There is no truth in the story, coined I know not how, that Swinburne disliked Eton. The poet was not made of the stuff which moulds the enthusiastic schoolboy, and I much doubt whether any school would, as such, have appealed to him. But Eton stands by itself. Its old traditions and its chivalrous memories, its glorious surroundings, meant for him something more than mere school: his mind dwelt upon the old grey towers, Windsor, the Forest, the Brocas, the Thames, Cuckoo Weir, with an affection which inspired his “Commemoration Ode,” and which, I believe, never left him. The place touched his poet’s soul as no other school could have done, and so it fitted him. Across all these decades I look back to the time when he and I were very small boys. There came a moment when fate drove us apart. We never had a quarrel, and no cross word ever passed between us, but I became a colleger, and between collegers and oppidans there was a great gulf fixed. By the time that I once more went back to be an oppidan, Swinburne had left Eton and our paths in life drifted further and further apart. Only once in after life did we meet. It was one evening at dinner at Whistler’s. We went on one side together after dinner, and had one of those long talks over old days that are dear to schoolfellows’ hearts. We arranged to meet again a few days later, but he was ailing, and could not keep the appointment—alas! _Sunt lachrymæ rerum!_ I never saw him again. He lies in the lovely churchyard at Bonchurch with his father and the mother whom he tenderly loved, within sound of the roaring of the sea which during all his life was to him the sweetest of God’s music. * * * * * I have only noticed the most prominent of my schoolmates, but there is one more whom I must mention, Sir Francis Burnand, who for so many years led the merriment of the nation. Did I talk of memories? Here at least is no memory, but a “happy thought,” for he still lives, as gay, as bright, as laughter-loving and laughter-compelling as when he was a fourth-form boy. He remains the real Peter Pan, the boy who will not grow old. * * * * *