“DEAD FLIES,” OR “YE SHALL BE AS GODS”
“In the twilight, in the evening, in the black and dark night.” PROV.
vii. 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 favorite 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 so universally acknowledged, that his dormitory, No. 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
vigor, supported the skirmishers. Bull, the sixth boy in No. 7, was the
only _fainéant_ among them, though he did occasionally help to keep off
the smaller fry.
Happy would it have been for all of them if Bull had never been placed
in No. 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 Bull--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 Bull 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 No. 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 Bull then?”
“O yes; pretty well.”
The two boys looked each other in the face, 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.”
“Him!--well, _I_ detest him.”
“Well!” answered Eric, “on coming to think of it, so do I. And yet he is
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.
Bull had been to school before, and of this school he often bragged as
the acmé 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 Bull’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, 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 No. 7; and Eric among the
number. Bull was the tempter. Secretly, gradually, he dropped into their
too willing ears the poison of his polluting acquirements.
In brief, Bull 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 No. 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. Bull 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 did things
less ruinous perhaps, but equally forbidden?
For half an hour, in an agony of struggle with himself, Eric lay silent.
Since Bull’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 color 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. Bull’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 to Bull. 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 Bull’s footstep,
and getting up, he ran down stairs to breakfast; so Eric did not pray.
Conversations did not generally drop so suddenly in dormitory No. 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 Bull’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 play-ground boundaries once a week. But on Sundays they
often went walks, each with his favorite 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.
“O 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?”
“O 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, however bad I get? 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?”
“O 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 sat 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 child, 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 Bull’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 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
ground 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’ 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 Bull to
abstain from his offensive communications, and an endeavor to enlist
Duncan into his wishes.
One evening they were telling each other stories in No. 7. Bull’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 flowed deep into his veins. Before that evening was over, Eric
Williams was “a god, knowing good from evil.”
O young boys, if your eyes ever read these pages, pause and beware. The
knowledge of evil is ruin, and the continuance in it hell. 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.