At length when I was eight or nine an aunt said to me, “you are going to London.  Here you are somebody.  There you will be nobody at all.”  I knew at the time that her words were a blow at my father, not at me, but it was some years before I knew her reason.  She thought so able a man as my father could have found out some way of painting more popular pictures if he had set his mind to it and that it was wrong of him “to spend every evening at his club.”  She had mistaken, for what she would have considered a place of wantonness, Heatherley’s Art School.

My mother and brother and sister were at Sligo perhaps when I was sent to England, for my father and I and a group of landscape painters lodged at Burnham Beeches with an old Mr. and Mrs. Earle.  My father was painting the first big pond you come to if you have driven from Slough through Farnham Royal.  He began it in spring and painted all through the year, the picture changing with the seasons, and gave it up unfinished when he had painted the snow upon the heath-covered banks.  He is never satisfied and can never make himself say that any picture is finished.  In the evening he heard me my lessons or read me some novel of Fenimore Cooper’s.  I found delightful adventures in the woods ­one day a blind worm and an adder fighting in a green hollow, and sometimes Mrs. Earle would be afraid to tidy the room because I had put a bottle full of newts on the mantle-piece.  Now and then a boy from a farm on the other side of the road threw a pebble at my window at daybreak, and he and I went fishing in the big second pond.  Now and then another farmer’s boy and I shot sparrows with an old pepper box revolver and the boy would roast them on a string.  There was an old horse one of the painters called the scaffolding, and sometimes a son of old Earle’s drove with me to Slough and once to Windsor, and at Windsor we made our lunch of cold sausages bought from a public house.  I did not know what it was to be alone, for I could wander in pleasant alarm through the enclosed parts, then very large, or round some pond imagining ships going in and out among the reeds and thinking of Sligo or of strange seafaring adventures in the fine ship I should launch when I grew up.  I had always a lesson to learn before night and that was a continual misery, for I could very rarely, with so much to remember, set my thoughts upon it and then only in fear.  One day my father told me that a painter had said I was very thick-skinned and did not mind what was said to me, and I could not understand how anybody could be so unjust.  It made me wretched to be idle but one could not help it.  I was once surprised and shocked.  All but my father and myself had been to London, and Kennedy and Farrar and Page, I remember the names vaguely, arrived laughing and talking.  One of them had carried off a card of texts from the waiting room of the station and hung it up on the wall.  I thought “he has stolen it,” but my father and all made it a theme of merry conversation.

Then I returned to Sligo for a few weeks as I was to do once or twice in every year for years, and after that we settled in London.  Perhaps my mother and the other children had been there all the time, for I remember my father now and again going to London.  The first house we lived in was close to Burne Jones’s house at North End, but we moved after a year or two to Bedford Park.  At North End we had a pear tree in the garden and plenty of pears, but the pears used to be full of maggots, and almost opposite lived a school-master called O’Neill, and when a little boy told me that the school-master’s great-grandfather had been a king I did not doubt it.  I was sitting against the hedge and iron railing of some villa-garden there, when I heard one boy say to another it was something wrong with my liver that gave me such a dark complexion and that I could not live more than a year.  I said to myself a year is a very long time, one can do such a lot of things in a year, and put it out of my head.  When my father gave me a holiday and later when I had a holiday from school I took my schooner boat to the round pond, sailing it very commonly against the two cutter yachts of an old naval officer.  He would sometimes look at the ducks and say, “I would like to take that fellow home for my dinner,” and he sang me a sailor’s song about a coffin ship which left Sligo after the great famine, that made me feel very important.  The servants at Sligo had told me the story.  When she was moved from the berth she had lain in, an unknown dead man’s body had floated up, a very evil omen; and my grandfather, who was Lloyds’ agent, had condemned her, but she slipped out in the night.  The pond had its own legends; and a boy who had seen a certain model steamer “burned to the water’s edge” was greatly valued as a friend.  There was a little boy I was kind to because I knew his father had done something disgraceful, though I did not know what.  It was years before I discovered that his father was but the maker of certain popular statues, many of which are now in public places.  I had heard my father’s friends speak of him.  Sometimes my sister came with me, and we would look into all the sweet shops & toy shops on our way home, especially into one opposite Holland House because there was a cutter yacht made of sugar in the window, and we drank at all the fountains.  Once a stranger spoke to us and bought us sweets and came with us almost to our door.  We asked him to come in and told him our father’s name.  He would not come in, but laughed and said, “Oh, that is the painter who scrapes out every day what he painted the day before.”  A poignant memory came upon me the other day while I was passing the drinking-fountain near Holland Park, for there I and my sister had spoken together of our longing for Sligo and our hatred of London.  I know we were both very close to tears and remember with wonder, for I had never known anyone that cared for such momentoes, that I longed for a sod of earth from some field I knew, something of Sligo to hold in my hand.  It was some old race instinct like that of a savage, for we had been brought up to laugh at all display of emotion.  Yet it was our mother, who would have thought its display a vulgarity, who kept alive that love.  She would spend hours listening to stories or telling stories of the pilots and fishing people of Rosses Point, or of her own Sligo girlhood, and it was always assumed between her and us that Sligo was more beautiful than other places.  I can see now that she had great depth of feeling, that she was her father’s daughter.  My memory of what she was like in those days has grown very dim, but I think her sense of personality, her desire of any life of her own, had disappeared in her care for us and in much anxiety about money.  I always see her sewing or knitting in spectacles and wearing some plain dress.  Yet ten years ago when I was in San Francisco, an old cripple came to see me who had left Sligo before her marriage; he came to tell me, he said, that my mother “had been the most beautiful girl in Sligo.”

The only lessons I had ever learned were those my father taught me, for he terrified me by descriptions of my moral degradation and he humiliated me by my likeness to disagreeable people; but presently I was sent to school at Hammersmith.  It was a Gothic building of yellow brick:  a large hall full of desks, some small class-rooms and a separate house for boarders, all built perhaps in 1840 or 1850.  I thought it an ancient building and that it had belonged to the founder of the school, Lord Godolphin, who was romantic to me because there was a novel about him.  I never read the novel, but I thought only romantic people were put in books.  On one side, there was a piano factory of yellow brick, upon two sides half finished rows of little shops and villas all yellow brick, and on the fourth side, outside the wall of our playing field, a brickfield of cinders and piles of half-burned yellow bricks.  All the names and faces of my school-fellows have faded from me except one name without a face and the face and name of one friend, mainly no doubt because it was all so long ago, but partly because I only seem to remember things that have mixed themselves up with scenes that have some quality to bring them again and again before the memory.  For some days, as I walked homeward along the Hammersmith Road, I told myself that whatever I most cared for had been taken away.  I had found a small, green-covered book given to my father by a Dublin man of science; it gave an account of the strange sea creatures the man of science had discovered among the rocks at Howth or dredged out of Dublin Bay.  It had long been my favourite book; and when I read it I believed that I was growing very wise, but now I should have no time for it nor for my own thoughts.  Every moment would be taken up learning or saying lessons or walking between school and home four times a day, for I came home in the middle of the day for dinner.  But presently I forgot my trouble, absorbed in two things I had never known, companionship and enmity.  After my first day’s lesson, a circle of boys had got around me in a playing field and asked me questions, “who’s your father?” “what does he do?” “how much money has he?” Presently a boy said something insulting.  I had never struck anybody or been struck, and now all in a minute, without any intention upon my side, but as if I had been a doll moved by a string, I was hitting at the boys within reach and being hit.  After that I was called names for being Irish, and had many fights and never, for years, got the better of any one of them; for I was delicate and had no muscles.  Sometimes, however, I found means of retaliation, even of aggression.  There was a boy with a big stride, much feared by little boys, and finding him alone in the playing field, I went up to him and said, “rise upon Sugaun and sink upon Gad.”  “What does that mean?” he said.  “Rise upon hay-leg and sink upon straw,” I answered and told him that in Ireland the sergeant tied straw and hay to the ankles of a stupid recruit to show him the difference between his legs.  My ears were boxed, and when I complained to my friends, they said I had brought it upon myself; and that I deserved all I got.  I probably dared myself to other feats of a like sort, for I did not think English people intelligent or well-behaved unless they were artists.  Everyone I knew well in Sligo despised Nationalists and Catholics, but all disliked England with a prejudice that had come down perhaps from the days of the Irish Parliament.  I knew stories to the discredit of England, and took them all seriously.  My mother had met some English woman who did not like Dublin because the legs of the men were too straight, and at Sligo, as everybody knew, an Englishman had once said to a car-driver, “if you people were not so lazy, you would pull down the mountain and spread it out over the sand and that would give you acres of good fields.”  At Sligo there is a wide river mouth and at ebb tide most of it is dry sand, but all Sligo knew that in some way I cannot remember it was the spreading of the tide over the sand that left the narrow channel fit for shipping.  At any rate the carman had gone chuckling all over Sligo with his tale.  People would tell it to prove that Englishmen were always grumbling.  “They grumble about their dinners and everything ­there was an Englishman who wanted to pull down Knock-na-Rea” and so on.  My mother had shown them to me kissing at railway stations, and taught me to feel disgust at their lack of reserve, and my father told how my grandfather, William Yeats, who had died before I was born, when he came home to his Rectory in County Down from an English visit, spoke of some man he had met on a coach road who “Englishman-like” told him all his affairs.  My father explained that an Englishman generally believed that his private affairs did him credit, while an Irishman, being poor and probably in debt, had no such confidence.  I, however, did not believe in this explanation.  My Sligo nurses, who had in all likelihood the Irish Catholic political hatred, had never spoken well of any Englishman.

Once when walking in the town of Sligo I had turned to look after an English man and woman whose clothes attracted me.  The man I remember had gray clothes and knee-breeches and the woman a gray dress, and my nurse had said contemptuously, “towrows.”  Perhaps before my time, there had been some English song with the burden “tow row row,” and everybody had told me that English people ate skates and even dog-fish, and I myself had only just arrived in England when I saw an old man put marmalade in his porridge.  I was divided from all those boys, not merely by the anecdotes that are everywhere perhaps a chief expression of the distrust of races, but because our mental images were different.  I read their boys’ books and they excited me, but if I read of some English victory, I did not believe that I read of my own people.  They thought of Cressy and Agincourt and the Union Jack and were all very patriotic, and I, without those memories of Limerick and the Yellow Ford that would have strengthened an Irish Catholic, thought of mountain and lake, of my grandfather and of ships.  Anti-Irish feeling was running high, for the Land League had been founded and landlords had been shot, and I, who had no politics, was yet full of pride, for it is romantic to live in a dangerous country.

I daresay I thought the rough manners of a cheap school, as my grandfather Yeats had those of a chance companion, typical of all England.  At any rate I had a harassed life & got many a black eye and had many outbursts of grief and rage.  Once a boy, the son of a great Bohemian glass-maker, and who was older than the rest of us, and had been sent out of his country because of a love affair, beat a boy for me because we were “both foreigners.”  And a boy, who grew to be the school athlete and my chief friend, beat a great many.  His are the face and name that I remember ­his name was of Huguenot origin and his face like his gaunt and lithe body had something of the American Indian in colour and lineament.

I was very much afraid of the other boys, and that made me doubt myself for the first time.  When I had gathered pieces of wood in the corner for my great ship, I was confident that I could keep calm among the storms and die fighting when the great battle came.  But now I was ashamed of my lack of courage; for I wanted to be like my grandfather who thought so little of danger that he had jumped overboard in the Bay of Biscay after an old hat.  I was very much afraid of physical pain, and one day when I had made some noise in class, my friend the athlete was accused and I allowed him to get two strokes of the cane before I gave myself up.  He had held out his hands without flinching and had not rubbed them on his sides afterwards.  I was not caned, but was made to stand up for the rest of the lesson.  I suffered very much afterwards when the thought came to me, but he did not reproach me.

I had been some years at school before I had my last fight.  My friend, the athlete, had given me many months of peace, but at last refused to beat any more and said I must learn to box, and not go near the other boys till I knew how.  I went home with him every day and boxed in his room, and the bouts had always the same ending.  My excitability gave me an advantage at first and I would drive him across the room, and then he would drive me across and it would end very commonly with my nose bleeding.  One day his father, an elderly banker, brought us out into the garden and tried to make us box in a cold-blooded, courteous way, but it was no use.  At last he said I might go near the boys again and I was no sooner inside the gate of the playing field than a boy flung a handful of mud and cried out “mad Irishman.”  I hit him several times on the face without being hit, till the boys round said we should make friends.  I held out my hand in fear; for I knew if we went on I should be beaten, and he took it sullenly.  I had so poor a reputation as a fighter that it was a great disgrace to him, and even the masters made fun of his swollen face; and though some little boys came in a deputation to ask me to lick a boy they named, I had never another fight with a school-fellow.  We had a great many fights with the street boys and the boys of a neighbouring charity school.  We had always the better because we were not allowed to fling stones, and that compelled us to close or do our best to close.  The monitors had been told to report any boy who fought in the street, but they only reported those who flung stones.  I always ran at the athlete’s heels, but I never hit anyone.  My father considered these fights absurd, and even that they were an English absurdity, and so I could not get angry enough to like hitting and being hit; and then too my friend drove the enemy before him.  He had no doubts or speculations to lighten his fist upon an enemy, that, being of low behaviour, should be beaten as often as possible, and there were real wrongs to avenge:  one of our boys had been killed by the blow of a stone hid in a snowball.  Sometimes we on our side got into trouble with the parents of boys.  There was a quarrel between the athlete and an old German who had a barber’s shop we passed every day on our way home, and one day he spat through the window and hit the German on his bald head ­the monitors had not forbidden spitting.  The German ran after us, but when the athlete squared up he went away.  Now, though I knew it was not right to spit at people, my admiration for my friend arose to a great height.  I spread his fame over the school, and next day there was a fine stir when somebody saw the old German going up the gravel walk to the head-master’s room.  Presently there was such a noise in the passage that even the master had to listen.  It was the head-master’s red-haired brother turning the old German out and shouting to the man-servant “see that he doesn’t steal the top-coats.”  We heard afterwards that he had asked the names of the two boys who passed his window every day and been told the names of the two head boys who passed also but were notoriously gentlemanly in their manners.  Yet my friend was timid also and that restored my confidence in myself.  He would often ask me to buy the sweets or the ginger-beer because he was afraid sometimes when speaking to a stranger.

I had one reputation that I valued.  At first when I went to the Hammersmith swimming-baths with the other boys, I was afraid to plunge in until I had gone so far down the ladder that the water came up to my thighs; but one day when I was alone I fell from the spring-board which was five or six feet above the water.  After that I would dive from a greater height than the others and I practised swimming under water and pretending not to be out of breath when I came up.  And then if I ran a race, I took care not to pant or show any sign of strain.  And in this I had an advantage even over the athlete; for though he could run faster and was harder to tire than anybody else, he grew very pale and I was often paid compliments.  I used to run with my friend when he was training to keep him in company.  He would give me a long start and soon overtake me.

I followed the career of a certain professional runner for months, buying papers that would tell me if he had won or lost.  I had seen him described as “the bright particular star of American athletics,” and the wonderful phrase had thrown enchantment over him.  Had he been called the particular bright star, I should have cared nothing for him.  I did not understand the symptom for years after.  I was nursing my own dream, my form of the common school-boy dream, though I was no longer gathering the little pieces of broken and rotting wood.  Often, instead of learning my lesson, I covered the white squares of the chessboard on my little table with pen and ink pictures of myself, doing all kinds of courageous things.  One day my father said “there was a man in Nelson’s ship at the battle of Trafalgar, a ship’s purser, whose hair turned white; what a sensitive temperament; that man should have achieved something!” I was vexed and bewildered, and am still bewildered and still vexed, finding it a poor and crazy thing that we who have imagined so many noble persons cannot bring our flesh to heel.