countenance, stern of mien. He wore shoes,
and was addicted to strongly perfumed snuff.
He never taught us anything himself; but
would come in while we were droning over
our lessons, and listen, with his head cocked
a little on one side, and with his fat finger
gently scratching one ear, as though he knew
all that had been said, and even all that was
coming. We thought him a monument of
learning, wisdom, and wit; but we have
grown sceptical on that subject now, and are
very much afraid that we should not be
unjust to him if we were to say that he was a
good-natured, decently intelligent, but
somewhat illiterate man (striving, however, to get
the best masters for his boys aud to do his duty
by them generally). He reprimanded us
occasionally in a loud sonorous voice, pulling our
ears and rapping our knuckles; but he never
beat us without a cause, nor starved us, nor
cheated us; and the remembrance we have of
him now, has more of love and of regret about
it than of the fear, and horror, and disgust
with which the bare recollection of a
schoolmaster inspires us sometimes.

M. Gogo was married: his wife was a
large, vulgar, tender-hearted, industrious,
Normandy matron, who physicked, scolded,
petted, and took care of the boys indefatigably.
Though her husband was rich, she had not
the slightest pride, were it not that, indeed, of
owning that her parents were small
cultivators—peasants, in fact—near Caen. Twice
a-year these good people used to pay her a
visit: the father, a grey-haired, apple-faced
agriculturist, in a cap with a green shade,
gold ear-rings, an elaborately embroidered
blouse, and sabots; the mother, a regular
"bonne femme de Normandie," in coarse-ribbed
worsted stockings, a lace apron, a Normandy
cap, or cauchoise, of astonishing loftiness, and
bearing the never-failing umbrella. The days
for coming were the Jour de l'an, when
M. Gogo invariably presented his father-in-law
with a loaf of white sugar; and Madame
Gogo's fête day, on which occasion the old
lady never failed to bring her daughter  her
patron saint in gilt gingerbread—a
comely maiden, with whom we were all, of
course, desperately in. love; but who, to our
great grief, became a Soeur de Charité. Also,
he had a son, a brown-faced little ragamuffin,
called Desiré, but generally known by the
name of " Lily," on the lucus a non lucendo
principle, we suppose. We used to admire
with fond fear the Spartan impartiality of
M. Gogo, in pulling Lily's ears, placing
him on a bread-water diet, and causing
him to stand in the corner whenever he had
rendered himself liable to those penal
inflictions.

We had three resident masters of the three
different Hashes of the school, and a classical
master, who saw that the boys got up their
college exercises, and attended to them
generally. M. Thenard was the master of the
first class. We remember him well: incorrigibly
snuffy, inconceivably dirty, prodigiously
learned. He positively ate books—grasped
them fiercely—knawed at their leaves and
covers—wrenched the learning from them, as
it were. He had a. greasy old Homer, printed
at Amsterdam, in sixteen hundred and thirty,
on which he constantly sat during school
hours, which he read, or rather devoured, in
recreation-time—which he hugged convulsively
under his arm at other seasons—with which
we are seriously of opinion that he slept. When
he explained a passage to you, he pinched
you fiercely, or twined his long fingers in
your garments. He was dreadfully unshaven,
and his long, unkempt, greasy hair, fell
straggling over the collar of a coat that was more
greasy still. It will be a long time before we
shall forget him, his learning, his dirt, his
scared eager face, and his large gold spectacles.
He had a tender heart, for all his fierce
aspect, though: and the boys loved him. The
great Gogo was gentle with him; and Madame
Gogo forbore to scold when he lost (as he was
always losing) his pocket handkerchief. Once
we were telling him, in our boyish way, what
our idea of human happiness was: a pretty
white cottage, green trellis work, a vine, and
a flower-garden. " I have possessed them," he
said; and the gold spectacles were dimmed, and
two rivulets meandered down the dirty cheeks.
He took us, we remember, too, one whole
holiday, to visit his mother, a grand old lady,
at a real spinning-wheel, and with hair
glossier and whiter than the flax she was
spinning. Some dim recollection have we of
some half-uttered sentences, which, putting
this and that together, as boys will do,
created an impression on our mind that he had
another name besides Thénard—a name as
noble, perhaps, as Noailles-Noailles, or Rohan
Rochfort; and that fire and sword, the
guillotine, and an unthankful prince, had
had something to do with his unhappiness,
his learning, and his dirt.

Mr. Lacrosse reigned supreme in the second
class. He was a scaly, hard-featured, angular
sort of man, full of hard geometrical problems,
which he was always working out on the
large class-room black board, for our edification,
and in secret, on bits of broken slate, for
his own. In his geological formation, chalk
had decidedly the best of it. His fingers,
hair, and costume were always thickly
powdered with that substance; if a boy offended
him, he chalked his name up on the wall, or
behind the door; if he wished to instruct
others, or to amuse himself, he continually
chalked.

The third class was governed by a mild
man, whose hair was red, and whose name
was Moufflet. To his care were confided the
very little boys—the moutaros, as in the
Pension Gogo we called them. He disliked
tuition, and was reported to have wept
because his parents would not allow him to be
apprenticed to a hair-dresser. He endeavoured