All day within the dreamy house His shoes had in the passage creak'd; The maid-of-all-work, like a mouse, Out of her master's presence sneak'd, Or from the kitchen peer'd about, Or listen'd at the open doors, To hear his footsteps tread the floors With the short hurried pace of doubt. She only said, "My master's weary, And angry, too," she said; She said, "Oh deary me! oh deary! I wish he'd go to bed." The crickets chirrup on the hearth, The slow clock ticking--and the sound Of rain upon the gravel path That hems the Exile's cottage round; All these, but most of all the power Of sleep after an anxious day, Up-stairs had hurried him away. He paced his chamber for an hour, Then said he, "This, indeed, is dreary, My _Times_, my _Punch_," he said, "Without you I am always weary; I'll tumble into bed." _Punch_, January 22, 1848. * * * * * LORD TOMNODDY IN THE FINAL SCHOOLS. With blackest ink the books around Were thickly blotted one and all; The very nails looked half unsound That held the pictures to the wall. The dismal scene was wrapped in gloom, Sported was the unsocial oak: Seedy and torn and thick with smoke The curtains hung athwart the room. He only said, "The schools are dreary: This Euclid racks my head. Of Ethics I am very weary; I shall be ploughed," he said. His sighs came with the lightening heaven, And ever through the day he sighed. He could not play in the Eleven, Or coach the Eight at eventide. After the shutting of the gates, He drew his casement curtain by, And watched along the gleaming High The lovers strolling with their mates. He only said, "The schools are dreary: This Euclid racks my head. Ethics are the reverse of cheery; I shall be ploughed," he said. And half asleep he heard forlorn The caterwauling on the roof; The chapel bell rung out at morn Came to him--but he held aloof. In dreams he seemed to see the Halls, And fatal precincts of the Schools: To watch the crowd of ghastly fools, Who tried in vain to pass their Smalls. He only said, "The schools are dreary: This Euclid racks my brain. Of Ethics I am very weary; I shall be ploughed again." He sat and darkened all the air, With smoke up-wreathing from his weed: All day, half-dreaming in his chair, He sat and read--or seemed to read-- Or from the window peered about. His friends still hammered at his door; He heard them on the upper floor; Their voices called him from without. He only said, "The schools are nearing; I cannot come," said he. "Although of Ethics I am wearying, I shall be ploughed, you'll see."