By Mark Twain
（NOTE.—This is not a fancy sketch. I got it from aclergyman who was an instructor at Woolwich forty years ago，and who vouched for its truth.—M.T.）
It was at a banquet in London in honour of one of the twoor three conspicuously illustrious English military names ofthis generation. For reasons which will presently appear， I willwithhold his real name and titles， and call him Lieutenant-General Lord Arthur Scoresby， V.C.， K.C.B.， etc.， etc.， etc.
What a fascination there is in a renowned name！ There say theman， in actual flesh， whom I had heard of so many thousandsof times since that day， thirty years before， when his name shotsuddenly to the zenith from a Crimean battle-field， to remainfor ever celebrated. It was food and drink to me to look， andlook， and look at that demigod； scanning， searching， noting：
the quietness， the reserve， the noble gravity of his countenance；the simple honesty that expressed itself all over him； the sweetunconsciousness of his greatness—unconsciousness of thehundreds of admiring eyes fastened upon him， unconsciousnessof the deep， loving， sincere worship welling out of the breastsof those people and flowing toward him.
The clergyman at my left was an old acquaintance ofmine—clergyman now， but had spent the first half of his life inthe camp and field， and as an instructor in the military schoolat Woolwich. Just at the moment I have been talking about， aveiled and singular light glimmered in his eyes， and he leaneddown and muttered confidentially to me—indicating the heroof the banquet with a gesture，—‘Privately—his glory is anaccident—just a product of incredible luck.’
This verdict was a great surprise to me. If its subject hadbeen Napoleon， or Socrates， or Solomon， my astonishmentcould not have been greater.
Some days later came the explanation of this strange remark，and this is what the Reverend told me.
About forty years ago I was an instructor in the militaryacademy at Woolwich. I was present in one of the sectionswhen young Scoresby underwent his preliminary examination.
I was touched to the quick with pity； for the rest of the classanswered up brightly and handsomely， while he—why， dearme， he didn’t know anything， so to speak. He was evidentlygood， and sweet， and lovable， and guileless； and so it wasexceedingly painful to see him stand there， as serene as agraven image， and deliver himself of answers which wereveritably miraculous for stupidity and ignorance. All thecompassion in me was aroused in his behalf. I said to myself，when he comes to be examined again， he will be flung over， ofcourse； so it will be simple a harmless act of charity to ease hisfall as much as I can.
I took him aside， and found that he knew a little of Caesar’shistory； and as he didn’t know anything else， I went to workand drilled him like a galley-slave on a certain line of stockquestions concerning Caesar which I knew would be used.
If You’ll believe me， he went through with flying colours onexamination day！ He went through on that purely superficial‘cram’， and got compliments， too， while others， who knew athousand times more than he， got plucked. By some strangelylucky accident—an accident not likely to happen twice ina century—he was asked no question outside of the narrowlimits of his drill.
It was stupefying. Well， although through his course I stoodby him， with something of the sentiment which a mother feelsfor a crippled child； and he always saved himself—just bymiracle， apparently.
Now of course the thing that would expose him and kill himat last was mathematics. I resolved to make his death as easyas I could； so I drilled him and crammed him， and crammedhim and drilled him， just on the line of questions which theexaminer would be most likely to use， and then launchedhim on his fate. Well， sir， try to conceive of the result： to myconsternation， he took the first prize！ And with it he got aperfect ovation in the way of compliments.
Sleep！ There was no more sleep for me for a week. Myconscience tortured me day and night. What I had done I haddone purely through charity， and only to ease the poor youth’sfall—I never had dreamed of any such preposterous result asthe thing that had happened. I felt as guilty and miserable asthe creator of Frankenstein. Here was a wooden-head whomI had put in the way of glittering promotions and prodigiousresponsibilities， and but one thing could happen： he andhis responsibilities would all go to ruin together at the firstopportunity.