38
And the worms are gnawing the tissues foul, 
And the devil is gloating over her soul, 
..........Rotting away! 
Note that the title of this poem is ironical. It is taken from a goody-goody book, popular at that 
time, which describes the life of traveling barnstormers and how the only hope for them was to be 
converted. But the irony goes somewhat deeper. It was a genuine criticism of the shallow 
philosophy of optimism which went with the polite Christianity of the time. I was analysing life in 
the spirit of Schopenhauer. I couldn't see any sense in pretending that life was not full of horrors. 
Death and trousers are facts in nature; and merely to avoid reference to them or to invent 
euphemisms for them does not alter their character. I was reduced to gloating on murder and 
putrefaction, simply because these things gave the most forcible denial to the assumptions current 
at home. Paganism is wholesome because it faces the facts of life; but I was not allowed to take a 
normal view of nature. In my situation, I could not dismiss the falsities of Christianity with a smile; I 
was compelled to fight fire with fire and to oppose their poisoned poultices with poisoned daggers. 
Such was the influence of home life. But it was partially interfered with by the more decent current 
of school life. I have mentioned my school in Streatham. It was there that occurred the last 
important incident of this period. Being the star chemist of the school, I determined to distinguish 
myself on the fifth of November, 1891. I procured a ten-pound jar from the grocer's, put two pounds 
of gunpowder at the bottom and filled it up with various layers of different coloured "fires". These 
were all --- except for the small ingredients of varied metallic salts --- of the same composition: 
sugar and chlorate of potash. In order to make sure of success, I turned the whole household on to 
mixing these ingredients, with the result that they were mingled so intimately as to produce what 
was to all intents and purposes chlorate power! I pressed this down very powerfully, buried the jar 
in the playground, stuck a rocket into the top and lighted it at the critical moment. The rocket had 
been fixed too firmly to rise and the protecting wad of paper burnt through before I could step 
back. I neither saw nor heard anything. I felt as if a brush of some warm tarry and gritty substance 
had been passed across my face; and found myself standing on the brink of a hole in the ground of 
no mean size. I wondered how on earth it could have happened that my experiment had failed. I 
remember apologizing for the failure and saying that I must go up to the house to wash my face. I 
discovered that I was being supported on the journey by my private tutor and my mother. Then I 
found myself in the headmaster's sanctum, receiving first aid. I remember nothing more for some 
time except the annoyance 
{83} 
of being awakened to have my dressings changed. I slept for ninety-six hours with these semi-
conscious intervals. My tutor had the sense to wire to Guy's Hospital for Dr. Golding Bird, whose 
intervention probably saved me from erysipelas and the loss of my sight. In the course of 
convalescence, over four thousand pieces of gravel and the like were removed from my face; and it 
was on Christmas Day that I was first allowed to use my eyes for a few minutes. The explosion had 
been devastating. The windows were smashed for a long way round; and the bottles in the chemist's 
shop on the railway bridge --- a quarter of a mile and more away --- rattled, though the passage of 
trains had no such effect. Strangely enough, I was the only person injured. Throughout I enjoyed the 
episode; I was the hero, I had made my mark! 
The following year I was ready to go to a public school. My Uncle Jonathan wanted me to go to 
Winchester, as per the family tradition, but my health demanded a more bracing climate and it was 
decided that I should go to Malvern. The school at that time was rising to the height of its glory in 
athletics. We possessed a brilliant bat in Percy Latham; H. R. and W. L. Foster were sure to 
distinguish themselves in one way or another, and the youngsters of that famous game-playing 
family were coming on, ready to take their places when the time came. There was also C. J. Burnup 
as a promising colt. 
In other matters, however, the school had a long way to go. Bullying went on unchecked, the 
prefects being foremost offenders. As a shy, solitary boy in ill-health, incapable of football, I 
naturally got more than my share, and this led ultimately to one of the few actions in my life with 
which I have ever felt inclined to reproach myself. The tone of the school was brutal and imbecile.