Decided a little time ago not to try "Scholastic Profession"--thought it would try _me_ too much. Feel tempted now. _Query_--am I losing my old pluck? In consequence of my new "pluck,"--in the Bar Exam? "Um!" remarks the President (I _have_ run down and got a vacant bed-room in College). "Glad to see you. Oh, yes, about that tutorship. Um, um! The family live in Somerset." He mentions the county apologetically, as if he expected me to reply--"Oh, Somerset! Couldn't dream of going _there_. Not very particular, but must have a place within ten miles of Charing Cross." As I don't object to Somerset, at least audibly, he goes on more cheerfully-- "Boy doesn't want to be taught much, so perhaps, it would suit you."--(_Query_--is this insulting?)--"He wants a companion more--somebody to keep him steady, have a good influence and all that, and give him a little classics and so on for about an hour a day." It did not sound as bad as I expected. "Rich people--um--merchants at Bristol, I think. Not very cultivated, though." Here President pauses again, and looks as if he would not be at all astonished if I rose from my chair, put on my hat, and said, "Not very cultivated! That won't suit _me_! You see how tremendously cultivated _I_ am." But I don't, and he proceeds calmly to another head of his discourse. "They haven't mentioned terms, but I'm sure they will be satisfactory--give you what you ask, in fact." (Rather a nice trait in their character, this.)--"Now, will you--um--take it? They want somebody at once." "Yes," I reply; "I'll go and see how I fancy it. Have they got a billiard-table, do you happen to know?" The President says, "he doesn't know anything about _that_," and looks a little surprised, as if I had proposed a game of skittles. On way down (next day) I feel rather like a Governess going to her first situation. Get to house late. Too dark to see what it's like. Have to drive up in a village fly. _Query_--Oughtn't they to have sent their carriage for me? My reception is peculiar. A stout, masculine-looking female with a strident voice, is presumably Mrs. BRISTOL MERCHANT. Sends me up to my bed-room as if I were my own luggage. Evidently very "uncultivated." In my bed-room. Above are the sounds of a small pandemonium, apparently. Stamping, falling, shouting, bumping, crying. What a lot of them there must be! There are! At supper--they appear to have early dinners, which I detest--three boys and one girl present, as a sample. Eldest a youth about ten, who puts out his tongue at me, when he thinks I'm not looking, and kicks his brothers beneath the table to make them cry, which they do. I begin to wonder when my real pupil will appear. Governess talks to me as if I were a brother professional. _Query--infra dig_. again?