This letter delighted me, and Mr. Capsicum, to whom I read it, seemed also a good deal amused. I felt an intense longing to see my friend Tom again, and in fact fell into such a fidgety and excited state, that I could take an interest in nothing. Old Time, instead of flying, seemed to me all of a sudden to have lost the power of locomotion altogether. Battleton and I were the Castor and Pollux of the school, sworn brothers—backers and abettors of each other in all fights, scrapes, and difficulties, of which we generally had _quantum suff._ on hand. School was truly a black passage in my life, in which the happiness was to the misery in about the proportion of honest Jack Falstaff’s bread to his quantum of Sherris sack. “_Ah, chien de livre, tu ne me fera plus répandre de pleurs!_” exclaimed the enraged Scipio of Le Sage, as he wreaked his vengeance on the “_maudite grammaire_,” the passive instrument of all his sufferings. I can too well understand the feelings which actuated, on this occasion, the little son of the honest usher of St. Hermandad, for never to this day do I enter a school-room, or my eye light on a grammar, dictionary, or other buff-coloured associate of the long-past days of my pupilage, but a host of painful and degrading recollections rush on my mind, of the hundred thwackings, confinings, mortifications, of which they were the proximate cause, as nauseous to the feelings as the remembrance of a black dose, or James’s powder, “grating harsh music” through its envelopment of black-currant jelly. And as I look at a pedagogue, I have such a lively idea of a caning, that I am glad to get out of his way. The young mind may, in truth, be likened to the notes of an instrument, from which a harmonious result can only be extracted by the hand of a master, acquainted with their respective powers; whilst a bungler may thump away at them to the end of the chapter, and nothing but discord, or the instrument irretrievably put out of tune, will be the consequence. In fact, the art of developing, governing and improving “the young idea,” the most important of all, is yet in its infancy, particularly as regards the moral training. But to curb my erratic vein, and proceed with my narrative. A period having been fixed for my departure, Mr. Augustus asked me in what manner I proposed to return. I told him, that was a matter I had not considered, but that I should be entirely guided by him. “Well,” said he, “there’s the boat you came in at your service; but the Sunderbunds are roundabout, and I’d strongly recommend your going by dawk; you’ll find it pleasanter, as you’re alone, and you’ll reach your destination much sooner.” “Very well,” I replied, “let it be so; but may I ask what mode of transport this said dawk is of which I have heard such frequent mention made—’tisn’t any sort of animal, is it?”