"Beneath this stone a Swallow lies,
No one laughs and no one cries;
Where he is gone or how he fares
No one knows and no one cares."

At this time of day I suspect this epigram not to be quite original, but
it served to give me for the nonce a high opinion of the pundit who read
with me Cornelius Nepos and Cæsar and some portions of that hopeless
grammar, the Eton Greek, in the midst of his hard-breathing consumption
of perpetual sandwiches and beer.

The first school chosen for me (though expensive, there could not have
been a worse one) was a large mixed establishment for boys of all ages,
from infancy to early manhood, belonging to one Rev. Dr. Morris of
Egglesfield House, Brentford Butts, which I now judge to have been
conducted solely with a view to the proprietor's pocket, without
reference to the morals, happiness, or education of the pupils committed
to his care. All I care to remember of this false priest (and there were
many such of old, whatever may be the case now) are his cruel
punishments, which passed for discipline, his careful cringing to
parents, and his careless indifference towards their children, and in
brief his total unfitness for the twin duties of pastor and teacher. A
large private school of mixed ages and classes is perilously liable to
infection from licentious youths left to themselves and their evil
propensities, and I can feelingly recollect how miserable for nearly a
year was that poor little helpless innocent of seven under the
unrestricted tyranny of one Cooke (in after years a life convict for
crime) who did all he could to pollute the infant mind of the little fag
delivered over to his cruelty. Cowper's Tirocinium well expresses the