CHAPTER III

EDUCATION

Perhaps the biggest wrench in life is going to school.  It may not seem so very much afterwards—­as the boy said of the tooth when he looked at it in the dentist’s forceps—­but the wrench is really bad.

I learned my letters from my mother, and picked up a few other smatterings before I had daily lessons from a tutor at Dingle.  Strange to say, a very good classical education could have been obtained there in the thirties, better, so far as I can estimate, than could have been expected from a town double the size at the same period in England.

At the age of ten I was sent to Huddard’s, then a very sound school in Dublin.  I was well enough taught, not caned enough for my deserts, though more than sufficed for my feelings, and sufficiently fed, but at the end of two years I had to leave owing to ill health.

An apothecary, who selfishly recollected that the more medicines I took the better for him if not for me, converted me into a human receptacle for his empirical abominations, but another surgeon, who was rather tardily called in, packed me off to the country.

One of the leading Dublin physicians certified that I had only one lung; but as the other has served me faithfully for sixty-nine years, I am rather sceptical as to the accuracy of his diagnosis.

I remember very little about Huddard’s, except that it was in Mountjoy Square, and about a hundred boys were herded there in unsought proximity.  We boarders always fought the town boys, but also had to cajole them in humiliating ways to smuggle us in contraband articles of food.  The meals at Huddard’s were fairly good, no doubt, as school fare goes, but the sugary stick-jaw stuff for which the soul of a boy longs was naturally not part of the official bill of fare.  The bullying was of a reasonable nature, or at all events I could hold my own with the best of them, being indifferent to punishment so long as I could hit out effectively from the shoulder.  One of the ushers, a dwarf of malignant disposition, was an awful tyrant, and we always had an ardent desire to tar and feather him, only we did not know how to set about the operation even if we had ventured to attempt it.

After a happy interval of convalescence at home, I was sent to a smaller school kept by Mr. Hogg at Limerick.  One of the boys there subsequently became that illustrious ornament of the Bench, Lord Justice Barry.

He was a very eloquent man, counted so even at the Irish Bar, where a certain high-flown loquacity is pretty prevalent, and had a great repute.  He arrived at Cork once, and had to fight his way through a dense throng to get into court.  On inquiring the reason of the crowd, he was told that everybody wanted to hear the big speech that was expected from Councillor Barry.

’Well, unless you make way for me it’s disappointed every mother’s son of you will be, for I am twin to Councillor Barry, and I never heard tell he had a brother.’