our relief, when the coach rolled away, as we
saw him throw the peas upon the ground
gently with a sigh, and walk in with a hand
lid upon my shoulder and Pullet's, as he
pushed us pleasantly before him. Since that
day I have had reason to find out more
thoroughly what I was taught on that Black
Monday of the difference between the quick
wrath of a warm-hearted man, and a sullen,
reserved, unforgiving temper. Our ignorance
of that distinction caused us all to hate M.
Camille. He could not win upon us much
by words spoken in our own tongue; he was
oppressed by his fellow-teachers, worried by
the boys as a Frenchman — we were very
national, and talked enormously about roast
beef and frogs — worried in all ways by all
kinds of sneers and tricks, into flashes of
passion, that brought down a storm about
our cheeks and backs. His weak health
helped, I think, to make him irritable; and
though, on the whole, I won't confess that
any milksop system can be better than the
old school plan by which boys were hardened
properly, and fitted for their conflict with a
selfish, wicked world, still I will own that I
thought Mr. Pestle's school system had
hardened us a little too much, when, after
Monsieur Camille had died in an inn chamber
at Millstone and been buried, without a tomb-
stone, in our country churchyard, Mr. Pestle's
elder boys found out his grave, and paid off
their old grudges by kicking the fresh turf
away from it, and stamping the little hill into
disorder. That they did that is a painful
fact; but, of course, a fact perfectly exceptional
in its character. It does not militate against
my argument for a good hardening school,
the day of return to which shall be
distinguished as a genuine Black Monday.

There can be no doubt that there is something
naturally rebellious in a child's heart;
we frolicked on the way to Millstone, I
confess with shame, because there seemed
to be a power within us that would shine
out, and that not the Blackest Monday in the
year could fairly darken. The fault was
ours. But when we got within the walls
of Millstone Hall, and went into the large
boarded barn — the detached schoolroom — and
saw the long rows of inky desks, and the
four seats of the four kings of terror, Mr.
Pestle and the three masters under him
and over us, all became black within us.
The Latin master, a stout man whom I had
seen once flogging four boys abreast with a
postillion's whip, and who was unmerciful
in all his dealings, sat on a chair near the
little stove. Far away from his chair and
from the stove -- made dangerous by his vicinity—
cowered the dozen boys who had
arrived already, whispering together, furtively
showing alley-marbles to each other, and
sucking them to bring out the full richness
of their colour. M. Camille came in, coughing,
after having helped to carry up our
boxes to the dormitory, and sat on a form
near us, willing, I thought, to talk to us, had
he known how to win our confidence, but
we were altogether cowed. Then the bell
rang for tea.

Happy were those who sat at tea-time so
placed that their doings would escape the
Latin master's eye. We had not yet seen
Mr. Pestle. Our luxury, when we could
secure enjoyment of it undetected, was to
manufacture muffins out of bread and butter.
We did it in this way: — every boy had a large
mugfull of hot milk and water on the board
before him, with two very thick slices of
bread. One of these slices being turned
butter downwards over the mug, was pressed
over the rim until a circle was cut out by
it, and left fast as a light lid over the milk and
water, sucking in all steam. When we had felt
this circle to be warmed quite through, it
required some ingenuity to get it out of the
mouth of the mug without letting it fall
into the skyblue lake below, where it would
become instantly mere sop. If extricated
carefully it came out thick, and round, and
hot, and was, in fact, a muffin. Any boy
detected in the act of making muffin of his
bread and butter was reported to Mr. Pestle,
and received due punishment. Monsieur
Camille, however, we all knew, suffered
muffin to be made under his very nose at
that part of the table over which he watched.

After tea we went back to the school-room,
where we waited gloomily to be called in
one by one to undergo the tortures of the
small-tooth comb. I need not dwell upon
these incidents, but we went early to bed,
still without having seen Mr. Pestle himself,
who had a party in his parlour. When left
to ourselves for the night, our tongues were
suddenly unloosed, and in ten minutes we had
our bolsters up, and were dancing about the
floor in the heat of a brisk engagement.

Suddenly the door opened, and the jolly
face of Mr. Pestle, with the pale fat face of
the Latin master, were presented to us. " All
stand as you are," cried a voice before which
we shrank. " You will now, Mr. Wilkins,
take down the name of every boy who is
not in his bed, and give me the list to-morrow
morning; each boy upon that list will receive
a caning." I was upon the list, for I was
standing, like a Hercules in night-clothes,
with my bolster uplifted over the prostrate
Buttons, when we were all bidden not to
move another inch. So that Black Monday
ended. If Black Mondays in the present
day are not maintained with the same strictness
of discipline, the next generation of
men, I fear, will not resemble those who
were turned out into the world after being
duly bruised under the Pestles of more
Spartan times. The decay of virtue may
in that case shortly be expected.