I have entered into these personal details, though pertaining rather to illiterate than to literary reminiscences, partly because the important subject of Education has become of prominent interest, and partly to hint that a writer may often mean in earnest what he says in jest. One of my readers at least has given me credit for a serious purpose. A schoolmaster called, during the vacation, on the father of one of his pupils, and in answer to his announcement of the re-opening of his establishment, was informed that the young gentleman was not to return to the academy. The worthy parent declared that he had read the “Carnaby Correspondence” in the Comic Annual, and had made up his mind. “But, my dear Sir,” expostulated the pedagogue, “you cannot be serious; why the Comic Annual is nothing but a book full of jokes!” “Yes, yes,” returned the father, “but it has let me into a few of your tricks. I believe Mr. Hood. James is not coming again!” And now, it may be reasonably asked, where I did learn anything if not at these establishments, which promise Universal Knowledge--extras included--and yet unaccountably produce so very few Admirable Crichtons?[4] It may plausibly be objected, that I did not duly avail myself of such overflowing opportunities to dabble, dip, duck in, and drink deeply of the Pierian spring, that I was an Idler, Lounger, Tatler, Rambler, Spectator, anything rather than a student. To which my reply must be, first, that the severest punishment ever inflicted on my shoulders was for a scholar-like offence, the being “fond of my book,” only it happened to be Robinson Crusoe; and secondly, that I did go ahead at another guess sort of academy, a reference to which will be little flattering to those Houses which claim Socrates, Aristotle, Alfred, and other _Learnedissimi Worthii_, as their Sponsors and Patron Saints. The school that really schooled me being comparatively of a very humble order--without sign--without prospectus--without ushers--without ample and commodious premises--in short, without pretension, and consequently, almost without custom. The autumn of the year 1811, along with a most portentous comet, “with fear of change perplexing monarchs,” brought, alas! a melancholy revolution in my own position and prospects, by the untimely death of my father; and my elder brother shortly following him to the grave, my bereaved mother naturally drew the fragments of the family more closely around her, so that thenceforward her dearest care was to keep her “only son, myself, at home.” She did not, however, neglect my future interest, or persuade herself by any maternal vanity that a boy of twelve years old could have precociously finished his education; and accordingly the next spring found me at what might have been literally called a High School, in reference to its distance from the ground.