,
go and see my name, "John Ridd," graven on that very form. Forsooth,
from the time I was strong enough to open a knife and to spell my name,
I began to grave it in the oak, first of the block whereon I sate, and
then of the desk in front of it, according as I was promoted from one to
other of them: and there my grandson reads it now, at this present time
of writing, and hath fought a boy for scoffing at it--"John Ridd his
name"--and done again in "winkeys," a mischievous but cheerful device,
in which we took great pleasure.

This is the manner of a "winkey," which I here set down, lest child
of mine, or grandchild, dare to make one on my premises; if he does,
I shall know the mark at once, and score it well upon him. The scholar
obtains, by prayer or price, a handful of saltpetre, and then with the
knife wherewith he should rather be trying to mend his pens, what does
he do but scoop a hole where the desk is some three inches thick. This
hole should be left with the middle exalted, and the circumference dug
more deeply. Then let him fill it with saltpetre, all save a little
space in the midst, where the boss of the wood is. Upon that boss (and
it will be the better if a splinter of timber rise upward) he sticks the
end of his candle of tallow, or "rat's tail," as we called it, kindled
and burning smoothly. Anon, as he reads by that light his lesson,
lifting his eyes now and then it may be, the fire of candle lays hold of
the petre with a spluttering noise and a leaping. Then should the pupil
seize his pen, and, regardless of the nib, stir bravely, and he will see
a glow as of burning mountains, and a rich smoke, and sparks going
merrily; nor will it cease, if he stir wisely, and there be a good store
of petre, until the wood is devoured through, like the sinking of a
well-shaft. Now well may it go with the head of a boy intent upon his
primer, who betides to sit thereunder! But, above all things, have good
care to exercise this art before the master strides up to his desk, in
the early gray of the morning.

Other customs, no less worthy, abide in the school of Blundell, such as
the singeing of nightcaps; but though they have a pleasant savour, and
refreshing to think of, I may not stop to note them, unless it be that
goodly one at the incoming of a flood. The school-house stands beside a
stream, not very large, called Lowman, which flows into the broad river
of Exe, about a mile below. This Lowman stream, although it