Computational Partial Differential Equations

Using MATLAB 2nd 2nd Edition Jichun Li pdf

download

https://ebookmeta.com/product/computational-partial-differential-
equations-using-matlab-2nd-2nd-edition-jichun-li/

Download more ebook from https://ebookmeta.com

We believe these products will be a great fit for you. Click
the link to download now, or visit ebookmeta.com
to discover even more!

An Introduction to Partial Differential Equations

Zhilin Li Larry Norris

https://ebookmeta.com/product/an-introduction-to-partial-
differential-equations-zhilin-li-larry-norris/

Analytical Methods for Solving Nonlinear Partial

Differential Equations 2nd 2nd Edition Daniel Arrigo

https://ebookmeta.com/product/analytical-methods-for-solving-
nonlinear-partial-differential-equations-2nd-2nd-edition-daniel-
arrigo/

An Elementary course in Partial Differential Equations

2nd Edition T. Amaranath

https://ebookmeta.com/product/an-elementary-course-in-partial-
differential-equations-2nd-edition-t-amaranath/

GRE 5-Hour Quick Prep For Dummies Ron Woldoff

https://ebookmeta.com/product/gre-5-hour-quick-prep-for-dummies-
ron-woldoff/
Thinking Critically about Research A Step by Step
Approach 1st Edition Jane Ogden

https://ebookmeta.com/product/thinking-critically-about-research-
a-step-by-step-approach-1st-edition-jane-ogden/

Imposter Syndrome and The As If Personality in

Analytical Psychology The Fragility of Self 1st Edition
Susan E. Schwartz

https://ebookmeta.com/product/imposter-syndrome-and-the-as-if-
personality-in-analytical-psychology-the-fragility-of-self-1st-
edition-susan-e-schwartz/

Roman Architecture 2nd Edition Frank Sear

https://ebookmeta.com/product/roman-architecture-2nd-edition-
frank-sear/

Aquatic Animal Nutrition A Mechanistic Perspective from

Individuals to Generations 1st Edition Steinberg

https://ebookmeta.com/product/aquatic-animal-nutrition-a-
mechanistic-perspective-from-individuals-to-generations-1st-
edition-steinberg/

Divine Inspiration in Byzantium Notions of Authenticity

in Art and Theology Karin Krause

https://ebookmeta.com/product/divine-inspiration-in-byzantium-
notions-of-authenticity-in-art-and-theology-karin-krause/
Jewish Studies on Premodern Periods A Handbook 1st
Edition Carl S. Ehrlich

https://ebookmeta.com/product/jewish-studies-on-premodern-
periods-a-handbook-1st-edition-carl-s-ehrlich/
Computational Partial
Differential Equations
Using MATLAB
Second Edition
Computational Partial
Differential Equations
Using MATLAB
Second Edition

Jichun Li
Yi-Tung Chen
MATLAB is a trademark of The MathWorks, Inc. and is used with permission. The
MathWorks does not warrant the accuracy of the text or exercises in this book. This
book’s use or discussion of MATLAB software or related products does not constitute
endorsement or sponsorship by The MathWorks of a particular pedagogical approach or
particular use of the MATLAB software.

CRC Press
Taylor & Francis Group
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300
Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742


c 2020 by Taylor & Francis Group, LLC
CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, an Informa business

No claim to original U.S. Government works

Printed on acid-free paper

International Standard Book Number-13: 978-0-367-21774-7 (Hardback)

This book contains information obtained from authentic and highly regarded sources. Rea-
sonable efforts have been made to publish reliable data and information, but the author and
publisher cannot assume responsibility for the validity of all materials or the consequences
of their use. The authors and publishers have attempted to trace the copyright holders of
all material reproduced in this publication and apologize to copyright holders if permission
to publish in this form has not been obtained. If any copyright material has not been
acknowledged please write and let us know so we may rectify in any future reprint.

Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Law, no part of this book may be reprinted,
reproduced, transmitted, or utilized in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other
means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying, microfilming, and record-
ing, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the
publishers.

For permission to photocopy or use material electronically from this work, please access
www.copyright.com (http://www.copyright.com/) or contact the Copyright Clearance Cen-
ter, Inc. (CCC), 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, 978-750-8400. CCC is a not-
for-profit organization that provides licenses and registration for a variety of users. For
organizations that have been granted a photocopy license by the CCC, a separate system
of payment has been arranged.

Trademark Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trade-

marks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.

Visit the Taylor & Francis Web site at

http://www.taylorandfrancis.com

and the CRC Press Web site at

http://www.crcpress.com
Contents

Preface xi

Acknowledgments xiii

1 Brief Overview of Partial Differential Equations 1

1.1 The parabolic equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
1.2 The wave equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
1.3 The elliptic equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
1.4 Differential equations in broader areas . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
1.4.1 Electromagnetics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
1.4.2 Fluid mechanics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
1.4.3 Groundwater contamination . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
1.4.4 Petroleum reservoir simulation . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
1.4.5 Finance modeling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
1.4.6 Image processing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
1.5 A quick review of numerical methods for PDEs . . . . . . . . 9
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

2 Finite Difference Methods for Parabolic Equations 13

2.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
2.2 Theoretical issues: stability, consistence, and convergence . . 16
2.3 1-D parabolic equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
2.3.1 The θ-method and its analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
2.3.2 Some extensions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
2.4 2-D and 3-D parabolic equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
2.4.1 Standard explicit and implicit methods . . . . . . . . . 27
2.4.2 The ADI methods for 2-D problems . . . . . . . . . . 30
2.4.3 The ADI methods for 3-D problems . . . . . . . . . . 32
2.5 Numerical examples with MATLAB codes . . . . . . . . . . . 35
2.6 Bibliographical remarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
2.7 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

3 Finite Difference Methods for Hyperbolic Equations 43

3.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
3.2 Some basic difference schemes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
3.3 Dissipation and dispersion errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

v
vi Contents

3.4 Extensions to conservation laws . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49

3.5 The second-order hyperbolic equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
3.5.1 The 1-D case . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
3.5.2 The 2-D case . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
3.6 Numerical examples with MATLAB codes . . . . . . . . . . . 57
3.7 Bibliographical remarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
3.8 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62

4 Finite Difference Methods for Elliptic Equations 65

4.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
4.2 Numerical solution of linear systems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
4.2.1 Direct methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
4.2.2 Simple iterative methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
4.2.3 Modern iterative methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
4.3 Error analysis with a maximum principle . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
4.4 Some extensions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
4.4.1 Mixed boundary conditions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
4.4.2 Self-adjoint problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
4.4.3 A fourth-order scheme . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
4.5 Numerical examples with MATLAB codes . . . . . . . . . . . 81
4.6 Bibliographical remarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
4.7 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86

5 High-Order Compact Difference Methods 89

5.1 One-dimensional problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
5.1.1 Spatial discretization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
5.1.2 Dispersive error analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
5.1.3 Temporal discretization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
5.1.4 Low-pass spatial filter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
5.1.5 Numerical examples with MATLAB codes . . . . . . . 104
5.2 High-dimensional problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
5.2.1 Temporal discretization for 2-D problems . . . . . . . 121
5.2.2 Stability analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
5.2.3 Extensions to 3-D compact ADI schemes . . . . . . . . 124
5.2.4 Numerical examples with MATLAB codes . . . . . . . 125
5.3 Other high-order compact schemes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
5.3.1 One-dimensional problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
5.3.2 Two-dimensional problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
5.4 Bibliographical remarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
5.5 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
Contents vii

6 Finite Element Methods: Basic Theory 145

6.1 Introduction to one-dimensional problems . . . . . . . . . . . 145
6.1.1 The second-order equation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
6.1.2 The fourth-order equation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148
6.2 Introduction to two-dimensional problems . . . . . . . . . . . 152
6.2.1 The Poisson equation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
6.2.2 The biharmonic problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
6.3 Abstract finite element theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
6.3.1 Existence and uniqueness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156
6.3.2 Stability and convergence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
6.4 Examples of conforming finite element spaces . . . . . . . . . 158
6.4.1 Triangular finite elements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159
6.4.2 Rectangular finite elements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
6.5 Examples of nonconforming finite elements . . . . . . . . . . 164
6.5.1 Nonconforming triangular elements . . . . . . . . . . . 164
6.5.2 Nonconforming rectangular elements . . . . . . . . . . 165
6.6 Finite element interpolation theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
6.6.1 Sobolev spaces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
6.6.2 Interpolation theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
6.7 Finite element analysis of elliptic problems . . . . . . . . . . . 173
6.7.1 Analysis of conforming finite elements . . . . . . . . . 173
6.7.2 Analysis of nonconforming finite elements . . . . . . . 175
6.8 Finite element analysis of time-dependent problems . . . . . . 177
6.8.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177
6.8.2 FEM for parabolic equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
6.9 Bibliographical remarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185
6.10 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188

7 Finite Element Methods: Programming 193

7.1 FEM mesh generation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
7.2 Forming FEM equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198
7.3 Calculation of element matrices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199
7.4 Assembly and implementation of boundary conditions . . . . 204
7.5 The MATLAB code for P1 element . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205
7.6 The MATLAB code for the Q1 element . . . . . . . . . . . . 208
7.7 Bibliographical remarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213
7.8 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217

8 Mixed Finite Element Methods 219

8.1 An abstract formulation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219
8.2 Mixed methods for elliptic problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223
8.2.1 The mixed variational formulation . . . . . . . . . . . 223
8.2.2 The mixed finite element spaces . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225
8.2.3 The error estimates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229
viii Contents

8.3 Mixed methods for the Stokes problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232

8.3.1 The mixed variational formulation . . . . . . . . . . . 232
8.3.2 Mixed finite element spaces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234
8.4 An example MATLAB code for the Stokes problem . . . . . . 238
8.5 Mixed methods for viscous incompressible flows . . . . . . . . 252
8.5.1 The steady Navier-Stokes problem . . . . . . . . . . . 252
8.5.2 The unsteady Navier-Stokes problem . . . . . . . . . . 254
8.6 Bibliographical remarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255
8.7 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259

9 Finite Element Methods for Electromagnetics 261

9.1 Introduction to Maxwell’s equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261
9.2 The time-domain finite difference method . . . . . . . . . . . 263
9.2.1 The semi-discrete scheme . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263
9.2.2 The fully discrete scheme . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272
9.3 The time-domain finite element method . . . . . . . . . . . . 285
9.3.1 The mixed method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285
9.3.2 The standard Galerkin method . . . . . . . . . . . . . 290
9.3.3 The discontinuous Galerkin method . . . . . . . . . . 293
9.4 The frequency-domain finite element method . . . . . . . . . 298
9.4.1 The standard Galerkin method . . . . . . . . . . . . . 298
9.4.2 The discontinuous Galerkin method . . . . . . . . . . 299
9.4.3 The mixed DG method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 303
9.5 Maxwell’s equations in dispersive media . . . . . . . . . . . . 305
9.5.1 Isotropic cold plasma . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 306
9.5.2 Debye medium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 310
9.5.3 Lorentz medium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313
9.5.4 Double-negative metamaterials . . . . . . . . . . . . . 315
9.6 Bibliographical remarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323
9.7 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325

10 Meshless Methods with Radial Basis Functions 331

10.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
10.2 The radial basis functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332
10.3 The MFS-DRM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 335
10.3.1 The fundamental solution of PDEs . . . . . . . . . . . 335
10.3.2 The MFS for Laplace’s equation . . . . . . . . . . . . 338
10.3.3 The MFS-DRM for elliptic equations . . . . . . . . . . 341
10.3.4 Computing particular solutions using RBFs . . . . . . 344
10.3.5 The RBF-MFS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346
10.3.6 The MFS-DRM for the parabolic equations . . . . . . 346
10.4 Kansa’s method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 348
10.4.1 Kansa’s method for elliptic problems . . . . . . . . . . 348
Contents ix

10.4.2 Kansa’s method for parabolic equations . . . . . . . . 349

10.4.3 The Hermite-Birkhoff collocation method . . . . . . . 350
10.5 Numerical examples with MATLAB codes . . . . . . . . . . . 352
10.5.1 Elliptic problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352
10.5.2 Biharmonic problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359
10.6 Coupling RBF meshless methods with DDM . . . . . . . . . . 366
10.6.1 Overlapping DDM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 367
10.6.2 Non-overlapping DDM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 368
10.6.3 One numerical example . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 369
10.7 Bibliographical remarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 372
10.8 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 372
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 373

11 Other Meshless Methods 379

11.1 Construction of meshless shape functions . . . . . . . . . . . . 379
11.1.1 The smooth particle hydrodynamics method . . . . . . 379
11.1.2 The moving least-square approximation . . . . . . . . 381
11.1.3 The partition of unity method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 382
11.2 The element-free Galerkin method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 384
11.3 The meshless local Petrov-Galerkin method . . . . . . . . . . 386
11.4 Bibliographical remarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 389
11.5 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 389
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 390

Appendix A Answers to Selected Problems 393

Index 405
Preface

The purpose of this book is to provide a quick but solid introduction to ad-
vanced numerical methods for solving various partial differential equations
(PDEs) in science and engineering. The numerical methods covered in this
book include not only the classic finite difference and finite element meth-
ods, but also some recently developed meshless methods, high-order compact
difference methods, and finite element methods for Maxwell’s equations in
complex media.
This book is based on the material that we have taught in our numeri-
cal analysis courses, MAT 665/666 and MAT 765/766, at the University of
Nevada Las Vegas since 2003. The emphasis of the text is on both mathe-
matical theory and practical implementation of the numerical methods. We
have tried to keep the mathematics accessible for a broad audience, while still
presenting the results as rigorously as possible.
This book covers three types of numerical methods for PDEs: the finite
difference method, the finite element method, and the meshless method. In
Chapter 1, we provide a brief overview of some interesting PDEs coming from
different areas and a short review of numerical methods for PDEs. Then we
introduce the finite difference methods for solving parabolic, hyperbolic, and
elliptic equations in Chapters 2, 3, and 4, respectively. Chapter 5 presents
the high-order compact difference method, which is quite popular for solving
time-dependent wave propagation problems. Chapters 6 through 9 cover the
finite element method. In Chapter 6, fundamental finite element theory is
introduced, while in Chapter 7, basic finite element programming techniques
are presented. Then in Chapter 8, we extend the discussion to the mixed finite
element method. Here both theoretical analysis and programming implemen-
tation are introduced. In Chapter 9, we focus on some special finite element
methods for solving Maxwell’s equations, where some newly developed algo-
rithms and Maxwell’s equations in dispersive media are presented. Chapter 10
is devoted to the radial basis function meshless methods developed in recent
years. Some Galerkin-type meshless methods are introduced in Chapter 11.
The book is intended to be an advanced textbook on numerical methods
applied to diverse PDEs such as elliptic, parabolic, and hyperbolic equations.
Each chapter includes about 10 exercises for readers to practice and enhance
their understanding of the materials. This book supplies many MATLAB
source codes, which hopefully will help readers better understand the pre-
sented numerical methods. We want to emphasize that our goal is to provide
readers with simple and clear implementations instead of sophisticated usages

xi
xii Preface

of MATLAB functions. The skilled reader should be able to easily modify or

improve the codes to solve similar problems of his or her interest.
This book can be used for a two-semester graduate course that provides an
introduction to numerical methods for partial differential equations. The first
semester can cover the elementary chapters such as Chapters 1 through 5.
This part can also be used at the undergraduate level as a one-semester in-
troductory course on numerical methods or scientific computing. The rest of
the chapters are more advanced and can be used for the second semester or a
stand-alone advanced numerical analysis course.

MATLAB is a registered trademark of The MathWorks, Inc. For product

information, please contact:

The MathWorks, Inc.

1 Apple Hill Drive
Natick, MA 01760-2098 USA
Tel: 508-647-7000
Fax: 508-647-7001
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.mathworks.com

New to this edition:

In this edition, we first corrected those typos in the first edition. Then we
provided updates to recent textbooks on related subjects, added more exer-
cises, and expanded some sections, such as a detailed finite element analysis
of parabolic equations, and a new section on the popular time-domain finite
difference method for Maxwell’s equations. Of course, we apologize for any
unavoidable omissions and potential typos.
Acknowledgments

We would like to thank Professor Goong Chen for his kind support in accepting
our book into this book series. We also want to thank Shashi Kumar, Karen
Simon, and Bob Stern for their kind help during the first edition production
process, and Bob Ross for his kind help during the second edition production
process.

University of Nevada Las Vegas Jichun Li

University of Nevada Las Vegas Yi-Tung Chen

I am very grateful for the mathematics department’s kind support of my

numerical PDE courses, and to those students suffering during my lectures
over the years, which made this book possible. This work has benefited greatly
from many collaborations with my colleagues over the years. Very special
thanks go to Professor Qun Lin who introduced me to the finite element
superconvergence world; to Professor Mary Wheeler who led me to the won-
derful parallel computing and multidisciplinary research world; to Professors
C.S. Chen and Benny Hon who enlightened me on the meshless method; and
to Dr. Miguel Visbal who directed me to the compact difference method.
Last, but not least, I want to express my gratitude to my wife, Tao, and
our children, Jessica and David, for their love, help, and unwavering support
over the years. Finally, I dedicate this book to the memory of my parents,
Shu-Zhen Zhao and Hao-Sheng Li.

Jichun Li

This book is dedicated to my wife, Yulien, and our children, Jessica and
Jonathan, for their endless love and support.

Yi-Tung Chen

xiii
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
before. He haunts my rooms night and day. Marshall resented this
and forbade him to come except on business. He immediately
invented business by writing verses and essays, which he produced
for my inspection at the rate of about two a day.
After all it hurt me to be told by Marshall that my influence on the
boy was bad. I am afraid Daventry is bad through and through, but
I'm going to make a big effort to cast out the devils in him before he
leaves. There are signs of grace certainly: he is very emotional and
is passionately fond of reading and music. I have lately bought a
gramophone, and any records that he wants to hear I buy for him at
once; consequently, I find him in my rooms when I come in from
games with a rapt expression on his face, having spent the entire
afternoon by himself, giving himself up to the joy of hearing good
music. He cuts games with impunity—if there is any likelihood of
trouble he forges a "leave"; he is disconcertingly open with me in
these things. Having put me in a difficult position by relying on me
not to give him away, he divulges one scheme after another for
outwitting authority. That he needs very careful handling I naturally
see, but why Marshall should have taken it for granted that I only do
the boy harm I don't know. Anyway, Marshall did his best to prevent
my seeing Daventry at all. That naturally only piqued the boy to try
to circumvent him in every possible way. Things came to such a pass
that I had to let Marshall know that he was driving the boy to
extremities which he might regret. It was rather silly of me. He rated
me loudly before all Common Room for interfering in another man's
business. He then launched into a diatribe against the uppishness
and "infallibility" of the junior masters, and declared that the school
was quickly being ruined by the new blood. He ranted at some
length and for a wonder I kept silent and listened to it all without
comment.
And now this awful thing has happened. Daventry kept away from
me when I told him that there was no other course open. He went
about threatening vengeance on Marshall, and even started writing
to me by post. He was badly "hipped" at being deprived of music
and books and food. I don't believe he cares a tuppenny curse about
me.... Then came that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday morning when
I found him in my rooms after breakfast with a small, untidy fag in
tow. They both looked as though they had been condemned to the
guillotine.
"Hello, Daventry," I began, "what on earth are you doing here? Don't
you know——" He cut me short.
"Erskine has something very important to say to you, sir," he broke
in, in a voice I scarcely recognized as his.
"All right; fire away, my son," I replied. "Get it off your chest,
whatever it is—all the same I don't quite see what Daventry is
doing."
"He—he made me come, sir," said Erskine.
He then told his story. It was so revolting that I first refused to
believe it; I thought it was some damnable scheme of Daventry's,
got up to ruin his House-master—I nearly kicked both of them
downstairs without hearing them to a finish. Instead of which I went
straight to the Head and took them with me.
Marshall went on Tuesday. Every one believes that he is seriously ill:
after this term they will give out that he has retired. I have lately
wondered whether I ought not to have gone to see him and told him
that I knew: couldn't it have been possible to keep him on at his
post? Never again shall I move a finger towards the undoing of any
man, however much an enemy of mine he may be. All Marshall's
interest in life was bound up in Radchester. I am daily assaulted by
fears lest he should commit suicide: his blood will be on my head if
he does.
Expulsion is no cure either in man or boy. It's a frightful confession
of our own weakness. It's our fault that Marshall went wrong:
Common Room ought to have sweetened his life so that such
malpractices would have been impossible to him; instead of that the
ugliness and pettiness of the life he led there, the miserable lack of
real friendliness all combined to undo him. There are men here who
can extract sweetness from their life. What could be finer than the
devotion of Patterson to Northcote? Both these men have been on
the staff for years. Neither would accept any job, however lucrative,
unless he could take the other with him. They live in each other's
pockets: they are as close as man and wife: their friendship is strong
enough to survive any momentary difference of opinion. They
discuss their methods of education, the boys they take, the games
they play, the books they read—everything together. They spend all
their holidays in each other's company and it is impossible to know
the one without the other. Neither of them would be capable of a
mean action—they are a beacon-light to all the rest of us.
I wonder if I shall stay on here interminably friendless, and soured
like most of the others. It's a rotten prospect. Now of course the
boys keep me fresh, but as the years roll on I shall become more
and more unfitted for any other profession and get further away by
reason of my age from sympathizing with the youth of the time. Yet
there are some men, Heatherington is one of them, who keep
perennially young: they carry their boyishness with them to the
grave. They can understand youth's difficulties as well at sixty-one
as at twenty-one. I wish I knew the secret of this.
At present I can play games and take an active part in Corps work
and so keep in touch with most of the boys I want to know, but
when I am no longer able to do these things I shall lose touch with a
generation that knows not Joseph and become despised like old
"Soap-Suds," who thirty years ago was the hero of the school owing
to his athletic prowess. I suppose the secret is that games ought not
to count for so much as they do. No boy despises Heatherington, yet
he can't play "Rugger" any more. Privately among themselves, of
course, the boys "rag" his peculiarities, but they stand in fear of him
and quake inwardly as they hear his footsteps coming down the
passage, and old boys can testify how deep their love for him is.
I suppose one of the few rewards of the schoolmaster is that his
name is bandied about in all the strange places of the earth. Old
Radcastrians meet in the Himalayas, on the high seas, in a fever
camp, on a lonely ranch, and they immediately begin to discuss their
old masters. Mostly they speak of them with love if not with
reverence. Our little mannerisms and tricks, which we imagine are
known only to ourselves, lie open to them and endear us to them.
They roar with laughter over our peculiar phraseology, our methods
of punishment, our impotent rage over little things like chipped
desks and false quantities.
I should like boys to remember me by the books I introduced them
to: I like to think of them equipped with a taste for the best
literature, gloating over Conrad or Doctor Johnson, Charles Lamb or
E. V. Lucas, new God or old Giant, in some forsaken place where
ordinary cheap reading would not satisfy any of the heartache, or
remove any of the sense of desolation that comes upon the mind at
such times.
Each time I come back to school I try a different method with my
English classes. If only I had more time I really believe I could
achieve something. At present all I can do is to read a short story of
Stevenson like "Markheim" or "Thrawn Janet" and then get the form
to reproduce the substance of it, or to rewrite it from the point of
view of one of the other characters. I have found this method pay
very well. Once jog a boy's imagination and he will produce quite
original and diverting matter. The difficult thing is to hit on the
particular sort of literature that boys like. Only too frequently
Shakespeare palls; Milton, Pope and Wordsworth are quite beyond
the average boy. On the other hand they cannot have too much of
balladry. "Tam Lyn," "Sir Patrick Spens," "Sir Cauline," and the rest
they love. So with mediæval legends like "Sir Gawayne and the
Green Knight." Most boys after a careful introduction to the life of
the age of Queen Anne and the curious characters of Swift, Steele,
Addison and Defoe, appreciate quickly the beauties of the Spectator,
and are only too glad as a weekly essay to interpolate a paper on
some foible rampant in that school. Boswell, too, they can tackle if
only you prepare them by giving a Macaulayesque account of
Johnson's quaint tricks and mannerisms. Spenser, Shelley and Keats
I find are only for the few. Most of them love Byron. Tennyson, like
Dickens, they have been taught to revere at home. They are not
very fond of either. But Browning and even Meredith quickly become
bosom friends of theirs, as do the Pre-Raphaelites. But by far the
greatest boom at present is the Masefield cult. I read "The
Everlasting Mercy" when it came out in the English Review to all my
sets and they were intoxicated. Hallows got to hear of this and was
furious with me for introducing "so foul-mouthed and immoral-
minded a poet" to boys. Poor old Masefield. I don't suppose he
reckoned with the Public School attitude when he set out on his
mission of outspokenness. In order to keep the problems of modern
life before my form I strew my classroom with daily and weekly
papers, monthly and quarterly reviews, and demand précis of all the
more important articles before or after debates on all sorts of
modern problems. I have started to do more original work myself.
The World of School has accepted two or three articles on
educational reform which I submitted to them, and I now have the
lust of authorship on me badly. It's a very wearing disease. I am for
ever planning books. I want to write a complete English course,
eliminating all that nonsense about weak and strong verbs, different
uses of the gerund and all grammar grind and analysis.
What I want is an historical survey of the whole of English literature,
liberally interspersed with examples, with a list of the books they
ought to buy and enjoy reading, imaginative questions which should
spur them on to original composition in verse and prose with a
stimulating introduction on why, how, and what we should read. I
would make such books as Arnold Bennett's "Literary Taste" and
"The Author's Craft" compulsory for every boy in every school in the
kingdom. I would also make every boy learn by heart those
passages in "Sesame and Lilies" where Ruskin points out the value
of reading in practical life.
But all this would not gain a boy many marks in a modern
examination, and we live or die by results in examinations. English
papers seem to me to be the worst set of all. What can it profit a
man to know the context of obscure passages in Shakespeare if he
has not got the spirit of the play in him actively shaping his own life?
If a boy does not feel the Hamlet or the Richard II within him
shouting for utterance when he reads a Shakespeare play, he is
doing himself no good at all. The whole argument brings one back to
beauty and imagination. I want to see every boy's study crammed
with copies of the "World's Classics," the "Everyman" and the "Home
University Library." There is no excuse for anybody not having read
standard works at this time of day.
I try to instil a love of books into my forms by telling them of men
like George Gissing, with whom it became a question of breakfast or
a precious volume acquired in a second-hand shop: a book must
cost you something before you can expect really to value it at its
true worth. As Ruskin says, we despise books simply because they
are accessible. I've always had this book-fever on me. I remember
even as a small boy suffering unduly from the pangs of hunger,
going from fruiterer to book-shop and from book-shop to fruiterer,
wondering which I really wanted more, the romance or the pound of
cherries. I know that I always hated myself when I succumbed to
the latter temptation, for the cherries were soon eaten but the
delights of the book were perennial.

July 4, 1911

The joys of the Coronation were not for us. Some of the Corps went
down to London to line the streets, but the rest of us went into
camp and had a gorgeous time. We spent the time bathing and
washing up, and celebrating Coronation festivities in all the villages
near by. We made speeches and helped to feed myriads of children:
we led processions and drank vast quantities of liquid at other
people's cost. Money seemed to be poured out in honour of George
V.
All the same I was lonely because most of the boys I require by me
to complete my happiness were in London lining the streets.
However, we were not parted long and we are now just back from
the Windsor Review. That is the most impressive ceremony in which
I have ever taken part. All the Public Schools and Universities
paraded before the King in Windsor Great Park. It was a sweltering
hot day and we were as tired as could be after our long journey and
the fatigue of camp, but no one fell out or fainted except some of
the Oxford and Cambridge contingents. Good for the schools! It was
wonderful to get down south again, if only for one day, to see real
trees, civilized people, pretty girls, the Thames, respectable houses
built for comfort, culture and leisure. We spent all the long hours in
the train in rushing up and down the corridors "debagging" people,
"scrumming" forty or fifty unfortunates into one carriage and then
leaping on the top of them. No wonder we were tired. How any
windows remained unbroken is a miracle to me.
We have had a good term with regard to the Corps—about four of
the best field-days I can remember. The best was in Wensleydale
amid peerless scenery: about ten big schools took part, and I, as
usual, was engaged in scouting most of the time. It is rare fun
stalking the enemy on these lonely moors far from your own people.
With a little imagination you can picture the reality ... and in any
case it's a rotten game to be captured by some other school. I don't
know why, but after you've left the school about ten minutes you
feel as if you'd been soldiering all your life and lived only for food
and sleep. No meals are more acceptable than field-day lunches,
usually eaten by the side of a dusty road in the full glare of a hot
sun, but it's hunger that makes the meal, and marching is the best
appetizer I know: the only thing I object to about these sham fights
is the powwow afterwards and the stupidity of the umpires. Every
one knows that umpires can't be everywhere at once and human
nature doesn't admit of one's giving oneself up unless real force is
used; consequently the most ridiculous decisions are given, for the
conditions have always altered by the time any umpire turns up; the
weaker side which has been ambushed becomes reinforced by a
body ten times as big as the ambushing party, and so turns the
tables, and the clever strategist who really brought off a good coup
finds himself a prisoner and harangued by his O.C. Field-days are
very unfair, but they are amusing. It's rare fun chasing an enemy
into a farm-house and forcing an entrance into every room in pursuit
of him: it's good to see a motor-bicycle belonging to some officer
lying by the roadside and to ride away on it. It's worth any amount
of powwow to sit under a hedge within sight of a bridge on which
you have chalked "This bridge is blown up," and watch the enemy
debate whether or no they have a right to advance across it: it's
very like the real thing to be told off to act as guerillas and to keep
on irritating an advancing force by appearing at inconvenient times
and unexpected places, and holding up their plans and then trying to
escape and repeat the experiment farther along the line. Close order
drill, ceremonial and inspection are distinctly boring, but field-days
are red-letter days.
For twelve hours one gets right away, away from work, away from
Common Room, away from games, and it does every one a world of
good. We lose our petty animosities: we become more broad-minded
and regain our ordinary sense of camaraderie: we sing ribald songs,
we fill our lungs with good air, we discuss philosophy or any mortal
thing with our next-door neighbour on the march, not caring
whether he listens or not; we silently form good resolutions about
our work, we think upon great days long past, of famous runs with
the beagles, childhood's days on the moor, tramps across country as
undergraduates—all the best things of life come back to one on the
march. It isn't that we take soldiering very seriously: none of us
does that. I hate shooting on the range; rifle-firing frightens me; I
should be a damned fool at pukka fighting, but this make-believe is
good sport and I suppose it teaches us something. At any rate it's
amusing.
One of the quaintest things about this term has been my friendship
with Chichester. He is a new boy in my form who speaks but seldom,
not because he is nervous (he is one of the most self-assured people
I ever met) but because he doesn't want to. He writes already
bizarre but quite original verse. He goes his own way in everything.
He somehow became attracted by me, and now we spend all our
spare time together. It's a queer friendship. He's a largish boy for
fifteen, with curly light hair and penetrating blue eyes and a delicate
pink and white complexion.
We lie on a rug together and watch House matches, eating
strawberries and cherries. He borrows all my books and reads them
at an astonishing rate. Masefield bowled him over completely. He
has written at least four poems based on "The Everlasting Mercy."
He is about the cleanest child I have met and yet he employs the
foulest metaphors I ever came across. He is an anomaly. He is in for
a bad time here: people won't understand him and every one will do
his best to ruin him.
He appears to be quite fond of me and calls for me daily to go down
to games with him. Common Room is scandalized and I have been
warned by most of my colleagues that such things are not done. It is
not good for a boy to be taken up and made a favourite of by a
master. With that sentiment I entirely agree. I wonder why every
one here does it. But I'm not making a favourite of him: he has
honoured me with his friendship. I have no fast, firm friend; neither
has he. He certainly is not the type of boy to trade upon such a
relationship; in form he works like a "navvy," he plays his games
adequately: he is quite normal except for his gift for writing English.
Surely no one can blame me for fostering that.
At any rate I should prefer to leave rather than break off our
relations, so people must just talk and think what they like. Of
course the school doesn't like it. They hate any boy having much to
do with a master, but Chichester has a will of his own and I rather
fancy he will take his own line right through life. Not that he is self-
assertive: he is quiet and unassuming, but he always contrives to
get his own way. Luckily for me he is in Wade's house, and dear old
Wade, who ought to have been a country squire, never denies any
one anything; so when the boy goes for leave to come to my rooms
he gets it every time without a murmur.
The only blow about camp this year is that Chichester won't be
there. His people are taking him abroad for the whole of August.
I have been bothered a good deal lately about a peculiarly silly habit
of mine. Sometimes, in mathematics especially, I get violently angry
at intervals because I realize that my sets are not working hard
enough. I so rarely punish that of course there is a temptation for
boys to slack in present circumstances: when I find that they take
advantage of my ideals to practise this trick on me I usually "give
tongue" forcibly and "drop on" them as heavily as I can with a quite
colossal punishment. This I take down in a book and—after five
minutes I've forgotten all about it. The boy always looks contrite at
the moment, but I realize that he knows that he won't have to do
the punishment at all.
There is a silly system here by which one has to enter the names of
all the boys one punishes in a book: I simply can't remember to do
it. It's like looking at "roll" lists. I'm always slack about checking the
reasons that my boys give for their absence. I always believe what a
boy tells me. How can you expect boys to tell the truth if you always
verify their statements by outside corroborative evidence? It seems
to me to be asking for trouble.
There seems to be everlasting espionage here. The school sergeant
is known to be in the "secret service" of the Head Master, and is
popularly supposed to wander about with a pair of field-glasses
scouring the countryside for miscreants. This seems a quaint
conception of education. Wherever and whenever we meet boys we
are expected to extract information from them as to their precise
occupation.
The only safe place seems to be on the cricket field, and even there
you are surrounded by seniors waiting to lash you if you drop a
catch or (in their opinion) field badly.
I spend most of my afternoons, when I am not wanted to fill up last
place in a Common Room eleven, in coaching the "Rabbits," which is
a league composed entirely of those who are unable to play cricket
at all, the worst two dozen in the school. It is really amusing: no one
could possibly pretend to take it seriously. The only time when it
perhaps gets monotonous is when some elderly fag appears and
insists on playing, and I find him coercing all the others to field for
and bowl to him, while he scores about a hundred and fifty. That
only happens when there is no master about. The House matches
this term have been frenziedly exciting and Chichester and I have
spent most afternoons watching them. It is an Arcadian, simple life
in the summer term. Every morning at 6.30 I pull Dearden out of
bed and race him down to the sea in pyjamas. We have a hasty
bathe and arrive just in time for chapel at 7, unshaven. We there
(pernicious custom) have to take a "roll" of our form. We look down
chapel to see the faces of friends and at some intimate verses in the
hymn or psalms we smile as at some hidden secret between
ourselves. 7.25 sees us running to first school. We run everywhere
at Radchester. I hate these dreary lessons before breakfast: 8 o'clock
seems an interminable distance ahead. There is supposed to be
cocoa in Common Room between 7.20 and 7.25, but no one ever
has time to drink it, unless he cares to risk being late for form, which
is not a vice masters here are prone to. At 8 o'clock on two days of
the week two of us have to deny ourselves breakfast until the whole
school has finished, for we have to say grace in hall, collect the
names of all absentees, walk round to see that no one cuts the cloth
or indulges in undue ribaldry, and then when all is over we dismiss
them. Only then (at 8.30) do we get our own breakfast. By this time
all the best of the food is gone. Feversham will probably be helping
himself to his fourth egg and sausage and fifth piece of toast, the
morning papers will all have been seized and we shall be thoroughly
irritable.
One of the things that makes me loathe the Common Room system
is this herding together for breakfast, a meal that ought to be eaten
in communion with the morning paper and no living soul to
interrupt.
From 9 to 9.45 we punish, we practise fielding, we correct work.
From 9.45 to 1.15 we rush from subject to subject, from class to
class, attempting to drive some rudiments of mathematics and
English into the heads of boys who don't want to know anything. If
only they were born poor and knew that they had to depend on their
wits for their livelihood, it would be infinitely easier for us.
Occasionally one gets an hour off in the morning (I get three in the
week) and this is spent either in writing letters, taking the illustrated
weeklies from the House Room, or in going for a lonely walk or
bathe. Sometimes I lie on the sand-dunes and eat and read, or try
to write a few words more of an article. At 1.20 we all assemble in
hall again, this time taking our food with the boys. I like this meal;
the food is not good but the conversation is. I love all the clique that
sits at my end of the table. Jimmy Haye, who sits on my right hand,
is an argumentative soul who frequently sulks and refuses to speak
to me when he thinks that I am doing the wrong thing, such as
going about with Chichester, speaking against the classics at a
debate, or advocating educational reform. Jimmy is a boy I should
much like to know intimately, but he rarely comes up to my rooms:
he doesn't care to mix with the riff-raff he finds there. I have
occasionally persuaded him to come for a walk; he spends most of
his life in "ragging" in the house and in being bullied by Naylor, the
senior maths. tutor, who is endeavouring to raise him to the
standard required for University scholarship. On my left sits
Montague, Jimmy's greatest friend. He is easy-going, clever, very
good at games, quite wild and irresponsible in the house, with a
temper like a fiend. He has Spanish blood in him and has travelled
all over the world. He treats me as I like to be treated—as a boon
companion: although he doesn't take advantage of my standing
invitation to use my rooms as an hotel he always comes to me for
advice when he is implicated in a row. He likes to take me for walks
on Sundays and pour out his many grievances against life.
Sometimes neither he nor Haye talk to me at all for a month, then
they suddenly relent, become their old gay selves again and chatter
away, to my endless enjoyment.
It is at lunch-time that I generally hear the scandal of the day. In the
afternoon immediately after lunch there is punishment drill—some
twenty to fifty miscreants have to run or march round the square
under direction of the drill-sergeant for half an hour, while other
people are changing, going out to nets or playing tennis.
We bowl at nets till 3.30. Not many days pass without an accident.
It's a wonder to me that boys aren't killed at this exercise: all the
nets are very close together and hardly protected at all. Once the
House matches start, of course, nets are "dropped" and we simply
lie on rugs and applaud or groan according to the fortunes of the
game. Most of the masters sit on an elevated mound, Olympians on
their dung-hill, near which sacred spot no boy may approach.
At 3.45 we get a scrappy tea in our own rooms: the old witch of a
bedmaker is supposed to put out the tea-things and the kettle, and
produce the roll and butter provided by the school. She frequently
forgets, just as she forgets to dust the room or wash up the dirty
things. Usually I have to write orders for chocolate, walnut cakes,
and fruit and jams or bananas and cream, and dispatch fags to the
tuck-shop. There are never less than half a dozen urchins clamouring
for tea: at 4.15 the bell rings for afternoon school.
Shall I ever forget in the years to come this hellish bell? It rings not
less than fifty times a day, usually for five minutes at a time: nothing
is so calculated to get on a new-comer's nerves as its incessant
tolling, day and night, calling us to some fresh duty.
At 6 o'clock the school goes into hall for tea. If one is on duty that
means more "calling of rolls" and counting of absentees; if not we
have a blessed half-hour in which to prepare for Common Room
dinner at 6.30. At 7 we hurry off to take prep. The senior men get
half a crown a night for taking prep. in Big School, we poor juniors
have to hustle along to supervise one of the other innumerable
preps. for no reward. I hate this invigilation. It means that one tries
to correct work, but has to interrupt oneself all the time in order to
help boys over ridiculous points about cisterns and pipes, quadratic
graphs or a line in Homer. Of course one can refuse all aid: most
men do lest they should be found ignorant of some department of
school study. At 8.45 we again rush to chapel and at 9 another prep.
starts, in studies this time, and juniors start to turn on baths as a
sign of bed. At 10 o'clock work for the day is over except for masters
and the Sixth Form. Shouts and screams come from all the
dormitories, and twenty minutes later we go round to see that every
one is in bed.
By eleven most of the buildings are in darkness. Bridge-parties and
conversations over whisky are kept up till twelve or one, but it isn't
every night that we have time to indulge in these practices. Such is
our normal day, but it's the unusual that finds its chronicling most
frequently in this diary.

August 1, 1911

To-morrow we go away to Aldershot for the annual camp; another

school year is over and I now have two years to look back over. I
don't know that my experience has taught me much yet, except a
distrust of the old men. I still love boys as much as ever, though not
in the mass. I hate them at school lectures when they cough in
order to make a nervous lecturer break down, or when they express
mock approval by prolonged ironic laughter and stamping of feet. I
hate them most of all when they choose to "rag" an unfortunate
master who can't keep order in hall or at "roll." I always funk taking
both these ceremonies, though I have never had any trouble except
in my dreams. If I did I suppose I should half-kill the boy nearest to
me and let out with my fists all round.
I like boys best singly in my rooms. Chichester makes up to me for
lack of wife or sister or brother. I am never happy when he is out of
my sight. He has shown up a prodigious quantity of good verse and
some short stories, all of which I store away in the hope that some
day I shall have collected enough to publish.
I've got a new idea in English composition with the lower forms. I
take in a copy of a really good picture and get them to describe it:
as a model for this I read Pater's description of the "Mona Lisa" with
a copy staring them in the face as I read. I don't know where I got
this idea from, but I find that it brings out a good deal of latent
talent from boys who can never express themselves on paper in
normal circumstances.
I wish it could be possible to have school without the first and last
days of term: they are never-ending. At the beginning one misses all
the comforts of civilization and mourns the absence of all society: at
the end, after a strenuous turmoil of thirteen weeks there is nothing
whatever left to do. Marks are all added up, examination papers
corrected, reports written, prize sheets made, clothes packed. Boys
besiege one's rooms with requests for photographs, and with a catch
in the throat say good-bye. They are going into the firm, going up to
the University, going abroad—going to the ends of the earth on their
different missions, and Radchester will know them no more. Their
office another will take and one gasps at the handful that will be left
to carry on the glorious traditions of the House and school. The last
day is pitiable.
Most masters are unfeignedly glad to get away. I never am. I
sometimes chafe about the eighth or ninth week, but by the
thirteenth I have become so used to the life that I hate the thought
of any change. I have learnt to do without civilization. I just want my
boys by my side always: I want to go on teaching English. I don't
mind a holiday from mathematics. I wish I could find the soul of
algebra and geometry. It's hard to make a moral lesson out of a
circle. I am not Sir Thomas Browne. I shall miss my daily bickerings
with Jimmy Haye and Montagu in hall. I shall miss the cricket and
the bathing; above all, I shall miss Chichester and the rug. Luckily
he is coming to camp this year. Camp lets one down gently.
Gradually the longing for society steals over one again and the
strenuous ten days' soldiering makes one pine for clean sheets and
mufti, ordinary hours and meals at a table, but while it lasts it's just
one great picnic.
 VIII

August 10, 1911

It's been a good camp in every way. I was battalion scout most of
the time and had the extraordinary luck to outwit a whole section of
Cameronians (regulars) in one field-day while I was investigating
behind the enemy's lines. What an ideal country for fighting this is,
with all the pine-trees and the long stretch of Laffan's Plain and
Cæsar's Camp. I wish that Radchester could be burnt down and
rebuilt somewhere on these Surrey hills. Every evening I used to
tramp over to the Aldershot baths from Farnborough, tired as I was,
and then back to join the riotous "sing-songs." I find that one gets
through a good deal of money at the canteens. I always want to eat
like a pig and drink like a fish at the finish of each day's manœuvres.
I have never been so bronzed as I am this year: my face is almost
black with the sun and the dust. We had some excellent fights
during the ten days, not always as on the programme. We had a
first-class row with the Melton corps. They "swank" as if they owned
the whole camp, so we let all their tents down one night. There was
a battle royal and an inquiry the next day, when about eight
Generals all gave tongue and talked about the honour of the Army.
You can't suddenly pretend that a schoolboy ceases to be a
schoolboy because you dress him up in khaki. He will have his
"rags," whatever Guardsmen say.
There was, too, the usual smoking row. As a matter of fact, the
great majority of fellows don't smoke in camp: they can afford to
wait till the holidays begin. It is an education in itself to meet all the
people from the other schools, to see how those with the great
names take it for granted that they are cock-of-the-walk and "hold
up" the canteens, while members of less well-known schools have to
wait.
As a matter of fact, the officers' mess is the place to learn things. I
dined there one night as a guest. I had no idea that Oxford and
Cambridge were, or could be responsible for, such bounders as I met
on that one evening. Good-hearted fellows for the most part, but it
was ludicrous to see them in the same mess with these pukka
officers of the Grenadiers and Coldstreams. They are keen on their
job, too, but without the ghost of an idea how to behave, or how to
speak the King's English. They are indescribably funny to watch as
they sidle up to the Colonels and Generals and try to adopt a sort of
Army attitude to life. There are heaps of men here whom I used to
know at Oxford; most of them, however, are in the regulars and not
O.T.C. men at all.
One of the "stunts" is for the boys to get the General or some big
"nut" to go to tea in their tents. They provide a palatial meal and the
wretched old man has to gorge himself nearly sick in order to please
these fifteen-year-olds, who would be tremendously upset if he
didn't eat all that was offered to him. But the man we all stand in
dread of is the Brigade Sergeant-Major, who has a voice of thunder,
and puts the fear of God into every one who comes near him, officer
and man alike. He seems to be a walking encyclopædia; there is
nothing he doesn't know and he requires absolute perfection every
time. I must say ten days of this life make our puny efforts at school
to be smart look pretty cheap. Here we really get the hang of things:
at school somehow we nearly always fail. It's partly competition and
the ever-present fact that we have a reputation to keep up.

August 15, 1911

I have just had four days in town as an aftermath. The comparison
between London and camp is extraordinary. I'd no idea my love for
London was so deep-rooted. There hangs over London an ever-
present air of success, of money-making and money-spending. The
shops tempt you, the hotels tempt you, the theatres tempt you,
everything tempts you. I fed well and met all sorts of interesting
people, among them Chichester. He lives at Hampton Court and I
had one great afternoon on the river with his sisters, himself and his
mother. They appear to be very wealthy and at dinner, to which I
stayed, there was such a variety of wines that I got nervous as to
which wine to put in which glass. I believe I got them all wrong,
except the liqueurs, but I don't think they noticed. How Chichester
can bear the bleak savagery of Radchester after the rich comforts of
his own home, I can't conceive.
Some day I am to go back and stay with him. He appears to spend
his holidays boating, motoring, riding, playing billiards, going to
theatres, reading and writing. I never met people who put one so
quickly at one's ease. Although they are rich they don't seem to
worry about Society: they do none of the right things, for which
Heaven be praised. They just enjoy life to the full and take each
blessing as it comes. They have less of the snob in them than any
people I have ever met. They appear to be unduly grateful to me for
what I have done for Tony. My hat! The boot's on the other foot:
what has Tony not done for me?

August 23, 1911

After a glorious week with my uncle in Dawlish, during which time I

bathed and walked a good deal, I am back in town again. I love
Devon: the coast scenery fills me with ecstatic delight and I thank
God every minute that I am alive and strong to enjoy the good
things of life.
I got into conversation with heaps of strangers of both sexes, and
heard views of life that I am sure never enter the heads of my
colleagues: when I am asked, as I frequently am, what I do in life,
they always think I am lying when I say I am a schoolmaster, and
laugh good-humouredly as if I had said something supremely funny
when I mention that Oxford was once my University: apparently all
young men claim to be "college boys": it's part of the game. Their
whole conversation is one vast lie. But it does no one any harm and
gives them a sense of romance: they get right away from the
humdrum existence of the shop-counter and the office, and for a
fortnight imagine themselves to be dukes and duchesses. But they
miss half the joy that Devon provides by not scouring the country.
Their programme is to rise late, dress with lavish care in the most
glaring and tasteless colours, and slowly promenade up and down
the Front. It is all very pretty and harmless and would delight the
heart of O. Henry. They miss entirely the thousands of joyous little
creeks with which the coast is studded: they never try to discover
the secret charm of the moor. They prefer listening to the comic
songs of the coons to the birds on the hillside, and the band on the
Promenade to the rush of wind in the ears as one stands on the
cliffs.
I wish I could write a novel. But I lack every faculty necessary for it.
I can't observe properly: I can't describe the effect that scenery has
on me. I am too nervous to probe into the inner history of sad-eyed
women and dour-faced men. That they have their passionate loves
and hates, of course I know, but these every man keeps in the
secret places of the heart. Your Devonian is not the sort of man to
wear his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck at. I came back to
London two nights ago, with my uncle, and he took me to several
plays. When I am in town I'm never satisfied unless I can put in two
theatres a day. I am just as excited at the rise of a curtain or the
tuning up of the orchestra to-day as I used to be when I was a small
kid. To be able to see in the flesh all these great actors, of whom we
only hear dimly in our fastness of Radchester, is a delight not less
than, if very different from, the sight of the red loam of Devon, or a
great stag breaking from cover with the hounds close upon his
heels.
 September 26, 1911

I spent a week with the Chichesters at Hampton and had a joyful

time in company with Tony. After leaving them I went home because
my mother suddenly developed rheumatic fever and was seriously ill.
I read aloud to her for about three hours every day from Ford Madox
Hueffer's "Ladies Whose Bright Eyes" and W. L. Courtney's "In
Search of Egeria."
I have heard from the Head Master that Anstruther is to have
Marshall's house. Anstruther! Ye Gods! He is two terms junior to me.
I hear that the Begum of Bhopal wants me to coach her son in
Constantinople. That would be fun. Think of the experience! I
wanted to clinch with the offer at once, but my mother made me
promise not to. Heaven knows what it would have led to. I should
have seen the world, met all the best people, and perhaps found a
good job at the end of it.
 IX

October 13, 1911

Back again at Radchester. As usual there are a few rows on. Two of
the parson members of the staff are quarrelling because Tomson
(the High Church one) will call the Communion "Eucharist," and will
talk about the "Catholic" instead of the Protestant Church. Mathews
on the other hand calls the altar the communion-table. A battle royal
is in progress. I believe Tomson will have to go. This is a very Low
Church school and any one who crosses himself or indulges in any
ritualistic practices is looked upon as inclined to papistry.
It seems a strange thing to make such a fuss about. Both Mathews
and Tomson are good, conscientious workers, and the school will be
the poorer if either of them leaves. Another row concerns me. It is
commonly thought by some members of my form that Chichester
has been "sneaking" to me about their methods of work, a pretty
laughable idea when one thinks how little Chichester cares about
any one in the school, much less in his form. We never talk about
school matters at all. We talk books and philosophy. Anyway, I have
lately been boycotted by my form, by Montague and Haye and most
of the school.
I'm reading Stevenson's and Meredith's Letters. I've got rather a
passion for letter-writers. The Paston Letters, Dorothy Osborne's,
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's, Horace Walpole's, Gray's, Lamb's and
Cowper's all gave me lasting pleasure. One feels at last as if one
really was beginning to see the inner workings of the minds of great
geniuses when you close a volume of their intimate correspondence
—but I prefer Stevenson's and Meredith's to all the others. They
show such wonderful cheeriness in the face of adversity, such love
for their friends and wives, such an interest in literature and in life.
They are so splendidly natural and speak from the heart. We hear
the very voice of the man we have learnt to love in public talking
intimately in his own home.
We have just had an amazing masters' meeting in which the
following motions were carried:
(i) Masters are forbidden to see more of one boy than another!
(ii) Masters are forbidden to have any boys in their room except for
"turned" work.
(iii) Masters are forbidden to hear "turned" work in their rooms
except between 9 and 1.
(iv) Lower School boys are not to be allowed in any House other
than their own without a written leave from their House-masters.
(v) Boys must never be given the run of a master's rooms.
(vi) In future every one will stand all through the offertory in the
Communion service.
There were heaps more, but these were the funniest. Anything more
priceless than the solemn conclave of old dears passing these
resolutions one by one, with here and there an amendment (always
rejected without discussion) I never saw. If they think that all this
tomfoolery will prevent me from seeing all I want to of Tony, they
are mistaken. It wasn't altogether aimed at me. Apparently quite a
number of the younger masters make friends with the boys. For the
life of me I can't see why they shouldn't. Anyway these "rules" aren't
going to make any difference to me. All through this ridiculous
meeting I found myself repeating Edith Sichel's priceless aphorism:
"There is nothing that cannot be imagined by people of no
imagination." It ought to be inscribed over the mantelpiece of every
Common Room.

December 19, 1911

We have had some good field-days lately, notably one where I was
in command of a small force, which was told off to harass a large
advancing troop by repeated ambushes. I nearly ran my people off
their feet, but it was rare fun. We just appeared in the most unlikely
places, forced the enemy to waste time by deploying, let them get
quite close and then scattered and met again farther back along the
line and repeated the manœuvre. The whole business was
overwhelmingly successful for we delayed their advance until it
ceased to be of any effect. I prefer this sort of tactical scheme to the
usual one of merely putting out outposts or an advanced guard. The
only way to interest boys in the Corps is to give them some one to
fight against every time. I found this out when I started the night
scouts. I have been allowed twenty minutes nightly in which to
practise my specialist scouts in getting used to working in the dark.
It was futile merely getting them accustomed to using their night
eyes; unless we opposed one another and tried to track each other
down, the whole business failed of its object.
As soon as we had sides they all became ten times more
enthusiastic: both their sight and hearing became more acute: there
were some titanic struggles and much good resulted from these
tactics. It is an eerie business, searching on a pitch-black night inch
by inch, over a ploughed field, for an enemy that you expect to
pounce upon you from behind if he gets the chance. Of course
Hallows and Co. did their best to prevent my having these boys out,
on the ground that they would catch cold—and then that they might
get into mischief. For once I carried my point and had my own way.
I notice that I'm leaving the school buildings far less frequently than
I used to do when I first came here. I have very little temptation to
go off to Scarborough for a "razzle" at the theatre or the Winter
Gardens. About twice a term suffices now. I don't quite know why.
Of course I'm reading much more and I sit up taking notes for books
that I mean some day to write. I still refuse to play "bridge." I go to
the "club" and sing, dance, eat and drink on rare occasions, but
normally I don't go out of my rooms much at night.
I don't spend more time in Common Room than I can help. I just
play my games, work out my schemes in form on the teaching of
English and mathematics, write innumerable letters and try my hand
occasionally on original topics for articles.
Of late the Pioneer has taken several sporting sketches of mine,
which has put a new heart in me.

December 31, 1911

Last term ended very quietly. I saw a great deal of Tony in spite of
all the silly new regulations.
It was grand to be back in London again: I spent five days with the
Chichesters at Hampton and we feasted right royally and went to
two shows a day. On Christmas Eve I went down to see my father
and mother, who were staying in Bath for the waters. After the
riotous orgies at the Chichesters I thought I should find Bath boring.
I arrived late at night and was struck by the lights twinkling from
hills on every side. My people had got "digs" close under the shadow
of the Abbey. I was glad to come to a place which had such a
wonderful eighteenth-century flavour, and expected to find out many
new truths about Jane Austen, Fielding, Sheridan, Doctor Johnson,
Beau Nash and all the other celebrities, but no one in Bath seemed
to take any notice of the past. The present was gay enough for
them.
So many Army men retire to Bath with a progeny of daughters all of
marriageable age, but possessed of no dowry, that they almost wait
in a queue outside the station to fasten on to any strange young
man who appears. It took me some time to fathom this. I found
every one exceedingly kind and hospitable. I could wish I were a
better dancer. These Assembly Room shows are glorious, but they
make me abominably nervous. I feel all the time gauche and
awkward in the presence of these resplendent youngsters: they can
all dance superbly, and in the first place I am afraid that the
cheapness of my clothes militates against me, and then that no girl
could possibly really want to dance with me when she could secure
one of these subalterns or rich young squires. All the same once I
got into the swing of the thing it was all right. I always found some
partners who fitted my steps exactly: I endured agonies with some
tall and unresponsive creatures, who obviously were only giving me
a "duty" dance, but with small girls like Ruth Harding I got on
famously. To enjoy a dance to the full one ought to know one's
partner intimately and dance with her for the entire night. At the last
two dances I got Ruth to dance with me most of the evening, which
apparently scandalized some of the clique which I am supposed to
have joined. There can be no place in the British Isles where
tongues wag so unceasingly as in Bath. It is like sitting through a
scene in "The School for Scandal" to hear the modern Lady
Sneerwell and Mrs. Candour chattering about faithless wives. Not
one in a hundred of their stories could possibly be true, or else we
are living in a most depraved age. It is the first time in my life that
I've heard people openly discuss these things. I can't say that I like
it. Ruth is a good little soul. She knows nothing about eighteenth-
century history but is quite keen to learn. We have explored Prior
Park and Castle Combe, and have searched every street in order to
find out where all the greater celebrities lived in the great days. In
some ways the place has not changed at all since the age of Jane
Austen. At one of the Assembly Room dances I met exact replicas of
Catherine Morland, Emma, and Mr. Collins. They almost employed
the same phraseology. Quaintly enough, not one of them had ever
read a word of Jane Austen.
My father and mother love the life here. We take my mother out in a
Bath chair into the gardens and she gazes at all the smartly dressed
passers-by. My father has got to know all the local clergy: sometimes
he takes duty at one of the churches. We have a great number of
callers and there is never a lack of anything to do. It is a welcome
change from the dullness of our village at home. One of the joys of
life here for me is beagling. I go out three times a week with the
Wick or the Trowbridge Beagles. I doubt whether there are a finer
set of people living than the average beaglers.
They are usually poor (they can't afford to ride), they are
passionately addicted to open-air life and are hence sound in mind
and limb. Although one feels at times after a heavy run as if one
would drop dead from fatigue before one got home, yet the sense of
exhaustion is soon ousted by a sense of wild exhilaration in the
hunt, the scenery, the people you meet, and the physical fitness of
your body. It is so splendid just to turn up at some country house
and there, among the sherry and the sandwiches, get into
conversation with some flapper or schoolboy or old colonel, all of
whom are full of tales of past historic runs and anticipations of the
day's sport.
One day we ran from Trowbridge right on to Salisbury Plain, and lost
the hounds in the dark by Edington Church—and had to scour the
lonely hills for them until eight o'clock. This was on a night when I
had promised to take Ruth and two other girls to hear the D'Oyley
Carte Company. I got to the theatre at a quarter to ten.

January 19, 1912

I spent most of my days with Ruth for the rest of the holidays, doing
all the correct things, having tea tête-à-tête at Fortt's, going to the
theatre on Friday nights (the fashionable night in Bath), walking over
Lansdown and down the Avon valley, beagling together (that was
best of all: she is a superb athlete) and dancing together whenever
possible. Her parents and mine have become firm friends and we are
as thick as thieves. I am not in love with her, but she's about the
best pal I ever had, which is saying a good deal.
I hear that Bath has been waiting anxiously to hear the
announcement of our engagement. What a place! Why on earth
can't a man have a girl friend without eternally being suspected of
marriage? Ruth and I have never kissed or done anything except
treat each other as bosom friends, which we certainly are and
probably always shall be.
In spite of the insidious temptations of Bath, to crawl round looking
at the shops all day, or to explore the highways and by-ways of
Somerset, I have both read and written a good deal.
This seems to me the Golden Age of the novel. There are about
thirty or forty people writing really great stuff, full of a philosophy of
life, candid, human, extraordinarily real and interesting: their books
do not sell in great numbers, but they occupy a place on one's
bookshelf that one wants to refer to almost daily. All the other
thousand or so novelists don't count at all. I hate the unreality and
false glamour of these popular writers: they are like the halfpenny
papers which cater for a low and vicious, ignorant taste, only to be
compared with the shoddier melodramas that we see on the cinema.
I often wonder how these old ladies get on who crowd daily into
Smith's Library in Milsom Street and ask the girl behind the counter
for an interesting book. She must have her work cut out to
remember the million or so different connotations that the word
"interesting" bears to the circulating library subscriber. I wonder how
many of them would like to plunge into the inconsequent medley
which constitutes my diary. When you see one old lady bearing off
under her arm a copy of "The Revelations of a Duchess," Samuel
Butler's "Life and Habit," Gertie de S. Wentworth-James's latest
narcotic, and some of A. C. Benson's Essays, it almost frights you to
think of the aggregate effect of such a mixture. Talk about mixing
drinks! The reading habit seems to be ingrained in the British public,
but I cannot help wondering how much of the best stuff is ever
understood by people who commonly feed on garbage.
I should like to publish a sort of annual guide to be called "The
Hundred Best Books of the Year," to be divided up into sections for
Parsons, Doctors, Schoolmasters, Socialists, Capitalists, Politicians,
Flappers, Nursemaids, Factory Hands, Maiden Aunts, Subalterns, and
Young Matrons. I wonder how many would overlap. Not many, I
fancy.
I don't think criticisms of books make any appreciable difference to
their sale. I have seen heaps of novels, damned by all the papers,
go into five or six large editions and others that have been acclaimed
as sheer genius die at birth. I wonder, for instance, how many copies
of E. C. Booth's "Cliff End" were sold during the first year after its
appearance, yet I can't remember any novel which made so deep an
impression on me at the time. Yet on every bookstall you see copies
of "Paul the Pauper," which every sane man would condemn as
simply silly. It has sold over 200,000 copies in two years. It seems
incredible: there isn't a single human character in the book, not a
single natural sentence: everything is untrue to life in every respect.
The passions are laid on with a trowel. There are Grandisonian
heroes and double-dyed villains: coincidences of a kind which violate
every natural law occur on every other page. The only thing that I
can compare to this amazing book is a Lyceum tragedy and the wit
of a music-hall comedian. I wonder if England will ever become
educated.
From what I have seen of girls in Bath I should say that the system
of education in girls' schools is no better than that of boys: they
certainly know a little more about English literature, because their
mistresses read aloud to them passages out of the novels of
Charlotte and Emily Brontë, Jane Austen, Dickens and Thackeray.
They also devote more time to poetry than we do, but they forget it
all as soon as they leave school. They don't see that these books
taken altogether form a complete introduction to life. The average
girl I have danced with lately seems to have read nothing at all. Her
conversation invariably runs on the same lines. Have I been in
London lately? Don't I just adore Du Maurier and Martin Harvey? Do
I rink? Do I hunt? Do I punish my boys very severely? Am I sorry
that I am not in the Army? Do I like dancing? Do I like girls? Am I an
outrageous flirt? Would I like to sit out somewhere more secluded
than this rather open spot? Am I certain that I had enough supper?
Isn't the way Jim Dainton and Sophie Harrington are behaving
"perfectly disgusting"? Don't I love Irene Fairhaven? Isn't Joyce, or
Corelli Windyatt, or Moritz, or Stanislaus Würm, or whoever is
playing on this particular evening, divine, topping, ducky, dinky,
perfectly sweet, ripping—or whatever the word of the moment is?
Shall I be at the Morrisons' on Tuesday or the Dohertys' on
Thursday?
I get most infernally tired of all this claptrap. No one ever says
anything that he or she means: it is all superficial. The girls think of
nothing but their frocks and the effect they are making on their
partners. I want to talk sense and instead have to rattle on with
sheer nonsense. I suppose I am getting prosy and sedate, but I do
just love talking about books and different views on life. I seem to
have no ready change of small-talk. Of course one cannot expect to
get to know all the people with whom one dances, but this constant
chopping and changing is rotten. I want to keep to one girl, Ruth for
preference, all through the night. Then one doesn't have to think of
something polite to say: if we feel like silence we just keep silent, if
we want to talk we talk, about anything that comes into our heads,
serious or gay. We understand each other's moods without having to
go through a long rigmarole of introductory icebreaking. One great
advantage of Bath is the number of clubs and places where one can
browse among the reviews and periodicals of all sorts. How I
manage to keep abreast of any modern work in a hole like
Radchester, I can't think. Without the Times Literary Supplement and
the book reviews in the Telegraph and Morning Post I should be
entirely at sea. And yet with all these incentives to read, the
ignorance of these townspeople is extraordinary. They nearly all rely
on their bookseller for everything they read. They leave the choice
always to him.
 X

February 23, 1912

It was appalling to have to leave the comforts of Bath for the wilds
of Radchester. It has been the worst Easter term so far within the
remembrance of man. We were snowed right up from the beginning
and House-fights of snowballing soon ceased to amuse. We are
simply shivering in our rooms. The whole place is one medley of
germs. Every conceivable sort of contagious disease is raging. It is
useless trying to teach anybody anything except individually, for
there is no continuity, one boy drops one day, another the next, six
more the day after.
I have three in one of my sets where I'm supposed to have twenty-
six. I've spent every spare moment in my rooms writing to Ruth,
reading and trying my hand at poetry. Thank Heaven, Tony is still
immune. He waits for me every night after chapel and we stagger
across the snow-bound square with the wind blowing the filthy stuff
into our eyes and down our necks and almost into our skins. One
misses games in a place like this. I hate letting a day go by without
taking violent exercise. I suppose if I were in the City I should be
content with Saturday afternoons, but as a schoolmaster I feel that I
can't teach and keep healthy unless I need a hot bath in the
afternoon. The cold bath in the morning makes me yell with agony
these days, but I always keep it up. I suppose it is good for me. At
any rate it is refreshing.
Masefield had a new poem in the February number of the English
Review called "The Widow in the Bye-Street." All my boys
immediately proceeded to copy it. He is certainly virile and unlike
anybody else. He makes an irresistible appeal to youth. Of course
the outspokenness of his diction accounts for this, at least partially.
Of late I have been sleeping rottenly. I always like to keep my blind
up, so that I can hear the waves more clearly and see the sea from
my bed. I notice that when the moon is up I get appalling
nightmares and wake to find it full on my face. I wonder if I am
liable to moonstroke!
We have cleared the snow off some of the ponds and had some
really good skating. The most ridiculous rules have been made about
it, because two boys were once drowned, a hundred or so years
ago. Each House has to take a ladder and a rope with it, and not
more than twenty boys are allowed on the same pond at the same
time. Considering that none of the ponds is more than two feet deep
or ten yards across, such precautions seem rather unnecessary, but
nothing can be done at Radchester without rules being framed by
the dozen to meet all contingencies. Curiously enough, a tragedy
has occurred. The head waiter in Common Room has drowned
himself. We spent half of one bitter moonless night searching for his
body. He leaves a widow and six children. I wonder why he did it.
Was the conversation of the masters altogether too deadly for him?
Was he underpaid? or was it just the depressing conditions? I never
saw a place which so invited suicidal thoughts. The gloom of this
coast at this time of the year is indescribable. All the bungalows
down the beach are deserted and so are the little tea-houses which
look so jolly in the summer-time. The Head Master has played a low-
down, dirty trick on a man called Turner, who only joined us last
term. He was quite young, brilliantly clever, popular and successful
with the boys: he had to rent a cottage about a quarter of a mile
away because he was married and had one baby. His wife was pretty
and did a good deal to make the place habitable. One remembered
sometimes even the way to take one's hat off. Well, he has had to
go. His sin was—being married. The Head Master told him that he