BULLYING
“Give to the morn of life its natural blessedness.” Wordsworth.
Why is it that new boys are almost invariably ill-treated? I have often
fancied that there must be in boyhood a pseudo-instinctive cruelty, a
sort of “wild trick of the ancestral savage,” which, no amount of
civilization can entirely repress. Certain it is, that to most boys the
first term is a trying ordeal. They are being tested and weighed. Their
place in the general estimation is not yet fixed, and the slightest
circumstances are seized upon to settle the category under which the boy
is to be classed. A few apparently trivial accidents of his first few
weeks at school often decide his position in the general regard for the
remainder of his boyhood. And yet these are _not_ accidents; they are
the slight indications which give an unerring proof of the general
tendencies of his character and training. Hence much of the apparent
cruelty with which new boys are treated is not exactly intentional. At
first, of course, as they can have no friends worth speaking of, there
are always plenty of coarse and brutal minds that take a pleasure in
their torment, particularly if they at once recognise any innate
superiority to themselves. Of this class was Barker. He hated Eric at
first sight, simply because his feeble mind could only realise one idea
about him, and that was the new boy’s striking contrast with his own
imperfections. Hence he left no means untried to vent on Eric his low
and mean jealousy. He showed undisguised pleasure when he fell in form,
and signs of disgust when he rose; he fomented every little source of
disapproval or quarrelling which happened to arise against him; he never
looked at him without a frown or a sneer; he waited for him to kick and
annoy him as he came out of, or went into, the school-room. In fact, he
did his very best to make the boy’s life miserable, and the occupation
of hating him seemed in some measure to fill up the vacuity of an
ill-conditioned and degraded mind.
Hatred is a most mysterious and painful phenomenon to the unhappy person
who is the object of it, and more especially if he have incurred it by
no one assignable reason. To Eric it was peculiarly painful; he was
utterly unprepared for it. In his bright joyous life at Fairholm, in the
little he saw of the boys at the Latin school, he had met with nothing
but kindness and caresses, and the generous nobleness of his character
had seemed to claim them as a natural element. “And now, why,” he asked
impatiently, “should this bull-dog sort of fellow have set his whole aim
to annoy, vex, and hurt me?” Incapable himself of so mean a spirit of
jealousy at superior excellence, he could not make it out; but such,
was the fact, and the very mysteriousness of it made it more
intolerable to bear.
But it must be admitted that he made matters worse by his own bursts of
passion. His was not the temper to turn the other cheek; but, brave and
spirited as he was, he felt how utterly hopeless would be any attempt on
his part to repel force by force. He would have tried some slight
conciliation, but it was really impossible with such a boy as his enemy.
Barker never gave him even so much as an indifferent look, much less a
civil word. Eric loathed him, and the only good and happy part of the
matter to his own mind was, that conscientiously his only desire was to
get rid of him and be left alone, while he never cherished a particle
of revenge.
While every day Eric was getting on better in form, and winning himself
a very good position with the other boys, who liked his frankness, his
mirth, his spirit, and cleverness, he felt this feud with Barker like a
dark background to all his enjoyment. He even had to manoeuvre daily how
to escape him, and violent scenes were of constant occurrence between
them. Eric could not, and would not, brook his bullying with silence.
His resentment was loud and stinging, and, Ishmaelite as Barker was,
even _his_ phlegmatic temperament took fire when Eric shouted his fierce
and uncompromising retorts in the hearing of the others.
Meanwhile Eric was on the best of terms with the rest of the form, and
such of the other boys as he knew, although, at first, his position as a
home-boarder prevented his knowing many. Besides Russell, there were
three whom he liked best, and respected most--Duncan, Montagu, and Owen.
They were very different boys, but all of them had qualities which well
deserved his esteem. Duncan was the most boyish of boys, intensely full
of fun, good-nature, and vigor; with fair abilities, he never got on
well, because he could not be still for two minutes, and even if, in
some fit of sudden ambition, he got up high in the form, he was sure to
be put to the bottom again before the day was over, for trifling or
talking. But out of school he was the soul of every game; whatever _he_
took up was sure to be done pleasantly, and no party of amusement was
ever planned without endeavoring to secure him as one of the number.
Montagu’s chief merit was, that he was such a thorough little gentleman;
“such a jolly little fellow” every one said of him. Without being clever
or athletic, he managed to do very fairly both at work and at the games,
and while he was too exclusive to make many _intimate_ friends,
everybody liked walking about or talking with him. Even Barker,
blackguard as he was, seemed to be a little uneasy when confronted with
Montagu’s naturally noble and chivalrous bearing. In nearly all respects
his influence was thoroughly good, and few boys were more
generally popular.
Owen, again, was a very different boy. His merit was a ceaseless
diligence, in which it was doubtful whether ambition or
conscientiousness had the greatest share. Reserved and thoughtful,
unfitted for or indifferent to most games, he was anything but a
favorite with the rest, and Eric rather respected than liked him. When
he first came, he had been one of the most natural butts for Barker’s
craving ill-nature, and for a time he had been tremendously bullied. But
gradually his mental superiority asserted itself. He took everything
without tears and without passion, and this diminished the pleasure of
annoying him. One day when Barker had given him an unprovoked kick, he
quietly said,
“Barker, next time you do that, I’ll tell Mr. Gordon.”
“Sneak! do it if you dare.” And he kicked him again; but the moment
after he was sorry for it, for there was a dark look in Owen’s eyes, as
he turned instantly into the door of the master’s room, and laid a
formal complaint against Barker for bullying.
Mr. Gordon didn’t like “telling,” and he said so to Owen, without
reserve. An ordinary boy would have broken into a flood of explanations
and palliations, but Owen simply bowed, and said nothing. “He stood
there for justice,” and he had counted the cost. Strong-minded and
clear-headed, he calculated correctly that the momentary dislike of his
schoolfellows, with whom he well knew that he never could be popular,
would be less unbearable than Barker’s villanous insults. The
consequence was that Barker was caned soundly, although, with some
injustice, Mr. Gordon made no attempt to conceal that he did it
unwillingly.
Of course the fellows were very indignant with Owen for sneaking, as
they called it, and for a week or two he had the keen mortification of
seeing “Owen is a sneak,” written up all about the walls. But he was
too proud or too cold to make any defence till called upon, and bore it
in silence. Barker vowed eternal vengeance, and the very day after, had
seized Owen with the avowed intention of “half murdering him.” But
before he could once strike him, Owen said in the most chill tone,
“Barker, if you touch me, I shall go straight to Dr. Rowlands.” The
bully well knew that Owen never broke his word, but he could not govern
his rage, and first giving Owen a violent shake, he proceeded to thrash
him without limit or remorse.
Pale, but unmoved, Owen got away, and walked straight to Dr. Rowlands’
door. The thing was unheard of, and the boys were amazed at his
temerity, for the doctor was to all their imaginations a regular _Deus
ex machinâ._ That afternoon, again Barker was publicly caned, with the
threat that the next offence would be followed by instant and public
expulsion. This punishment he particularly dreaded, because he was
intended for the army, and he well knew that it might ruin his
prospects. The consequence was, that Owen never suffered from him again,
although he daily received a shower of oaths and curses, which he passed
over with silent contempt.
My dear boy-reader, don’t suppose that I want you to imitate Owen in
this matter. I despise a boy who “tells” as much as you do, and it is a
far better and braver thing to bear bullying with such a mixture of
spirit and good humor, as in time to disarm it. But Owen was a peculiar
boy, and remember he had _no_ redress. He bore for a time, until he felt
that he _must_ have the justice and defence, without which it would
have been impossible for him to continue at Roslyn school.
But why, you ask, didn’t he tell the monitors? Unfortunately at Roslyn
the monitorial system was not established. Although it was a school of
250 boys, the sixth form, with all their privileges, had no prerogative
of authority. They hadn’t the least right to interfere, because no such
power had been delegated to them, and therefore they felt themselves
merely on a par with the rest, except for such eminence as their
intellectual superiority gave them. The consequence was, that any
interference from them would have been of a simply individual nature,
and was exerted very rarely. It would have done Owen no more good to
tell a sixth-form boy, than to tell any other boy; and as he was not a
favorite, he was not likely to find any champion to fight his battles or
maintain his just rights.
All this had happened before Eric’s time, and he heard it from his best
friend Russell. His heart clave to that boy. They became friends at once
by a kind of electric sympathy; the first glance of each at the other’s
face prepared the friendship, and every day of acquaintance more firmly
cemented it. Eric could not have had a better friend; not so clever as
himself, not so diligent as Owen, not so athletic as Duncan, or so
fascinating as Montagu, Russell combined the best qualities of them all.
And, above all, he acted invariably from the highest principle; he
presented that noblest of all noble spectacles--one so rare that many
think it impossible--the spectacle of an honorable, pure-hearted, happy
boy, who, as his early years speed by, is ever growing in wisdom, and
stature, and favor with God and man.
“Did that brute Barker ever bully you as he bullies me?” said Eric, one
day, as he walked on the sea-shore with his friend.
“Yes,” said Russell; “I slept in his dormitory when I first came, and he
has often made me so wretched that I have flung myself on my knees at
night in pretence of prayer, but really to get a little quiet time to
cry like a child.”
“And when was it he left off at last?”
“Why, you know, Upton in the fifth is my cousin, and very fond of me; he
heard of it, though I didn’t say anything about it, and told Barker that
if ever he caught him at it, he would thrash him within an inch of his
life; and that frightened him for one thing. Besides, Duncan, Montagu,
and other friends of mine began to cut him in consequence, so he thought
it best to leave off.”
“How is it, Russell, that fellows stand by and let him do it?”
“You see, Williams,” said Russell, “Barker is an enormously strong
fellow, and that makes the younger chaps, whom he fags, look up to him
as a great hero. And there isn’t one in our part of the school who can
thrash him. Besides, people never do interfere, you know--at least not
often. I remember once seeing a street-row in London, at which twenty
people stood by, and let a drunken beast of a husband strike his wife
without ever stirring to defend her.”
“Well,” sighed Eric, “I hope my day of deliverance will come soon, for
I can’t stand it much longer, and ‘tell’ I won’t, whatever Owen may do.”
Eric’s deliverance came very soon. It was afternoon; the boys were
playing at different games in the green playground, and he was waiting
for his turn at rounders. At this moment Barker lounged up, and calmly
snatching off Eric’s cap, shied it over Dr. Rowlands’ garden wall.
“There, go and fetch that.”
“You blackguard!” said Eric, standing irresolutely for a few minutes;
and then with tears in his eyes began to climb the wall. It was not very
high, but boys were peremptorily forbidden to get over it under any
circumstances, and Eric broke the rule not without trepidation. However,
he dropped down on one of Mrs. Rowlands’ flower-beds, and got his cap in
a hurry, and clambered back undiscovered.
He thought this would have satisfied his tormentor for one day; but
Barker was in a mischievous mood, so he again came up to Eric, and
calling out, “Who’ll have a game at football?” again snatched the cap,
and gave it a kick; Eric tried to recover it, but every time he came up
Barker gave it a fresh kick, and finally kicked it into a puddle.
Eric stood still, trembling with rage, while his eyes lightened scorn
and indignation. “You hulking, stupid, cowardly bully,”--here Barker
seized him, and every word brought a tremendous blow on the head, but
blind with passion Eric went on--“you despicable bully, I won’t touch
that cap again, you shall pick it up yourself. Duncan, Russell, here! do
help me against this intolerable brute.”
Several boys ran up, but they were all weaker than Barker, who besides
was now in a towering fury, and kicked Eric unmercifully.
“Leave him alone,” shouted Duncan, “or by heaven I’ll get you a sound
thrashing from some fellow.”
“I won’t; mind your own business,” growled Barker, shaking himself free
from Duncan’s hand.
“Barker, I’ll never speak to you again from this day,” said Montagu,
turning on his heel with a look of withering contempt.
“What do I care? puppy, you want taking down too,” was the reply, and
some more kicks at Eric followed.
“Barker, I won’t stand this any longer,” said Russell; and seizing him
by the arm, he dealt him a swinging blow on the face.
The bully stood in amazement, and dropped Eric, who fell on the turf
nearly fainting, and bleeding at the nose. But now Russell’s turn came,
and in a moment Barker, who was twice his weight, had tripped him up,
when he found himself collared in an iron grasp.
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 griped
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 stand by unmoved, and see such things
done. You know that you despise any one who tells a master, yet you
allow this bullying to go on, and that, too, without any provocation.
Now, mark; it makes no difference that the boy 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 one of the most satisfactory
castigations he had ever undergone; the boys declared that Dr. Rowlands’
“swishings” were nothing to it. Mr. Williams saw that the offender was a
tough subject, and determined that he should not soon forget the
punishment he then received. He had never heard from Eric how this boy
had been treating him, but he had heard it from Russell, and now he had
seen one of the worst specimens of it with his own eyes. He therefore
belabored 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.
Barker, too, carried himself off with the best grace he could; but it
certainly didn’t mend matters when he heard numbers of fellows, even
little boys, say openly, “I’m so glad; serves you right.”
From that day Eric was never troubled with personal violence from Barker
or any other boy. But rancor smouldered deep in the mind of the baffled
tyrant, and, as we shall see hereafter, there are subtler means of
making an enemy wretched than striking or kicking him.