t to travel it had been better for me. I was "difficult," not
because I was stiff but because I was lax. I resisted nothing except
by inertia. If my parents did not know me--and how should they?--if I
did not know myself, and I did not, my masters, for their part, made
no attempt to know me nor even inquired whether there might be
anything to know. I was unpopular, as might have been expected, made
no friends, did no good. My brother, on the other hand, was an ideal
schoolboy, diligent, brisk, lovable, abounding in friendships, good at
his work and excellent at his play. His career at Spring Grove was one
long happy triumph, and he deserved it. He has a charming nature, and
is one of the few naturally holy persons I know. Wholesome, thank God,
we all are, or could be; pious we nearly all are; but holiness is a
rare quality.

If I were to try and set down here the really happy memories which I
have of Spring Grove they would be three. The first was the revelation
of Greece which was afforded me by Homer and Plato. The surging music
and tremendous themes of the poet, the sweet persuasion of the sophist
were a wonder and delight. I remember even now the thrill with which I
heard my form-master translate for us the prayer with which the
_Phaedrus_ closes: "Beloved Pan, and all ye other gods who haunt this
place...." Beloved Pan! My knowledge of Pan was of the vaguest, and
yet more than once or twice did I utter that prayer wandering alone
the playing field, or watching the evening mist roll down the Thames
Valley and blot up the elm trees, thick and white, clinging to the day
like a fleece. The third Iliad again I have never forgotten, nor the
twenty-fourth; nor the picture of the two gods, like vulture birds,
watching the battle from the dead tree. Nor, again, do I ever fail to
recapture the beat of the heart with which I apprehended some of
Homer's phrases: "Sandy Pylos," Argos "the pasture land of horses," or
"clear-seen" Ithaca. These things happened upon by chance in the dusty
class-room, in the close air of that terrible hour from two to three,
were as the opening of shutters to the soul, revealing blue distances,
dim fields, or the snowy peaks of mountains in the sun. One seemed to
lift, one could forget. It lasted but an instant; but time is of no
account to the inner soul, of no more account than it is to God. I
have never forgotten these moments of escape; nor can I leave Homer
without confessing that his books be