he hands of inferior men, is just
giving up the highest and hardest part of the work of education. Were I
a private school-master, I should say, Let who will hear the boys their
lessons, but let me live with them when they are at play and rest.

The two ushers at Tom's first school were not gentlemen, and very poorly
educated, and were only driving their poor trade of usher to get such
living as they could out of it. They were not bad men, but had little
heart for their work, and of course were bent on making it as easy as
possible. One of the methods by which they endeavoured to accomplish
this was by encouraging tale-bearing, which had become a frightfully
common vice in the school in consequence, and had sapped all the
foundations of school morality. Another was, by favouring grossly the
biggest boys, who alone could have given them much trouble; whereby
those young gentlemen became most abominable tyrants, oppressing the
little boys in all the small mean ways which prevail in private schools.

Poor little Tom was made dreadfully unhappy in his first week by a
catastrophe which happened to his first letter home. With huge labour he
had, on the very evening of his arrival, managed to fill two sides of
a sheet of letter-paper with assurances of his love for dear mamma, his
happiness at school, and his resolves to do all she would wish. This
missive, with the help of the boy who sat at the desk next him, also a
new arrival, he managed to fold successfully; but this done, they were
sadly put to it for means of sealing. Envelopes were then unknown;
they had no wax, and dared not disturb the stillness of the evening
school-room by getting up and going to ask the usher for some. At length
Tom's friend, being of an ingenious turn of mind, suggested sealing with
ink; and the letter was accordingly stuck down with a blob of ink, and
duly handed by Tom, on his way to bed, to the housekeeper to be posted.
It was not till four days afterwards that the good dame sent for him,
and produced the precious letter and some wax, saying, "O Master Brown,
I forgot to tell you before, but your letter isn't sealed." Poor Tom
took the wax in silence and sealed his letter, with a huge lump rising
in his throat during the process, and then ran away to a quiet corner of
the playground, and burst into an agony of tears. The idea of his mother
waiting day after day for the letter he had promised her at once, and
perhaps thinking him forgetful of h