CHAPTER II--A NEW HOME
CHAPTER III--BULLYING
CHAPTER IV--CRIBBING
CHAPTER V--THE SECOND TERM
CHAPTER VI--HOME AFFECTIONS
CHAPTER VII--ERIC A BOARDER
CHAPTER VIII--“TAKING UP”
CHAPTER IX--“DEAD FLIES,” OR “YE SHALL BE AS GODS”
CHAPTER X--DORMITORY LIFE
CHAPTER XI--ERIC IN COVENTRY
CHAPTER XII--THE TRIAL
CHAPTER XIII--THE ADVENTURE AT THE STACK
CHAPTER XIV--THE SILVER CORD BROKEN
CHAPTER XV--HOME AGAIN
PART II
CHAPTER I--ABDIEL
CHAPTER II--WILDNEY
CHAPTER III--THE JOLLY HERRING
CHAPTER IV--MR. ROSE AND BRIGSON
CHAPTER V--RIPPLES
CHAPTER VI--ERIC AND MONTAGU
CHAPTER VII--THE PIGEONS
CHAPTER VIII--SOWING THE WIND
CHAPTER IX--WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG
CHAPTER X--THE LAST TEMPTATION
CHAPTER XI--REAPING THE WHIRLWIND
CHAPTER XII--THE STORMY PETREL
CHAPTER XIII--HOME AT LAST
CHAPTER XIV--CONCLUSION
ILLUSTRATIONS
BULLYING
ERIC _Vignette on title-page_
SMOKING
ON THE ROCK
OUT OF THE WINDOW
ERIC AND VERNON
HIDING
ERIC ESCAPING FROM THE SHIP _Frontispiece_
ERIC: OR, LITTLE BY LITTLE
PART 1
CHAPTER I
CHILDHOOD
“Ah dear delights, that o’er my soul
On memory’s wing like shadows fly!
Ah flowers that Joy from Eden stole,
While Innocence stood laughing by.”--COLERIDGE.
“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” cried a young boy, as he capered vigorously
about, and clapped his hands. “Papa and mamma will be home in a week
now, and then we shall stay here a little time, and _then_, and _then_,
I shall go to school.”
The last words were enunciated with immense importance, as he stopped
his impromptu dance before the chair where his sober cousin Fanny was
patiently working at her crochet; but she did not look so much affected
by the announcement as the boy seemed to demand, so he again exclaimed,
“And then, Miss Fanny, I shall go to school.”
“Well, Eric,” said Fanny, raising her matter-of-fact quiet face from her
endless work, “I doubt, dear, whether you will talk of it with quite as
much joy a year hence.”
“O ay, Fanny, that’s just like you to say so; you’re always talking and
prophesying; but never mind, I’m going to school, so hurrah! hurrah!
hurrah!” and he again began his capering,--jumping over the chairs,
trying to vault the tables, singing and dancing with an exuberance of
delight, till, catching a sudden sight of his little spaniel Flo, he
sprang through the open window into the garden, and disappeared behind
the trees of the shrubbery; but Fanny still heard his clear, ringing,
silvery laughter, as he continued his games in the summer air.
She looked up from her work after he had gone, and sighed. In spite of
the sunshine and balm of the bright weather, a sense of heaviness and
foreboding oppressed her. Everything looked smiling and beautiful, and
there was an almost irresistible contagion in the mirth of her young
cousin, but still she could not help feeling sad. It was not merely that
she would have to part with Eric, “but that bright boy,” thought Fanny,
“what will become of him? I have heard strange things of schools; oh, if
he should be spoilt and ruined, what misery it would be. Those baby
lips, that pure young heart, a year may work sad change in their words
and thoughts!” She sighed again, and her eyes glistened as she raised
them upwards, and breathed a silent prayer.
She loved the boy dearly, and had taught him from his earliest years.
In most things she found him an apt pupil. Truthful, ingenuous, quick,
he would acquire almost without effort any subject that interested him,
and a word was often enough to bring the impetuous blood to his cheeks,
in a flush, of pride or indignation. He required the gentlest teaching,
and had received it, while his mind seemed cast in such a mould of
stainless honor that he avoided most of the faults to which children are
prone. But he was far from blameless. He was proud to a fault; he well
knew that few of his fellows had gifts like his, either of mind or
person, and his fair face often showed a clear impression of his own
superiority. His passion, too, was imperious, and though it always met
with prompt correction, his cousin had latterly found it difficult to
subdue. She felt, in a word, that he was outgrowing her rule. Beyond a
certain age no boy of spirit can be safely guided by a woman’s
hand alone.
Eric Williams was now twelve years old. His father was a civilian in
India, and was returning on furlough to England after a long absence.
Eric had been born in India, but had been sent to England by his parents
at an early age, in charge of a lady friend of his mother. The parting,
which had been agony to his father and mother, he was too young to feel;
indeed the moment itself passed by without his being conscious of it.
They took him on board the ship, and, after a time, gave him a hammer
and some nails to play with. These had always been to him a supreme
delight, and while he hammered away, Mr. and Mrs. Williams, denying
themselves, for the child’s sake, even one more tearful embrace, went
ashore in the boat and left him. It was not till the ship sailed that he
was told he would not see them again for a long, long time. Poor child,
his tears and cries were wild when he first understood it; but the
sorrows of four years old are very transient, and before a week was
over, little Eric felt almost reconciled to his position, and had become
the universal pet and plaything of every one on board, from Captain
Broadland down to the cabin boy, with whom he very soon struck up an
acquaintance. Yet twice a day at least, he would shed a tear, as he
lisped his little prayer, kneeling at Mrs. Munro’s knee, and asked God
“to bless his dear dear father and mother, and make him a good boy.”
When Eric arrived in England, he was intrusted to the care of a widowed
aunt, whose daughter, Fanny, had the main charge of his early teaching.
At first, the wayward little Indian seemed likely to form no accession
to the quiet household, but he soon became its brightest ornament and
pride. Everything was in his favor at the pleasant home of Mrs. Trevor.
He was treated with motherly kindness and tenderness, yet firmly checked
when he went wrong. From the first he had a well-spring of strength,
against temptation, in the long letters which every mail brought from
his parents; and all his childish affections were entwined round the
fancied image of a brother born since he had left India. In his bed-room
there hung a cherub’s head, drawn in pencil by his mother, and this
picture was inextricably identified in his imagination with his “little
brother Vernon.” He loved it dearly, and whenever he went astray,
nothing weighed on his mind so strongly as the thought, that if he were
naughty he would teach little Vernon to be naughty too when he
came home.
And Nature also--wisest, gentlest, holiest of teachers-was with him in
his childhood. Fairholm Cottage, where his aunt lived, was situated in
the beautiful Vale of Ayrton, and a clear stream ran through the valley
at the bottom of Mrs. Trevor’s orchard. Eric loved this stream, and was
always happy as he roamed by its side, or over the low green hills and
scattered dingles, which lent unusual loveliness to every winding of its
waters. He was allowed to go about a good deal by himself, and it did
him good. He grew up fearless and self-dependent, and never felt the
want of amusement. The garden and orchard supplied him a theatre for
endless games and romps, sometimes with no other companion than his
cousin and his dog, and sometimes with the few children of his own age
whom he knew in the hamlet. Very soon he forgot all about India; it only
hung like a distant golden haze on the horizon of his memory. When asked
if he remembered it, he would say thoughtfully, that in dreams and at
some other times, he saw a little child, with long curly hair, running
about in a little garden, near a great river, in a place where the air
was very bright. But whether the little boy was himself or his brother
Vernon, whom he had never seen, he couldn’t quite tell.
But above all, it was happy for Eric that his training was religious and
enlightened. With Mrs. Trevor and her daughter, religion was not a
system but a habit--not a theory, but a continued act of life. All was
simple, sweet, and unaffected about their charity and their devotions.
They loved God, and they did all the good they could to those around
them. The floating gossip and ill-nature of the little village never
affected them; it melted away insensibly in the presence of their
cultivated minds; and so friendship with them was a bond of union among
all, and from the vicar to the dairyman every one loved and respected
them, asked their counsel, and sought their sympathy.
They called themselves by no sectarian name, nor could they have told to
what “party” they belonged. They troubled themselves with no theories of
education, but mingled gentle nurture with “wholesome neglect.” There
was nothing exotic or constrained in the growth of Eric’s character. He
was not one of your angelically good children at all, and knew none of
the phrases of which infant prodigies are supposed to be so fond. He had
not been taught any distinction between “Sunday books” and “week-day”
books, but no book had been put in his way that was not healthy and
genuine in tone. He had not been told that he might use his Noah’s ark
on Sunday, because it was “a Sunday plaything,” while all other toys
were on that day forbidden. Of these things the Trevors thought little;
they only saw that no child could be happy in enforced idleness or
constrained employment; and so Eric grew up to love Sunday quite as well
as any other day in the week, though, unlike your angelic children, he
never professed to like it better. But to be truthful, to be honest, to
be kind, to be brave, these had been taught him, and he never _quite_
forgot the lesson; nor amid the sorrows of after life did he ever quite
lose the sense--learnt at dear quiet Fairholm--of a present loving God,
of a tender and long-suffering Father.
As yet he could be hardly said to know what school was. He had been sent
indeed to Mr. Lawley’s grammar-school for the last half-year, and had
learned a few declensions in his Latin grammar. But as Mr. Lawley
allowed his upper class to hear the little boys their lessons, Eric had
managed to get on pretty much as he liked. Only _once_ in the entire
half-year had he said a lesson to the dreadful master himself, and of
course it was a ruinous failure, involving some tremendous pulls of
Eric’s hair, and making him tremble like a leaf. Several things combined
to make Mr. Lawley dreadful to his imagination. Ever since he was quite
little, he remembered hearing the howls which proceeded from the “Latin
school” as he passed by, whilst some luckless youngster was getting
caned; and the reverend pedagogue was notoriously passionate. Then,
again, he spoke so indistinctly with his deep, gruff voice, that Eric
never could and never did syllable a word he said, and this kept him in
a perpetual terror. Once Mr. Lawley had told him to go out, and see what
time it was by the church clock. Only hearing that he was to do
something, too frightened to ask what it was, and feeling sure that even
if he did, he should not understand what the master said, Eric ran out,
went straight to Mr. Lawley’s house, and after having managed by
strenuous jumps to touch the knocker, informed the servant “that Mr.
Lawley wanted his man.”
“What man?” said the maid-servant, “the young man? or the butler? or is
it the clerk?”
Here was a puzzler! all Eric knew was that he was in the habit of
sending sometimes for one or the other of these functionaries; but he
was in for it, so with a faltering voice he said “the young man” at
hazard, and went back to the Latin school.
“Why have you been so long?” roared Mr. Lawley, as he timidly entered.
Fear entirely prevented Eric from hearing what was said, so he answered
at random, “He’s coming, sir.” The master, seeing by his scared look
that something was wrong, waited to see what would turn up.
Soon after, in walked “the young man,” and coming to the astonished Mr.
Lawley, bowed, scraped, and said, “Master Williams said you sent for
me, sir.”
“A mistake,” growled the schoolmaster, turning on Eric a look which
nearly petrified him; he quite expected a book at his head, or at best a
great whack of the cane; but Mr. Lawley had naturally a kind heart,
soured as it was, and pitying perhaps the child’s white face, he
contented himself with the effects of his look.
The simple truth was, that poor Mr. Lawley was a little wrong in the
head. A scholar and a gentleman, early misfortunes and an imprudent
marriage had driven him to the mastership of the little country
grammar-school; and here the perpetual annoyance caused to his refined
mind by the coarseness of clumsy or spiteful boys, had gradually
unhinged his intellect. Often did he tell the boys “that it was an
easier life by far to break stones by the roadside than to teach them;”
and at last his eccentricities became too obvious to be any longer
overlooked.
The dénouement of his history was a tragic one, and had come a few days
before the time when, our narrative opens. It was a common practice
among the Latin school boys, as I suppose among all boys, to amuse
themselves by putting a heavy book on the top of a door left partially
ajar, and to cry out “Crown him” as the first luckless youngster who
happened to come in received the book thundering on his head. One day,
just as the trap had been adroitly laid, Mr. Lawley walked in
unexpectedly. The moment he entered the school-room, down came an
Ainsworth’s Dictionary on the top of his hat, and the boy, concealed
behind the door, unconscious of who the victim was, enunciated with mock
gravity, “Crown him! three cheers.”
It took Mr. Lawley a second to raise from his eyebrows the battered hat,
and recover from his confusion; the next instant he was springing after
the boy who had caused the mishap, and who, knowing the effects of the
master’s fury, fled with precipitation. In one minute the offender was
caught, and Mr. Lawley’s heavy hand fell recklessly on his ears and
back, until he screamed with terror. At last by a tremendous writhe,
wrenching himself free, he darted towards the door, and Mr. Lawley, too
exhausted to pursue, snatched his large gold watch out of his fob, and
hurled it at the boy’s retreating figure. The watch flew through the
air;--crash! it had missed its aim, and, striking the wall above the
lintel, fell smashed into a thousand shivers.
The sound, the violence of the action, the sight of the broken watch,
which was the gift of a cherished friend, instantly woke the master to
his senses. The whole school had seen it; they sate there pale and
breathless with excitement and awe. The poor man could bear it no
longer. He flung himself into his chair, hid his face with his hands,
and burst into hysterical tears. It was the outbreak of feelings long
pent up. In that instant all his life passed before him--its hopes, its
failures, its miseries, its madness. “Yes!” he thought, “I am mad.”
Raising his head, he cried wildly, “Boys, go, I am mad!” and sank again
into his former position, rocking himself to and fro. One by one the
boys stole out, and he was left alone. The end is soon told. Forced to
leave Ayrton, he had no means of earning his daily bread; and the weight
of this new anxiety hastening the crisis, the handsome proud scholar
became an inmate of the Brerely Lunatic Asylum. A few years afterwards,
Eric heard that he was dead. Poor broken human heart! may he rest
in peace.
Such was Eric’s first school and schoolmaster. But although he learnt
little there, and gained no experience of the character of others or of
his own, yet there was one point about Ayrton Latin School, which he
never regretted. It was the mixture there of all classes. On those
benches gentlemen’s sons sat side by side with plebeians, and no harm,
but only good, seemed to come from the intercourse. The neighboring
gentry, most of whom had begun their education there, were drawn into
closer and kindlier union with their neighbors and dependents, from the
fact of having been their associates in the days of their boyhood. Many
a time afterwards, when Eric, as he passed down the streets,
interchanged friendly greetings with some young glazier or tradesman
whom he remembered at school, he felt glad that thus early he had learnt
practically to despise the accidental and nominal differences which
separate man from man.