Lord Ormont and his Aminta | Page 6

his heels to his toes and
back with a bang.
"What was the cause, if you please, sir?" a boy, probably naughty,
inquired; and as Shalders did not vouchsafe a reply, the bigger boys
knew.
They revelled in the devilish halo of skirts on the whirl encircling Lord
Ormont's laurelled head.
That was a spark in their blood struck from a dislike of the tone
assumed by Mr. Shalders to sustain his argument; with his "men are

mortal," and talk of a true living champion as "no chicken," and the
wordy drawl over "justification for calculating the approach of a close
to a term of activity"--in the case of a proved hero!
Guardians of boys should make sure that the boys are on their side
before they raise the standard of virtue. Nor ought they to summon
morality for support of a polemic. Matey Weyburn's object of worship
rode superior to a morality puffing its phrasy trumpet. And, somehow,
the sacrifice of an enormous number of women to Lord Ormont's glory
seemed natural; the very thing that should be, in the case of a first-rate
military hero and commander--Scipio notwithstanding. It brightens his
flame, and it is agreeable to them. That is how they come to distinction:
they have no other chance; they are only women; they are mad to be
singed, and they rush pelf-mall, all for the honour of the candle.
Shortly after this discussion Matey was heard informing some of the
bigger fellows he could tell them positively that Lord Ormont's age was
under fifty-four--the prime of manhood, and a jolly long way off death!
The greater credit to him, therefore, if he bad been a name in the world
for anything like the period Shalders insinuated, "to get himself out of a
sad quandary." Matey sounded the queer word so as to fix it sticking to
the usher, calling him Mr. Peter Bell Shalders, at which the boys roared,
and there was a question or two about names, which belonged to verses,
for people caring to read poems.
To the joy of the school he displayed a greater knowledge of Murat
than Shalders had: named the different places in Europe where Lord
Ormont and Murat were both springing to the saddle at the same
time--one a Marshal, the other a lieutenant; one a king, to be off his
throne any day, the other a born English nobleman, seated firm as fate.
And he accused Murat of carelessness of his horses, ingratitude to his
benefactor, circussy style. Shalders went so far as to defend Murat for
attending to the affairs of his kingdom, instead of galloping over
hedges and ditches to swell Napoleon's ranks in distress. Matey listened
to him there; he became grave; he nodded like a man saying, "I suppose
we must examine it in earnest." The school was damped to hear him
calling it a nice question. Still, he said he thought he should have gone;

and that settled it.
The boys inclined to speak contemptuously of Shalders. Matey world
not let them; he contrasted Shalders with the other ushers, who had no
enthusiasms. He said enthusiasms were salt to a man; and he liked
Shalders for spelling at his battles and thinking he understood them,
and admiring Murat, and leading Virgil and parts of Lucan for his
recreation. He said he liked the French because they could be
splendidly enthusiastic. He almost lost his English flavour when he
spoke in downright approval of a small French fellow, coming from
Orthez, near the Pyrenees, for senselessly dashing and kicking at a
couple of English who jeered to hear Orthez named--a place trampled
under Wellington's heels, on his march across conquered France. The
foreign little cockerel was a clever lad, learning English fast, and
anxious to show he had got hold of the English trick of not knowing
when he was beaten. His French vanity insisted on his engaging the
two, though one of them stood aside, and the other let him drive his
nose all the compass round at a poker fist. What was worse, Matey
examined these two, in the interests of fair play, as if he doubted.
Little Emile Grenat set matters right with his boast to vindicate his
country against double the number, and Matey praised him, though he
knew Emile had been floored without effort by the extension of a single
fist. He would not hear the French abused; he said they were chivalrous,
they were fine fellows, topping the world in some things; his father had
fought them and learnt to respect them. Perhaps his father had learnt to
respect Jews, for there was a boy named Abner, he protected, who
smelt Jewish; he said they ran us Gentiles hard, and carried big guns.
Only a reputation like Matey's could have