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 away with a glowing desire to do likewise.
The incident really belongs to the domain of manners rather than to
that of morals.

The truth is really that boys at school have a code which resembles
that of the old chivalry. The hero may be sensual, unscrupulous,
cruel, selfish, indifferent to the welfare of others. But if he