boys who were sitting on the door-steps, and
determined that he would make such use of his
pen as in him lay, to help to dig away the foundations
of Westminster School.

Nor of that place of education only. There
are in the City of London, other and almost
more startling examples than that furnished by
Westminster, of schools outrageously misplaced
and inconveniently surrounded. St. Paul's
School, the Charter-house, Christ's Hospital,
and Merchant Taylors' were all visited in
succession by the Eye-witness with but one
conclusion.

It so happened that in every case the moment
chanced upon by the E.-W. was that when the
boys were at play. We have already seen the
Westminster boys at rackets, let us now observe
the St. Paul's boys at fives. The Westminster
boys were disporting themselves in a ground
inconvenient enough for their purpose, the
court in which they played was surrounded by
houses, the atmosphere was flat, and stale, and
unprofitable, but still they were in the open air,
and the sky was above their heads. The boys
of St. Paul's School enjoy no such luxuries. If
the reader will go to St. Paul's Churchyard and
stand beneath a certain Grecian portico which
projects over the foot pavement on the eastern
side of the enclosure, he will find that the
columns and pediment of this portico overshadow
(and very effectually) a sort of black den enclosed
with thick iron bars. Peering iuto this agreeable
place for some time – long enough, in short,
for his eyes to become so accustomed to the
intense darkness that objects become at last dimly
discernible – he will find that he is looking into
a sort of crypt: that is to say, he will call it so
unless it first occurs to him to liken it to a coal-
cellar, a dungeon of the type patronised by the
Kings of Naples, or a cage for such wild beasts
– if there are any – as nourish where the air
does not circulate nor the daylight intrude. As
the visitor to this den continues to gaze into the
darkness he will become gradually conscious of
certain objects moving about, and will finally
understand that certain scuffling sounds which
have reached his ears are produced by a handful
of spectral boys who are at play, in this their
only playground! There is a vast difference
between these lads and the young gentlemen of
Westminster. The St. Paul's boys are without
white neckcloths, their hair is less symmetrically
parted, they are (being unaccustomed
to light) much paler than the Westminsters
(who are not too ruddy), and their play, as is
the case with most things done under immense
difficulties, is conducted with great painstaking
and conscientiousness. A game at fives in a
very dark crypt, closely packed with the
columns which sustain the superincumbent
building, is a difficult performance, and the
players play with close attention, with grave
and anxious countenances, and in a silence
produced probably by a firm and well-grounded
conviction that it is useless to speak, because
in that great din and uproar of St. Paul's
Churchyard their voices would not be heard.

That frowning dark building under which
these silent and attentive boys are playing at
fives, looks about as inappropriate for a school
– for an establishment where boys are to be
brought up, and where their bodies as well as their
minds are to be developed into a full growth – as
any place can. And yet there is a worse instance
of an educational institution in the City of
London than even this. In a certain intricate and
narrow thoroughfare which is hemmed in in a
perfect labyrinth of other intricate and narrow
thoroughfares, and which goes by the name of
Suffolk-lane, there stands the " Schola
Mercatorum Scissorum," or, as it is called in plain
English, the Merchant Taylors' School. Except
that it is quieter – for the vehicles which once
get into Suffolk-lane invariably become locked
and intertwined with each other, in such wise that
there is no movement among them till all the
bales have been craned out ot the foremost van
which has occasioned the stoppage – except for
the superior tranquillity, the school of the
Merchant Taylors' is even in a more unsuitable
situation than that of Paul's. To shoot
backwards and forwards the bolts of their dungeon
door, to plunge out wildly into Suffolk-lane, and
to dash across it into a neighbouring court and
baok again – these pastimes seem to be to the
boys at Merchant Taylors' what the subterranean
fives and the languid rackets are to those of
Paul's and Westminster. There are no beefy
boys at these schools, no boys who seem
charged and running over with vitality, so that
it does one good to look at them. The boys of
these London schools are thin and long: white,
mealy, and flaccid. They are like plants that
have been grown in shade.

Even at Charter-house the boys present
a poor appearance. It is true that at this
last-named establishment there is plenty of
space for the Carthusians to play in, but how is
that space surrounded? How far off is the
country now, from Charter-house-square? How
near, on the other hand, to that old enclosure
are the factory chimneys? When the Eye-
witness visited this interesting old place a
cricket-match was going on in the playground
of the school. It was in the time – which
allows a pretty large margin – of the late heavy
rains, and the match between old and modern
Carthusians was being played out between the
showers. It was rather a miserable festival.
The ground was in so swampy a condition that
a quantity of sawdust had to be sprinkled where
the players stood, to prevent their sinking
through altogether; and it was impossible
to stop the ball, because the turf was so
slippery that when a player made a pounce
upon the rolling object he missed his footing
and slid down. Of course it is not urged that
the fact of a Carthusian cricket-match being
played upon a wet day is a reason why the
Charter-house School ought to be remored into
the country. This circumstance is merely
mentioned parenthetically. What really struck the
writer as he walked upon the terrace that
overlooks the playground and made his