Volume 152 — THE HOUSE-MASTER.

Four years I spent beneath his rule, For three of which askance I scanned him, And only after leaving school Came thoroughly to understand him; For he was brusque in various ways That jarred upon the modern mother, And scouted as a silly craze The theory of the "elder brother." Renowned at Cambridge as an oar And quite distinguished as a wrangler, He felt incomparably more Pride in his exploits as an angler; He held his fishing on the Test Above the riches of the Speyers, And there he lured me, as his guest, Into the ranks of the "dry-flyers." He made no fetish of the cane As owning any special virtue, But held the discipline of pain, When rightly earned, would never hurt you; With lapses of the normal brand I think he dealt most mercifully, But chastened with a heavy hand The sneak, the liar and the bully. We used to criticise his boots, His simple tastes in food and fiction, His everlasting homespun suits, His leisurely old-fashioned diction; And yet we had the saving nous To recognise no worse disaster Could possibly befall the House Than the removal of its Master. For though his voice was deep and gruff, And rumbled like a motor-lorry, He showed the true angelic stuff If any one was sick or sorry; So when pneumonia, doubly dread, Of breath had nearly quite bereft me, He watched three nights beside my bed Until the burning fever left me. He served three Heads with equal zeal And equal absence of ambition; He knew his power, and did not feel The least desire for recognition; But shrewd observers, who could trace Back to their source results far-reaching, Saw the true Genius of the Place Embodied in his life and teaching. The War's deep waters o'er him rolled As he beheld Young England giving Life prodigally, while the old Lived on without the cause for living; And yet he never heaved a sigh Although his heart was inly riven; He only craved one boon—to die In harness, and the boon was given.