All depends on this terrible moment. Your life will be one of comfort, and even happiness, or one of utter wretchedness.

Strike the first blow and win, or you will soon learn that if you do not get the better of the lively crew they will surely get the better of you.

I was prepared for the baptism of fire.

I even had a little theory that had once obtained for me the good graces of a head-master.

This gentleman informed me that the poor fellow I was going to replace had shot himself in despair of being ever able to keep his boys in order, and he asked me what I thought of it.

"Well," I unhesitatingly answered, "I would have shot the boys."

"Right!" he exclaimed; "you are my man."

If, as I strongly suspected from certain early reminiscences, to have been a mischievous boy was a qualification for being a good school-master, I thought I ought to make a splendid one.

The result of my first interview with British boys was that we understood each other perfectly. We were to make a happy family. That was settled in a minute by a few glances at each other.

IV.

THE "GENUS" BOY.--THE ONLY ONE I OBJECT TO.--WHAT BOYS WORK FOR.

Boys lose their charm when they get fifteen or sixteen years of age.

The clever ones, no doubt, become more interesting to the teacher, but they no longer belong to the _genus_ boy that you love for his very defects as much as for his good qualities.

I call "boys" that delightful, lovable race of young scamps from eleven to fourteen years old. At that age all have redeeming points, and all are lovable. I never objected to any, except perhaps to those who aimed at perfection, especially the ones who were successful in their efforts.

For my part, I like a boy with a redeeming fault or two.

By "boys" I mean little fellows who manage, after a game of football, to get their right arm out of order, that they may be excused writing their exercises for a week or so; who do not work because they have an examination to prepare, but because you offer them an inducement to do so, whether in the shape of rewards, or maybe something less pleasant you may keep in your cupboard.

V.

SCHOOL BOYS I HAVE MET.--PROMISING BRITONS.--SLY-BOOTS.--TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD.--"NO, THANKS, WE MAKES IT."--FRENCH DICTIONARIES.--A NAUGHTY BOY.--MOTHERS' PETS.--DIRTY BUT BEAUTIFUL.--JOHN BULLY.--HIGH COLLARS AND BRAINS.--DICTATION AND ITS TRIALS.--NOT TO BE TAKEN IN.--UNLUCKY BOYS.--THE USE OF TWO EARS.--A BOY WITH ONE IDEA.--MASTER WHIRLIGIG.--THE INFLUENCE OF ATHLETICS.--A GOOD SITUATION.--A SHREWD BOY OF BUSINESS.--MASTER ALGERNON CADWALADR SMYTH, AND OTHER TYPICAL SCHOOLBOYS.

Master Johnny Bull is a good little boy who sometimes makes slips in his exercises, but mistakes--never.

He occasionally forgets his lesson, but he always "knows" it.

"Do you know your lesson?" you will ask him.

"Yes, sir," he will reply.

"But you can't say it."

"Please, sir, I forget it now."

Memory is his weak point. He has done his best, whatever the result may be. Last night he knew his lesson perfectly; the proof is that he said it to his mother, and that the excellent lady told him he knew it very well. Again this morning, as he was in the train coming to school, he repeated it to himself, and he did not make one mistake. He knows he didn't.

If he has done but two sentences of his home work, "he is afraid" he has not quite finished his exercise.

"But, my dear boy, you have written but two sentences."

"Is that all?" he will inquire.

"That is all."

"Please, sir, I thought I had done more than that." And he looks at it on all sides, turns it to the right, to the left, upside down; he reads it forwards, he reads it backwards. No use; he can't make it out.

All at once, however, he will remember that he had a bad headache last night, or maybe a bilious attack.

The bilious attack is to the English schoolboy what the _migraine_ is to the dear ladies of France: a good maid-of-all-work.

Sometimes my young hero brings no exercise at all. It has slipped, in the train, from the book in which he had carefully placed it, or there is a crack in his locker, and the paper slipped through. You order excavations to be made, and the exercise has vanished like magic.

Johnny wonders.

"Perhaps the mice ate it!" you are wicked enough to suggest.

This makes him smile and blush. He generally collapses before a remark like this.

But if he has a good excuse, behold him!

"I could not do my exercise last night," said to me one day a young Briton. It was evident from his self-satisfied and confident a.s.surance that he had a good answer ready for my inquiry.

"You couldn't," I said; "why?"

"Please, sir, grandmamma died last night!"

"Oh! did she? Well, well--I hope this won't happen again."

This put me in mind of the boy who, being reproached for his many mistakes in his translation, pleaded:

"Please, sir, it isn't my fault. Papa _will_ help me."