ed round and came
out again, facing the crowd. I can see him now, all splashed and muddy,
with his shirt open at the neck. He was pale, ugly, and sinister; but
he surveyed us all with entire effrontery, drew out a pince-nez, being
very short-sighted, and then looked calmly round as if surprised. I
have certainly never seen such an exhibition of courage in my life. He
knew that he had not a single friend present, and he did not know that
he would not be maltreated--there were indications of a rush being
made. He did not look in the least picturesque; he was ugly, scowling,
offensive. But he did not care a rap, and if he had been attacked, he
would have defended himself with a will. It did not occur to me then,
nor did it, I think, occur to anyone else, what an amazing bit of
physical and moral courage it was. No one, then or after, had the
slightest feeling of admiration for his pluck. "Did you ever see such a
brute as P-- looked?" was the only sort of comment made.

This just serves to illustrate my point, that boys have no real
discernment for what is courageous. What they admire is a certain grace
and spirit, and the hero is not one who constrains himself to do an
unpopular thing from a sense of duty, not even the boy who, being
unpopular like P--, does a satanically brave thing. Boys have no
admiration for the boy who defies them; what they like to see is the
defiance of a common foe. They admire gallant, modest, spirited,
picturesque behaviour, not the dull and faithful obedience to the sense
of right.

Of course things have altered for the better. Masters are no longer
stern, severe, abrupt, formidable, unreasonable. They know that many a
boy, who would be inclined on the whole to tell the truth, can easily
be frightened into telling a lie; but they have not yet contrived to
put the sense of honour among boys in the right proportion. Such
stories as that of George Washington--when the children were asked who
had cut down the apple-tree, and he rose and said, "Sir, I cannot tell
a lie; it was I who did it with my little hatchet"--do not really take
the imagination of boys captive. How constantly did worthy preachers at
Eton tell the story of how Bishop Selwyn, as a boy, rose and left the
room at a boat-supper because an improper song was sung! That anecdote
was regarded with undisguised amusement, and it was simply thought to
be a piece of priggishness. I cannot imagine that any boy ever heard
the story and went a