The Gentleman Cadet

Four days Howard stayed with us, and I had learnt much from him during that time. He advised me to work hard all next half, particularly in academy, so as to pass my probationary well, and to make friends with D’Arcy, who, he said, was a very good fellow, and had a brother who was a cadet with him. He also gave me some useful hints about examinations, and recommended a system of artificial memory for remembering formulae and various dates. He also told me I should find the advantage all my life of becoming skilled as a boxer and single-stick player, and that one of the Academy sergeants was a first-rate instructor at both.

“You’re not a fellow,” said Howard, “who would get into a row for the sake of showing off – a gentleman never does that sort of thing – so the knowledge of how to use your fists would not be likely to make you quarrelsome; but it is a pleasure to know that when you see some hulking lout who is a bully, and who is doing what he ought not to do, you can give him a thrashing if you like. I’ve always felt a sort of pleasure,” said Howard, “when walking through the streets of Paris, to think that I could thrash at least ninety-nine out of the hundred of the men one meets, for Frenchmen cannot use their fists. You should go in strong also for rackets and cricket; there is nothing more indicative of a muff than a fellow who is not good at some game or other. I remember hearing once of some general who said he would always select his staff from the men who were best across country, and you may depend on it that there’s great truth in the suggestion. I’ve generally found the best officers were men who were good at games. You can play chess well, I know, as your father told me you were within a pawn of him. So take my advice, and follow the maxim, that ‘what is worth doing at all is worth doing well!’”

My time passed pleasantly enough during the vacation, for I fully appreciated the quiet of the forest and its splendid trees, after having been crowded by my fellows and surrounded by houses during the past year. I did not look forward with much pleasure to my return to the Academy. I knew that some second-half cadets were fagged as much as if they were last-joined, and it was quite possible that such might be my fate; the novelty, too, of being a cadet and wearing uniform was departing, and I looked more to realities than I had at first. The prospect of being turned out at six o’clock a.m. to go and brush clothes in another room was not pleasant, nor did I relish the idea of being once more placed on a table as the target for boots and brushes. In fact, I was getting older rapidly; and as I grew very fast and became much stronger, a rebellious feeling came over me that was not favourable to my future obedience as a neux.

On comparing Brag and Snipson with Howard, or oven with several of the other old cadets I knew, I could not but feel that these two were very bad specimens of the cadet of that day. They were both bullies; they excelled in nothing, were low down in their class, and in spite of this were both very conceited. Their style of conversation, too, was inferior to what I had heard from other old cadets. Their ideas were cramped, and they seemed to take a mean or malicious view of everything, and to attribute to all other persons bad motives for what they did or said. I remarked, also, that neither Brag nor Snipson had a good word for any one. If any cadet’s name was mentioned, one or the other of these would commence with “Oh, yes! he’s all very well in his way, but then he’s not such a swell as he thinks himself, for I have good reason to believe that he,” etc, etc, etc; and here would follow some disparagement of the individual whose name was mentioned.

Brag and Snipson somehow got on well together. They were unpopular at the Academy, and perhaps that gave them some sympathetic feeling for each other; but the principal reason, I believe, was that they used to flatter one another very much. Whatever Brag did, Snipson said was “deuced well done;” and when Snipson did anything, Brag declared it was very clever. There was no use in concealing the fact, between myself and the two old cadets in my room there was a very great antipathy, and I can use no milder term to indicate with truth my feelings towards them than to say I detested them both.

To be at the mercy of a bully for whom you have a contempt, is a very trying position, and such had been my fate during the whole of the first term I was a cadet at Woolwich. As the time arrived for my return to Woolwich, I was anxious principally about the room in which I should live. It was quite a chance whether I had a nice or a disagreeable head of the room, but my comfort or misery for five months was dependent on the peculiar character of this cadet.

Chapter Ten

A “Second-Half” Cadet at Woolwich

Having made the journey from Hampshire to Woolwich in one day, I reported myself at the Academy at about six in the evening, and then found that I was appointed to No. 16 room, the head of which was a cadet named Forester. On going to this room I found I was the first arrival, and I also ascertained that the second of my room was Fenton. I was the third, and there was a vacancy for the fourth, who most likely would be a last-joined, and consequently the regular fag of the room. About eight o’clock Forester came, and was very civil to me; asked me if I had been winning any more races during the vacation, and told me I must always secure a racket-court for him. The securing the racket-court was by some cadet, either on coming out from the hall or being broken off at parade, racing to the court and being first in. He could then, if he liked, resign his claim to any one else; so it was not unusual for a neux who could run well to be employed for this purpose.

“You’ll find Fenton a very good fellow,” said Forester; “and I should think you are heartily glad to get out of Brag’s room.”

“Brag and Snipson both used to bully me a great deal,” I said; “but I suppose it’s the usual thing.” I did not yet know Forester well enough to speak freely about the treatment I had received, so I was cautions in my remarks.

About nine o’clock Fenton came in, and I at once took a fancy to him. He was short, stoutly built, and very dark. He and Forester were great friends, and were antagonists at rackets, and I also found they both played chess.

During the first few days of my second half I was very comfortable. I had little to do for either Forester or Fenton. I brushed them, and they did the same to me; and I brought books, etc, from the library for Forester, but there was no bullying from either of them. In a week after my return a last-joined cadet was appointed to our room, and to him was allotted the work which had hitherto fallen to my share. The last-joined was called Hampden, and was a wild Irishman. He was soon called upon to sing his songs of a night, and make his odes to the moon, but I was never sent for now, as the heads of rooms and old cadets in my division were contented in fagging the last-joined. Hampden could neither sing nor make speeches, and his strong Irish accent was very amusing, so that he was well laughed at, and pelted with boots and brushes, when he failed to make any speeches. He was, however, very good-tempered, and the more he was chaffed the more he seemed pleased.

It was about ten days after my return, that Snipson told me one day that he wanted to see me over at his room, which was in the “Towers.” On going there he informed me that he had now a single room, and therefore had not a fag, and as there was a last-joined in my room I couldn’t have much to do, so he should require me at his room every morning at seven to brush clothes, and look out for things he wanted.

This order was a great annoyance to me; I had been so quiet and comfortable in my room that I fancied the worst part of the fagging was over; but now having to turn out and dress by seven, and go over to the “Towers” where Snipson ordered me about, was, as I termed it, “disgusting.” I told Forester of the order, and he said I had better go, for it was the custom for one or two cadets of the second term to be fagged at the “Towers,” where no last-joined were quartered.

I soon found that Snipson seemed to dislike me as much as I did him; there was a natural antipathy between us, and we seemed to have nothing in common. He found fault with all I did, and complained that I mislaid everything and did not brush his clothes properly. I ground my teeth at his complaints and kicks, but I had to bear them nevertheless, for there was in those days the most rigid discipline used against a neux who “struck,” as it was termed, against an old cadet. I knew that of the two evils it was the lesser to bear the bullying of Snipson rather than to commit any act as bad for a cadet as mutiny for an officer or soldier. I found there were no other second-half cadets besides myself who were really fagged regularly, except where there was no fourth to a room, so I thought my case a hard one. However, there was no use in complaining, so I did my work and stood my bullying in as dogged a manner as possible.

When the idea had first seized me of becoming a soldier, I had taken as my model-man Howard. I was won and almost enchanted by the knowledge and apparent power he possessed. He seemed above what may be termed the little trivialities of life, and to have a wide and general view of everything. To him there seemed to be given a capacity for looking at all subjects with the power of an impartial judge, and at the same time he exhibited an enthusiasm for the service which, though toned down by experience, was yet shown in various ways.

When I had been some weeks in the room with Brag and Snipson, and had listened to their conversation, was conversant with their ideas and opinions, I could not but feel disappointed when I knew that two men with such mean sentiments, cramped ideas, and such disparaging views of others, should be so near to becoming officers in one or other of the scientific corps.

One of the charms of Howard was the readiness with which he bestowed praise on anything or anybody that deserved it. The beauty of the New Forest, for example, was a subject on which he used to dilate. I was once with him on a lovely autumnal afternoon, when the sun was lighting up the richly-tinted foliage of the forest, amidst which the dark green of the fir-tree was seen; the distant water of the Solent glittering like silver beyond endless waves of forest glades; the far and cloudy-looking hills in the island marking the distance, and presenting a lovely variety of scenery rarely obtainable in England.

Howard stopped and looked at the view, and, with a heartiness that showed how he appreciated it, exclaimed, “By Jove! that’s a lovely bit of scenery!”

“But,” I said, “abroad you must have seen far more beautiful views than this?”

“Of course I have; I’ve seen grand mountains rising twelve thousand feet direct from a plain, and I’ve seen tropical forests with their branches hung with wild vine, whilst gorgeous metallic-looking broad-leaved exotics were scattered about in profusion. But because I’ve seen that, it does not prevent this from being a perfect bit of English landscape.”

I compared these remarks of Howard’s with those of a gentleman who came to see us some time after Howard had left, and who, on seeing the same view, exclaimed, “Oh, I dare say you think it very fine, but it’s nothing to what I have seen in other places.”

I was young then, and did not know the world or the men comprising it; so, although an uncomfortable feeling came over when I heard this remark, I did not know how to account for the difference between the opinions expressed by Howard and by this visitor. Yet how often in the world do we meet with persons of both the types I have here referred to! We meet men with generous minds, ready to acknowledge merit and to admit its genuineness, who do not condemn that which is good merely because they have seen or heard that which they consider better. These men are usually those who have worked and won themselves, and who know that even mediocrity is not gained without great trouble. They are men whose praise or good opinion is worth having, for they judge of a matter on its merits, not by mere comparison.

Others, again, condemn everything which is not what they consider equal to the very best they have seen or heard. With them it is not the merit of a subject which is examined or considered, but the comparison between that and some other. These men are usually ungenerous and conceited, without the slightest cause for being so. They are men who would make the unaspiring believe that to work for success was a mere waste of time – that even if success were gained it would not be worth having. Such men, and women too, are met everywhere; they are the cold sheets of society, who do harm to the weak and infirm of purpose, and in almost every case have no merit of their own, and not one single point of excellence in their nature.

That which struck me most forcibly during my first half-year, and my acquaintance with Snipson and Brag, was this “nil admirari” style. Neither of them had a good word for anybody. The cadet who was head of his batch before I joined was once discussed by these two, and the following was the conversation: —

“Some fellows say that London is so awfully clever,” said Snipson, “and got a higher decimal than any fellow has since, about four years ago. Now, I don’t think him a bit clever – in fact, I think him rather stupid, for he was a most awful ‘mug.’ I don’t suppose any fellow swatted harder than he did his last two terms in order to be head of the batch.”

“Oh, any fellow who mugged as he did could be head of a batch!” replied Brag. “Besides, I don’t think passing examinations well is any great proof of being very clever. I dare say if I set to work I might pass well, but it’s not worth the trouble.”

“Hopkins of that batch thinks a deal of himself too,” said Snipson, “because he’s third of the batch. Why, I remember the time when I could beat him at everything; but then I didn’t choose to slave away as he did. There’s Dawkins, too, who is fifth; he got to be that I believe merely by sponging; he was always sneaking about the octagon, pretending he was hard at work. I hate a fellow doing like that.”

Young as I was, I could perceive that neither Brag nor Snipson would have made such remarks unless they had imagined themselves superior to all those whom they had mentioned; and the latent belief thus revealed is, we believe, one of the reasons why the slanderer or even scandal-monger of society is agreeable to some natures, and produces abhorrence in others. To the honest, straightforward, hard-working man, who judges of things by their merits, and who loves the truth and detests the sham, this system of disparaging is offensive and painful. To such a nature it is more pleasant to hear the excellence and the good qualities of people referred to than it is to hear only their defects, supposed or real, or their evil deeds, or those attributed to them, referred to.

The thoroughly noble woman who is herself true, and who possesses the gift of charity, finds no pleasure in the society of a person whose conversation consists mainly in slandering her neighbours.

The woman who is herself false, and who endeavours to pervert the truth, finds her vanity gratified when she can hear anything related which drags her neighbour’s name into the mud. As a corollary, therefore, it may be stated that, given the woman who paints her eyebrows, blackens her eyelids, powders and tints her face, and there you find to a certainty the character whose delight is intense when she can glean any intelligence about her dear friends of such a nature as to damage their characters, and to retail such intelligence with additions is to her a luxury.

Having experienced four months of the society of Brag and Snipson, I could not avoid feeling that they were inferior men, who would never by fair means make a mark in the world, and who were not desirable either as friends or enemies.

I had been but a very brief time in Forester’s room before I became deeply interested in him. He used to read a great deal, and had at that time the rare accomplishment of being able to talk about other matters beside “shop.” He was devoted to soldiering, and had studied carefully “Napier’s Peninsula” and other similar books, and used to talk of a night, when lights were out, with Fenton about various actions and their results.

As I look back on those days, I can recall many of the remarks that Forester made, and have been struck with the value of these, and of their practical application even now. One, in particular, I remember was, “that all the extensive theory that we learnt at the Academy would probably never be of use to one in twenty of the cadets in afterlife, whilst we should know nothing about certain practical matters when we became officers, which every non-commissioned officer would be acquainted with.”

“An officer’s head,” said Forester, “ought to be like a soldier’s knapsack – have a few useful things in it always handy and ready for use – just the things required for every day.”

Once, after a long game of chess with Fenton, Forester remarked that people said chess and war were very much alike.

“They would be,” he said, “more alike if, when playing chess, you were bound to move within one minute after your adversary, and also if you had a drum beating in your ears and a fellow shying racket-balls at you. I believe,” he said, “that the men who make the best leaders of troops are usually hard, strong men, without too much brains, whilst the great generals and planners of campaigns are quite different men. These should be careful thinkers, and men with great nervous power, and it is such men who are most upset by disturbing causes. I have often thought,” continued Forester, “that we ought to have a thinking general and a working one – the first to think out the moves, the other to execute them.”

Before I had been long in this room, Forester expressed his opinion about keeping up lights. He said, —

“I think taking away our lights at half-past nine, and leaving us to undress and go to bed in the dark, is absurd; but when I have said to the officer on duty that ‘I have no lights concealed, and no intention of procuring a light,’ I feel bound in honour to act up to what I say.”

“But no one really looks upon the usual report about lights as given on honour,” said Fenton.

“I’ve nothing to do with what other fellows think,” said Forester. “I only know what I state to an officer, and if I keep up lights after having stated I will not do so, I consider I have ‘smashed.’”[1 - “Smashed,” in those days, was the familiar term for having broken one’s word of honour.]

I here learnt for the first time the great effect produced on us by the society in which we mix, and the influence that such society has on our opinions. When Snipson wished to keep up lights, Brag did not object from a moral point of view, but because it was not safe. I also turned my attention to a plan of keeping a light burning without reflecting on its being dishonourable. Now, however, when Forester expressed his views about it, I felt I agreed with him, and was ashamed of having aided Snipson to commit an act which I now looked on as dishonourable.

There were very curious ideas among the cadets in those days. One of these was, that it was rather a smart thing to get very nearly tipsy – that is to say, “screwed.” If a cadet could prove that he had arrived at this state through drinking champagne or “old port,” he thought himself a man of judgment and taste. This peculiar opinion was confined to only a few cadets, a sort of clique, and was much condemned by Forester.

“There is no doubt,” said Forester, “that of all men in the world who should never be the worse for what they have drunk, a soldier is the one. He and a driver of an engine, if drunk, may cause the death of hundreds of men. Besides, a fellow who gets drunk I look on as a fool, for he must know so little about himself that he cannot tell how much of anything will make him tipsy. I don’t know a more disgusting sight than to see a man drunk and incapable, and why some fellows here think it fast I cannot imagine.”

In our division was an old cadet named Marsden, who was always boasting of the wine he had drank when on leave, or when he had been home. It happened that Marsden’s father was an officer retired on full pay; but, like most officers, he was poor, and, though occasionally he asked cadets to dinner, he never produced any wines besides sherry, and, as cadets declared, his sparkling wine was gooseberry. Saumer in those days was unknown.

More than once Marsden had returned from leave and made a great shouting in the division, asserting that “the Moët’s champagne was so strong.”

Forester had more than once made remarks about this proceeding, and at length, with three or four other cadets who thought the same as he did, organised a plot against Marsden, which turned out a most amusing affair, but one somewhat unpleasant to Marsden.

It wanted about half an hour to roll-call one Sunday evening, when Marsden came into the division shouting.

“There’s Marsden again?” said Forester. “Now for a lesson for him!”