entertain East to tea and sausages in the
Lower Fifth School. After a brief interval for ablution came supper,
followed by a free-and-easy musical entertainment in the Schoolhouse
hall, which included singing, a good deal of indiscriminate
beer-drinking, and the famous speech of Old Brooke. Tom, it is hardly
necessary to say, obliged with a song--"with much applause."
Then came prayers, and Tom's first glimpse of the mighty Arnold. (We may
note here that a new boy of the old days was not apparently troubled by
tiresome regulations upon the subject of reporting himself to his
housemaster on arrival.) Even then Tom's first day from home was not
over, for before retiring to his slumber he was tossed in a blanket
three times. Not a bad record for a boy of twelve! And yet we flatter
ourselves that we live a strenuous life.
Customs have changed in many respects since Tom Brown's time. Public
schoolboys of eighteen or nineteen do not now wear beards, neither do
they carry pea-shooters. Our athletes array themselves for battle in the
shortest of shorts and the thinnest of jerseys. The participators in the
three-hour Schoolhouse match merely took off their jackets and hung them
upon the railings or trees. We are told, however, with some pride, that
those who meant _real_ work added their hats, waistcoats,
neck-handkerchiefs, and braces! What of those who did not? Again, a
captain does not nowadays "administer toco" upon the field of battle to
subordinates who have failed to prevent the enemy from scoring a try.
Again, no master of to-day would dare to admit to a boy that he "does
not understand" cricket, or for that matter draw parallels between
cricket and Aristophanes for the benefit of an attentive audience in a
corner of the playing-field during a school match.
But we accept all these incidents in _Tom_ _Brown_ without question. We
never dream of doubting that they occurred, or could have occurred.
Arthur, we admit, is a rare bird, but he is credible. Even East's
religious difficulties, or rather his anxiety to discuss them, are made
convincing. The reason is that _Tom Brown_ contains nothing that is
alien from human nature--schoolboy human nature. It is the real thing
all through. Across the ages Tom Brown of Rugby speaks to Brown minor
(also, possibly, of Rugby) with the voice of a brother. Details may have
changed, but the essentials are the same. "How different," we say, "but
oh, how like!"
Not so at all times with _Eric, or Little by Little_. Here we miss the
robust philistinism of the eternal schoolboy, and the atmosphere of
reality which pervades _Tom Brown_. We feel that we are not _living_ a
story, but merely reading it. _Eric_ does not ring true. We suspect the
reverend author--to employ an expression which his hero would never have
used--of "talking through his hat."
None of us desire to scoff at true piety or moral loftiness, but we feel
instinctively that in _Eric_ these virtues are somewhat indecently
paraded. The schoolboy is essentially a matter-of-fact animal, and
extremely reticent. He is not usually concerned with the state of his
soul, and never under any circumstances anxious to discuss the matter;
and above all he abhors the preacher and the prig. _Eric, or Little by
Little_ is priggish from start to finish. Compare, for instance, Eric's
father and Squire Brown. Here are the Squire's meditations as to the
advice he should give Tom before saying good-bye:
"I won't tell him to read his Bible, and love and serve God; if he
don't do that for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for
mine. Shall I go into the sort of temptations he'll meet with? No,
I can't do that. Never do for an old fellow to go into such things
with a boy. He won't understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten
to one. Shall I tell him to mind his work, and say he's sent to
school to make himself a good scholar? Well, but he isn't sent to
school for that--at any rate, not for that mainly. I don't care a
straw for Greek particles, or the digamma; no more does his mother.
What is he sent to school for? Well, partly because he wanted so to
go. If he'll only turn out a brave, helpful, truth-telling
Englishman, and a gentleman, and a Christian, that's all I want."
Now compare Eric's father in one of his public appearances. That worthy
but tiresome gentleman suddenly descends upon the bully Barker, engaged
in chastising Eric.
"There had been an unobserved spectator of the whole scene, in the
person of Mr. Williams himself, and it was his strong hand that now
gripped Barker's shoulder. He was greatly respected by the boys,
who all knew his tall handsome figure by sight, and he frequently
stood a quiet and pleased observer of their games. The boys in the
playground came crowding round, and Barker in vain struggled to
escape. Mr. Williams held him firmly, and said in a calm voice, 'I
have just seen you treat one of your schoolfellows with the
grossest violence. It makes me blush for you, Roslyn boys,' he
continued, turning to the group that surrounded him, 'that you can
even for a moment stand by unmoved, and see such things done. Now;
mark; it makes no difference that the boy who has been hurt is my
own son; I would have punished this scoundrel whoever it had been,
and I shall punish him now.' With these words, he lifted the
riding-whip which he happened to be carrying, and gave Barker by
far the severest castigation he had ever undergone. He belaboured
him till his sullen obstinacy gave way to a roar for mercy, and
promises never so to offend again.
"At this crisis he flung the boy from him with a 'phew' of disgust,
and said, 'I give nothing for your word; but if ever you do bully
in this way again, and I see or hear of it, your present punishment
shall be a trifle to what I shall then administer. At present,
thank me for not informing your master.' So saying, he made Barker
pick up the cap, and, turning away, walked home with Eric leaning
on his arm."
Poor Eric! What chance can a boy have had whose egregious parent
insisted upon outraging every canon of schoolboy law on his behalf? We
are not altogether surprised to read, a little later, that though from
that day Eric was never troubled with personal violence from Barker,
"rancour smouldered deep in the heart of the baffled tyrant."
Then, as already noted, the atmosphere and incidents of _Eric_ fail to
carry conviction. Making every allowance for the eccentricities of
people who lived sixty years ago, the modern boy simply refuses to
credit the idea of members of a "decent" school indulging in "a superior
titter" when one of their number performed the everyday feat of breaking
down in translation. He finds it hard to believe that Owen (who is
labelled with damning enthusiasm "a boy of mental superiority") would
really report another boy for kicking him, and quite incredible that
after the kicker had been flogged the virtuous Owen should "have the
keen mortification of seeing 'Owen is a sneak' written up all about the
walls." As for Eric and Russell, sitting on a green bank beside the sea
and "looking into one another's eyes and silently promising that they
will be loving friends for ever"--the spectacle makes the
undemonstrative young Briton physically unwell. Again, no schoolboy ever
called lighted candles "superfluous abundance of nocturnal
illumination"; and no schoolmaster under any circumstances ever "laid a
gentle hand" upon a schoolboy's head. A hand, possibly, but not a gentle
one. Lower School boys are not given AEschylus to read; and if they were
they would not waste their play-hours discussing the best rendering of a
particularly knotty passage occurring in a lesson happily over and done
with.
If the first half of _Eric_ is overdrawn and improbable, the second is
rank melodrama--and bad melodrama at that. The trial scene is impossibly
theatrical, and Russell's illness and death-bed deliverances are an
outrage on schoolboy reserve.
Listen again to one Montagu, a sixth-form boy who has caught a gang of
dormitory roysterers preparing an apple-pie bed for him. Does he call
them "cheeky young swine," and knock their heads together? No!
"'By heavens, this is _too_ bad!' he exclaimed, stamping his foot
with anger. 'What have I ever done to you young blackguards that
you should treat me thus? Have I ever been a bully? Have I ever
harmed one of you? And _you_, too, Vernon Williams!'
"The little boy trembled and looked ashamed under his glance of
sorrow and scorn.
"'Well, I _know_ who has put you up to this; but you shall not
escape so. I shall thrash you, every one.'
"Very quietly he suited the action to the word, sparing none."
These silent, strong men!
Again, do, or did, English schoolboys ever behave like this?
"Vernon hid his face on Eric's shoulder; and, as his brother
stooped over him and folded him to his heart, they cried in
silence, for there seemed no more to say, until, wearied with
sorrow, the younger fell asleep; and then Eric carried him tenderly
downstairs, and laid him, still half-sleeping, upon his bed."
The characters in _Eric_ are far superior to the incidents. They may be
exaggerated and irritating, but they are consistently drawn. Wildney is
a true type, and still exists. Russell is a fair specimen of a "good"
boy, though it is difficult to feel for him the tenderness which most of
us extend, perhaps furtively, to Arthur in _Tom Brown_. But some of the
masters are beyond comprehension. Pious but depressing pedagogues of
the type of Mr. Rose (who at moments of crisis, it will be remembered,
was usually to be found upon his knees in the School Library, oblivious
of the greater privacy and comfort offered by his bedroom) have faded
from our midst. Their place to-day is occupied by efficient and
unsentimental young men in fancy waistcoats.
But the book for clear types is _Tom Brown_. East, the two Brookes, and
Arthur--we recognise them all. There is Flashman the bully--an epitome
of all bullies. He is of an everlasting pattern. And there is that
curiously attractive person Martin, the scientist, with his jackdaw and
his chemical research, and his chronic impecuniosity. You remember how
he used to barter his allowance of candles for birds' eggs; with the
result that, in those pre-gas-and-electricity days, he was reduced to
doing his preparation by the glow of the fire, or "by the light of a
flaring cotton wick, issuing from a ginger-beer bottle full of some
doleful composition"? Lastly, there is Arnold himself. He is only
revealed to us in glimpses: he emerges now and then like a mountain-peak
from clouds; but is none the less imposing for that.
What impression of bygone schoolboy life do _Tom Brown_ and _Eric_ make
upon our minds?
The outstanding sensation appears to be this, that fifty years ago life
at school was more _spacious_ than now--more full of incident and
variety. In those days a boy's spare time was his own. How did he spend
his half-holidays? If he was a good boy--good in the bad sense of the
word--he went and sat upon a hill-top and admired the scenery, or
thought of his mother, or possibly gripped another good boy by the hand
and said: "Let me call you Edwin, and you shall always call me Eric." If
he was a normal healthy boy he went swimming, or bird-nesting, or (more
usually) poaching, and generally encountered adventure by the way. If he
was a bad boy he retired with other malefactors to a public-house, where
he indulged in an orgy of roast goose and brandy-and-water.
_Nous avons change tout cela._ Compulsory games have put an end to such
licence, and in so doing have docked a good deal of liberty as well. The
result has been to emphasize the type at the expense of the individual.
It is a good type--a grand type--but it bears hardly upon some of its
more angular components. The new system keeps the weak boy out of
temptation and the idle boy out of mischief; but the quiet, reflective,
unathletic boy hates it. He has little chance now to dream dreams or
commune with nature. Still, his chance comes later in life; and as we
all have to learn to toe the line at some time or another, thrice
blessed is he who gets over the lesson in early youth.
The prefectorial system, too, has enlarged boys' sense of
responsibility, and has put an end to many abuses which no master could
ever reach. But on the whole we may say of the public-school boy
throughout the ages that _plus que l'on le change, plus c'est la meme
chose_. Schoolboy gods have not altered. Strength, fleetness of foot,
physical beauty, loyalty to one's House and one's School--youth still
worships these things. There is the same admiration for _natural_
brilliancy, be it in athletics or conversation or scholarship, and the
same curious contempt for the plodder--even the successful plodder--in
all departments of life. The weakest still goes to the wall. He is not
bumped against it so vigorously as he used to be; but he still goes
there, and always will.
Still, has the present generation developed no new characteristics? Let
us turn to a batch of modern school stories, and see.