Confessions of a Young Man | Page 4

The book--a small pocket edition in red boards, no doubt
long out of print--opened at the "Sensitive Plant." Was I disappointed?
I think I had expected to understand better; but I had no difficulty in
assuming that I was satisfied and delighted. And henceforth the little
volume never left my pocket, and I read the dazzling stanzas by the
shores of a pale green Irish lake, comprehending little, and loving a
great deal. Byron, too, was often with me, and these poets were the
ripening influence of years otherwise merely nervous and boisterous.
And my poets were taken to school, because it pleased me to read
"Queen Mab" and "Cain," amid the priests and ignorance of a hateful
Roman Catholic college. And there my poets saved me from
intellectual savagery; for I was incapable at that time of learning
anything. What determined and incorrigible idleness! I used to gaze
fondly on a book, holding my head between my hands, and allow my
thoughts to wander far into dreams and thin imaginings. Neither Latin,
nor Greek, nor French, nor History, nor English composition could I
learn, unless, indeed, my curiosity or personal interest was
excited,--then I made rapid strides in that branch of knowledge to
which my attention was directed. A mind hitherto dark seemed
suddenly to grow clear, and it remained clear and bright enough so long
as passion was in me; but as it died, so the mind clouded, and recoiled
to its original obtuseness. Couldn't, with wouldn't, was in my case
curiously involved; nor have I in this respect ever been able to correct
my natural temperament. I have always remained powerless to do
anything unless moved by a powerful desire.
The natural end to such schooldays as mine was expulsion. I was
expelled when I was sixteen, for idleness and general worthlessness. I
returned to a wild country home, where I found my father engaged in
training racehorses. For a nature of such intense vitality as mine, an
ambition, an aspiration of some sort was necessary; and I now, as I
have often done since, accepted the first ideal to hand. In this instance it
was the stable. I was given a hunter, I rode to hounds every week, I
rode gallops every morning, I read the racing calendar, stud-book, latest
betting, and looked forward with enthusiasm to the day when I should
be known as a successful steeplechase rider. To ride the winner of the

Liverpool seemed to me a final achievement and glory; and had not
accident intervened, it is very possible that I might have succeeded in
carrying off, if not the meditated honour, something scarcely inferior,
such as--alas, eheu fugaces! I cannot now recall the name of a race of
the necessary value and importance. About this time my father was
elected Member of Parliament; our home was broken up, and we went
to London. But an ideal set up on its pedestal is not easily displaced,
and I persevered in my love, despite the poor promises London life
held out for its ultimate attainment; and surreptitiously I continued to
nourish it with small bets made in a small tobacconist's. Well do I
remember that shop, the oily-faced, sandy-whiskered proprietor, his
betting-book, the cheap cigars along the counter, the one-eyed
nondescript who leaned his evening away against the counter, and was
supposed to know some one who knew Lord ----'s footman, and the
great man often spoken of, but rarely seen--he who made "a
two-'undred pound book on the Derby"; and the constant coming and
going of the cabmen--"Half an ounce of shag, sir." I was then at a
military tutor's in the Euston Road; for, in answer to my father's
demand as to what occupation I intended to pursue, I had consented to
enter the army. In my heart I knew that when it came to the point I
should refuse--the idea of military discipline was very repugnant, and
the possibility of an anonymous death on a battlefield could not be
accepted by so self-conscious a youth, by one so full of his own
personality. I said Yes to my father, because the moral courage to say
No was lacking, and I put my trust in the future, as well I might, for a
fair prospect of idleness lay before me, and the chance of my passing
any examination was, indeed, remote.
In London I made the acquaintance of a great blonde man, who talked
incessantly about beautiful women, and painted them sometimes larger
than life, in somnolent attitudes, and luxurious tints. His studio was a
welcome contrast to the spitting and betting of the tobacco shop. His
pictures--Doré-like improvisations, devoid of skill, and, indeed, of
artistic perception, save a certain sentiment for the grand and
noble--filled me with wonderment and awe. "How