It will easily be understood that the mechanical organisation of the school was greatly deranged by the removal from home. The boys of the several houses were no longer locally separated, nor in the same immediate contact with their housemasters; they were restrained by few bolt-and-bar securities, “lock-up” being for the most part impracticable, and were allowed a larger liberty in many less definable ways. At the same time they were exposed to no little discomfort, and during the rainy months to much monotony, the very conditions which promote bullying and other mischief. Further, the same causes which reduced the control of masters, also embarrassed the upper boys in their monitorial duties. Thus the school was left in a quite unusual degree to its self-government, and that government had to act at a disadvantage.
Yet the result was that all went well. The boys did not bully one another, and they gave their masters no sort of trouble. Old rules had to be relaxed, because they could not be enforced, but no licence came of it; new rules
had to be made, which might seem vexatious and not very intelligible restrictions, but there was no tendency to break them. Of course wrong things were done at Borth as elsewhere; but if we were to record the few misdeeds which occur to us, their insignificance would provoke a smile; while we have good evidence for the belief that the rate of undetected offences was not increased.
These are the facts we have to record. Different explanations will suggest themselves to others, but among observers on the spot there was but one opinion—that the prosperous result was due to the system of self-government, “monitorial system,” or whatever we name the institution, which rests on the assumption that English boys are capable of responsibility and authority, and will prove trustworthy if their masters are willing to trust them. We do not forget that other factors entered into the cause; one which cannot be ignored was the consciousness of the boys that the school was on its trial, and that a public one. But people cannot acquire self-control merely by the removal of restraints, or behave well, for a long time together and in spite of tedium, simply because
they would like to do so. The truth is, that in a time which might have been anarchical, we lived on the fruits of a long-established order; and it is fair to add that at the end of thirteen months there were no visible symptoms that discipline was wearing threadbare.
Shall we, for writing this, be taxed with the vain-glory for which public schools are at times reproached? We must brave the charge, then; for the facts seem to furnish evidence of a kind so rarely obtainable, that to omit them from this chapter in school life would be hardly excusable. An experiment so crucial as that to which we were submitted does not occur once in fifty years.
But enough of serious matters. Let us go out and forget them in a run with Sir Pryse’s harriers, along the breezy gorse-covered downs of the Gogerddan estate. We take the train which arrives just after we have risen from dinner, and land at the upland village of Langfihangel. It is a Saturday afternoon, the 21st of October, the day is clear and sunny, and several ladies are of the party. A few hundred yards from the station we met the hounds, and Sir Pryse’s man who hunts them. The owner is not with them, but (by his
good leave) yonder tall, lithe fellow, the best runner in the school, acts as Master of Hounds. He promises us good sport, having heard from the huntsman of a hare which is “waiting for us.” As they prepare to cast off, the non-effectives separate from the runners, and climb a round-topped hill which commands the country. The fields are spread like a map under us; nothing on the face of the country escapes our eyes. The hare that was “waiting for us” has grown tired of it, and left the rendezvous, but another is soon started, and a stout one. She is of the mountain breed, as are many in this country; they could not otherwise have held out so long before the pursuit of such runners, to say nothing of the hounds. The “tally-ho” comes cheerly up to us from the valley through the crisp October air, and we see puss scudding along up the hedgerow, the hounds and the foremost runners in the next field, the rest thinning out and straggling behind them. Among these we recognise with glee a friend or two, who years ago were in the first flight of every Uppingham paper-chase (si nunc foret illa uventus), labouring across a turnip-field, or held by the leg in a gorse-cover. A check gives them a chance of coming up again with huntsman and
master. We won’t spoil the chance by halloing where the hare went, though, from our vantage-ground, we can view her throughout. Our friends have just got in line with the leaders, and are finding their breath again for a second burst, when the scent is recovered; the chase sweeps up the ridge, and over it out of our sight, away, perhaps, towards the moorland spurs of Plinlimmon. We descend the hill homewards, leaving puss to her doom, whatever it may be. For these runs sometimes had a fatal termination. In the school serial is told the story of a magnificent day, of which, however, the runners did not witness the end, for “time was drawing late, and we were far from the station, so had to leave the hounds under the charge of the huntsman alone, and as the hare was now exhausted, they soon killed her. We were on the scent for over two hours, and ran about twelve miles.” These days took place two or three times a week; for good practical reasons the “field” was restricted in numbers.
After the short and sharp battle with the scarlet fever narrated above, the term went on very peacefully, but with a growing expectation that this would not be the last one in Wales.