We left Bedford Park for a long thatched house at Howth, Co.  Dublin.  The land war was now at its height and our Kildare land, that had been in the family for many generations, was slipping from us.  Rents had fallen more and more, we had to sell to pay some charge or mortgage, but my father and his tenants parted without ill-will.  During the worst times an old tenant had under his roof my father’s shooting-dog and gave it better care than the annual payment earned.  He had set apart for its comfort the best place at the fire; and if some man were in the place when the dog walked into the house, the man must needs make room for the dog.  And a good while after the sale, I can remember my father being called upon to settle some dispute between this old man and his sons.

I was now fifteen; and as he did not want to leave his painting my father told me to go to Harcourt Street and put myself to school.  I found a bleak 18th century house and a small playing-field full of mud and pebbles, fenced by an iron railing from a wide 18th century street, but opposite a long hoarding and a squalid, ornamental railway station.  Here, as I soon found, nobody gave a thought to decorum.  We worked in a din of voices.  We began the morning with prayers, but when class began the head-master, if he was in the humour, would laugh at Church and Clergy.  “Let them say what they like,” he would say, “but the earth does go round the sun.”  On the other hand there was no bullying and I had not thought it possible that boys could work so hard.  Cricket and football, the collection of moths and butterflies, though not forbidden, were discouraged.  They were for idle boys.  I did not know, as I used to, the mass of my school-fellows; for we had little life in common outside the class-rooms.  I had begun to think of my school-work as an interruption of my natural history studies, but even had I never opened a book not in the school course, I could not have learned a quarter of my night’s work.  I had always done Euclid easily, making the problems out while the other boys were blundering at the blackboard, and it had often carried me from the bottom to the top of my class; but these boys had the same natural gift and instead of being in the fourth or fifth book were in the modern books at the end of the primer; and in place of a dozen lines of Virgil with a dictionary, I was expected to learn with the help of a crib a hundred and fifty lines.  The other boys were able to learn the translation off, and to remember what words of Latin and English corresponded with one another, but I, who it may be had tried to find out what happened in the parts we had not read, made ridiculous mistakes; and what could I, who never worked when I was not interested, do with a history lesson that was but a column of seventy dates?  I was worst of all at literature, for we read Shakespeare for his grammar exclusively.

One day I had a lucky thought.  A great many lessons were run through in the last hour of the day, things we had learnt or should have learnt by heart over night, and after not having known one of them for weeks, I cut off that hour without anybody’s leave.  I asked the mathematical master to give me a sum to work and nobody said a word.  My father often interfered, and always with disaster, to teach me my Latin lesson.  “But I have also my geography,” I would say.  “Geography,” he would reply, “should never be taught.  It is not a training for the mind.  You will pick up all that you need, in your general reading.”  And if it was a history lesson, he would say just the same, and “Euclid,” he would say, “is too easy.  It comes naturally to the literary imagination.  The old idea, that it is a good training for the mind, was long ago refuted.”  I would know my Latin lesson so that it was a nine days’ wonder, and for weeks after would be told it was scandalous to be so clever and so idle.  No one knew that I had learnt it in the terror that alone could check my wandering mind.  I must have told on him at some time or other for I remember the head-master saying, “I am going to give you an imposition because I cannot get at your father to give him one.”  Sometimes we had essays to write; & though I never got a prize, for the essays were judged by hand-writing and spelling I caused a measure of scandal.  I would be called up before some master and asked if I really believed such things, and that would make me angry for I had written what I had believed all my life, what my father had told me, or a memory of the conversation of his friends.  There were other beliefs, but they were held by people one did not know, people who were vulgar or stupid.  I was asked to write an essay on “men may rise on stepping-stones of their dead selves to higher things.”  My father read the subject to my mother, who had no interest in such matters.  “That is the way,” he said, “boys are made insincere and false to themselves.  Ideals make the blood thin, and take the human nature out of people.”  He walked up and down the room in eloquent indignation, and told me not to write on such a subject at all, but upon Shakespeare’s lines “to thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day thou canst not then be false to any man.”  At another time, he would denounce the idea of duty, and “imagine,” he would say, “how the right sort of woman would despise a dutiful husband;” and he would tell us how much my mother would scorn such a thing.  Maybe there were people among whom such ideas were natural, but they were the people with whom one does not dine.  All he said was, I now believe right, but he should have taken me away from school.  He would have taught me nothing but Greek and Latin, and I would now be a properly educated man, and would not have to look in useless longing at books that have been, through the poor mechanism of translation, the builders of my soul, nor faced authority with the timidity born of excuse and evasion.  Evasion and excuse were in the event as wise as the house-building instinct of the beaver.