Mervyn Clitheroe ... Illustrated by Hablot K. Browne

Front matter

:%(7?t^tA^io&C" .IT LOUDON. geo: botttledge &c?tabwwgdos street, NEW YOBK. BEEXMAN street. 18 5 8. MERYYN CLITHEROE. BT WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. ILLUSTRATED BY HABLOT K. BROWNE. LONDON : GEOEGE EOUTLEDGE & CO., FAEEINGDON STEEET. NEW YORK: 18, BEEKJIAN STREET. 1858. [The Author reserves the Right of Translation?^ INSCRIBED TO MY CONTEMPORARIES AT THE MANCHESTEE SCHOOL. BOOK THE FIRST. LIST OF PLATES. frontispiece page vignette title a bunker's hill hero . . . . . . . . 17 who shot the cat ? ....... 27 my adventure with the gipsies . . . . . . 47 twelfth night merry-making in farmer shakeshael's barn . . 54 the benevolent physician . . . . . 73 the dinner-party at the anchorite's . . . . .83 a nocturnal alarm . . . . . . 98 my uncle mobberley's will is bead ..... 104 my altercation avith malpas sale . . . . . ■ 149 the duel on crabtree-green ...... 160 i receive sad intelligence from ned culchet1i • ■ • . 168 the mysterious bell-ringing at owlarton grange . • • 192 the legend of owlarton grange . . • • • 218 my adventure in the haunted chamber • 220 the stranger at the grave ... ... 254 the conjurors interrupted ...-•• 256 i find pownall in conference with the gipsies • • • • 263 the rustic fete at the mill ...•■•• 276 the deed of settlement • • • ■ ■ ' the meeting in delamere forest ...••■ 316 the examination before the magistrates • • • . ■ 333 QKQ DEATH OF MALPAS SALE . ■ • ■ ' - •*»»■» b CONTENTS.

BOOK THE EIEST. CH'iP. PAGE I. — Showing how, although i lose my best friend just as i BEGIN LIFE, I AM FORTUNATE ENOUGH TO FIND ANOTHER FRIEND, TOGETHER WITH A GOOD HOME ..... 1 II. — AN ACCOUNT OF MY SCHOOLDAYS, SCHOOLFELLOWS, AND SCHOOL- MASTERS — MR. ABEL CANE PROVES THAT HE IS ABLE TO CANE — DR. LONSDALE ADOPTS A DIFFERENT MODE OF TUITION — JOHN BRIDEOAKE — A BUNKER'S HILL HERO— A BOY DROWNED . . 8 EQ.— Containing an account of my great-uncle, john mobber- LEY, HIS OLD DAME, AND HIS FARM AT MAHSTON . 19 IV. — JiALPAS AND I ATTEMPT TO CROSS MARSTON MERE DURING A HARD FROST — AN ADVENTURE ON THE ICE . . 28 V. — Consequences of the adventure on the ice . . • 33 VI. — In which i ride round marston mere ; meet with some gipsies IN a strange place ; and take part at the twelfth NIGHT MERRY-MAKING IN FARMER SHAKESHAFT's BARN . ■ 41 VII.— Showing how my uncle mobberley and i were very painfully SURPRISED ON OUR RETURN HOME . • .55 VIII.— A GLANCE AT COTTONBOROUGH— APPHIA BRTDEOAKE .

VI CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE IX.— Introduces a benevolent physician and a decayed gentlewoman .....-•• 65 X.— A visit to the butler's pantry— a dinner-party at the anchorite's — DR. BRAY AND MR. CUTHBERT SPRING - . . 73 XI.— I LOSE MY UNCLE MOBBERLEY, AND BELIEVE MYSELF HEIR TO HIS PROPERTY .....•• 89 XII.— A NOCTURNAL ALARM . . • ■ • . . 97 XIIL— In which my uncle's will is read, and i experience the TRUTH OF THE PROVERB, THAT " THERE'S MANY A SLIP 'iWIXI CUP AND LIP" ....... 99 XIV— I AGAIN ENCOUNTER PENINNAH ■ • • • HO XV. — I MEET PHALEG AT MIDNIGHT IN MARSTON CHURCHYARD, AND MY UNCLE MOBBERLEY'S GHOST APPEARS TO US . . • 114 BOOK THE SECOND.

Chapter I. Showing How, Although

I LOSE MT BEST FEIEND JUST AS I BEGIN LIFE, I AM FOETUNATE ENOUGH TO FIND ANOTHEB FEIEND, TO- GETHER WITH A GOOD HOME. I AM the only son, by his first marriage, of Captain Charles Clitheroe, of Clithero, in Lancashire. My mother's maiden name was Clara Leyburne. She was an orphan, and was brought up by a benevolent lady, a near relation of her own, Mrs. Mervyn, after whom I was named. She was only seventeen when she was united to my father, and extremely beautiful. I have but an indistinct recollection of her, but remember she had very dark eyes and very dark hair, and an expression of countenance which I thought angelic. I also remember she talked to me a great deal about my papa, and showed me his picture, telling me how tall and haudsome he was, and hoping I should grow up like him. He was a long way off, fighting in India, she said, and she didn't think she should ever see him again, and the thought made her extremely unhappy.

She told me I must never be a soldier, as when I went away to the wars I should make those who loved me unhappy. I promised I would not ; and on this she pressed me to her bosom, and wept over me ; and I wept too for company. She had always looked pale and thin, but she now began to look paler and thinner, and even I noticed the change. Sometimes, casting wistful looks at me, she would say, " What will become of you, Mervyn, if I leave you?" I told her she mustn't leave me; but she shook her head despondingly, and said, "Alas! I cannot help it." Soon after this she became very ill, and kept her bed, where I was often taken to see her ; and very pretty she looked, though quite white, like a sheet. At such times she would kiss me, and cry over me. One day, when the nurse was carrying me out of the room, she desired her to bring me back, and, raising herself with difficulty, for she was ex- B tremely feeble, she placed her hands on my head, and said, " God bless you, my dear Mervyn !

Don't forget mamma when she is gone. Never desert those who love you, dear. Good-by, my dearest child." And, kissing me tenderly, she sank back on the pillow quite exhausted. So Jane, the nurse, hurried me out of the room, for I had begun to cry bitterly. On that night a circumstance took place for which I could never account, but it has remained graven on my memory, and I pledge myself as to its actual occurrence. I had heen put to bed, and was very restless, for there wras an unusual agitation and disturbance in the house, and I thought Jane would never come to me. I heard the clock strike several times, and at last it struck one, and soon after that she did make her appearance. I asked her what made her so late, but she didn't answer me ; and seeing I was regarding her inquisitively, for I thought she was crying, she bade me, in a broken voice, go to sleep.

I tried to do so, but couldn't ; and when Jane got into bed she felt very cold, and wept audibly. I didn't like to speak to her, and was, besides, occupied by my own thoughts, which ran involuntarily on my poor mother, and on what she said about leaving me. Just when Jane became more composed, and seemed to be dropping asleep, I distinctly heard three knocks ! Tes, three dull, heavy knocks, as if struck with the poker against the back of the fireplace in my mother's room, which was next to mine. " Good gracious ! what's that ?" exclaimed Jane, starting up in bed. "Did you hear anything, Master Mervyn?" " To be sure," I replied ; " I heard the knocks plain enough. It must be mamma — she wants something. Go to her, Jane." But, to my surprise, Jane, though ordinarily ready to obey the slightest summons from my mother, did not move, but looked petrified with terror.

" What can it be ?" she ejaculated, at length. " There's no one in the room." " No one !" I cried, in alarm. " Is mamma gone, then ? Has she really left me?" "Tes — no," stammered Jane. " I'll go and see myself," I said. " I'm sure she wants something." " No, no ; you mustn't go, dear," cried Jane, detaining me. " Tour mamma is there, but she wants nothing now, poor thing! Besides, you can't get in. The door's locked. Don't you see the key there, near the lamp ?" I couldn't conceive why she had locked poor mamma in her room, and thought it veiy naughty of her to stay in bed when she was summoned, and begged hard to be allowed to go myself, though I don't think I could have unlocked the door if she had let me try. But at last I was persuaded to be quiet, and fell asleep. My first inquiries, next morning, were after mamma, and whether tlie door was unlocked ; and I implored so earnestly to see her, that at last Jane consented.

" Tou mustn't make a noise if you go, dear," she said. Jane opened the door of the adjoining room very softly, and entered with noiseless footsteps. MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 3 " Is mamma asleep ?" I asked. "Tes, dear, — sound asleep," Jane replied, in a low tone. The room appeared dark, for the window-blinds were down, and there was a deathlike stillness about it that frightened me. I looked at Jane, and she seemed frightened too. The white curtains were drawn closely round the bed. I had never seen them so before. Jane opened them and showed me mamma, apparently fast asleep, and looking paler and prettier than ever! Her dark hair was parted smoothly over her marble forehead, and an angelic smile, w-hich has haunted me ever since, hovered about her parted lips. One arm, very white and very thin, lay out of the covering.

Jane held me down to kiss mamma's cheek. Its icy cold ness startled me, and made me cry out. Jane snatched me away, and, as she closed the door, I said — for I was very much troubled — " I hope mamma will waken soon." "Alas! dear," she replied, "she will never waken more." My mother was buried in the churchyard of Marston, a small vil lage in Cheshire, where an uncle of my father's resided, and a fitter resting-place for so gentle a creature could not have been chosen. Often and often have I lingered by that grave, and have thought of its once lovely tenant — of her brief reproachless career — of her devotion to my father, whose long absence broke her heart — of her tenderness to me. Many a bitter tear have I shed there, and many a lamentation uttered ; but I never sought it without being cheered and comforted as if by a mother's love.

My mother was only twenty-three when she died, and I was not five years old at the time. As yet I had never seen my father, nor did I see him for years afterwards. My mother was in an interesting condition when he quitted England with his regiment, and was to follow him ; but he wrote to say she had better not come out for some months ; and when that time expired, he enjoined further delay. Eventually, he directed her to remain at home altogether, and take care of the boy she had brought him, adding, that he should soon be able to obtain a long furlough, and would join her in England. Though heartbroken at the prolonged separation, my poor mother could not disobey her husband's injunctions. Peeling she could not have acted in like manner towards him, she began to fear his affec tions must be estranged ; and the distress occasioned by this idea ended in undermining her already delicate health.

But she never complained, nor would she allow any intelligence of her illness to be conveyed to my father. Indeed, only three days after her death, and before she was laid in her grave, a letter arrived from him, stating that he had at length obtained a furlough, and trusted to be with her before the expiration of three months. He spoke in ardent terms of the rapturous delight it would afford him to clasp his darling wife again to his bosom, and behold his little boy, of whom she had written him such charming accounts. If this letter had arrived a month sooner, the physician who attended my mother in her last illness, afterwards told me, her life might possibly have been saved. But hope had been utterly extinguished. b2 Of course the sad tidings were immediately conveyed to my father, and as he was totally unprepared for them, the shock must have been terrible.

How severely he reproached himself, and how bitterly he lamented the loss he had sustained, was evident from his letters on this melancholy occasion. But he gave up all present idea of return ing to England, and, making the needful remittances, willingly com mitted me to the care of Mrs. Mervyn, who had offered to take charge of me. I was too young to feel deeply the irreparable loss I had sustained, and as Mrs. Mervyn was very kind to me, and her house exceed ingly comfortable, I soon became quite reconciled and happy. Mrs. Mervyn, for, though a spinster, she had taken brevet rank, was an elderly lady of a most charitable disposition, living at a very pretty place called the Anchorite's, about three miles from the great manufacturing town of Cottonborough, in Lancashire. She was the descendant of a stanch Jacobite family — her great grandfather, Ambrose Mervyn, having in November, 1715, joined the insurgent army at Penrith, and marched with it to Preston, where, on the surrender of the town to the government generals, he was taken, and, having been particularly zealous in promoting the cause of the Chevalier Saint George, aiding it with funds and followers, was executed, and his head set upon a pike in the market-place at Cot tonborough.

His son, Stuart Mervyn, who was a boy at the time of this catastrophe, came to a similar end, for in 1745 he was one of the most zealous supporters of the Toung Chevalier during his progress through Lancashire, and received a French commission. Tlie memory of these unfortunate persons was warmly cherished by Mrs. Mervyn, who regarded them as martyrs. Their portraits were placed in her bedroom, and this circumstance made me afraid to enter the chamber, thinking it impossible such troubled spirits could rest in their graves. Ambrose Mervyn in particular used to inspire me with intense awe, for he was represented as a swarthy, stern-looking fellow, with great searching black eyes, which seemed to follow me about. Mrs. Mervyn used frequently to talk to me about her Jacobite pre decessors ; and though ordinarily very calm in manner, grew quite excited by the theme, and launched forth into such glowing and enthusiastic descriptions of Prince Charles Edward, that I almost wished lie was alive still, that I might fight for him like the two brave Mervyns.

But her account of their executions shook my de sire to be a rebel. She showed me a couple of prints represent ing the terrible scenes ; pointing out in one of them little Stuart, who appeared to be taking an eternal farewell of his father, be fore the latter submitted himself to the ghastly apparatus of death ; and she told me how Ambrose had then enjoined his son never to for sake the good cause, which dying command was implicitly obeyed, as I have related. I am afraid I unintentionally shocked Mrs. Mer vyn's feelings a good deal, by inquiring what became of their heads, and whether she had them preserved in a box. " No, my dear Mervyn," she replied, very gravely ; " they are both deposited with the mutilated trunks in our family vault in the Old Church. Tou may read the inscription on the monument."

MEEVXN CLITHEEOE. 5 Mrs. Mervyn was always richly dressed in black, and with remarkable precision and care. She had a grave and somewhat austere aspect, which belied the extreme kindliness of her nature, and but rarely smiled. Nothing strongly excited her, except some matter connected with the bygone Jacobite cause. Her predilections were exhibited even in her household, almost every member of which came of a Jacobite stock. Her old butler, Mr. Comberbach, numbered two unfortunate adherents to the good cause in his pedigree — imprimis, a great grandsire, a barber, whose head was barbarously cut off in 1716, and set upon his own pole, as an example to all his brethren of the razor and strap not to meddle with affairs of state ; and, secondly, a grandsire, who having dressed the Prince's peruke during his stay in Cottonborough, afterwards joined the regiment raised by Colonel Townley, with the intention of avenging his father's death; but he paid the penalty of his rashness -—and a second barber's head was brought to the block.

This similarity of fate between their respective ancestors, formed a link between the mistress and the butler, and consequently Mr. Comberbach was much favoured, and became a very important personage in the establishment at the Anchorite's. But he was far more blinded and intolerant than his mistress ; the spirit of the old barbers burnt within his breast ; and he was sometimes rather disloyal in his expressions touching the Hanoverian dynasty. Among his relics he preserved the family powder-pulf which had been exercised on the princely peruke, and the basin from which the august chin had been lathered, and which I told him resembled Mambrino's helmet. When a little exhilarated, which was not unfrequently the case, he would sing old Jacobite songs, and take off a glass to the memory of the last of the unfortunate house of Stuart.

But, notwithstanding his love of good cheer, like his mistress he observed the anniversaries of certain terrible events as rigorous fast-days, and put on mourning as she did. In fact, the house was very dismal altogether on these occasions, and I was glad when they were over ; for Mrs. Mervyn moved about like a shade, and would eat nothing, and Mr. Comberbach stalked after her like a grim attendant ghost, and would eat nothing too ; and, what was worse, would scarcely let me eat anything ; while all the rest of the servants followed, or pretended to follow, their example. It was mainly owing to the butler's exertions that Mrs. Mervyn was so well supplied with Jacobites. He found out Mrs. Chadwick, the housekeeper, — a lineal descendant of a tallow-chandler, whose zeal being inflamed, like one of his own candles, by the Toung Chevalier's arrival in Cottonborough, was afterwards very suddenly snuffed out.

He likewise discovered the cook, Molly Bailey, whose great-uncle had kept the Dog Inn when Lord George Murray, the Prince's secretary, was quartered there, and who possessed some old receipts of dishes that his Highness was known to be fond of, and was, moreover, so skilful in her art, that she was worthy to have been his cook, if he had ever come to the throne, and she had lived in his days. He engaged Hudson, the coachman, who affirmed that his grandfather was the first person that came to the assistance of Sergeant Dickson, when he took the town us Cottonborough, attended only by a drummer and a sutler- ADVTNTUBES OF wench, and afterwards joined him as a recruit. And Mr. Comber bach likewise unearthed Banks, the gardener, who declared he was a Jacobite every inch ; for his " forefaythers" had kept the little inn at Didsbury, where the Jacobite Club used to meet, and drink the "King over the water."

All the rest had some pretences or other of a like nature to Mrs. Mervyn's consideration, and she never investigated their claims too narrowly, but rested content with the butler's assurance of their eligibility. In short, we were all Jaco bites, and the common folks nicknamed our place of abode " Jaco bite's Hall." And in case I should appear to be a very unworthy member of a house whose party feelings were so decided, but luckily so harmless, I may mention that I had as much right as anybody to call myself a Jacobite, and could boast, like some of them, of having had an ancestor hanged, seeing that my maternal great-grandfather, John Leyburne, was tried at Liverpool at the sanguinary assizes held there in 1716, for his adherence to the Chevalier St. George, and after wards executed at Garstang, near which place he had resided.

I easily found out that my father was no great favourite with Mrs. Mervyn. She had never approved of the match, and thought his conduct towards his wife wholly inexcusable. Indeed, and with some justice, she laid my mother's early death at his door. Three years later on, when news came from India that he had married again, and, having exchanged into another regiment just sent out, did not mean to return for some time, she declared she was not at all surprised at his proceedings. " He never estimated poor Clara at her true value," she said — "never understood her quiet and deep affection. Alas ! poor girl, she is now entirely forgotten, and her place supplied by some other thoughtless young creature sent out on speculation for a husband. Well, whoever she may be, for I know nothing of her beyond her name, Bertha Honeywood, she has got no great prize, and it is to be hoped may be better treated than her pre decessor.

Captain Clitheroe seems not only to have forgotton his first wife, but all belonging to her," she added, looking hard at me ; " it is well that some one was attached to poor orphan Clara, and for hcr sake will watch over the child she has left behind her." Mrs. Mervyn had been always kind to me, but after this news she became even kinder than before. Remittances for my maintenance and education were regularly received from my father, but he ex pressed no interest whatever concerning me, and entered into no explanations as to his future intentions respecting me. The Anchorite's was situated at the foot of a woody eminence overlooking the Vale of the Ater, on whose banks it stood. It derived its appellation from an old religious cell, the ruins of which could still be traced iu the garden. A shady walk beneath a row of elms led to the brink of the Ater, and on the greensward and slopes were many old trees, probably contemporary with the retreat, and in especial an ancient yew, which must have numbered centuries when the hermit built his cell.

Through openings in the grove sheltering the house might be caught glimpses, about three miles off, of the smoke-canopied town of Cottonborough, whose factories had already invaded some of the neighbouring heights MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 7 commanding the circuitous windings of the river. Though not large, the house was commodious; comprehending a good sombre-looking dining-room, wainscoted with oak, and full of dusky oak furniture ; a fine old oak staircase, highly polished ; and an admirable library, full of old books. A deeply-embayed window, with stone mullion "frames, looked from the library into the garden, and adjoining it was a small octagonal chamber, like an oratory, with windows full of stained glass, emblazoned with the arms of various Lancashire families. Mrs. Mervyn was very hospitable, but her invitations were chiefly confined to clergymen, and a day seldom passed that one or two reverend gentlemen did not dine with her ; and as these excellent members of society are not supposed to despise the good things of the world, and the dinners at the Anchorite's were unexceptionable, a refusal was seldom experienced.

Mrs. Mervyn had some fine old plate, and on state occasions the sideboard and table blazed with it, but ordinarily her dinners were more comfortable than showy. A clergyman always sat at the foot of the table, and, on the high days just alluded to, perhaps a bishop, or the warden of the Collegiate Church, an archdeacon, or some eminent clerical dignitary, would support her on the right and left. I have already said that she possessed a capital cook in Molly Bailey, whose Prestonpans cutlets, Hanoverian calf's head with Nonjuror sauce, baked Derwentwater pike with Brunswick pudding inside, Charles Edward's jugged hare, Earl of Mar's game pie, and Sacheverell puffs, were much enjoyed, notwithstanding their designations. Mr. Comberbach took care that the cellar should be well stocked with the finest old port and Madeira (champagne or hock were never given), and as Mrs. Mervyn never stinted her wine, while the reverend gentleman who sat at the bottom of the table was fully aware of her hospitable wishes, and carefully seconded them himself, her guests were always plentifully supplied.

The Rev. Barton Lever, the divine in question, was a fellow of the Collegiate Church, and a very estimable, excellent man, a sound scholar, a lover of black-letter books, fond of antiquarian researches, and no mean poet. He officiated as Mrs. Mervyn's almoner, recommended worthy objects for her bounty, and distributed unostentatiously, as she desired, the large sums devoted by her to charitable uses. Thus, though in effect an orphan, for my father seemed to care so little about me, that I might almost as well have been without him, I had a very kind friend and a very good home ; and I had, besides, some other kind friends and relatives, whom I shall hereafter introduce to the reader. I must postpone further description of Mrs. Mervyn, till I arrive at the period of my life when I was old enough to understand more fully the excellencies of her character, and was permitted to take part at her hospitable entertainments, and make acquaintance with her guests.

Several years must be passed over with the mere men tion of their flight. In a word, I may say that the days of my child hood were happy, but dull, for I had few playmates. I was like a boy brought up in a monastery, or like Rasselas in the Happy Valley ; for, though I had the run of the house and the garden, I was not permitted to stray beyond their precincts. Thus, I envied those who had more freedom than I had, and longed for the time when I should be sent to a public school. I had excellent private instruction, but I yearned for the company of other boys ; and at last, when I was nearly twelve years old, Mrs. Mervyn reluctantly yielded to my wishes, and sent me to the Cottonborough Eree Grammar School. But, alas ! the gratification, of the wish was followed by immediate repentance and regret.

Hitherto, I had not been conscious of my own happiness. The knowledge came too late. I would now willingly have gone back to my quiet life and easy studies at the Anchorite's, but very shame prevented me.

Chapter II. An Account Of Mt Schooldats, Schoolfellows, And School- Mastees

— ME. ABEL CANE PEOVES THAT HE IS ABLE TO CANE DE. LONSDALE ADOPTS A DIFFEEENT MODE OF TUITION — JOHN BRIDEOAKE — A BUNKEE's HILL HERO A BOT DEOWNED. Founded by a benevolent bishop, in the early part of the sixteenth century, well endowed, and subsequently enriched by a great number of exhibitions and scholarships, the Cottonborough Free Grammar School has always maintained a high reputation for sound classical instruction, and though not ranking with Eton or Harrow as a fashionable place of education, from the circumstance of its being situated in a large manufacturing town, which has deterred some persons of good family from sending their sons to it, it has turned out many excellent scholars, who have cut a figure at the universities, and distinguished themselves afterwards in the various walks of life.

I cannot say much in praise of the architectural beauty of the school ; for, if truth must be spoken, it was exceedingly ugly ; and, though a very old foundation, the building was comparatively modern, and did not date back, from the period of which I write, more than twenty or thirty years. It was raised on a high sandstone bank overlooking the little river Ink, not far from its confluence with the Ater ; and viewed on this side, in connexion with the old and embrowned walls adjoining it, its appearance was not unpicturesque, — certainly more pleasing than when viewed from the crowded and noisy thoroughfare by which it was approached. It was a large, dingy, and smoke begrimed brick building, with copings of stone, and had so many windows that it looked like a lantern. In front, between the angles of the pointed roof, was placed a stone effigy of the bird of wisdom, which seemed to gaze down at us with its great goggle eyes as we passed by, as if muttering, " Enter this academic abode over which I preside, and welcome, but you'll never come out as clever as I." What the school wanted in antiquity was supplied by a venerable pile contiguous to it, which, in remote times, had been part of the collegiate establishment of the Old Church of Cottonborough ; but, in the reign of James I., falling into the hands of a wealthy and munificent merchant of the place, it was by him devoted to the foundation of a hospital for the maintenance and education of a MERVTN CLITHEROE. 9 certain number of poor lads, and to the creation, for public use and benefit, of a large and admirable library within its walls.

This was the Blue-Coat Hospital and Library, for which Cottonborough has reason to be grateful. Adjoining our modern iron rails was a venerable stone gateway, with an arched entrance opening upon the broad playground of the Blue-Coat Hospital, which as far surpassed anything we possessed, as its college-like halls and refectories exceeded our formal school in beauty ; while the blank black walls of another part of the structure, composed of a stone so soft and friable that it seemed to absorb every particle of smoke that approached it, formed a little court in front of our door of entrance, and the flight of stone steps conducting to it. The school was divided into two rooms, each occupying a whole floor, and the lower school, in those days a very confined, dirty-looking place, utterly unworthy of such an establishment, was reached by a flight of steps descending from the little court I have described. .But happily I knew nothing, from personal experience, of this dark and dismal hole, being introduced at once to the upper school, which, if it had no other merit, was airy and spacious enough.