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The Fifth Form at St. Dominic's/Chapter XVII

The Dominican appeared once more before the holidays, and, as might have been expected (besides its usual articles at the expense of the Sixth Form), made itself particularly merry over the rebellion of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles.

Pembury was not the fellow to give quarter in his own particular line of attack; and it must be confessed he had the proud satisfaction of making his unfortunate young victims smart.

The “leading article” of the present number bore the suggestive tide, “Thank Goodness!” and began as follows:—

“Thank goodness, we are at last rid of the pest which has made Saint Dominic’s hideous for months past! At a single blow, with a single clap of the hands, we have sent Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles packing, and can now breathe pure air. No longer shall we have to put up with the plague. We are to be spared the disgust of seeing them, much more of talking to them or hearing their hideous voices. No longer will our morning milk be burned; no longer will our herrings be grilled to cinders; no longer will our jam be purloined; no longer will our books and door-handles be made abominable by contact with their filthy hands! Thank goodness! The Doctor never did a more patriotic deed than this! The small animals are in future to be kept to their own quarters, and will be forbidden the liberty they have so long abused of mixing with their betters. It is as well for all parties; and if any event could have brightened the last days of this term, it is this,”—and so on.

Before this manifesto a swarm of youngsters puzzled on the day of publication with no little bewilderment and fury. They had refused to allow any of their number to act as policeman, and had secretly been making merry over the embarrassment of their late persecutors, and wondering whatever they would be able to say for their humiliated selves in the Dominican—and lo! here was an article which, if it meant anything, meant that the heroic rebellion of the juniors was regarded not with dismay, but with positive triumph, by the very fellows it had been intended to “squash!”

“What does it mean, Padger?” asked Bramble, who, never much of a scholar, was quite unable to master the meaning of this.

“It’s all a pack of crams,” replied Padger, not quite sure of the sense himself.

“It means,” said Stephen, “the fellows say they are jolly glad to get rid of us.”

“Eh?” yelled Bramble; “oh, I say, you fellows, come to the meeting! Jolly glad! They aren’t a bit glad.”

“They say so,” said Paul. “Hold hard, Bramble, let’s read the rest.”

It was all his friends could do to restrain the ardent Bramble from summoning a meeting on the spot to denounce the Dominican and all its “crams.” But they managed to hold him steady while they read on.

“The Doctor never did a more—pat—pat—ri—what do you call it?—patriotic deed than this!”

“Hullo, I say, look here!” cried Stephen, turning quite yellow; “the Doctor’s in it, they say, Bramble. ‘The small animals’—that’s you and Padger—‘are to be kept in their own quarters.’ Whew! there’s a go.”

“What!” shrieked Bramble, “who says so? The Doctor never said so. I shall do what I choose. He never said so. Bother the Doctor! Who’s coming to the meeting, eh?”

But at that moment the grave form of Doctor Senior appeared in the midst of the group, just in time to hear Master Bramble’s last complimentary shout.

The head-master was in the most favourable times an object of terror to the “guilty-conscienced youth” of the Fourth Junior, and the sight even of his back often sufficed to quell their tumults. But here he stood face to face with his unhappy victims, one of whom had just cried, “Bother the Doctor!” and all of whom had by word and gesture approved of the sentiment. Why would not the pavement yawn and swallow them? And which of them would not at that moment have given a thousand pounds (if he had it) to be standing anywhere but where he was?

“Go to your class-room,” said the Doctor, sternly, eyeing the culprits one by one, “and wait there for me.”

They slunk off meekly in obedience to this order, and waited the hour of vengeance in blank dismay.

Dr. Senior did not keep them long in suspense, however. His slow, firm step sounded presently down the corridor, and at the sound each wretched culprit quaked with horror.

Mr. Rastle was in the room, and rose as usual to greet his chief; the boys also, as by custom bound, rose in their places. “Good morning, Mr. Rastle,” said the Doctor. “Are your boys all here?”

“Yes, sir, we have just called over.”

“Ah! And what class comes on first?”

“English literature, sir.”

“Well, Mr. Rastle, I will take the class this morning, please—instead of you.”

A groan of horror passed through the ranks of the unhappy Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles at these words. Bramble looked wildly about him, if haply he might escape by a window or lie hid in a desk; while Stephen, Paul, Padger, and the other ringleaders, gave themselves up for lost, and mentally bade farewell to joy forever.

“What have the boys been reading?” inquired Dr. Senior of Mr. Rastle.

“Grey’s Elegy, sir. We have just got through it.”

“Oh! Grey’s Elegy,” said the Doctor; and then, as if forgetting where he was, he began repeating to himself— “The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herds wind slowly o’er the lea.” “The first boy,—what can you tell me about the curfew?” The first boy was well up in the curfew, and rattled off a “full, true, and particular account” of that fine old English institution, much to everybody’s satisfaction.

The Doctor went on repeating two or three verses till he came to the line—

“The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.”

“What does that line mean?” he asked of a boy on the second desk.

The boy scarcely knew what it meant; but the boy below him did, and was quite eager for the question to be passed on. It was passed on, and the genius answered promptly—

“Four old men.”

“Four rude old men,” shouted the next, seeing a chance.

“Four rude old men who used to sleep in church,” cried another, ready to cap all the rest.

The Doctor passed the question on no further; but gravely explained the meaning of the line, and then proceeded with his repetition in rather a sadder voice.

Now and again he stopped short and demanded an explanation of some obscure phrase, the answers to which were now correct, now hazy, now brilliantly original. On the whole it was not satisfactory; and when for a change the Doctor gave up reciting, and made the boys read, the effect was still worse. One boy, quite a master of elocution, spoilt the whole beauty of the lines— “Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile. The short and simple annals of the Poor...” by reading “animals” instead of “annals”; while another, of an equally zoological turn of mind, announced that— “On some fond beast the parting soul relies,—” instead of “breast.”

But the climax of this “animal mania” was reached when the wretched Bramble, finally pitched upon to go on, in spite of all his efforts to hide, rendered the passage “Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,” etcetera, as—

“Happy some hairy-headed swine may say.”

This was a little too much.

“That will do, sir,” said the Doctor, sternly. “That will do. What is your name, sir?”

“Bramble, please, sir.”

“Well, Bramble, how long have you been in this class?”

“Two years, sir.”

“And have you been all the while on the bottom desk?”

“Yes, please, sir.”

“Sir, it displeases me. You are a dunce, sir.”

And then, to Bramble’s utter despair and to the terror of all the other unprofitable members of the class, the Doctor proceeded to catechise sharply the unhappy youth on his general knowledge of the subjects taught during the term.

As might be expected, the exhibition was a miserable one; Bramble was found wanting in every particular. The simplest questions could hardly coax a correct answer out of him, whereas an ordinary inquiry was hopelessly beyond his powers. He mixed up William the Conqueror and William of Orange; he subtracted what ought to be multiplied, and floundered about between conjunctions and prepositions in a sickening way. The Doctor did not spare him. He went ruthlessly on—exposing the boy’s ignorance, first in one thing, then another. Bramble stood and trembled and perspired before him, and wished he was dead, but the questions still came on. If he had answered a single thing correctly it would have been a different matter, but he knew nothing. I believe he did know what twice two was, but that was the one question the Doctor did not ask him. As to French, Latin, Grammar, and Euclid, the clock on the wall knew as much of them as Bramble.

It came to an end at last.

“Come here, Bramble,” said the Doctor, gravely; “and come here, you, and you, and you,” added he, pointing to Stephen and Paul and four or five others of the party who had been reading the Dominican that morning.

The luckless youngsters obeyed, and when they stood in a row before the dreaded Doctor, the bottom form and half of the bottom form but one were empty.

“Now, you boys,” began the head-master, very gravely, “I hadn’t intended to examine you to-day; but, from something I heard one of you say, I felt rather anxious to know how some of you are doing in your studies. These half-dozen boys I was particularly anxious to know of, because I heard them talking to-day as if they were the most important boys in the whole school. They are the most important; for they are the most ignorant, and require, and in future will receive, the closest looking after. You, little boys,” said the Doctor, turning to the row of abashed culprits, “take a word of warning from me. Do not be silly as well as dunces. Do not think, as long as you know least of any one in the school you can pretend to rule the school. I hope some of you have been led to see to-day you are not as clever as you would like to be. If you try, and work hard, and stick like men to your lessons, you will know more than you do now; and when you do know more you will see that the best way for little boys to get on is not by giving themselves ridiculous airs, but by doing their duty steadily in class, and living at peace with one another, and submitting quietly to the discipline of the school. Don’t let me hear any more of this recent nonsense. You’ll be going off in a day or two for the holidays. Take my advice, and think over what I have said; and next term let me see you in your right minds, determined to work hard and do your part honestly for the credit of the good old school. Go to your places, boys.”

And so the Doctor’s visitation came to an end. It made a very deep impression on the youthful members of the Fourth Junior. Most of them felt very much ashamed of themselves; and nearly every one felt his veneration and admiration for the Doctor greatly heightened. Only a few incorrigibles like Bramble professed to make light of the scene through which they had just passed, and even he, it was evident, was considerably chastened by his experience.

That evening, after the first bed-bell, Dr. Senior requested some of the masters to meet with him for a few minutes in his study.

“Do any of you know,” asked the head-master, “anything about this newspaper, the Dominican, which I see hanging outside the Fifth door?”

“I hear a great many boys talking about it,” said Mr. Jellicott of the Fifth. “It is the joint production of several of the boys in my form.”

“Indeed! A Fifth form paper!” said the Doctor. “Has any one perused it?”

“I have,” said Mr. Rastle. “It seems to me to be cleverly managed, though perhaps a little personal.”

“Ah, only natural with school-boys,” said the Doctor. “I should like to see it. Can you fetch it, Rastle?”

“It is nailed to the wall,” said Mr. Rastle, smiling, “like Luther’s manifesto; but I can get one of the boys, I dare say, to unfasten it for you.”

“No, do not do that,” said the Doctor. “If the mountain will not come to Mahomet, you know, Mahomet and his disciples must go to the mountain, eh, Mr. Harrison? I think we might venture out and peruse it where it hangs.” So half-stealthily, when the whole school was falling asleep, Dr. Senior and his colleagues stepped out into the passage, and by the aid of a candle satisfied their curiosity as to the mysterious Dominican.

A good deal of its humour was, of course, lost upon them, as they could hardly be expected to understand the force of all the allusions it contained. But they saw quite enough to enable them to gather the general tenor of the paper; it amused and it concerned them.

“It shows considerable ability on the part of its editor,” said the Doctor, after the masters had returned to his study, “but I rather fear its tone may give offence to some of the boys—in the Sixth, for instance.”

“I fancy there is a considerable amount of rivalry between the two head forms,” said Mr. Harrison.

“If there is,” said Mr. Jellicott, “this newspaper is hardly likely to diminish it.”

“And it seems equally severe on the juniors,” said Mr. Rastle.

“Ah,” said the Doctor, smiling, “about that ‘strike.’ I can’t understand that. Really the politics of your little world, Rastle, are too intricate for any ordinary mortal. But I gather the small boys have a grievance against the big ones?”

“Yes, on the question of fagging, I believe.”

“Oh!” said the Doctor. “I hope that is not coming up. You know I’m heretic enough to believe that a certain amount of fagging does not do harm in a school like ours.”

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Jellicott. “But these small boys are really very amusing. They appear to be regularly organised, and some of them have quite a martyr spirit about them.”

“As I can testify,” said Mr. Rastle, proceeding to recount the case of Stephen Greenfield and his sore cheek. The Doctor listened to it all, half gravely, half amused, and presently said—

“Well, it is as well the holidays are coming. Things are sure to calm down in them; and next term I dare say we shall be all the wiser for the lessons of this. Meanwhile I should like to see the editor of this paper to-morrow. Who is he, Jellicott?”

“I believe it is Pembury.”

“Very well. Send him to me, will you, to-morrow at ten? Good night. Thank you for your advice!”

Next morning the Doctor talked to Pembury about the Dominican He praised the paper generally, and congratulated him on the success of his efforts. But he took exception to its personal tone.

“As long as you can keep on the broad round of humour and pure fun, nothing can please us more than to see you improving your time in a manner like this. But you must be very careful to avoid what will give pain or offence to any section of your schoolfellows. I was sorry to see in the present number a good deal that might have been well omitted of that kind. Remember this, Pembury, I want all you boys, instead of separating off one set from another, and making divisions between class and class, to try to make common cause over the whole school, and unite all the boys in common cause for the good of Saint Dominic’s. Now your paper could help not a little in this direction. Indeed, if it does not help, it had better not be issued. There! I shall not refer to the matter again unless you give me cause. I do not want to discourage you in your undertaking, for it’s really an excellent idea, and capitally carried out. And verbum sap, you know, is quite sufficient.”

Anthony, with rather a long face, retired from the Doctor’s presence.

A few days later the school broke up for the summer holidays.


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The Fifth Form at St. Dominic's/Chapter XVIII

When a big school like Saint Dominic’s is gathered together within the comparatively narrow compass of four walls, there is some possibility of ascertaining how it prospers, and what events are interesting it. But when the same school is scattered to the four winds of heaven during the holidays, it would require a hundred eyes and more to follow its movements.

It would be impossible, for instance, at one and the same time to accompany Raleigh and his sisters up Snowdon, and look on at Bramble catching crabs on the rocks at Broadstairs; nor, while we follow Dr. Senior among the peaks and passes of Switzerland (and remark, by the way, what a nice quiet boy Tom Senior is, when he has only his father and his mother to tempt him into mischief) can we possibly expect to regard very attentively the doings of Simon, as he gapes about before the London shop-windows, and jerks off a score or more stanzas of his “Hart’s Earnings,” which is now about a quarter done.

So the reader must imagine how most of the boys spent their holidays, how they enjoyed them, and how they behaved themselves during the period, and be content to be told only about two groups of holiday-makers, about whom, as they are destined to figure pretty conspicuously in next term’s doings at Saint Dominic’s, it will be interesting to hear rather more particularly now.

And the first group—if we can call a single person a “group”—is Loman.

Loman began his holidays in anything but cheerful spirits. No one had seemed particularly sorry to say good-bye to him at Saint Dominic’s, and a good many had been unmistakably glad. And he had quite enough on his mind, apart from this, to make his homecoming far less joyous than it might have been. It ought to have been the happiest event possible, for he was coming home to parents who loved him, friends who were glad to see him, and a home where every comfort and pleasure was within his reach. Few boys indeed were more blessed than Loman with all the advantages of a Christian and happy home; and few boys could have failed to return to such a home after a long absence without delight. But to Loman, these holidays, the surroundings of home afforded very little pleasure. His mind was ill at ease. The burden of debt was upon him, and the burden of suspense. He had tried hard to assure himself that all would come right—that he would certainly win the scholarship, and so wipe off the debt; but his confidence became less and less comfortable as time went on.

He dared not tell his troubles to his father, for he feared his upbraiding; and he would not confess them to his mother, for she, he knew, would tell all to his father. He still clung to the hope that all would come right in the end; and then what would have been gained by telling his parents all about it?

The one thing was hard work—and Loman came home determined to work. His parents saw him out of spirits, and were concerned. They did what they could to cheer him, but without much success.

“Come, Edward, put away your books to-day,” his mother would say; “I want you to drive me over to Falkham in the pony-chaise.”

“I really can’t, mother; I must work for the scholarship.”

“Nonsense, boy; what is a scholarship compared with your health? Besides, you’ll work all the better if you take some exercise.”

But for a week nothing could tempt him out. Then, instead of accompanying his father or mother, he would take long solitary rides on his own pony, brooding all the while over his troubles.

One day, when in the course of one of these expeditions he had taken the direction of Maltby—which was only fifteen miles distant from his home—he became suddenly aware of an approaching dog-cart in the road before him, and a familiar voice crying—

“Why, if it ain’t young Squire Loman, riding a bit of very tidy horseflesh, too, as I’m a Dutchman!”

It was Cripps. What evil spirit could have brought him on the scene now?

“Well, I never reckoned to see you now,” said he, in his usual jaunty manner. “Fact is, I was just trotting over to see you. I wanted to try what this here cob was made of, and, thinks I, I may as well kill two birds with one stone, and look up my young squire while I’m about it.”

“Coming to see me!” exclaimed Loman, horrified. “I say, Cripps, you mustn’t do that. My father would be very angry, you know.”

“Nice, that is! As if I wasn’t as good company as any one else!”

“Oh! it’s not that,” said Loman, fearing he had given offence. “What I mean is—”

“Oh, I know—about that there rod. Bless me! I won’t let out on you, my beauty—leastways, if you come up to scratch. He’d like to hear the story, though, the old gentleman, I fancy. Wouldn’t he now?”

“I wouldn’t have him know it for worlds. It’ll be all right, Cripps, indeed it will about the money.”

Mr. Cripps looked very benignant.

“All right, young swell, I hope it will. Funny I feel such an interest in you, ’specially since that young greeny friend of yours put in a word for you. He’s a real nice sort, he is—he owes you one, and no mistake.”

“What!” said Loman, in surprise; “who do you mean? Young Greenfield?”

“To be sure. Regular young chum of mine, he is. I know all about you, my master, and no mistake!”

“What—the young sneak! What has he been saying about me?”

“Eh!—what ain’t he been saying! In course you didn’t half murder him, eh? In course you ain’t a good hand at cheatin’ all round up at the school! What? In course you ain’t saying nice things agin me all over the place—and in course some of us wouldn’t like to see you get a reg’lar good hiding, wouldn’t we? Bless you, I knows all about it; but I’m mum, never fear!”

Loman was furious.

“The young liar!” he exclaimed. “I did owe him one! I’ll pay him when we get back!”

“Hold hard, young gentleman,” said Cripps, coolly. “To be sure, he ain’t downright sweet on you; but I ain’t a-going to have him smashed, mind, all to bits. Well, never mind that. Ill turn back with you, young gentleman, if I may. We’re only three miles from Maltby, and maybe you’ll honour a poor chap like me by having a look in at the Cockchafer.”

Loman did not know how to say “No,” much as he disliked and feared his host. He returned with him to Maltby, and there spent an hour in the Cockchafer. He was introduced to several of Mr. Cripps’s low friends, in whose society he found it easy enough to become low himself. Cripps, by a judicious mixture of flattery and sly threats, managed to keep the boy well in hand, and when at last he rose to go it was with a promise to return again before the holidays were over—“to prevent Cripps having the trouble of calling on him,” as that virtuous gentleman significantly put it.

Loman kept his promise, and visited Maltby once or twice, becoming each time more familiar with Cripps and his low friends, who made a great deal of him, and flattered him on all possible occasions, so that the boy presently found himself, as he imagined, quite a young hero at the Cockchafer.

Meanwhile, naturally, his reading fell behindhand. His parents, only too glad to see their boy taking more regular exercise, never suspected or inquired as to the direction of his frequent solitary rides. To them he seemed the same quiet, clever boy they fondly believed him. Little guessed they of the troubles that filled his breast or the toils that were daily enwrapping him!

Thus Loman’s holidays came to an end. The farewell was once more said, parents and son parted, and on the first day of an eventful term the boy found himself once more within the walls of Saint Dominic’s.

Oliver and Stephen, meanwhile, had been spending a very different sort of holiday at home. There was high feast and revelry when the two boys returned once more to the maternal roof. Stephen for once in a way had the satisfaction of finding himself a most unmistakable hero. He never tired telling of his adventures and discoursing on the whole manner of his life since the day he left home for Saint Dominic’s. To his sister he recounted in all the slang phraseology he had at his command, the famous cricket matches in which he had borne a part; and she, though it was exactly like Greek to her, drank in every word with interest. And to his mother he narrated his various fights with Bramble, and the terrific adventures through which he had passed, till the good lady’s hair nearly stood on end, and she began to think a public school was a terrible place to send a small boy to.

Oliver, of course, had his stories to tell too, only in a more sober manner.

There was a great scene when, on the first day of the holidays, the elder brother produced his books and announced that he must study at least two hours a day in prospect of the Nightingale Scholarship examination. But every one knew how much depended on his winning that scholarship, and in a few years being able to go to the university, so that the family gave in in the end, and Oliver was allowed his two hours’ study, but not a second more, every day. Stephen, meanwhile, taught his sister round-arm bowling, and devoted himself mind and body to the bicycle.

The two brothers, during these holidays, became very great cronies. At school Oliver had seen comparatively little of his young brother, but now they were daily and hourly thrown together, the brotherly instincts in each blossomed wonderfully, and a mutual attachment sprang up which had hardly been there before.

It had been arranged, before breaking-up, that Oliver and Wraysford should spend the last week of the holiday together in rowing down the Thames from Oxford to London.

Great was Stephen’s joy and pride when one morning near the appointed time, Oliver said to him—

“Look here, Stee. How would you like to come with Wray and me next week?”

“Like! wouldn’t I rather!” shouted the small boy in ecstasy. “Thanks, Noll, old man! I say, it will be a spree.” And the youngster became so riotous over the prospect that his elder brother had to threaten not to take him at all, and give him a thrashing into the bargain, before he could be reduced to order.

They were to take a tent with them, and cooking utensils, so as to be quite independent of inns, and each voyager was to contribute his share of provender. Quite a Robinson Crusoe business, even down to the desert island, for on desert islands the boys had declared they intended every night to take up their quarters, and, come hail, snow, or lightning, there to sleep under their waterproof tent.

Mrs. Greenfield didn’t half like the idea, and became very pathetic on the subject of ague and rheumatic fever. But the boys carried the day by promising faithfully that they would catch neither malady. The looked-for day came at last, and to Oxford they went, where the familiar sight of Wraysford, in boating costume, at the railway station, still further elated their high spirits. The boat was ready. The tent, the provender, the blankets, were snugly stowed away on board. The weather was fine, the river was charming, everything promised well; and punctually that Monday afternoon the three adventurers loosed from their moorings and turned the nose of their boat towards London.

I wish I could tell the reader all the events of that wonderful voyage; how they paddled down merrily with the stream; how they found their desert island covered with nettles, which they had to mow down with their oars; how the soup-kettle wouldn’t act, and the stew-pan leaked; how grand the potted lobster tasted; how Stephen offered to make tea with muddy water, and how the paraffin oil of their lanterns leaked all over their plum-cake and sandwiches; how Stephen was sent up inland to forage, and came back with wonderful purchases of eggs and milk; how they started off one day leaving their tent behind them, and had to row back in a panic to recover it; how it rained one night, and a puddle formed in the roof of the tent, which presently grew so big that it overflowed and gave Wraysford a shower-bath; how each morning they all took headers into the stream, much to the alarm of the sleepy ducks; how they now and then ran foul of a boat, and now and then were turned off their camping ground by an indignant keeper! It was glorious fun. But it would take a volume to recount all that happened to them.

They were coming near the end of their cruise. They had paddled down past the magnificent woods of Cliveden, and under the pretty bridge of Maidenhead; they had watched the boys bathing at “Athens,” and they had rowed through the gloomy shadow of Windsor Castle and on past Eton.

Here the river is broken by a string of islands, which in many parts make the stream narrow; and the river being full of boats and barges, our three adventurers found themselves called upon to exercise more than ordinary precautions in keeping their course. This responsibility became at last so irksome that Oliver said—

“I say, can’t we get out of this rabble anyhow? Why shouldn’t we take the other side of the islands?”

“I don’t know. It would be a good deal quieter. I wonder none of the boats do it.”

“Let’s try, anyhow. We can’t be far from the lock, and then the river will be wider. Take us up inside the next island, Stee, and mind you don’t foul any one while you’re about it.”

Stephen did as he was bid. The stream was pretty strong just there, and the two rowers had to pull pretty hard to get round without drifting on to the island.

Once out of the main stream, they were delighted to find the course clear. Indeed, they had the channel all to themselves.

“What a jolly pace the stream is going at!” said Stephen; “why don’t you drift, you fellows, instead of pulling like that?”

“Good idea for you, young ’un,” said Wraysford, pulling in his oar. Oliver followed his example.

“Keep a look-out ahead,” said he to Stephen, “and sing out if anything’s coming.”

Stephen said, “All right,” but (careless pilot that he was) began pulling on his socks and shoes, which he had dispensed with during the morning.

Thus occupied, and the other two sitting with their backs to the prow, the unnatural pace at which the boat flew along did not for a moment or two become apparent. Suddenly, however, Wraysford started up.

“Get out your oar, Noll—quick!”

“What’s the row?” said Oliver, proceeding leisurely to obey the order.

“The weir! Quick man, quick, or we shall be on to it!”

They had indeed got into the race leading to the weir, and every moment the stream, swelled by recent rains, rushed faster.

“Pull your right—hard!” cried Wraysford, backing water while Oliver flew to his oar.

There was just time, by a tremendous effort, to save themselves; but Oliver’s oar was caught under one of the seats, and before he could extricate it the precious opportunity was lost.

No one said a word. Stephen, with pale face, pulled his rudder string; and Wraysford, with his one oar, tried desperately to arrest the headlong progress of the boat.

There was a shout from the bank, and a nearer and louder one from the lock. They became conscious of a great half-open gate on their right, and a rush of footsteps beside them. Then, in far shorter time than it takes to write it, the boat, side on to the weir, lurched and dashed for a moment in the troubled water, and the next instant turned over, and the three boys were struggling in the water.

In an ordinary current such an adventure would have been of little moment, for the boys could swim. But in a torrent like this it was an awful peril. The swift flood sweeps on and sucks under its prey with fearful force. To resist it is impossible—to escape being dashed against its stony bottom is almost as impossible.

Mercifully for Oliver, he did escape this latter peril, and, being cool always in the presence of danger, he offered no resistance to the stream, but struck out hard under the water for as long as his breath would permit.

When at last, exhausted and unable to swim farther, he rose to the surface, he was in calm deep water many yards below the weir. Help was at hand, or he could never have reached the bank. As it was, when at last friendly arms did drag him ashore, he was too exhausted even to utter his brother’s name.

Where was Stephen? and where was Wraysford?

Wraysford had been more fortunate even than Oliver in his first capsize. He was swept over the weir, indeed, but into a side eddy which brought him up so violently against a projecting branch, to which he clung wildly. Here he would have been safe, and even able to help himself to shore. But at the moment when he began to draw himself up from the water on to the branch, there was something—an arm cast wildly up—in the water beside him. In an instant Wraysford quitted his hold and plunged once more into the rapid. How, he knew not, but he just reached the hapless boy. It was too late to recover the friendly branch. All he could do was to cling to Stephen and trust to reaching calm water safely. Many a bruise the two received in that terrible passage, but the elder boy never once quitted his hold of the younger.

At last—it seemed an age—calm water was reached, providentially near the bank. Still clinging to one another, they were pulled ashore, bruised, stunned, but safe.

Thus ended this famous holiday cruise. The three boys kept their own secret, and talked little about the adventure, even to one another.

In due time the holidays ended, and the Dominicans reassembled once more in their venerable Alma Mater. Need I say there were three within those walls who, whatever they were before, were now friends bound together by a bond the closest of all—a bond which had stood the test of life and death?

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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The Fifth Form at St. Dominic's/Chapter XIX

Saint Dominic’s reassembled after the holidays in an amiable frame of mind.

The Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, as the Doctor had prophesied, had cooled down considerable in spirit during the period, and now returned quietly to work just as if the mighty “strike” had never existed. Stephen’s regular fights with Bramble recommenced the very first day, so that everything was quite like old times.

Oliver found that the Fifth, all but one or two, had quite forgotten their suspicions of his bravery which had spoiled the pleasure of his last term, and there seemed every prospect of his getting through this with less risk to his quick temper than before.

As for the Sixth, the Fifth had forgiven them all their offences, and would have been quite prepared, had it been allowed, to live in peace with their seniors, and forget all the dissensions of the Summer term. But it was not allowed, and an event which happened early in the term served to revive all the old animosities between the two head classes.

At Saint Dominic’s, for reasons best known to the all-wise beings who presided over its management, the principal examinations and “removes” of the year took place not, as in most schools, at the end of the Midsummer term, but at the beginning of the Autumn term, about Michaelmas; consequently now, with the examinations looming in the distance, everybody who had anything to hope for from hard work settled down to study like mad. Cricket was over for the year, and football had not begun. Except boating there was not much doing out of doors, and for that reason the season was favourable for work. Studies which used to be bear-gardens now suddenly assumed an appearance of respectability and quiet. Books took the place of boxing-gloves, and pens of fencing-sticks. The disorderly idlers who had been in the habit of invading at will the quarters of the industrious were now given to understand they must “kick up their heels” elsewhere. They might not want to grind, but others did.

The idlers of the Fifth, to whom the warning was addressed on every hand, had nothing for it but to obey, and, feeling themselves greatly ill-used, to retire sadly to some spot where “they could kick up a row to themselves.”

Casting about them for such a spot, it happened that Braddy and Ricketts one day lit almost by accident on an old empty study, which some years since had been a monitor’s room, but was now empty and tenantless.

It at once occurred to these two astute heroes that this would be a magnificent place for boxing-matches. In the other studies one was always banging against the corners of tables, or tripping over fenders, but here there was absolutely nothing but four bare walls to interfere with anybody.

They called in two more friends—Tom Senior and another—who declared it was a splendid find, and the four thereupon took formal possession of their new territory, and inaugurated the event by a terrific eight-handed match.

Nothing could have been more satisfactory. The room was well out of the way; the studious ones of the Fifth were spared all annoyance, and the riotous ones had an asylum to go to. No one was a bit the worse for the move; every one, on the contrary, found himself decidedly the better.

“Go and kick up a row in the monitor’s room,” became quite a common objurgation in the Form among the diligent; as common, in fact, as “Come along, old man, and have it out in the monitor’s room,” was among the idlers.

But, as ill-luck would have it, this delightful retreat happened to be situated immediately over the study occupied by Wren of the Sixth. That worthy hero, seated one afternoon over his books, was startled by a terrific noise, followed by a vibration, followed by the rattling of all his tumblers in the cupboard, followed by a dull, heavy thud over his head, which tempted him to believe either that an earthquake was in progress, or that one of the chimney-stacks had fallen on to the roof. When, however, the noise was repeated, and with it were blended laughter and shouts of “Now then, let him have it!”

“Well parried!”

“Bravo, Bully!” and the like, Wren began to change his mind, and laid down his pen.

He walked up the stairs to the upper landing, where, at once, the noise guided him to the old monitor’s room. Then the truth dawned upon him. He stayed long enough to get a pretty clear idea of who the “new lodgers” were, and then prudently retired without attempting a parley single-handed.

But next morning, when the festive rioters of the Fifth approached once more the scene of their revels, what was their amazement and rage to find the door locked, and the following notice, on a piece of school paper, affixed to the panel—

“Monitor’s room. This room is closed by direction of the monitors.”

You might have knocked them over with a feather, so stupefied were they by this announcement! They stared at the door, they stared at one another, and then they broke out into a tempest of rage.

“The blackguards! what do they mean?” exclaimed Braddy, tearing down the paper and crushing it up in his hands.

“Monitor’s room, indeed!” cried Ricketts. “We’ll let them see whose room it is!”

“Kick open the door, can’t you?” said Tom Senior.

They did kick open the door between them. The lock was a weak one, and soon gave way.

Once inside, the evicted ones indulged their triumph by an uproar of more than usual vehemence, longing that it might tempt into their clutches the daring intruders who had presumed to interfere with their possession. No one came. They had their fling undisturbed. But before they quitted their stronghold one of their number, by diligent searching, had found in the lock of a neighbouring study-door a key which would fit theirs. Repairing, therefore, the catch, damaged by their late forcible entry, they calmly locked the door behind them when they went, and affixed to it, in the identical place where the other notice had hung, “Fifth Form. Private study. Not to be entered without permission.”

Of course, the news of this interesting adventure soon spread, and for a day or two the diligent as well as the idle on either side looked on with increasing interest for the issue of the contest.

For a while the Fifth had the best of it. They defied the enemy to turn them out, and procured and fixed an additional lock on the door. The Sixth threatened to report the matter to the Doctor, and summoned the invaders for the last time to capitulate. The invaders laughed them to scorn, and protested the room belonged to them, and leave it they would not for all the monitors in the world. The monitors retired, and the Fifth enjoyed their triumph.

But next day the Doctor abruptly entered the Fifth Form room, and said, “There is an unoccupied room at the end of the top landing, which some boys in this class have been making use of to the annoyance of other boys. This room, please remember, is not to be entered in future without my permission.”

Checkmate with a vengeance for the Fifth!

This event it was which, trivial in itself, re-kindled once more with redoubled heat the old animosity between the two head Forms at Saint Dominic’s. Although the original quarrel had been confined to only half-a-dozen individuals, it became now a party question of intense interest. The Sixth, who were the triumphant party, could afford to treat the matter lightly and smile over it, a demeanour which irritated the already enraged Fifth past description. The two Forms cut one another dead in the passages. The Fifth would gladly have provoked their rivals to blows, but, like sensible men, the Sixth kept the right side of the law, and refused to have anything to do with the challenges daily hurled at them.

As might be expected, the affair did not long remain a secret from the rest of the school. The Fourth Senior, as a body, stood up for the Sixth, and the Third and Second, on the whole, sided with the Fifth. But when it came to the junior school—the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles—all other partisanship was thrown quite into the shade.

The quarrel was one completely after their own hearts. It had begun in a row, it had gone on in a row, and, if it ever ended, it would end in a row.

A meeting was summoned at the earliest opportunity to take the momentous matter into consideration.

“What I say,” said Bramble, “is, it’s a jolly good job!”

“What’s a jolly good job?” demanded Stephen, who, of course, was red-hot for the Fifth.

“Why, chucking them out! I’m glad to see it, ain’t you, Padger?”

“They didn’t chuck them out!” roared Paul; “they went and sneaked to the Doctor, that’s what they did!”

“I don’t care! I say it’s a jolly good job! Those who say it’s a jolly good job hold up—”

“Shut up your row!” cried Stephen; “you’re always sticking yourself up. I say it’s a beastly shame, and I hope the Fifth will let them know it!”

“You’re a young idiot, that’s what you are!” exclaimed Bramble in a rage. “What business have you got at the meeting? Turn him out!”

“I’ll turn you out!” replied the undaunted Stephen; “I’ve as much right here as you have. So there!”

“Turn him out, can’t you?” roared Bramble. “Bah! who goes and swills ginger-beer down in a public-house in the town, eh?”

This most unexpected turn to the conversation startled Stephen. He turned quite pale as he replied, “I did, there. But I didn’t go in at the public door. And you’ve been sneaking!”

“No, I haven’t. Padger told me, didn’t you, Padger? Padger peeped through the door, and saw you. Oh, my eye! won’t I kick up a shine about it! I’ll let out on you, see if I don’t. Bah, public-house boy! potboy, yah!”

Stephen’s only answer to this was a book, accurately shied at the head of his enemy.

The subsequent proceedings at the meeting were a trifle animated, but otherwise not interesting to the reader. The chief result was that the Guinea-pigs emerged as uncompromising champions for the Fifth, and the Tadpoles equally strong for the Sixth, while Stephen felt decidedly uncomfortable as to the consequences of Bramble’s discovery of his secret visits last term to the Cockchafer.

Stephen had in a confidential moment during the holidays told Oliver of these visits, and of his intimacy with Mr. Cripps. The elder brother was very angry and astonished when he heard of it. He set before the boy, in no measured terms, the risk he was running by breaking one of the rules of the school; and, more than that, he said Cripps was a blackguard, and demanded of Stephen a promise, there and then, that he would never again enter the Cockchafer under any pretext whatever. Stephen, forced to submit, although not convinced that Cripps was such a wicked man as his brother made out, promised, but reserved to himself mentally the right to see Cripps at least once more at the Lock-House, there to return him the bicycle lantern, which it will be remembered that kind gentleman had lent the boy before the holidays. As to the Cockchafer, he was thoroughly frightened at the thought of having been seen there, and fully determined, even before Bramble’s threat, never again to cross its threshold. After all, Stephen knew he had little enough to fear from that small braggadocio; Bramble had neither the wit nor the skill to use his discovery to any advantage. For a day or two he followed his adversary up and down the passages with cries of “Potboy!” till everybody was sick of the sound, and felt heartily glad when, one fine afternoon, Stephen quietly deposited his adversary on his back on the gravel of the playground.

But to return to the feud between Fifth and Sixth.

Things after a little seemed to quiet down once more. The exiled rioters, after a long and disheartening search, found rest for the soles of their feet in Tom Senior’s study which, though not nearly so convenient, afforded them asylum during their pugilistic encounters.

The studious ones settled down once more to their work, and the near approach of the examinations presently absorbed all their attention.

The struggle for the Nightingale Scholarship naturally was regarded with the most intense interest—not because it was the most important examination of the year: it was not. Not because it was worth £50 a year for three years. That to most of the school was a minor consideration. It was as nothing to the fact that of the three candidates for the scholarship one was a Sixth Form boy and two Fifth. If only one of the latter could come out first, the Fifth and their partisans, all the school over, felt that the insult of the past month would be wiped out, and the glory of the Form avenged for ever. And it must be confessed that the Sixth, however much they professed to ignore the rivalry of their juniors, were equally anxious for their own man, and of late Loman had been working hard. He had worked, so it was reported, during the holidays, and now, ever since term had begun, he had remained more or less secluded in his study, or else, with a book under his arm, had taken walks outside.

Of course, the Sixth Form boy would win! Who ever heard of a Fifth boy beating a Sixth? And yet, in Oliver and Wraysford, the Fifth, every one admitted, had two strong men. They would at least make a hard fight for the prize. The Sixth only hoped they would not run their man too close, and so make the glory of his certain victory at all doubtful.

Loman was not a favourite even with his own class-fellows, but they could forgive anything now, provided he made sure of the Nightingale.

“He’ll be all right!” said Callonby to Wren one day, when he too happened to hit on the topic of the hour; “he’s a great deal steadier than he was last term.”

“I wish he’d read indoors, then, and not be everlastingly trotting out with his books.”

“Oh! I don’t know; it’s much jollier reading out of doors, if you can do it.”

“As long as he does read. Well, it will be a regular sell if he comes to grief; the Fifth will be intolerable.”

“They’re not far short of that now. Hullo!”

This exclamation was provoked by the tight of Loman in the playground under their window. He was returning from one of his studious rambles, with his book under his arm, slowly making for the school.

There was nothing in this to astonish the two boys as they looked down. What did astonish them was that he was walking unsteadily, with a queer, stupid look on his face, utterly unlike anything his schoolfellows had ever seen there before. They watched him cross the playground and enter the school-house. Then Wren said, gravely, “It’s all up with the Nightingale, at that rate.”

“Looks like it,” said the other, and walked away.

Loman was returning from one of his now frequent visits to the Cockchafer.


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 below were in imminent danger of being dashed to pieces by the large stones rolled down upon them. The prince divided his army into two parties, exhorting them, without loss of time, to attack that post; but the rebels, seeing the good countenance with which they ascended, forsook their station and fled; so that this second mountain was gained with much less loss and difficulty than the first.

this, and higher than all the rest, appeared the third, which struck the assailants at first with terror and despair. This was carried with still less loss on the part of the prince, because he was assisted by the Inaches and Portuguese, who cut off the communication below, and hindered one mountain from succouring the other. Here they found great store of arms, offensive and defensive; coats of mail, mules, and kettle drums; and they penetrated to the head-quarters of Melca Christos, which was a small mountain, but very strong in situation, where a Portuguese captain seized the seat which served as a throne to the rebel; and, had not they lost time by falling to plunder, they would have taken Melca Christos himself, who with difficulty escaped, accompanied by ten horse.

this last mountain Socinios repaired with the prince, and they were joined by the governors of Amhara and Tigré, who had forced their way in from the opposite side.

all had gone well with the king; but when he had detached Guebra Christos, governor of Begemder, with the Inaches and Portuguese, who were at some distance, to destroy the crop, die mountaineers, again assembled on a high


text:
Buried Love

 * Teasdale, Sara (1911), "Buried Love" in Helen of Troy and Other Poems.
 * Teasdale, Sara (1917), "Buried Love" in Love Songs.

title: Buried Love


text:
Page:Travels to Discover the Source of the Nile - In the Years 1768, 1769, 1770, 1771, 1772, and 1773 volume 2.djvu/306

 against Amdo with all possible expedition, as his affairs were become desperate in that part of his dominions.

king hereupon marched straight to Woggora, and joined Julius at Shimbra-Zuggan; thence he descended from Samen, and encamped upon Tocur-Ohha, (the black river) thence he proceeded to Debil, and then to Sobra; and from this last station he sent a detachment of his army to attack a strong mountain called Messiraba, one of the natural fortresses of Gideon, which was forced by the king's troops after some resistance, and the whole inhabitants, without distinction of age or sex, put to the sword, for such were the orders of the king.

first success very much disheartened the rebels, for Messiraba was, by nature, one of the strongest mountains, and it, besides, had been fortified by art, furnished with plenty of provisions, and a number of good troops. The next mountain Socinios attacked was Hotchi, and the third Amba Za Hancaffe, where he had the like success, and treated the inhabitants in the same manner; thence he removed his army to Seganat, where he met with a very stout resistance,but this mountain, too, was at last taken, Gideon himself escaping narrowly by the bravery of his principal general, who, fighting desperately, was slain by a musqueteer.

constant success of the king, and the bloody manner in which he pursued his victory, began to alarm Gideon, left the end should be the extirpation of his whole nation. He, therefore, made an overture to the king, that, if he would pardon him and grant him peace, he would deliver the rebel Amdo bound into his hands,


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26 received. They deserve special attention because, as Mr. Jevons remarks, possession and ecstasy are the first manifestations of personal as opposed to tribal religion. The difficulty of investigation lies in the fact that spirits are shy creatures, and if, as I have been assured in India, they object to manifest themselves before a cow, a Brahman, and more particularly before an Englishman, the appearance of a psychologist on the prowl may be more than their nerves can stand. But if a physicist and a psychologist could attend a fire-walking seance and make a i&w simple experiments, we should soon learn the secret of manifestations which are still not capable of full explanation. Field-work of this kind will doubtless by and by lead us to a true ethno-psychology, and thus advance our views on the origin and transmission of folk usages and beliefs.

When we come to our relations with sociology, we find a general agreement that the principles of the social process are the controlling factors in the growth of belief and custom; and that, whether we investigate primitive culture by the light of history or by analogies drawn from contemporary savagery, we can attain clearer knowledge only by analysing each fact in the complex by its relation to evidence drawn from the social group under examination, or from types adjacent to it. It is now settled doctrine that folk-beliefs are influenced by the social, and this in its turn by the physical, environment; and that it is in beliefs of this kind that the communal life finds its clearest expression. This, of course, applies only to what have been called "spontaneous" beliefs, those which grow with the evolution of the group, or are devised to meet difficulties and secure benefits as the need arises, as opposed to the "historical," which owe their origin to the predominating, sometimes the magical, influence of some lawgiver or teacher, and therefore stand outside the field of our studies.

But the older sociologist was satisfied to devote his


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Rh religion, Dr. Frazer appeals to the high authority of Hegel in support of his conclusions. On the other hand, most English psychologists reject the associationist explanation as scientifically inadequate from the standpoint of the individual consciousness, and prefer to regard both magic and religion as equally means of approach to the Divine, one not being necessarily antecedent to the other, and their use being a matter of temperament rather than of time. To use Mr. Hartland's happy phrase, both originate in "the primitive theoplasm or god-stuff." In the growth of the tribal consciousness religion gains respectability because it is taken under the patronage of the priesthood, and becomes the recognised mode of securing those objects which are vital to the welfare of the community. But it gradually shades off, by many intermediate stages, into magic, the lower and anti-social form, which thus falls into disrepute and is appropriated by the witch.

The services of psychology to folklore are already so considerable, that we may hope for even more important results when the field-worker and the arm-chair philosopher join forces. We owe to the psychologist that interpretation of material collected in India and elsewhere which has led to the theory of Pre-animism, and seems likely to rob Animism of half its kingdom. Even if, as some among us may venture to think, the original definition of Animism is wide enough to include the conception of that feeling of awe and mystery in face of the powers and potencies which lie at the back of both religion and magic, at the same time the new definition provides us with a useful method of reclassifying some phases of primitive belief.

We may reasonably expect from psychology much new light on the abnormal working of the mind of primitive man, as it is exhibited in phenomena like those of hallucination, shamanism, or lycanthropy, which require more scientific examination in the field than they have hitherto


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Christ in Flanders

 * "Christ in Flanders", a poem by Grace Blackburn
 * "Christ in Flanders", a poem by Ewart Alan Mackintosh
 * Christ in Flanders, by Honoré de Balzac, translated by Ellen Marriage
 * "Christ in Flanders", a poem by Mrs. C. T. Whitmall from A Treasury of War Poetry, ... 1914-1919 (1917).

title: Christ in Flanders


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The Fifth Form at St. Dominic's/Chapter XX

< The eventful day, which at the beginning of the term had seemed an age away, slowly but surely drew near.

This was Saturday. On Monday the examination would be over, and in a week the competitors would know their fates!

Some of my readers may know the queer sensation one sometimes gets at the approach of a long-looked-for and hardly-worked-for examination. For a week or so you have quietly been counting up what you do know. Now there breaks upon you an awful picture of what you do not know, and with it the absolute conviction that what you do not know is exactly what you ought to know, and what you do know is no use at all. It is too late to do anything. You cannot get up in a day what it would take you a fortnight to go through. And it is not much good, now you are sure it is useless, to go over again what you have done. You begin to feel a sort of despair, which becomes, as the hours close in, positively reckless. What do you care if you do miss? What’s the use of bothering any more about it? It cannot be helped; why make yourself miserable? Only, you would give worlds to have the thing all over. Such at least were the sensations which stirred in the breasts of Oliver Greenfield and Horace Wraysford as they sat somewhat dejectedly over their books in Oliver’s study that Saturday afternoon.

They had both worked hard since the holidays, generally together, neither concealing from the other what he had read or what he intended to read. Very bad rivals were these two, for though each was intent on winning the scholarship, each felt he would not break his heart if the other beat him, and that, as every one knows, is a most unheard of piece of toleration. Now, however, each felt he had had enough of it. Oliver in particular was very despondent. He slammed up his books suddenly, and said—

“I give it up; it’s not a bit of use going on!”

Wraysford pushed back his chair slowly, and said, not very cheeringly—

“Upon my word I think you’re right, Noll.”

“I’ve a good mind,” said Oliver, looking very morose, “to scratch, and leave you and Loman to fight it out.”

“Don’t be a jackass, Noll,” replied Wraysford, half laughing. “That would be a sensible thing to do!”

“All very well for you to laugh,” said Oliver, his brow clouding. “You know you are well up and are going to win.”

“I’m no better up than you are,” said the other.

“You know you’re going to win,” repeated Oliver.

“I only wish I did,” said Wraysford, with a sigh.

“Why,” pursued Oliver, evidently bent on a melancholy tack, “I assure you, Wray, I’ve forgotten half even of what I did know. I was going over some of those brutal Roman History dates in bed last night, for instance, and I positively couldn’t remember one. Then I tried the map of Greece, but I was still worse there; I couldn’t remember where one single place was except Athens and Corinth, and I’m sure I used to be pretty well up in that.”

“I expect you were half asleep at the time,” suggested his friend.

“No, I wasn’t; I couldn’t sleep a wink. I say, Wray, wouldn’t it be jolly if we only knew now what the questions are going to be on Monday?”

“Why don’t you go and ask the Doctor?” said Wraysford, laughing; “he’d be delighted to tell you.”

“What a humbug you are, Wray! I say, suppose we shut up work now and have a turn on the river. I’m certain it will do us more good than cracking our skulls here.”

“Just what I had been thinking. I’m game, and it can’t make much difference.”

“I suppose Loman is grinding up to the last?”

“I suppose so; I was almost in hopes he wouldn’t keep it up.”

“Never mind, it will all be over on Monday; that’s a comfort! Come along, old man. Suppose we get young Stee to cox us up to the lock and back.”

Hue and cry was forthwith made for Stephen, but he was not to be found. He was out, Paul said; at the post, or somewhere.

“Oh, all right; you can come and cox us yourself, youngster,” said Wraysford.

“Cox you!” exclaimed Paul; “why, ain’t the Nightingale exam. coming on, then, on Monday?”

“Of course it is!”

“And you two going out to row! I say, the Sixth will win it if you don’t look out!” said Paul, in a very concerned voice.

It was quite a revelation to the two boys to discover how great was the interest taken by outsiders in the coming event. Paul was in a great state of alarm, and was actually inclined to refuse to aid and abet what he imagined to be a wicked waste of precious opportunity, until, putting his head into Loman’s study, he found that the Sixth Form fellow was also not at work.

When Oliver and Wraysford appeared in boating flannels in the playground they created as much sensation as if they had been ghosts.

“You don’t mean to say you’re going out, you fellows?” exclaimed Ricketts, one of the idle ones of the Fifth.

“Yes, I do,” said Wraysford.

“But the Nightingale, I say?”

“That’s not till Monday.”

“I know; but aren’t you grinding for it? I say, don’t let them beat you! Hadn’t you better work instead of going out?”

Ricketts, by the way, had not done a stroke of work that he could possibly help all the term!

All the other Fifth Form fellows they encountered echoed more or less anxiously the same advice. But the two friends were obdurate. Threats, promises, entreaties, would not put them off their row up the river, and they went on their way, leaving behind them an unusual gloom on the spirits of their dearest friends.

The only person who seemed really glad to see them leaving their work was Bramble. He, with his friend, Padger, and a few other irreconcilables, were just returning from a rat-catching expedition, and the sight of the Fifth Form heroes in boating costume filled them with joy.

“Hullo—my eye—hurrah!” shouted Bramble, taking in the situation in a moment. “There they go! I hope they get drowned; don’t you, Padger?”

Padger was understood to assent to this benevolent aspiration.

“Go it. You’ll get the Nightingale! I thought you would! Hope you get drowned, do you hear! Hurrah for the Sixth!”

At this juncture Master Paul gave chase, and for a few moments Bramble and his friends were too much engaged to speak; but at last, when the chase was over, and further reprisals were out of the question, the hero of the Tadpoles summoned up all his remaining powers to yell—

“Yah boo, Nightingale! Hope you get drowned! Yah!” after which he went his way.

The two friends paddled quietly up the river. They talked very little, but both felt relieved to be away from their books. As they went on their spirits rose, greatly to Paul’s displeasure. That young gentleman, immoderately jealous for the glory of the Fifth, was content as long as the two rowers remained grave and serious; he could then make himself believe they were engaged in mental exercises favourable to Monday’s examination. But as soon as they began to whistle, and chaff him and one another, and talk of their holiday adventures, Paul became displeased, for they could not possibly do this and be inwardly preparing for the examination at the same time.

However, he had to submit as best he could, and gave all his attention to steering them carefully, so that it should be no fault of his, at any rate, if they were prevented from showing up on the critical day.

“This old Shar isn’t half such a jolly river as the Thames, is it, Wray?”

“Rather not!” replied Wraysford, resting on his oar; “and yet it’s pretty enough in parts.”

“Oh, up at the weir?—yes. But I’m out of love with weirs at present. I shudder every time I think of that one up the Thames.”

“It wasn’t pleasant, certainly,” said Wraysford.

“Pleasant! Old man, if you hadn’t been there it would have been a good deal worse than unpleasant. Poor Stee!”

“Pull your left, Greenfield senior, or you’ll be into the bank!” sung out Paul.

They paddled on again until Gusset Lock came in sight. There were very few boats about; the season was, in fact, at an end, and the river, which a month or two ago had generally swarmed with boats just at this part on Saturday afternoons, looked quite deserted.

“Shall we go through the lock or turn round?” inquired Paul.

“May as well turn, eh, Wray?”

Paul was about to obey the order and turn the boat, when, casting his eyes on the bank, he started suddenly to his feet and exclaimed, pointing towards the lock-house, “Hullo! I say, there’s something up there!”

The two others looked round; something more lively than usual was undoubtedly taking place at old Mr. Cripps’s residence, to judge by the shouts and laughter which proceeded from the group of people assembled near the door.

From where they were the boys in the boat could not see what the nature of the excitement was, and therefore paddled on with a view to satisfy their curiosity.

As they came up to the lock Paul suddenly exclaimed, “That’s young Greenfield!”

“What!” said Oliver—“Stephen?”

“Yes, and—what on earth are they doing to him?”

The boat being low down under the bank, it was impossible to see what was going on on the tow-path. Oliver, however, having once heard Stephen’s name, ordered Paul to put them into the opposite bank quick, where they could land.

While this was being done a shriek from the bank sent the blood suddenly to the faces of the two friends. It was Stephen! They dashed ashore, and in a moment were across the lock and on the spot. The spectacle which met their eyes as they came up was a strange one. The central figure was the luckless Stephen, in the clutches of three or four disreputable fellows, one of whom was Cripps the younger, who, with loud laughter at the boy’s struggles and brutal unconcern at his terror, were half dragging, half carrying him towards the water’s edge.

Beside them stood Loman, flushed, excited, and laughing loudly. Poor Stephen, very unlike himself, appeared to be utterly cowed and terrified, and uttered shriek upon shriek as his persecutors dragged him along.

“Oh, don’t! Please, Cripps! Don’t let them, Loman—don’t let them drown me!” he shouted.

A laugh was the only answer.

It was at this moment, and just when, to all appearances, the boy was about to be thrown into the water, that Oliver and Wraysford appeared on the scene.

Their appearance was so sudden and unexpected that the fellows, even though they did not know who the two boys were, were momentarily taken aback and dropped their prey.

With a bound Oliver sprang furiously on Cripps, who happened to be nearest him, and before that respectable gentleman knew where he was, had dealt him a blow which sent him staggering back in the utmost alarm and astonishment. Wraysford, no less prompt, tackled one of the other blackguards, while Stephen, now released, and cured of his momentary terror by the appearance of the rescuers, did his share manfully with one of the others.

The contest was short and sharp. A pair of well-trained athletic school-boys, with a plucky youngster to help them, are a match any day for twice the number of half-tipsy cads. In a minute or two the field was clear of all but Cripps, who appeared, after his short experience, by no means disposed to continue the contest single-handed. As for Loman, he had disappeared.

“What is all this?” demanded Oliver, when at last, breathless and pale with excitement, he could find words.

“Oh, Noll!” cried Stephen, “I’ll tell you all about it. But let’s get away from here.”

“No, I won’t go!” shouted Oliver—“not till I know what it all means. You fellow!” added he, walking up to Cripps, “you’d better speak or I’ll thrash you!”

Mr. Cripps, who had had time to recover somewhat from his first surprise, looked a little inclined to defy his young antagonist, but, thinking better of it, suddenly assumed his usual impudent swagger as he replied, with a laugh, “Come, I say, you do do it well, you do! It was a joke—just a joke, young gentleman. You’ve no occasion to flurry yourself; we wouldn’t have hurt a hair on the young gentleman’s head. Ask Mr. Loman.”

“Where’s Loman?” demanded Oliver.

“Gone,” said Stephen. “But I say, Noll, do come away. I’ll tell you all about it. Do come.”

Cripps laughed. “Don’t you swallow all that young swell tells you. He’s a nice boy, he is, but—well, he’d better mind what he says, that’s all!”

“Do come away!” once more entreated Stephen.

“Yes, do come away,” laughed Cripps, mimicking the boy’s tones. “When I calls up at the school I’ll let them all know what a nice young prig he is, coming down and drinking at my public-house and then turning round on me. Never fear! I’ll let them know, my beauties! I’ll have a talk with your Doctor and open his eyes for him. Good-bye, you sneaking young—”

“Look here!” said Wraysford, quietly walking up to the blackguard in the midst of this discourse, “if you don’t stop instantly you’ll be sorry for it.”

Cripps stared a moment at the speaker, and at the fist he held out. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel into the cottage, leaving the three boys standing in undisputed possession of the tow-path.

“Come on, now, old man!” said Wraysford; “we can’t do any good by staying here.”

Oliver looked disposed to resist, and cast a glance at the cottage door by which Cripps had just vanished. But he let himself be persuaded eventually, and turned gloomily towards the boat. Here Paul, who had been a witness of the fracas on the tow-path, was waiting, ready to steer home, and bursting with curiosity to hear all Stephen had to say.

Greatly to his disgust, Oliver said, peremptorily, “You’ll have to walk home, Paul; Stephen will steer.”

“Why, you said I might steer.”

Oliver was in no humour for an argument, so he gave Paul a light box on his ears and advised him to go home quietly unless he wanted a thrashing, and not say a word to any one about what had occurred.

Paul had nothing for it but sulkily to obey, and walk back. At last the others got on board and put off homeward.

“Now,” said Oliver, presently, resting on his oar and bending forward towards Stephen.

“Oh, Noll!” began that unhappy youngster. “I am so very, very sorry! it was all—”

“None of that,” angrily interrupted the elder brother. “Just tell me how it came about.”

Stephen, quite cowed by his brother’s angry manner, told his story shortly and hurriedly.

“Why,” he said, “you know I promised you never to go to the Cockchafer again, and I didn’t, but I thought I ought to see Cripps and give him back the bicycle-lamp.”

“Young muff!” ejaculated his brother.

“So,” pursued Stephen, still more falteringly, “I thought I’d come up this afternoon.”

“Well, go on, can’t you?” said Oliver, losing his temper at the poor boy’s evident uneasiness.

“Cripps asked me into the cottage, and there were some fellows there, smoking and drinking and playing cards.”

“Was Loman one of them?” put in Wraysford.

“I think so,” said poor Stephen, who had evidently started his story in the hope of keeping Loman’s name quiet.

“Think so, you young cad!” cried Oliver. “Why can’t you tell the truth straight out? Was he there or not?”

“Yes, he was. I did mean to tell the truth, Noll, really, only—only there’s no need to get Loman in a row.”

“Go on,” said Oliver.

“They made fun of me because I wouldn’t smoke and play with them. You know I promised mother not to play cards, Noll; I didn’t mind that, though, but when I wanted to go away they—that is, Cripps—wouldn’t let me. I tried to get away, but he stopped me, and they said they’d make me play.”

“Who said? Did Loman?” inquired Oliver, again.

“Why—yes,” said Stephen, falteringly, “he and the rest. They held me down in a chair, and made me take hold of the cards, and one of them opened my mouth and shouted beastly words down into it—ugh!”

“Was that Loman?”

“No,” said Stephen, relieved to be able to deny it.

“What did he do?” demanded Oliver.

“They all—”

“What did Loman do, I say?” again asked Oliver.

It was no use trying to keep back anything.

“He pulled my ears, but not very hard. Really I expect it was only fun, Noll.” This was said quite beseechingly. “I said I thought they were very wicked to be doing what they did; but they only laughed at that, and called me a prig.”

“Much better if you’d kept what you thought to yourself,” said Wraysford. “Well?”

“Oh, then they did a lot of things to rile me, and knocked me about because I wouldn’t drink their stuff, and they swore too.”

“Did Loman swear?”

“They all swore, I think,” said Stephen; “and then, you know, when I wouldn’t do what they wanted they said they’d throw me in the river, and then you fellows turned up.”

“Did Loman tell them to throw you in the river?” said Oliver, whose brow had been growing darker and darker.

“Oh, no,” exclaimed Stephen, “he didn’t really! I think he was sorry.”

“Did he try to prevent it, then?” asked Oliver.

“Well, no; I didn’t hear him say—” faltered Stephen; but Oliver shut him up, and turning to Wraysford said—

“Wray, I shall thrash Loman.”

“All serene,” replied Wraysford; “you’d better have it out to-night.”

“Oh, Noll!” cried Stephen in great distress; “don’t fight, please. It was all my fault, for—”

“Shut up, Stee,” said Oliver, quietly, but not unkindly. Then turning to Wraysford, he added—

“After tea, then, Wray, in the gymnasium.”

“Right you are!” replied his friend.

And then, without another word, the three rowed back to Saint Dominic’s.


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Rh CHAPTER III.

HOSE who have followed the Boy Travellers in their journeys in other parts of the world will remember that their plans were often changed by circumstances which could not be foreseen. At Honolulu one of these changes took place, and this is how it happened:

"When the Alameda entered the harbor on her arrival from San Francisco our friends observed at anchor a trim-looking yacht displaying the English flag. They were too busy with the novelties of the place to give her any attention, and her presence was soon forgotten.

On the morning of their return from Molokai Doctor Bronson encountered in the breakfast-room of the hotel an old friend, Doctor Macalister, of Cambridge, England. Their greetings were cordial, and all the more so as neither had the least idea that the other was in the Hawaiian Islands or anywhere else in the Pacific Ocean. In almost the same breath each exclaimed,

"What are you doing here?"

Doctor Bronson explained briefly how he came to Honolulu, and where he was going, to which Doctor Macalister responded,

"I came here on the yacht Pera; she belongs to Colonel Bush, formerly of her Britannic Majesty's army, but for several years in the service of the Turkish Government. I am the colonel's guest, and we came here by way of India, China, and Japan. We leave to-morrow for the South Pacific, where we are to cruise about for several months, visiting the most interesting of the island groups. We go first to the Marquesas Islands, and then—"


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48

Just at this moment Colonel Bush entered the breakfast-room, and was introduced to Doctor Bronson. A moment later Frank and Fred arrived, presentations followed, and before the morning meal was over the American contingent was fairly well acquainted with the English one.

Conversation developed the fact that two gentlemen who had arrived on the Pera had left by the mail-steamer for San Francisco, having received letters at Honolulu which compelled their immediate return to England. Consequently the Pera's party was reduced to Colonel Bush and Doctor Macalister.

The party arranged to meet at dinner. Colonel Bush and Doctor Macalister went to the Pera, while Doctor Bronson and the youths proceeded to make farewell calls, as the steamer on which they were to continue their journey was due on the morrow, and they wished to be ready for her.

Exactly how it came about we are unable to say, but it is evident that Colonel Bush desired further acquaintance with Doctor Bronson and his nephews, and that Doctor Macalister had heartily approved the colonel's desire. At all events, when the three gentlemen were together after dinner, Frank and Fred having left the table, the colonel invited Doctor Bronson, with his nephews, to accompany him in his voyage to the South Seas.


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Rh "There is plenty of room on the yacht," said he, "and provisions are abundant. The Pera is almost identical with the Sunbeam, the famous yacht of Sir Thomas Brassey, of which you have read. She relies upon her sails when there is any wind, and has auxiliary steam-power to propel her when needed. The north-east trade-winds will carry us down to the equatorial belt of calms, and then we'll steam through it to the south-east trades, which will carry us straight to the Marquesas. From the Marquesas we'll go to the Society Islands, then to Samoa, and then to Feejee. There you can if you like take the mail-steamer to New Zealand and Australia, or continue with the Pera wherever she goes. Beyond Feejee I have not formed my plans very definitely, as they will depend somewhat upon the letters I receive there, and upon the state of things in the New Hebrides, the Solomon Islands, and other of the groups to the west of Feejee."

The heartiness of the invitation, the opportunity the voyage would give for seeing groups of islands not on the regular track of travel, and the fact that he was not pressed for time, settled the question with Doctor Bronson, and he accepted at once. He


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50 himself shortly afterwards to inform the youths of the change in their plans.

Of course they were delighted at the opportunity of making an acquaintance with the islands that were included in the Pera's proposed voyage, and earnestly congratulated themselves on their good-fortune.

The baggage of the party was sent on board in the forenoon of the next day; the travellers followed it, and a little before two o'clock in the afternoon the Pera steamed out of Honolulu and headed southward. When she had made a good offing her engines were stopped, the fires were put out, and the yacht proceeded at a splendid pace with the strong trade-wind on her port beam. Her course was directed to the south-east, so as to enable her to cross the equator about longitude 140° west, and take advantage of the south-east trades in making the Marquesas.

Frank undertook a journal of the voyage; but like most works of the kind, it abounded in repetitions, and our space will not permit


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Rh quotations. One day was so much like another that the young gentleman admitted that his narrative would make very tiresome reading, and he doubted if any one would care to peruse it. Suffice it to say the time passed agreeably, as there was a good library on board, and each member of the party tried to do his share towards entertaining the rest. Stories of sea and land, "of moving accidents by flood and field," and discussions upon scientific, social, and all other imaginable topics, served to beguile the hours and shorten the distance between the Hawaiian and the Marquesas groups.

The north-east trades carried the Pera almost to the equator, then came a period of calm in a torrid temperature that drove everybody to the shelter of the double awning over the deck, and made them sigh for cooler latitudes. Heavy clothing was at a discount, and the lightest garments were found more than sufficient. Social rules were suspended, and pajamas were worn altogether, except at dinner-time, when light suits of linen took their place. Dinner was served on deck beneath the awning, and the ice-machine was kept in constant action to supply ice for the use of the sweltering travellers. Happily this state of affairsdid not last long; as soon as the Pera entered the calm belt the funnel was hoisted, fires were started, the equator was crossed triumphantly, and the yacht in due time caught the south-east trades, and was once more turned into a sailing-craft.

As they left the equator behind them the north star disappeared


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poet Pope, though a friend of the greatest of Tory Democrats, Bolingbroke, necessarily lived in a world in which even Toryism was Whiggish. And the Whig as a wit never expressed his political point more clearly than in Pope's line which ran: "The right divine of kings to govern wrong." It will be apparent, when I deal with that period, that I do not palliate the real unreason in divine right as Filmer and some of the pedantic cavaliers construed it. They professed the impossible ideal of "non-resistance" to any national and legitimate power; though I cannot see that even that was so servile and superstitious as the more modern ideal of "non-resistance" even to a foreign and lawless power. But the seventeenth century was an age of sects, that is of fads; and the Filmerites made a fad of divine right. Its roots were older, equally religious but much more realistic; and though tangled with many other and even opposite things of the Middle Ages, ramify through all the changes we have now to consider. The connection can hardly be stated better than by taking Pope's easy epigram and pointing out that it is, after all, very weak in


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Rh philosophy. "The right divine of kings to govern wrong," considered as a sneer, really evades all that we mean by "a right." To have a right to do a thing is not at all the same as to be right in doing it. What Pope says satirically about a divine right is what we all say quite seriously about a human right. If a man has a right to vote, has he not a right to vote wrong? If a man has a right to choose his wife, has he not a right to choose wrong? I have a right to express the opinion which I am now setting down; but I should hesitate to make the controversial claim that this proves the opinion to be right.

Now mediæval monarchy, though only one aspect of mediæval rule, was roughly represented in the idea that the ruler had a right to rule as a voter has a right to vote. He might govern wrong, but unless he governed horribly and extravagantly wrong, he retained his position of right; as a private man retains his right to marriage and locomotion unless he goes horribly and extravagantly off his head. It was not really even so simple as this; for the Middle Ages were not, as it is often the fashion to fancy, under a single and steely discipline. They were very controversial and therefore very complex; and it is easy, by isolating items whether about jus divinum or primus inter pares, to maintain that the mediævals were almost anything; it has been seriously maintained that they were all Germans. But it is true that the influence of the Church, though by no means of all the great churchmen, Rh


text: Author:Thomas William Thompson

title: Author:Thomas William Thompson


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Rh attention to the reform of those abuses which are generated in all advanced communities. The new sociology includes in its survey "the phenomena of the creeds and ethical systems of humanity, of the great systems of religion and philosophy." If this be more than a pious aspiration, our work and that of the sociologist run on parallel lines, and, if he can help us in reducing to order the mass of unsifted material which awaits co-ordination and arrangement before it can be used by the student, he will perform valuable service.

It is, however, on ethnography or ethno-geography that the future progress of our studies mainly depends. I can deal with its relations to folklore only in connection with our national beliefs, and that in a very summary way.

The question whether we are able to identify race elements in European folklore has long engaged our attention. Before it is possible to arrive at any conclusion on this difficult subject we must be certain that the problems of race stratification have been clearly solved. This is admittedly not the case. We know enough, however, to assure us that our present terminology must be changed.

The history of the ancient world, as now presented to us, is a record of the constant ebb and flow of tides of migration, leading to the intermingling and confusion of physical types as well as beliefs and institutions. In these islands, as was the case in France, there seems to have been no cultural gap between the palæolithic races and their successors. The so-called Aryan question has assumed a new form since the ancestors of the Aryan-speaking Celts are found in the Alpine race who are supposed by some to have come from the East, or, as Professor Ridgeway believes, were the result of environment acting on members of the other European peoples, the Nordic or Teutonic, and the Mediterranean. The term Aryan now survives as little more than a linguistic expression to define a group of tribes with


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 28 a common language and some common mythological conceptions. The latest authorities even refuse to admit the existence of a personal high god, or sky father, among these tribes before their dispersal. "It is likely enough," says Dr. Rice Holmes, the latest and best authority, "that the greater gods whom the Celts worshipped and who, variously imagined and with various names, were the common heritage of the Aryan-speaking peoples, were in part descended from deities who were not Aryan, and were adored in Britain in a somewhat different spirit before the first Celt landed on the Kentish shore." But this is a question which remains, and probably will remain, doubtful.

The result of these considerations is to emphasize the difficulty of tracing a connection between the beliefs current among our peasantry and those of the races who occupied these islands before the dawn of history. We must hesitate to accept any efforts to project our conceptions of the psychology of backward races in our time into a far distant past, for the reconstruction of which we possess no adequate materials. This evidence is practically confined to the mobilier of interments, and, though the cult of the dead is of supreme interest, the absence of all evidence of primitive social organisation and of birth and marriage rites prevents us from reaching a full interpretation of those forces which swayed the mind of the primitive savage.

In these islands we possess no materials for a survey of the beliefs of palæolithic man, and little advance for our purpose is to be gained by a comparison of his material culture with that of people like the Tasmanians, who lived in a quite different environment, except an inference, based upon our general experience of savage life, that no tribe is destitute of the elements of religion. In southern France the implements and ornaments found with the dead in the Mentone caves, the rock carvings and paintings, the coloured pebbles and bull-roarers, suggest, on the analogy of similar


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Rh objects found in Australia, that they may have subserved some religious purpose. Further inferences, in the present stage of our knowledge, are hazardous in the extreme. It has even been doubted whether the dead were, in this period, deliberately interred; but the most recent excavations show that some of the corpses found in the caves were ceremonially buried.

Even in the case of neolithic man our information is very scanty. To quote Dr. Rice Holmes again :—"Even the fancy that an ethereal soul survived bodily death may not have been universal; and as the Tonga islanders and the Virginians are said to have believed that only the souls of chiefs would live again, so it is conceivable that the slaves by whose sweat were built the barrows in which their lords were to be interred were regarded as doomed to annihilation. And when we are told that some quaint superstition which the folklorist discovers in Devonshire or the Highlands is non-Aryan, and must therefore be traceable to the people who were here before the first Celtic invader arrived, we may ask how it is possible to disprove that it had been inherited from the Celt from remote ancestors or had been borrowed by him from non-Aryan tribes while he was still a wanderer. We must be content, if we can but catch something of the spirit of the neolithic religion, to remain in blank ignorance of its details. We must keep in mind that in unnumbered centuries it cannot have remained the same, and that in diverse regions its manifestations must have been various." That their beliefs were probably of the animistic type, that, like all savages and barbaric peoples, they were slaves to custom, fettered by taboos, and compelled, when they were driven by necessity to violate them, to expiate their offence by complex rites, that a change from the nomadic and pastoral to agricultural


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Rh encouraged the sense of a sort of sacrament of government, which was meant to make the monarch terrible and therefore often made the man tyrannical. The disadvantage of such despotism is obvious enough. The precise nature of its advantage must be better understood than it is, not for its own sake so much as for the story we have now to tell.

The advantage of "divine right," or irremovable legitimacy, is this; that there ts a limit to the ambitions of the rich. "Roi nepuis"; the royal power, whether it was or was not the power of heaven, was in one respect like the power of heaven. It was not for sale. Constitutional moralists have often implied that a tyrant and a rabble have the same vices. It has perhaps been less noticed that a tyrant and a rabble most emphatically have the same virtues. And one virtue which they very markedly share is that neither tyrants nor rabbles are snobs; they do not care a button what they do to wealthy people. It is true that tyranny was sometimes treated as coming from the heavens almost in the lesser and more literal sense of coming from the sky; a man no more expected to be the king than to be the west wind or the morning star. But at least no wicked miller can chain the wind to turn only his own mill; no pedantic scholar can trim the morning star to be his own reading-lamp. Yet something very like this is what really happened to England in the later Middle Ages; and the first sign of it, I fancy, was the fall of Richard II. Rh


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Rh Shakespeare's historical plays are something truer than historical; they are traditional; the living memory of many things lingered, though the memory of others was lost. He is right in making Richard II. incarnate the claim to divine right; and Bolingbroke the baronial ambition which ultimately broke up the old mediæval order. But divine right had become at once drier and more fantastic by the time of the Tudors. Shakespeare could not recover the fresh and popular part of the thing; for he came at a later stage in a process of stiffening which is the main thing to be studied in later mediævalism. Richard himself was possibly a wayward and exasperating prince; it might well be the weak link that snapped in the strong chain of the Plantagenets. There may have been a real case against the coup d'état which he effected in 1397, and his kinsman Henry of Bolingbroke may have had strong sections of disappointed opinion on his side when he effected in the first true usurpation in English history. But if we wish to understand that larger tradition which even Shakespeare had lost, we must glance back at something which befell Richard even in the first years of his reign. It was certainly the greatest event of his reign; and it was possibly the greatest event of all the reigns which are rapidly considered in this book. The real English people, the men who work with their hands, lifted their hands to strike their masters, probably for the first and certainly for the last time in history. Rh


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Rh and, by a process more proper to an ensuing chapter, the balance of the better mediævalism was lost. Finally, a furious plague, called the Black Death, burst like a blast on the land, thinning the population and throwing the work of the world into ruin. There was a shortage of labour; a difficulty of getting luxuries; and the great lords did what one would expect them to do. They became lawyers, and upholders of the letter of the law. They appealed to a rule already nearly obsolete, to drive the serf back to the more direct servitude of the Dark Ages. They announced their decision to the people, and the people rose in arms.

The two dramatic stories which connect Wat Tyler, doubtfully with the beginning, and definitely with the end of the revolt, are far from unimportant, despite the desire of our present prosaic historians to pretend that all dramatic stories are unimportant. The tale of Tyler's first blow is significant in the sense that it is not only dramatic but domestic. It avenged an insult to the family, and made the legend of the whole riot, whatever its incidental indecencies, a sort of demonstration on behalf of decency. This is important; for the dignity of the poor is almost unmeaning in modern debates; and an inspector need only bring a printed form and a few long words to do the same thing without having his head broken. The occasion of the protest, and the form which the feudal reaction had first taken, was a Poll Tax; but this was Rh


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Rh but a part of a general process of pressing the population to servile labour, which fully explains the ferocious language held by the government after the rising had failed; the language in which it threatened to make the state of the serf more servile than before. The facts attending the failure in question are less in dispute. The mediæval populace showed considerable military energy and co-operation, stormed its way to London, and was met outside the city by a company containing the King and the Lord Mayor, who were forced to consent to a parley. The treacherous stabbing of Tyler by the Mayor gave the signal for battle and massacre on the spot. The peasants closed in roaring, "They have killed our leader"; when a strange thing happened; something which gives us a fleeting and a final glimpse of the crowned sacramental man of the Middle Ages. For one wild moment divine right was divine.

The King was no more than a boy; his very voice must have rung out to that multitude almost like the voice of a child. But the power of his fathers and the great Christendom from which he came fell in some strange fashion upon him; and riding out alone before the people, he cried out, "I am your leader"; and himself promised to grant them all they asked. That promise was afterwards broken; but those who see in the breach of it the mere fickleness of the young and frivolous king, are not only shallow but utterly ignorant interpreters of the whole Rh


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Rh trend of that time. The point that must be seized, if subsequent things are to be seen as they are, is that Parliament certainly encouraged, and Parliament almost certainly obliged, the King to repudiate the people. For when, after the rejoicing revolutionists had disarmed and were betrayed, the King urged a humane compromise on the Parliament, the Parliament furiously refused it. Already Parliament is not merely a governing body but a governing class. Parliament was as contemptuous of the peasants in the fourteenth as of the Chartists in the nineteenth century. This council, first summoned by the king like juries and many other things, to get from plain men rather reluctant evidence about taxation, has already become an object of ambition, and is, therefore, an aristocracy. There is already war, in this case literally to the knife, between the Commons with a large C and the commons with a small one. Talking about the knife, it is notable that the murderer of Tyler was not a mere noble but an elective magistrate of the mercantile oligarchy of London; though there is probably no truth in the tale that his blood-stained dagger figures on the arms of the City of London. The mediæval Londoners were quite capable of assassinating a man, but not of sticking so dirty a knife into the neighbourhood of the cross of their Redeemer, in the place which is really occupied by the sword of St. Paul.

It is remarked above that Parliament was now Rh


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Rh an aristocracy, being an object of ambition. The truth is, perhaps more subtle than this; but if ever men yearn to serve on juries we may probably guess that juries are no longer popular. Anyhow, this must be kept in mind, as against the opposite idea of the jus divinum or fixed authority, if we would appreciate the fall of Richard. If the thing which dethroned him was a rebellion, it was a rebellion of the parliament, of the thing that had just proved much more pitiless than he towards a rebellion of the people. But this is not the main point. The point is that by the removal of Richard, a step above the parliament became possible for the first time. The transition was tremendous; the crown became an object of ambition. That which one could snatch another could snatch from him; that which the House of Lancaster held merely by force the House of York could take from it by force. The spell of an undethronable thing seated out of reach was broken, and for three unhappy generations adventurers strove and stumbled on a stairway slippery with blood, above which was something new in the mediæval imagination; an empty throne.

It is obvious that the insecurity of the Lancastrian usurper, largely because he was a usurper, is the clue to many things, some of which we should now call good, some bad, all of which we should probably call good or bad with the excessive facility with which we dismiss distant things. It led the Lancastrian House to lean on Parliament, Rh