with laudable though unrewarded
perseverance, to cultivate a moustache; but,
after nine months' endeavours, failing lamentably,
he resigned his situation, and we saw
him no more.

As to the classical master, M. Galofruche,
the less said of him, we are afraid, the better.
He was a scholar of considerable acquirements,
but erratic to the extent—so the
report ran among the boys—of having his hair
curled, and of going to balls every night (he did
not sleep within the walls of the Establishment
Gogo). He was continually humming refrains
of vaudeville couplets, when he should have
been attending to our scanning. M. Gogo
once discovered a crushed rose and a billet
doux on pink note-paper, between the leaves
of his Greek Gradus; so, between these and
other misdeeds, he came to shame.
Contradictory rumours were current as to what
became of him after his Hegira or flight (for
he bolted in debt to his washerwoman, and to
several of the senior boys). Some averred
that he had become a tight-rope dancer at
one of the small Boulevard Theatres; others,
that he had offered himself as a substitute for
the conscription, and had joined the banner
of his country in Algiers.

There were, besides these masters, or
professeurs, as they were more politely styled,
certain unhappy men, called pions, martyrs,
whose lamentable duties consisted in watching
the boys during their hours of recreation;
in accompanying them when they went out
walking, and seeing that they did not eat too
much sweet-stuff; in conducting them to bed,
to the bath, and to church; in fact, in being
their assiduous overlookers, guides, philosophers,
friends, and slaves. They had a hard
life of it, those poor pions—young men, mostly
of some education, but without means; they
tyrannised over the little boys; they
succumbed ignominiously, and cringed dolefully,
to the bigger ones; the director Gogo snubbed
them; the partner of his joys openly and
blatantly bullied them. They were the
unclean things—the Parias of the Pension.

Pardon us, oh reader! if we have been
somewhat too diffuse regarding the executive
staff of the establishment. But from the
men ye shall know the things. Let us linger
for a moment to give a line to Jugurtha
Willoughby, LL.D., Bachelier-es-Arts of the
University of France, and Professor of the
English language and literature. He came
twice a week, and was the English master.
We looked at him as something connected
with home, though he had been in France so
long, that he spoke French much better than
English, and could even have taught, we think,
the former language better than the latter. He
had a sufficiently numerous class, the members
of which were supposed to study the
English tongue in its most recondite branches,
but whose progress in the Anglican vernacular
appeared to us always to stop at the
enunciation of two simple and expressive
words, " God-dam," and "Rosbif;" to both of
which they persisted in attaching significations
utterly irreconcilable with their real
meaning, and which they delighted in applying
to us, as a species of reproach for our
Britannic origin, personally and offensively.

The dancing-master's name we forget; we
remember him only as " Cours de danse" he
being in the habit of inundating the columns
of the newspapers, and stencilling the walls
of Paris with an announcement bearing that
heading. He had an immense golden or gilt
snuff-box, and told us, in the intervals of the
Pastorale and the Cavalier seul, genteel
anecdotes of the aristocracy, and particularly of a
mythical personage, one " Kin," the friend of
the Prince Regent of Britain, and for a long
period of time the arbiter elegantiarum of
Britain. We conjecture he miist have meant
Edmund Kean. He, Cours de dance, was a
worthy man, and had an excellent method of
teaching a boy to waltz well. He waltzed
with the patient himself, and whenever he
made a false step, trod inexorably on his toes.
So at last the boy got sore and sure-footed.
Kammeron,the professor of music and singing,
only merits a passing word. He was remarkable
for wearing orange-coloured pantaloons,
and was insufferably vain. We rather liked
him; for so soon as he sat down to the piano,
so sure was he to burst forth into vocal and
instrumental illustration of one of the
innumerable romances he had composed; and
while he pounded and howled, we played odd
and even.

Our daily life at Monsieur Gogo's! First,
there was the Bell. A dreadful bell it was.
Loud of utterance, harsh, jangling, fierce
of tone. We hated it; for it rang us to bed
the first night we were left at school—a night
daguerreotyped with painful minuteness, and
marked with the blackest of stones, in our
and in most boys' minds. The woful change
from the soft couch and gentle nurturing of
home; the gentle hands that drew the
curtains; the kind voices that bade us good
night; to the hard pallet, damp, mouldy
atmosphere, bare floor; the bedfellow who
kicked you, and deprived you of your legitimate
share of counterpane; the neighbour who
pelted you with hard substances; the far-off
boy in the corner, who reviled you and mocked
you sorely, not through any special deed of
your own, but because you were a " new boy;"
and in the morning the cruel bell,—ding-a-
ding-dong, ding-a-ding-dong,. it went
ruthlessly, remorselessly, unceasingly, as it seemed.
It hung close to that portion of the wall
touched by our bed-head; and at five o'clock
every moming, summer and winter, it woke
us from dreams of mothers and sisters far
away in the British Islands, to the stern
realities of a strange school. It pealed again
in five minutes, to remind us of the necessity
for getting up (as if we ever could forget it
after hearing it once); and again in three,
after which time any boy found in the dormitories