“The Reverend Philip Stimcoe, B.A., (Oxon.), of Copenhagen Academy, 7.  Delamere Terrace, begs to inform the Nobility, Clergy, and Gentry of Falmouth and the neighbourhood that he has Vacancies for a limited number of Pupils of good Social Standing.  Education classical, on the lines of the best Public Schools, combined with Home Comforts under the personal supervision of Mrs. Stimcoe (niece of the late Hon. Sir Alexander O’Brien, R.N., Admiral of the White, and K.C.B.).  Backward and delicate boys a speciality.  Separate beds.  Commodious playground in a climate unrivalled for pulmonary ailments.  Greenwich time kept.”

I did not criticise the advertisement.  It sufficed me to read my release in it; and in the same instant I knew how lonely the last few months had been, and felt myself an ingrate.  I that had longed unspeakably, if but half consciously, for the world beyond Minden Cottage—­a world in which I could play the man—­welcomed my liberty by laying my head on my arms and breaking into unmanly sobs.

I will pass over a blissful week of preparation, including a journey by van to Torpoint and by ferry across to Plymouth, where Miss Plinlimmon bought me boots, shirts, collars, under-garments, a valise, a low-crowned beaver hat for Sunday wear, and for week-days a cap shaped like a concertina; where I was measured for two suits after a pattern marked “Boy’s Clarence, Gentlemanly,” and where I expended two-and-sixpence of my pocket-money on a piratical jack-knife and a book of patriotic songs—­two articles indispensable, it seemed to me, to full-blooded manhood; and I will come to the day when the Royal Mail pulled up before Minden Cottage with a merry clash of bits and swingle-bars, and, the scarlet-coated guard having received my box from Sally the cook, and hoisted it aboard in a jiffy, Miss Plinlimmon and I climbed up to a seat behind the coachman.  My father stood at the door, and shook hands with me at parting.

“Good luck, lad,” said he; “and remember our motto:  Nil nisi recte! Good luck have thou with thine honour.  And, by the way, here’s half a sovereign for you.”

“Cl’k!” from the coachman, shortening up his enormous bunch of reins; ta-ra-ra! from the guard’s horn close behind my ear; and we were off!

Oh, believe me, there never was such a ride!  As we swept by the second mile stone I stole a look at Miss Plinlimmon.  She sat in an ecstasy, with closed eyes.  She was, as she put it, indulging in mental composition.

     Verses composed while Riding by the Royal Mail.

     “I’ve sailed at eve o’er Plymouth Sound
        (For me it was a rare excursion)
      Oblivious of the risk of being drown’d,
        Or even of a more temporary immersion.

     “I dream’d myself the Lady of the Lake,
        Or an Oriental one (within limits) on the Bosphorus;
      We left a trail of glory in our wake,
        Which the intelligent boatman ascribed to phosphorus.