But we had other summer evenings. It has
been mentioned that there was a charming
country about our school. It was wide, open, with
rude hills in the distance; with some noble rivers,
three or four miles away; pretty villages, a grand
old abbey close by, to say nothing of a deer park,
which was part of our patrimony. In the
summer time all these advantages became
delightful; the air was perfumed, the waters
glittered, the grass was of the greenest and softest.
In our deer park were brooks and brooklets,
plentifully stocked with fish. What walks on
holidays to established and traditional objects of
attraction! And never were walks so enjoyed.
A walk to the abbey, a walk to a distant
market town, a walk up the great mountain,
Hendle, that frowned on us solemnly always,
from afar off, like a wicked master; but this
was a task which required enormous strength
and energy to be completed within the time
before dinner, and therefore only the strong,
rude, and muscular beings before alluded to
were allowed to attempt it. About a mile
or two away were some sweet spots, suited for
the summer days, and which I see now, like
pictures. There was an old bridge, ruined and
disused (a new and grander bridge crossed some
fifty yards higher up), of which only an arch or
two was left. Here the broad river ran and
rippled over a shallow bed, down jagged little
shelves of rock, round awkward boulders of
stone. On either side were banks and
overhanging trees, underneath which was the most
delightful and shadiest spot that could be
conceived. The music of the water was
soft, broken only by the sound of carriages
—the "Whitechapel " was the popular vehicle
of the district—crossing the new bridge. High
up, where it wound broadly, we could see the
patient salmon–fisher, with his great rod. Shady
retreat! Yet, with the sun well out, and the
dragon–flies fluttering, how many delicious hours
have gone by there!

Up and down in the deer park were many
soft corners and shady places which we affected
a good deal. We had a band, an orchestra, and
a "military band," some five–and–twenty strong,
under the direction of a gentleman from the
Royal Opera, Covent Garden. This was no sham;
big drum, little drum, ophicleide, trombones,
clarionets, and all the legitimate elements. The
writer was first piccolo. Our performances were
very respectable indeed, and of those delectable
summer evenings, when the whole house set off
for a bivouac in one of the shady oases in the
park, we sometimes shoulderea our music–
stands and instruments, and, drawing up in the
conventional circle, played the most popular pieces
of our repertoire. There was a Duke of Kent's
Quick Step (this we had routed out of old band
books as being simple and easy, and perhaps
military), and we knew it out of book, and
marched at the head of the school, playing it
with spirit. Of a softer and modern character
was the Valse d'Amitié, composed by our
Covent Garden leader, and which was a tender,
"dying fall" measure, which has always an
association in my mind with those green trees
and that soft sward. He was a pale, bald,
small, little man with the glassiest spectacles
I ever saw, who worked at our band with
unflagging energy, and who I hope by this
time—though I fear not—may be violino primo
of the Covent Garden orchestra, with the
reversion of Mr. Costa's bâton.

We, of course, had our ranks and classes.
The most envied were the eighteen or twenty
gentlemen who lived in a large and
sumptuous palace of their own, separated from ours
by gardens and a charming walk of about
three minutes; who were fed luxuriously, and
were supposed to do just as they liked. These
gentlemen paid each one hundred guineas a
year, wore shooting–coats and wide–awake
hats,—smoked, O Heavens! and were called
Epicureans. Later, I became an Epicurean
myself, and found the life very enjoyable,
though more restrained than the popular
idea supposed. We prepared for college,
attended lectures on the humanities (whatever
they were), studied the belles lettres, and
improved ourselves in single–stick. In our shooting–
coats, however, lay our pride and strength,
and in this department we boasted an
inconceivable variety of check and tweed. As the
common herd saw us wandering among our
groves, enjoying a tranquil pipe, we knew what
their feelings must be.

Our first class, which corresponded to the
"sixth form" at older schools, were a body of
some thirty giants, as they seemed to me when
I was first "left behind," O, cruel day! a
shrinking and abashed urchin. They were called
Logicians, or some name like it, and part of this
Polypheme effect was owing to their wearing
blue–tailed coats with gilt buttons, the enforced
uniform of the establishment. Was this an
artifice to strike awe, and ensure an additional
respect? I remember the dignity with which
one of these Beings inflicted punishment on
a member of the lowest school,
contemptuously known as The Brats. He took his
collar betwixt his finger and thumb as he would
take up a cat, gave him two lazy kicks behind,
and then set him free, and pursued his course
without a word. There was a secret hint here,
as of undeveloped and slumbering strength. The
Logicians were the guardians of law and order—
the Prætorians of the state. They were not
popular, yet it was considered a distinction to
be seen with a Logician. They had privileges.
One of these was, I recollect, the use of two
wooden cruet–stands at dinner. Such luxuries
dared not be entrusted to the indiscriminate
mob, who would have used the pepper and
mustard as missiles. Not, indeed, that the
Logicians cared much for the mere mustard and
pepper, but the cruet–stands were looked on as
emblems of independence—as a charter, so to
speak—and any reformer who should have dared
to propose abolishing them would have
provoked a dangerous émeute.

III. THE BARRING–OUT YEAR.

Shall I ever forget the famous year of the
Barring Out! You and I, dear Tom (not of the