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Henry S. Salt. Seventy Years Among Savages
Seventy Years Among Savages
Table of Contents
I. THE ARGUMENT
II. WHERE IGNORANCE WAS BLISS
III. LITERÆ INHUMANIORES
IV. THE DISCOVERY
V. CANNIBAL’S CONSCIENCE
VI. GLIMPSES OF CIVILIZATION
VII. THE POET-PIONEER
VIII. VOICES CRYING IN THE WILDERNESS
IX. A LEAGUE OF HUMANENESS
X. TWENTIETH-CENTURY TORTURES
XI. HUNNISH SPORTS AND FASHIONS
XII. A FADDIST’S DIVERSIONS
XIII. HOOF-MARKS OF THE VANDAL
XIV. THE FORLORN HOPE
XV. THE CAVE-MAN RE-EMERGES
XVI. POETRY OF DEATH AND LOVE
XVII. THE TALISMAN
POSTSCRIPT
INDEX
Отрывок из книги
Henry S. Salt
Published by Good Press, 2021
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Much the same must be said of Dr. J. J. Hornby, who succeeded the rigid Dr. Balston in the headmastership of Eton in 1868. It was a marvel that a man who loved leisure and quietude as he did, and who seemed always to desire to doff rather than to don the formalities of high office, should have deliberately sought preferment in a profession which could not have been very congenial to him. Not that he lacked the reputed qualities of a ruler: he had a stately presence, a most courteous manner, a charming sense of humour, and the rare power of interesting an audience in any subject of which he spoke. But, behind these external capabilities, he had a fatal weakness—slackness, perhaps, is the proper term—which loosened the reins of authority, and made his headmastership a period of which Eton had no reason to be proud. “Idleness holds sway everywhere,” wrote an Eton boy at that time, “and such idleness! As a man who has never had dealings with the Chinese can have but a faint idea of what swindling is, so a man who has never been at Eton has but a poor conception of what idleness is.”[2] What wonder, when the headmaster was himself as unpunctual as a fourth-form boy?
Hornby was too retiring, too sensitive, to govern a great school. I was in his Division for two years, almost at the beginning of his headmastership; and I can see him still as he sat at his oak table in the middle of the sixth-form room, toying with a pencil, and looking at us somewhat askance, as if to avoid either scrutinizing or being scrutinized, for he was not of the drill-master kind, who challenge their class and stare them down. We liked him the better for it, but divined that he was not quite at ease; and it occurred to one of us that he was aptly described in that terse phrase which Tacitus applied to a Roman emperor: Capax imperii nisi imperâsset (“Every inch a ruler—if only he had not ruled”). There was a certain maladroitness, too, about him which at times set us wondering; until some one suggested that we should look up the cricket records, and see how he had acquitted himself in that supreme criterion of greatness, the Eton and Harrow match. We did so, and found that he had hit his own wicket. Thus all was explained, our worst misgivings confirmed.
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