morning at Lyonness. I was told to go for my
mathematical lesson to Mr. Rhomboid, who tenanted a room in the Old
School. Next door to his room was Mr. Grey's, and I need not say that
the first boy whom I asked for guidance playfully directed me to the
wrong door. I enter, and the Third Form suspend their Phaedrus, "Please,
sir, are you Mr. Rhomboid?" I ask, amid unsmotherable laughter. Never
shall I forget the indignant ferocity with which the professor of the
new lights drove me from the room, nor the tranquil austerity with which
Mr. Rhomboid, when I reached him, set me "fifty lines" before he asked
me my name.

On the same page I find the portrait of two men who have before now
figured in the world of school-fiction under the names of Rose and
Gordon.[39] Of Mr. Rose I will say no more than that he was an excellent
schoolmaster and a most true saint, and that to his influence and
warnings many a man can, in the long retrospect, trace his escape from
moral ruin. Mr. Gordon is now a decorous Dean; at Lyonness he was the
most brilliant, the most irregular, and the most fascinating of
teachers. He spoilt me for a whole quarter. I loved him for it then, and
I thank him even now.

These more distinguished portraits, of cabinet dimensions, were
scattered up and down among the miscellaneous herd of _cartes de
visits_. The art of Messrs. Hills and Saunders was denoted by the
pretentious character of the chairs introduced--the ecclesiastical
Glastonbury for masters, and velvet backs studded with gilt nails for
boys. The productions of the rival photographer were distinguished by a
pillar of variegated marble, or possibly scagliola, on which the person
portrayed leaned, bent, or propped himself in every phase of graceful
discomfort. The athletes and members of the School Eleven, dressed in
appropriate flannel, were depicted as a rale with their arms crossed
over the backs of chairs, and brought very much into focus so as to
display the muscular development in high relief. The more studious
portion of the community, "with leaden eye that loved the ground,"
scanned small photograph-books with absorbing interest; while a group of
editors, of whom I was one, were gathered round a writing-table, with
pens, ink, and paper, the finger pressed on the forehead, and on the
floor proofs of the journal which we edited--was it the _Tyro_ or the
_Triumvirate_?

Among the athletes I instantly recognize Biceps Max., captain of the
Cricket