knowledge!

If one could have set aside one’s own interest in the contest, the scene in that long low room of the Polite Letter Writer Commissioners was amusing enough.

You should only have watched the anxious glances we bent around on each other, after first scanning over the printed lists supplied to puzzle us! How we cordially sympathised with the hopeless vacant stare of ignorance, proceeding from some tall, bearded individual, well on in his twenties—who looked far more fit to shoulder a musket and go to the wars, like our French friend, “Malbrook,” than to be thus condemned again to school-boy duties! How we glared, also, at any brilliant competitor, whose down-bent head seemed too intent on mastering the subject set before him; and, whose ready pen appeared to be travelling over paper at far too expeditious a rate for our chances of winning the clerkly race! With what horror and despair, we confronted a “poser” that was placed to catch us napping:—how we jumped at anything easy!

Taking note of the examiner’s watchfulness; the hushed silence that reigned around, only broken by the scribbling sound of busy workers and the listless shuffling of the feet of others, who, having, as they sanguinely thought, completely mastered their tasks, had nothing further to occupy their time until “the gaudy pageant” should be “o’er”—the whole thing, really, was school all over again!

I believed, every moment, that I was back again once more in the well-remembered “B” schoolroom at Queen’s—where and when Old Jack, promenading all in his glory, caused me often to “tremble for fear of his frown,” like that “Sweet Alice,” whom Ben Bolt loved and basely deserted.

To still further carry out the romantic resemblance, we were allowed an hour at noon for rest and refreshment each day that the examination lasted.

Many, undoubtedly, devoted this interval steadily to recruiting the wants of the inner man; but, one could well fancy them bursting off madly into some boyish game, with all the ardour that their previous application may have generated—the shouts of the Westminster scholars in the adjacent yard bearing out the illusion.

I spent my play-hour in wandering through the classic shades of the Abbey next door, looking over the memorial tablets of “sculptured brass and monumental marble,” erected to the honour of departed worthies:—I wished, you know, to keep my mind in a properly reflective state for the afternoon hours of examination—history and 

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