“I’ll wake you up, I will. You’ve been asleep all your life,” he continued. “Now then, go on:—A point—”
“A point,” I said, “is—a point is part of magnitude.”
“I’ll parts of magnitude you!” said Hostler. “You’ve been an hour doing nothing. You ought to have three cuts, but I’ll let you off as it’s the first time; but you stop in till you know this.”
I now found myself the only boy in the school, where all was as quiet as before it had been noisy. I sat for some minutes as though in a dream. Was all this real? I asked myself, and had I to go through such scenes for a year before I became an engineer officer, or even a cadet? The feeling of loneliness was mixed with utter surprise and astonishment that there should be such a place as this school in England, and that the course here adopted should be found necessary, in order that boys should become learned enough for officers.
My thoughts wandered from the schoolroom. I was in the shady paths of the grand old forest, where I had passed my early life, and I compared my present condition with that which it would have been had I remained at home. I thought of Howard, and wondered whether he as a boy had passed through such an ordeal as this school offered; and as I believed it possible he had done so, I began to learn a lesson which only those learn who have themselves had to win their way to excellence by hard work and by surmounting difficulties. This essential lesson is one that too many never learn. When we are witnesses of skill in anything, too many forget that this skill is the result of long thought, labour and perseverance. We too often fail to recollect the hours of wearying labour that have been devoted to the acquirement of those qualifications which, when seen in the results, are much admired. The mathematician or geometrician who attains to eminence must have devoted many years’ labour to these subjects, whilst the artist, musician or writer must also have laboured many weary years before he attained even to mediocrity. Even those who excel in games of skill, such as chess, draughts, whist, billiards, cricket, or rackets, must be men who think deeply, and reason on what they see others do, as well as on what they do themselves. When, then, we see excellence in anything, those who have themselves arrived at excellence appreciate skill in others, because ever before them is the idea of the hard work and hard thought that most have been gone through before proficiency could be reached. Those, however, who never have worked to any purpose, who have idled all their lives and failed to attain even mediocrity in anything, usually fail to appreciate in others excellence or skill, and when, after long perseverance and thought, any successful results have been won, idlers not unfrequently term such a result “good luck.” When I had seen Howard, and had been impressed by his apparent knowledge and skill on all subjects, I was ambitious at once of being like him. In my ignorance I fancied that just as I grew taller by no thought or trouble, so I might become an officer like him by merely allowing time to work out its course. That I should have to labour, to work my brain in a manner I had never before even dreamed of, had never occurred to me. Now, however, I began to realise the fact that I was a dunce, and that my brain was feeble merely from want of use, and that I was not capable of competing with other boys of my own age, because their brains had been active and used when mine had been merely idle. I was like a horse suddenly taken up from grass, and worked with one that had been thoroughly trained for many months. My brain was flabby and feeble, without that vigour which is requisite for any mental labour. I could feel a presentiment that there was even a greater exposure of my ignorance coming than had yet taken place. Under the most favourable circumstances of quiet which I enjoyed at home, a long-division sum always took me some time, and, though I was supposed to know as far as fractions in arithmetic, yet I was very shaky in a rule-of-three sum, and I knew that, hustled as I was at Hostler’s, I should breakdown at what perhaps I might accomplish if left quietly to myself. I found that it was downright exhaustive work to remember the definitions before me. I knew them for a minute, then they left me, and as I realised my state I buried my head in my hands, and felt overcome with despair.
Suddenly the door opened, and Hostler appeared and said, “Now, Shepard, do you know your definitions?”
“No, sir,” I replied; “it is very hard for me to learn them.”
I expected him to take me out for my three cuts, but instead of this he sat down beside me and said, “Now, look here; you’ve got to learn how to learn. I see you’re been a spoiled child—your mother’s pet, I suppose—and have never worked at all, only just fudged on. Now you begin really, and of course it’s all new to you. Now just listen to me.”
“Please, sir,” I said, “my mother died when I was a baby, and I never was what you call spoiled by her.”
“Ah, well, I’m very sorry I said that, but of course I didn’t know it; never mind, now try and follow me. A point is that which has no parts and no magnitude—that means, that it’s only an imaginary spot, without any size about it. Do you understand that?”