marched up in procession with banners flying
and the hand, in which the greater drum covered
many harmonious imperfections with a kindly
din. So bright, too, in brass buttons and blue
coats, and other finery, that they looked like
bridegrooms and brides come up to be married.
About these rustics there was a very primitive
air, that reminded us of French peasants. Our
house had a centre tower with two open Italian
cupolas capped with eagles, with two wings, and a
square tower at each wing, regulation mullioned
windows, and the whole of dark iron–grey stone.
It was joined by corridors to its church on one
side, and to another Elizabethan building on the
other: so the whole effect was imposing enough.
Then there was a high white avenue, not indeed
lined with trees, but flanked by two Dutch
ponds, a quarter of a mile long each, and which
ran up almost to the house, or castle as we might
call it.

Through the centre tower was the archway
and entrance, with a bell beside it, which clanged
furiously as the visitor arrived. Inside was
a square court, with many–sided little towers,
and more mullioned windows, and a noble
flight of stairs leading up to the door of the
banqueting–hall: which should have been, and I
am delighted to say was, a noble chamber paved
with white marble, panelled with oak, and
where two hundred of us dined every day with
luxurious freedom for our elbows. The rest
was all in keeping; long oak galleries, deep
windows, old pictures, and what not. Behind,
as quaint a garden as the author of Rookwood
could lay out; yew hedges six feet high, quaint
stone pagodas terminating stiff walks, a round
Dutch pond with a leaden statue, a bowling–green
in the centre, and, above all, a "dark walk" of
decrepit yews, where, at broad noon, one might
grope helplessly. The whole had belonged to
an ancient family of Charles the Second's date,
who had fallen on evil pecuniary days.

It lay in a rough blustering county, and in
a rude part, among fells, where there were very
raw and severe winters, and fine oppressive
summers; and we enjoyed both to extravagance.
In the winter, when the frost came, and the
Dutch ponds had their ice a good two inches
thick, the cry was "All on!" and there was a
sight to see, especially when the skating lasted
for six weeks, as it sometimes did. Fancy "all
on" to the number of two hundred or so, glowing
cheeks, tingling ears, skimming legs, fying
legs, "express trains" twenty carriages in
length, whose coming was announced by
sawing and grinding on the ice, and out of whose
road it was well to keep, to say nothing of the
scattered vehicles, who were in everybody's
way, and who tottered along, and picked their
steps. But these latter were rare exceptions.
For we had the recklessness of boys, and cared
little for falls, even for a smashing crashing
fall, when you seemed to hear the sound of
your own hip–bone breaking. There was
game infinitely delightful, and the charms of
which seemed exquisite, to which I now look
back with a wondering longing: we enjoyed it
so much. It was called "Tag," or sounded
like Tag. I suppose connected with the Latin
tactus or tango, the sport of which lay in
turning a fellow–boy into a universal
huntsman, who gave chase to the whole world.
That is to say, he could select any being
he pleased, but must hunt him down, until
he was "crossed" by some one else. The
fun all rested in this "crossing" just as
the huntsman had his arm stretched out to
touch, having all but run down his prey,
and being absorbed in the delicate regulating
of his headlong speed, putting on the brake
by driving his heels into the ice—at this critical
instant, the deftest skater of our school
swooped down like a locomotive, with contracted
shoulders and stooped figure, and cut in
between both, crossing without a graze. He
had only a foot to turn in (which he did on
one leg), and was away like a bird. The huntsman,
staggered, half upset, was only intent
on keeping his legs straight. It never palled,
that delightful game. It brought wild motion,
circulating blood, and wilder spirits, and there
was no prettier picture of a winter evening,
during "the Christmas," when the lights were
twinkling in the mullioned windows, or softened
behind scarlet curtains, and the air grey and
fresh and inspiring, than to see the snowy white
pond, like the top of a bride–cake, alive with
dark frantic figures, soaring and swooping
hither and thither, while the farmer going home
to the village would hear the jocund cries and
cheerful laughter.

II. ITS GAMES.

But the grander pastime during the winter
months was FOOTBALL, played morning, noon,
and evening. By it, the whole house stood or
fell. Not played, either, on the effeminate
principles of grass, which might do well enough
for "feather–bed boys." No, our system was a
vast stony hard level ground behind the college,
which offered a firm satisfactory basis for a
strong and long kick. No mean picking up
and running away with the ball tolerated, but a
fair fought stand–up battle. There were always
matches going on, but there was a season—
towards Shrovetide—when the national festivals
of the game set in. These were known popularly
as the Grand Matches, and were the
glorious days to which all the rude strong–armed
strong–legged muscular beings of the place
looked forward with a positively painful longing.
The "sides" were picked and chosen
weeks beforehand. They were written out in
two columns (of course during school–hours) by
the most elegant, draughtsman of the house.
A player of artistic feeling designed an
arabesque border of framework, in which football
was attempted to be carried out allegorically, but
inefficiently, in a good deal of strong blue and
red. Subscriptions were invited for a
gorgeous frame for holding the allegory, which,
when sent home and shown at a private view,
excited the deepest admiration.

The Grand Matches went on for three whole
days. They were desperate conflicts. The
masters—strong athletic men—caught the