“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 Caesar 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 situation:—­

    “Would you your son should be a sot or dunce,
    Lascivious, headstrong, or all these at once,
    Train him in public with a mob of boys,
    Childish in mischief only and in noise,
    Else of a mannish growth and, five in ten,
    For infidelity and lewdness, men.”

My next school was more of a success; for Eagle House, Brookgreen, where I was from eight to eleven, had for its owner and headmaster a most worthy and excellent layman, Joseph Railton.  Mr. Railton was gentle, though gigantic, fairly learned, just and kindly.  His school produced, amongst others eminent, the famous naval author Kingston, well known from cabin-boy to admiral; there was also Lord Paulet, some others of noble birth, and the two Middletons, nick-named Yankees, whom years after I visited at their ruined mansion in South Carolina after the Confederate War.  Through the personal good influence of honest “Old Joe,” and his middle-aged housekeeper, Mrs. Jones, our whole well-ordered company of perhaps a hundred boys lived and learned, worked and played purely, and happily together:  so great a social benefactor may a good school chieftain be.