the grave the marks of a conflict with a boy a head taller, lasting two hours or more, and concluding, if I remember, in both combatants being utterly exhausted. Now I remember it must have been the roll-call that stopped them.

The fable of the Hare and the Tortoise could not be better illustrated than by the characters and careers of Joseph Sumner Brockhurst and William Tyrrell. Any comparison between the two schoolboys would have been utterly ridiculous. Tyrrell, however, was a good and true man; always up to his work, though neither quick nor bright, and making a good impression even on boyish minds. 'Goodness' is apt to be another name for 'dulness,' and if I thought Tyrrell especially good I might have thrown in some of the other quality. He died four years ago, after being Bishop of Newcastle, New South Wales, thirtyfour years. Unmarried, and making judicious investments, he saved a large sum for the endowment of his See, and the institutions connected with it.

His 'Life and Labours,' by one of his colonial fellow-labourers, lies before me, and is a very important record, full of tacit rebuke to the aimless, idle, and desultory. The biographer laments that he has found himself very short of materials for any account of Tyrrell's school or college days. This is not to be wondered at. Tyrrell was quiet, impassive, and without much companionship at school. At Cambridge, as early as 1827, he was almost secretly turning his attention to the study of the Christian Fathers, and collecting a library.

In one point I must make a correction, for it

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shows how quickly and entirely an important stage in even a noble career may pass out of remembrance. At first sight there would seem no reason why Tyrrell's whole life should not be known down to any requisite details. His two sisters-good women as ever were-I was intimately acquainted with for many years. Mrs. Tyrrell, the mother, used to delight in being rowed on the Thames at Kew by her eight fine sons. They were all too busy, I suppose, to keep much account of early days. However that may be, the biographer gives two very pretty paragraphs, describing Tyrrell as a day-boy, going to school with his bundle of books along Cheapside and Aldersgate Street, not quite such a seething current of busy life then as now.

Now, if Tyrrell had been a day-boy, he would have found Cheapside a very circuitous route to Charterhouse. My own city friends were only about a hundred yards from the house of the City Remembrancer, Tyrrell's father, at Guildhall. Both points were about five minutes' walk from Aldersgate Street. But, to the best of my recollection, all the time I was at Charterhouse, from Easter 1820 to Easter 1825 Tyrrell was not a day-boy, but in Chapman's house. His biographer says that, coming home daily, when he had done his work for the next day, he spent the rest of the evening in playing chess with his mother, and thereby acquired his skill in the game.

But in Chapman's house there was much chessplaying. Bannatyne, Middleton, and Croft were chess-players. I was playing a game with the first as we passed Yarmouth in the 'James Watt' steamer

in August 1823. Middleton and Croft once lent me a chess-board, and wanted it back. So, contrary to strict rule, they crossed the Square one evening to reclaim it. Ringing at our house-door, they asked for me. Dicken heard of it, and asked the names of the callers. Had I given the names, they must have been flogged. So I declined. He reported me to Russell, who, upon my repeated refusal, made me stand in the middle of the upper school for three days till I should give up the names. At the end of the third day he took hold of me by the arm, and whisked me into my seat.

I remember Russell, in a moment of irritation, laying hold of a loutish day-boy by the collar of his shirt. It came off in his fingers, and he had to make restitution, much to the amusement of the school. This was the first time I had seen a false collar, and I am not sure that I had even heard of such things before. Dickies' they came to be called, possibly, like 'etiquette' and 'ticket,' derived from the verb 'to stick.'

CHAPTER LXVI.

FILEY.

I SPENT at Filey a six weeks' holiday in 1823, and the middle of a Long Vacation in 1825. At the former date there was just one short row of small cottages, like a coastguard station, built for visitors, who did not come. At the latter date there was a single

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larger house, which we occupied with the Waylands. At these dates a shy elderly incumbent was fighting the battle of life with slender means. Whenever he heard of a haul of fish he descended to the shore, bought a huge cod for a shilling, carried it off, and had it boiled. Placing it on a shelf, he lived on it as long as it lasted-a whole week sometimes.

Such a mode of life was criticised even then. I have often asked what favour it would have found with the preachers of fasting, abstinence, and self-denial, that have since taken charge of us. It was only just living according to the poor man's means, accepting thankfully God's gifts, and making the best use of them. But somehow or other it does not harmonise with the idea of a Movement. The daily meal on cold cod would have to be formalised to make it meritorious.

Speaking for myself, I find it possible to get tired of fish. Once I thought it impossible. It is a not uncommon experience. People who have been long in remote country-places, where the supply of fish is intermittent, bad, and dear, acquire a craving for it. I have known the time when I could have swallowed with gusto not only eel, which is hardly fish, but anything from sea or river, down to whelks and mussels. So I have not been surprised at country ladies, on the look-out for a new place of residence, preferring a town with a good fish-market, and a house within easy distance of it. Salt, smoked, or pickled fish are the most endurable forms, and I suppose the only forms in which the Romans were acquainted with salmon, and highly appreciated it.

A friend near me is surprised at the admission that one may have tired of fish, but the said friend confesses that cod does require some sauce or other. My mother, born and bred on the seashore, used to hold that soles, for example, required no sauce but butter. When the Waylands were forming with us a joint household at Filey, there ensued a little difference on the subject, for Mrs. Wayland was as spicy in her tastes as in her conversation. She was allowed her anchovy sauce to herself.

A little experience of my own throws some light on the poor parson's meagre fare. On a hot day I walked to Filey from the heart of Yorkshire, twenty good miles. It was past our early dinner hour when I reached home. On inquiry, I found nothing remained but a cold haddock and the fat of a cold shoulder of mutton. I finished them both to the bone, and never enjoyed a meal more. Yet even with that delightful memory I find myself able to appreciate the dispensation of Providence, which makes fish the most precarious of all foods.

Early in that day I had found a hedgehog, which I captured and carried home in a handkerchief. As the day advanced, I thought more and more of a grand culinary experiment. I had read that gipsies think a hedgehog dainty fare. They envelop it in a ball of clay, which they put into the fire, and so convert into brick. Upon breaking the mass open, the spines are found imbedded in it, leaving a greasy lump inside. This is the poor little porker. My hedgehog was begged of me at once by some woman, who said that its fat was good for deafness.