Church Matters

The other day I had the pleasure of paying a visit to the British School of this town; and on remarking its excellent order, the good and useful instruction imparted, the strict yet easy discipline, and the clean and happy appearance of the children, I could not help calling to mind the immense disadvantages I laboured under in the school of Soldier Robin. My blood boils within me this minute at the thought of his hypocrisy, his stupidity, his laziness, and incomparable cruelty. To do justice to the narrative, I am bound to say something farther about him in the present chapter before turning to something more important; and after that I shall bid him farewell for ever, unless, indeed, I am compelled to give testimony against him in some day to come. I trust, however, he will find forgiveness, even as I expect the same.

The old Soldier’s most important business was taking our pence, and the next, in point of diversion, the breaking of a good stout cane on our backs and hands every week or nine days. This rough treatment was no secret to our parents; but they, in their ignorance, considered it necessary to our good. We boys looked forward to our sharp discipline with the same regularity, though not with the same appetite, that we did to our meal time. As far as I can recollect, none of the boys, any more than myself, cared the least bit for learning, while he, to whom our instruction was entrusted, cared less. He seemed to me, at all times, to derive greater pleasure from our failure to say our lessons, than from our success, because it gave him an excuse for our castigation. He expected us—if he expected at all—to learn without help from him. I often thought he felt disappointed if we happened to master the lesson in spite of him. He never attempted to create in us a love of knowledge and a desire to excel; on the contrary, what he did create was a dislike to every kind of learning, and an unnatural itching in every lad for strength sufficient to thrash him in return, a pleasure which, I am sure, every one promised himself, once he “became a man.” I remember well how, after a sore beating from him, with fretful back and heavy heart, I would look at his wooden leg and occupy my mind with guesses at the number of Frenchmen he could have killed when fighting against Bony. Jack Beck used to say he had heard it was three hundred. Will Bryan put the figure much higher, adding that nothing would give the old Soldier greater pleasure than to kill the whole lot of us, and that he would do so too were he not afraid that he would be hanged for it: in which opinion we all concurred. And it really needed no great effort to believe this; because of the diabolical rage depicted in his face when he was engaged correcting a boy—his jaw distending itself, the veins of his forehead swelling and becoming black, and the whole countenance horrible to look upon.

He had a marvellous faculty of changing the expression of his features. I remember seeing him more than once in this fit of fury when Parson Brown put in a sudden appearance. Mr. Brown was a corpulent, easy-going, kindly man, who never thought ill of his neighbours, particularly if they were Church folk. I saw him, I say, coming suddenly into school when the old Soldier had his fit on, and the face of the old hypocrite changed in a twinkling into an expression almost heavenly, On such an occasion he would call one of us up to repeat the Catechism or a Collect, and when we had done, would stroke our heads most affectionately. Parson Brown would congratulate him upon his labour and success. “You do deal of good here, Robbit,” he would say, “You be paid for all this again.”

Should any of us happen, in Mr. Brown’s presence, to look displeased, or to give any indication of the fact that we were not perfectly happy—woe to us when the good man’s back was turned. Indeed, whether we were industrious or idle, the effort it cost the old Soldier to appear gentle and benign, and the tax he put upon his villainous propensities in Mr. Brown’s presence, brought about such a reaction immediately Mr. Brown had left, that his temper became worse than ever. Occasionally some one ventured to complain to Parson Brown that the Soldier behaved cruelly towards the boys. The reverend gentleman would then come to school, and talk the matter over with the master, who would call up, maybe, the very lad in respect of whom he had been accused of cruelty. And then, before Mr. Brown’s face, he would ask the victim, his eye containing a plain intimation what the answer was to be: “Am I not a kind master?”

It were not well with that boy if he said otherwise, and so Mr. Brown would be satisfied that the complaints were only so much idle gossip after all.

And yet Soldier Robin’s school had its advantages, or what we boys considered to be advantages. Every Friday afternoon the old warrior would select two of us to be his servants for the following week. It was the servants’ duty to clean the school-house, light the fire, and run errands. Under the latter head were included frequent journeys to the Cross Foxes to fetch the Soldier’s beer—always without the money. Until one got used to it, this latter was a very unpleasant business, because old Mrs. Tibbet, the ale wife, chid us at a frightful rate, and made it a point of showing the messenger, each time, the amount of the old Soldier’s indebtedness, scored up, in chalk hieroglyphics, on the back of the cellar door. She was a fat old woman, the same size all the way up, was Mrs. Tibbet, with a perpetually purple face, arising, some people said, from constant protestation that she never as much as touched a drop of intoxicating drink. The boys cherished a very high regard for her for taking the same view of the old Soldier’s life and character that they did. I remember well the gusto with which she used to deliver her opinion of his failings, whilst pointing to the reckoning on the cellar door, which he would never, she declared, be able to pay. I heard Will Bryan once make the remark to her that the old Soldier had another and much larger reckoning than that, which, also, he would never be able to pay.

“What!” exclaimed the old woman in great alarm, ‘has he an account anywhere else, then?”

“When Will explained that it was to the great reckoning of the Day of Judgment he was referring, she cooled down at once, and said, “O! well, between him and his business as to that. Every one of us must go to his Answering, and all will have justice done them. If he pays what he owes me he may take his chance afterwards.”

The servants’ most unpleasant duty was that of lighting of the school-house fire, because they were obliged to hunt for brushwood for the purpose, as the hedges round about bore witness. I remember very well one morning when we were without a scrap of wood to start the fire, Will Bryan asking me, in all seriousness, if I knew whether the master was in the habit of taking his wooden leg to bed with him, and could we possibly manage to steal it?

“Ah!” said Will, “what a beautiful blaze it would make.”

In fancy, I still see his face brightening with satisfaction at the bare idea of the thing. Poor old Will! He never had the chance of putting his wish into execution.

But as to the advantages of which I spoke. Whilst acting the servant, one was never asked to as much as look at a book, and was wholly exempt from punishment, no matter what the mischief he may have committed during his period of ministration. Indeed, it was said that the master, on one occasion, actually smiled upon a servant. I cannot vouch for the truth of this, for I never once saw a smile on his face save when Mr. Brown was present. In view of these tremendous advantages, we were always found on Friday afternoons waiting like mice to hear whose lot the comforting ministry would fall to on the following week. Seldom did it come to Will Bryan’s turn and mine, for the reason that our parents were chapel people, and that we ourselves hardly ever went to Church except when distributions of cake took place there. It was our visit to Church on one Good Friday morning which put an end to the term of our stay in the school of Soldier Robin; and after I have described that event, I shall, as I have said, bid this particular Pharaoh an eternal farewell. In contemplating the circumstances I am about to relate, I hardly understand my feeling with regard thereto. I have a sort of guilty consciousness for my own mischief, while, at the same time, I am unable to repress the inward chuckle which will arise when I remember the part I played. If the feeling is a sinful one, I hope I shall be forgiven for it. Though it contain the chronicle of my own wickedness, it is impossible I can pass over such an occurrence, inasmuch as it has an important bearing upon my history, and was the cause of terminating that modicum of day-schooling it was thought best I should receive.

It was a Good Friday morning. There being no service at the chapel, and the weather being too wet for us to go out to play, Will Bryan and I went to Church with the rest of the boys. I had no notion Will had any but an innocent object in going, and he never opened his mouth to me on the way. He feared, possibly, if he made his intention known to me, I and he would not have agreed about it. In the old Church there was a great square, deep-seated pew, capable of holding twenty or more youngsters, set apart for the accommodation of Soldier Robin’s scholars. The door once shut upon us we were not able, on account of the depth, to see even Parson Brown in the pulpit; neither could any of the congregation see us. The seat next to ours was long and narrow and here sat the Soldier, all by himself, that he might overawe the children and keep them well in order. For the schoolmaster’s greater comfort, Mr. Brown, conformably with his usual kindness, had caused a hole to be bored in the partition, through which the wooden leg might be thrust when its owner sat down. The schoolmaster’s comfort was not the only purpose achieved by this means. The timber extremity protruded into the boys’ pew “to the end” that they might be perpetually reminded of the fact that he whom they feared was near them, though unseen. So were they kept within the bounds of decency.

Shortly after the service began, I found Will gazing contemplatively at as much as was in sight of the wooden leg. Next behold him taking from his pocket a length of thin, but strong cord, the running knot on which showed clearly that his was no unpremeditated plan. He got upon his knees and gently slipped the knot round the tip of the timber toe, handing me the other end of the cord, with the whispered words: “When you feel a bite, keep your hold of the line,’—referring to the leg as if it were a fish. I dared not disobey. It was not long before I got my bite. As is customary in Church, the congregation rose to their feet, and the Soldier tried to do the same. We heard him fall back in his seat like a lump of lead, in which position we kept him during the whole of the service. At first he bellowed and roared like a bull in a net, but his voice was speedily drowned by the mighty tones of the organ. Will and I held on to the cord until we were blue in the face, none of the other boys giving us any assistance, with the ex-” ception of Jack Beck, who, without waiting to be asked, rolled up his sleeves and seconded us splendidly. The greater number of them enjoyed our mischievous trick to such an extent that they were obliged to hold their sides with laughter, and stuff their handkerchiefs into their mouths to prevent themselves from screaming. Others looked on in fear and trembling, thinking only of the consequences. The Church cleaner’s son was the only one who seemed actually displeased. When the service was being brought to a close, Will ordered John Beck to take out his knife and cut the cord within a foot of the leg. Beck having done so, Will instantly whipped the remainder into his pocket, observing, “There he is now, like a hen which doesn’t come home to lay,” alluding, doubtless, to the custom of tying a string to a hen’s leg, so that her owner might be able to tell where she deposits her eggs. Will told us to file out leisurely, and with a sober face. We were going, slowly and seriously according to the word of command, when we noticed Parson Brown, on his way to the vestry, looking over the edge of the Soldier’s pew.

“Holloa! Robbit,” we heard him saying, “I thought you not in Church to-day.” 4 We did not wait to see or hear any more. Will Bryan, however, assured us that, on looking back, he saw the reverend gentleman pressing his handkerchief to his mouth, the nape of his neck and his ears being as red as fire, Will believed, from laughter on discovering what it was that had kept the Soldier invisible. And this was not unlikely; for a merry old soul was Mr. Brown.

We had a very bad time of it thence till the following Monday morning. When we became aware of the nature of the atrocity we had committed, we entertained no sort of doubt but that the “Skulk” would give the master the fullest particulars of all that had taken place. Many were the conferences between Bryan, Beck. and myself; but we could not see any way of escape from the punishment we so richly deserved. Monday morning came, and with it the necessity for going to school. Indeed. Will appeared only too eager to go, for he called for me much earlier than usual. I sometimes fancied he wanted the business over and done with; at others, that he had some scheme in hand for evading it, he appeared so particularly reserved and thoughtful. As for me, I was so terrified that my legs would barely carry me; and Beck felt the same. Seeing us so dreadfully frightened, Will said as we were going through the school-house door, “Cheer up, boys; it will come off better than you fear it will.” I did not see how he could hope for anything of the kind, but his words confirmed me in the notion that he had formed some plan for our rescue. All the boys were in attendance, and, for once, silent and still, as if in anxious expectation of our arrival. When we had taken our seats, Will planted his eyes straight in the face of the “Skulk,” who, blushing to the roots of his hair, turned away his head. All understood what that meant, but nobody said a word. Presently the silence was broken by the sound of the Soldier’s wooden leg pegging away towards the school. The boys glanced at Bryan, Beck, and myself, with looks of pity and concern. I cannot describe my feelings when the fierce face of the master made its appearance, and when I noticed that, the instant he came in, his glance shot straight to the spot where Will and I were sitting. Still I had some faint hope that Bryan had a plan of escape. The old warrior, as Will called him, went at once to his desk and said prayers as usual, the responses of the boys being weak and half-hearted this time. No sooner had he pronounced the “Amen,” than every eye was directed towards him, and I saw him take from his desk a stout new cane. He turned up the cuff of his right coat-sleeve, spat on his hand, and glaring, tiger-like, at Will Bryan, advanced with quick step in his direction. Instead, however, of making the usual preparatory shrug, Will jumped to his feet. The Soldier pulled up and ordered the “Skulk” to lock the door, and guard the outlet. But Will had no thought of flight. Although his lips were white and trembling, his eyes shot fire, and he never once took them off the Soldier. This defiant attitude made the master hesitate one moment, but the next he moved on again, his face looking ghastly from rage. When within a couple of yards of Will he raised the cane to the level of his head, for the purpose of a stroke, but before it could descend, Will, with one bound, had laid fierce hold of the wooden leg, a sharp pull at which, and a butt with the head in his stomach, sent the Soldier to the ground like a log. The bump of that skull against the floor still sounds as plainly in my ears as if it had only occurred at the moment of writing. Will turned upon his heel and walked leisurely towards the door, of which the “Skulk” tremblingly handed him the key—and in this he was wise. In passing out Will beckoned us to follow. I refused, because, for the first time, I believed him to be a bold bad boy. Hundreds of times since have I repented that I did not take the hint. Beck, wiser than I, ran off for dear life.

For a while the Soldier lay dazed and stunned, although not altogether helpless. I never saw, before or after, a man with a wooden leg trying to get up off the ground. I can imagine it to be one of the most stupendous of feats. Up the warrior got, however, without help from any one, looking like an ox in the shambles, which the butcher has made an unsuccessful attempt to knock down. He snorted through the nostrils audibly. I saw at once the folly of not running out after Will, and sprang to my feet with the intention of rectifying my mistake. It was too late. The next minute the cane was cutting and slashing me in all directions—over the head, the neck, the back, hands, legs, in short, the whole of my body. Dark night fell upon me, and I lost all consciousness. I do not know how long I remained in that state. On regaining my senses, I felt as if in a dream, and was utterly unable to move from where I lay. I fancied the school to be empty, and yet I heard some one moaning as if in the agony of death. I thought at one time the moans were my own, and that, deserted by all, I had been left there to die. Managing, after a desperate effort, to turn my head, I saw, standing terror-struck near the open door, two or three of the boys, of whom Jack Beck was one. I called to him, and he, finding I was alive, ran up and helped me into a sitting posture. Every joint and bone of me seemed parting asunder. To my astonishment I found the old Soldier stretched on his back, with pallid face, and my brother Bob, in working clothes, and black as coal, kneeling upon his chest, and, it seemed to me, deliberately throttling him. To my shame I must admit, being bound to tell the truth, that I shouted with all the strength which was left me, “Give it him, Bob.” Finding from this that I was alive, Bob let go his hold, came over to me and began to cry. Seeing I could not walk, he took me upon his back, and away we went, leaving the Soldier to recover himself whenever it pleased him. It would appear that Beck, after making his escape, stayed at the door to listen and to see how it fared with me. He quickly made out that I was “catching it.” Who should come by, almost directly, but my brother Bob, on his way home from the night shift. Beck shouted to him that the old Soldier was killing me. That was enough. Bob rushed into the schoolroom, and, I have heard the boys say who were eye-witnesses of his sudden entrance, with face as black as the chimney, that they thought for certain he was the Evil One come to fetch the old Soldier. Bob caught the master beating me whilst I was wholly insensible, sprang upon him like a madman, and brought him down with the same suddenness that he had been brought down a few minutes previously. It was in this position I found them when I came to myself.

That was not the end of the business. Bob and I and Will Bryan were members of the Children’s Society, and it was impossible an occurrence of this kind could be passed by unnoticed, But inasmuch as I shall have to make reference to divers of the good old fathers who were connected with the church at that period, I will take another chapter in which to narrate the history. Had I intended it for publication, I would have written in greater detail my account of Soldier Robin’s school, so that the lads of these days might see the enormous increase and improvement that have taken place in schools and schoolmasters during less than half a generation.