Alfred Polly 14
At fourteen, when he emerged from the valley of shadow of education, there survived something – indeed it survived still, obscured and thwarted, at five-and-thirty – that pointed, not with a visible and prevailing finger like the finger of that beautiful woman in the picture, but pointed nevertheless, to the idea that there was interest and happiness in the world. Deep in the being of Mr Polly, deep in that darkness, like a creature which has been beaten about the head and left for dead but still lives, crawled a persuasion that over and above the things that are jolly and ‘bits of all right’, there was beauty, there was delight; that somewhere – magically inaccessible, perhaps, but still somewhere – were pure and easy and joyous states of body and mind.

