RICHARD FARQUHARSON:
A Chapter of Childhood.
Human life is a fragment, at best. . . . And that moment of childhood when, in one signal flash like the uncapping of the camera, character is fixed, is surely rather the record than the prophecy of a life afterwards lived?
I
Thrown upon his own resorces, practically, at four years old, Richard Farquharson, at ten, was older in many ways than other boys of his age.
His memories grouped themselves into scenes; one was his nightmare.
That dreadful day! Did he really remember it, I wonder, or was it merely an imaginary landmark in that valley of vision which kept alive in him a spark of tenderness amidst the universal harshness and austerity of his life at Glune? He thought of it sometimes with that strange sort of pride which naturally brave children feel in recalling from a safe distance something which at the time was infinitely terrifying.
