The school at which young Charley Hexam had first learned from a book — the streets being, for pupils of his degree, the great Preparatory Establishment in which very much that is never unlearned is learned without and before book — was a miserable¹ loft² in an unsavoury yard. Its atmosphere was oppressive and disagreeable; it was crowded, noisy, and confusing; half the pupils dropped asleep, or fell into a state of waking stupefaction; the other half kept them in either condition by maintaining a monotonous³ droning noise, as if they were performing, out of time and tune⁴, on a ruder sort of bagpipe⁵. The teachers, animated⁶ solely⁷ by good intentions, had no idea of execution, and a lamentable⁸ jumble⁹ was the upshot of their kind endeavours.

It was a school for all ages, and for both sexes. The latter were kept apart, and the former were partitioned off into square assortments¹⁰. But, all the place was pervaded¹¹ by a grimly ludicrous pretence¹² that every pupil was childish and innocent. This pretence, much favoured by the lady-visitors, led to the ghastliest absurdities¹³. Young women old in the

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