Tom Tulliver’S sufferings during the first quarter he was at King’s Lorton, under the distinguished¹ care of the Rev². Walter Stelling, were rather severe. At Mr. Jacob’s academy life had not presented itself to him as a difficult problem; there were plenty of fellows to play with, and Tom being good at all active games — fighting especially — had that precedence among them which appeared to him inseparable from the personality of Tom Tulliver. Mr. Jacobs himself, familiarly known as Old Goggles³, from his habit of wearing spectacles, imposed no painful awe⁴; and if it was the property of snuffy old hypocrites like him to write like copperplate and surround their signatures with arabesques⁵, to spell without forethought, and to spout⁶ “my name is Norval” without bungling⁷, Tom, for his part, was glad he was not in danger of those mean accomplishments⁸. He was not going to be a snuffy schoolmaster, he, but a substantial man, like his father, who used to go hunting when he was younger, and rode a capital black mare⁹ — as pretty a bit of horse-flesh as ever you saw; Tom had heard what her points were a hundred times. He meant to go hunting too, and to be generally respected. When people were grown up, he considered, nobody inquired about their writing and spelling; when he was a man, he should be master of everything, and do just as he liked. It had been very difficult for him to reconcile himself to the idea that his school-time was to be prolonged and that he was not to be brought up to his father’s business, which he had always thought extremely pleasant; for it was nothing but riding about, giving orders, and going to market; and he thought that a clergyman would give him a great many

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