REMINISCENCES OF MY SCHOOL-BOY DAYS. THE BY SILVIO PELLICO. HERE are few things, if any, upon which memory dwells with more delight than the scenes and associations of early life. Then all the sympathies are awake and tender; the heart as yet has not been wrung with grief, nor the moral sensibilities blunted by sin. Then we look upon the world as a little lower than Eden, and all men as true and pure. The mind, at that tender age, is susceptible of impressions, and the impressions then made are so vivid and lasting that they | live often to bless old age, and throw a mellow light over the evening of life. For, when desire fails, and the windows are darkened, and the grasshopper becomes a burden; when the men of this generation are looked upon as a new and strange race; when the scenes of yesterday are forgotten, and the business of to-day has lost its interest, the aged man lives in the past-he thinks and talks about the scenes, adventures, and labors of early life; and when his mind has lost all power to retain new facts, or form new attachments, it holds with an iron grasp what it received in the day of its impressibility, and rehearses it as if by intuition. Who does not remember the hallowed scenes and associations of school-boy days?—the old teacher, the boys and girls, the play-ground, the little disputes how soon forgotten, the friendships how warm, the salutations how hearty! O, these, with facts and incidents almost innumerable, are fresh in the memory of thousands in our happy country. Did you ever see an "old-time" school "master," with his wool-hat, or long fur, bleached by the sun and rain into a half yellow; with his pigeon-tailed coat, and pants full large if they had been long enough, but stopped somewhere between the knee and ankle, as if there had been a quarrel between the "breeches" and the shoes, which were made of cow leather, over a last, from the appearance of the shoe, very much in the shape of a "glut?" These dignitaries, it was claimed, must understand "reading, writing, and ciphering," at least be able to teach arithmetic to the Single Rule of Three. Occasionally you would find one who could carry the pupils through to Vulgar Fractions, or the Cube Root. These men felt that they sustained an important relation to society, inasmuch as to them was committed the training of the young professionals; that the specimens of their handiwork must adorn the halls of legislation; that they had much to do in making "'squires" and judges, senators and presidents; hence they felt a very great responsibility, and ruled as with a rod of iron. The houses in which these country schools were kept, were of a primitive character-cabins made of round logs, and covered with clapboards, with floors made of loose planks, or puncheons. The heating apparatus was simple, and yet pleasant; it consisted of an open fireplace, in a chimney of from four to six feet wide, and of sufficient depth to take in a "back-log," as they were called, of from one to two feet in diameter, and then admit a "fore-stick" of half the size, besides the filling in and piling up, which, when finished, was a logheap in miniature. The benches, which were made of slabs, each with four legs as nearly of a length as the case would admit of, were arranged on the sides and in front of this great fire. Here, in the morning you would see the boys and girls, with their red faces and bright eyes, coming in from every quarter, through the rain or snow, carrying their dinner-baskets, slates, and spellingbooks, clothed in their rustic habits-girls with their "woolsey-linsey" frocks, and boys with their "roundabouts" of different forms and colors, to suit the fancy or convenience of the mothers-for mothers in those days worked-they colored, and carded, and spun, and wove, and cut, and made, and when this had to be done for half a dozen or more, ranging from two to eighteen years of age, it was no small business; and as to colors, it depended a good deal upon circumstances; sometimes they would stripe little flannel to make "frocks" for Sarah and Jane, for extra occasions, or make a little "steel-mixed" for John and Henry. Occasionally you would see a boy with a pair of gloves on, but generally they wore "mittens." The gloves had fingers as well as thumbs; the "mittens" were all in one department, except the thumbs. They were considered the warmest, but not quite so tasty. These scholars would be gathering, say from seven o'clock in the morning till eight, or half-past eight. The teacher generally came early, to start the fire, and write copies, and, may be, procure a little more "hickory-oil," as it was sometimes jocosely called. Some perhaps would "beat" the teacher, and then they would have to shiver till a fire was made, and had generated a sufficient amount of heat to warm them. They thought it was a great feat to "beat" the "master," as they called the teacher. These western colleges were well ventilated. The openings between the logs which formed the house, were partially closed with split timber, and then daubed with wet clay. When the mortar dried it generally withdrew its connection with the log, especially above, forming a nice opening for the air to pass. The windows were often minus a pane or two of glass. The door was loosely hung on wooden hinges, and closed by a wooden latch, to which a string was attached on the outside, by the pull of which the latch was raised on the inside; so that by the door and windows, the chinks in the daubing, besides the openings often between the chimney and house, and the large spaces between the planks or puncheons of the floor-which would frequently, by shrinking, leave an opening sufficiently large to admit the leg of a chair-ample ventilation was afforded, and a bountiful supply of oxygen was kept on hand, despite the furnace-like fire, which would often roar and snap as if determined to devour every thing within its reach. The hour arrives. The boys and girls are scattered, some in the house, some in the yard. The "master" goes to the door, and cries with a stentorian voice three times, "Books, books, books." Here they come, rushing in all to their seats, boys on the one side, and girls on the other. As they pant from exercise, and whisper to each other a word about their recent play, the teacher cries, "Order! I want order now; and before we go to our lessons, I wish to make some remarks." He then proceeds something like this: "On yesterday some of you boys misbehaved, and gals, too; I did hope I could git along at least a few days without a 'hickory;' but I find I can't; so I got me two good ones last night after school." Then taking down one, he continues: "Here is one of them. I find there is no getting along with bad boys and gals, only by whipping them like dogs; and now, [as he waves his 'switch,'] if any of you 'cut up' to-day as you did yesterday, you will catch it, mark that ;" then, as if the preliminaries were all settled, he says: “Now go to your lessons, and we will hear the first class in the 'English Reader.'" Things move on very pleasantly for awhile; then a little fellow comes up with tears in his eyes, holding his arm, and says, rather low, "Master"—then a little louder-"master." The teacher hears him, and turning his eye carefully away from the sum in "Long Division," which he is now working for one of the advanced scholars, he says, "What is the matter?" The little fellow says, looking at the transgressor, "John Baker pinched me, so he did." The teacher is at once excited; he mutters, as he lays down the slate and pencil, "Whenever I have a hard sum to do I am always disturbed." Then turning to the accused, he says, in a judge-like tone of voice, "John, why did you pinch Bill Lesly?" "Why, he kicked me on the shin," says John. Kicked you on the shin ?" "Yes, sir." The teacher then turns to Bill, and says, "You are a pretty fellow. Why did you kick John Baker on the shin?"" "Because he scratched me," says Bill, at the same time showing the print of the finger-nail on the back of the hand, and shedding a tear or two. The teacher proceeds no further, but says, "I am now satisfied you are both in the fault; you know what I told you this morning. John Baker is too big a boy to be pinching and scratching a little boy like Bill Lesly. I'll give him pinching and scratching enough." So he calls out John, and taking down the largest rod, commences administering justice with a vengeance. As he lays on the licks, he says, "Will you ever pinch another boy? say, will you?" John cries, "No, master, no," as he howls from the agony produced by the lashes. After a terrible trimming, the teacher says, "There, now, let me ever hear of your scratching or pinching another boy and I will take the very hide off you. Bill Lesly," the teacher now says, "come here." Bill trembles, and weeps, and says, "Master, I won't do so any more, so I won't.” “I'll learn you to be kicking boys' shins. If a boy touches you, you come and tell me, and I'll tend to his case. I'm master; come here in a minute." So he takes the smaller rod and gives Bill a few keen lashes, and closes by saying, "Now, take your seat, and get your lessons, or I will give you some more." All is silence now; only a few sobs from the boys, which are gradually dying away, and the teacher takes up his slate and pencil, and to goes figuring. Time passes. The lessons are heard as they come in irregular order. Noon arrives, or as nearly as the teacher can judge from the position of the sun with the school-house, taking it for granted that the house ranges with the four quarters of the globe. But before dismissed for dinner and recreation the spelling-classes must be heard. In one of them all must take a part, if they can spell at all. The teacher calls up the first class, in which you will see little boys and girls, as well as young men and women, each to try his hand in getting head, or foot, or middle, as the case may be. If a word is missed it is given out again to the next below, and the next, till it passes once around or is spelled by some one. If any one succeeds in spelling it he goes above the one who first missed it. Now all is excitement. The master stands in a dignified position, with a spelling-book in one hand and whip in the other, till the requisite amount is disposed of, then he makes them take their numbers, so that they can remember their places, and orders them to take their seats till the second class is heard. The second class is now called up. Each selects his place, just as a litter of pigs, when they were invited to partake of the nourishment provided by nature in such cases, would do, each claiming his place. The spelling exercises over, the teacher says, "You will now have an hour to eat dinner and play; you are dismissed." Then the members of each family gather around the bucket or basket containing the substantials, while the oldest, if they are boys, or some female member, gives to each a portion, and they all partake, some pie, some bread and butter, some bread and meat. Dinner is soon over, and they away to their amusements. You will see some swinging, some sliding, some playing cat or town-ball, some with the girls playing "poor pussy wants a corner." All is now merriment and life. The feeling of friendship, which often ripens into love, is cherished, and those young hearts palpitate big with hopes of the future. As yet they know not what broken friendships mean, or blighted hopes; the fruit which they see in the distance, and long to enjoy, looks as fair to them as the fabled apples of gold. The cup they are soon to drink, while its contents are so inviting, contains, to many, bitterness and death; but they know it not. They long for manhood, impatient to enter as contestants for the honors or pleasures of wealth in the ranks of business, of political strife, or war. Better for many of them that they had always been children and lived on hope, indulging the innocent illusion of youth, than to feel as, alas! too many do, that those were only pleasant dreams, which vanish "when one awaketh," or, if reality, to be enjoyed, but not by them. Among many incidents that I remember distinctly, was one which, though it may be amusing to you, proved to be rather a serious matter with me, as you will see in the sequel. Among other boyish exploits, we would sometimes try who could endure to have his hair pulled the hardest and longest without crying or hallooing. By my side, in school, sat a neighbor boy-poor fellow! he is sleeping with the dead, or, I should say, resting with the blood-washed in heaven, for he died in full hope of that blessed rest. He was older than I, but slender and small of his age. He offered me the privilege of trying my hand on his hair, assuring me that I could not pull it so as to make him halloo. I told him I could. So I made every necessary preparation-both in the mean time watching the master and adjusting matters when his back was to us or eye on the book or slate. His hair had been shingled, but had grown considerably, till the lower parts which, in those days of rustic shingling, was often left much longer than the hair above-were long enough to afford a firm grasp. Every thing being adjusted, I gently and slyly took hold of these hanging locks; entwining and fastening my fingers in the hair and watching the teacher, I pulled in earnest, and to my utter astonishment and discomfiture he screamed out, "Ouch, master, SP is pulling my hair!" The teacher, who was a man perhaps sixty years of age, a little lame, one leg being shorter than the other, and rather heavy set, heard the cry, and without stopping to investigate the case, as I then thought he should, rushed upon me with open hands-not having time to gather up his old beech-rod-and fell to boxing me with his open hands, right and left, till my head rung again. The old "American Preceptor," a book in which I used to read several lessons each day, was, in the awful "trouncing" which I received, knocked sprawling on to the floor. After the old teacher had glutted his rage, by a process which was any thing else but pleasing to me, he limped away to his desk, puffing as he went as if he had just come out of a bearfight, and took his seat, casting at me a significant look, as much as to say, "Now, you pull another boy's hair if you dare." That, to me, then, was a serious matter. O, I thought, if I was only a man I would never endure such "buffeting" as that. But the boy-I will not tell how I felt, or what I said; 'twas soon forgotten. Years passed away; manhood came, and often in the social circle and the class-room have I mingled my conversation, my songs and prayers with that young The old school-house has gone to decay; the boys and girls who were our schoolmates are scattered-some dead, and some living-and now in riper manhood I cherish the memory of those days; the petty differences of boyhood are forgotten, and memory hails the living with delight, and sheds a tear of tribute over the graves of those who have passed away. man. SOME WORDS OF SOME AUTHORS AND CARL BY O. J. VICTOR. qualities of high genius. This success, like Byron's, won in a night, dazzled the rising poetrace; and what has succeeded from the young author's name is, almost without exception, of the same ambitious, magniloquent character, though more subdued in arrogance of conception. We have neither patience nor paper for a sepa JARLYLE declares the man to be lost who takes to poetry. This does not leave us to infer that his definition of poetry, therefore, is madness; for, applying the argumentum ad hom-rate notice of each of these “rising greatnesses” of inem, the great "thunderer" himself were written "mad!" since he is not without a poet's ambition, and, indeed, is not without a poet's powers. Many of his pages of burning invectives-many of his blunt periods and subtile reasonings, are highly touched with the fire of the poet's charm. Is there philosophy in his exclamation against the sanity of the rhymster? Though humorously penned, there doubtless is a substance, as well as a shadow, in its truth, at least as applied to the majority of the worshipers of the "tuneful Nine." Let us reason together through a short chapter; and it may be that a few hints and helps will be offered which will place the reader in possession of the "key" to much modern "poetry." Poe, in one of his characteristic papers on literature and composition, betrays to us the process by which he "built up" his now celebrated poem, "The Raven," and takes occasion to remark upon the "principle of unexpectedness" which he considers as the secret of the effect of a true poetic conception. This law-if such it may be called-has been adopted by many of the would-be successors of that great analyst's position in our poetic literature; and, if that literature must be characterized by its quality, we should unhesitatingly name it "the unexpected "-"the startling"-" the highly original." Looking over the sea for a cue—as we are, most unfortunately, very likely to do-we have a "band of brothers" in the persons of Philip James Baily, Alexander Smith, Sidney Dobell, Gerald Massey, Coventry Patmore, and Owen Meridith, whose works, of late, have absorbed all attention. Even the Laureate sings to small audiences compared with these; while the Brownings, and Mrs. Norton, and the Howitts attract but the old stereotyped remark of "good" when they venture into print with some new and studied effort the more sounding adjectives of "fine," noble,” “magnificent," "wonderful,” are reserved for the star-struck brood above named. Baily came first in order, we believe, with his "Festus." This work at once attracted attention from its daring conception, its almost blasphemous irreverence, yet splendid poetic power. The critics were at loss in regard to it—some praised and some blamed; yet all conceded to it many this generation, though such a particular reference Now, much of this may be imputed to the heavy stratum of vanity that overlies the heart beneath-much may be imputed to the arrogance a consciousness of power is too apt to engender in youth-much to the unsettled taste of the day, which is clamorous for something new; but the chief fault, it seems to us, lies in the false ideas of the office of the poem, which have gained currency during these latter days. It is no longer utterance for the heart's sake, but for fame's sake; and the means chosen are not of the ideal, but of the mechanical kind, as Poe prescribed in his performance referred to. Soul has little to do in giving birth to the poem-it is all art, art, art; and the best mechanician at verse, he who can torture the stars into harness, and the sea into dock, and the human heart into any thing but human emotion, is the "poet of his generation.” Alas! better the fiery passion of Byron than this exaggeration and license. 46 The English public, we are glad to know, is be- cease-it pours the "airy gold" into the eyes of coming surfeited with this pabulum, fit neither men, instead of down their throats. Most wonfor gods nor men; and a healthier tone prevails derful and "unexpected" miracle! What huge in much of what has lately appeared. Coven- eyes some men must have! But, "we DRINK that try's "Espousals," and the "Betrothal," are evi- wine all day, till the last drop is drained UP," dence of this change; for they go to the very thus giving us to infer that the last drop is at verge of simplicity and prosiness in many pas-length reached-"drained up," not down-and sages, yet are regarded with much favor. Mawe are lighted off to bed by the jewels in the thew Arnold, too, in his book, rejects the melo- cup," which, provokingly enough, do not, like the drama and affectation of the day, and makes a "wine," tumble down into the eyes of men, that, clear, bold plea for a return to the classical mod- like Cleopatra, we might feast upon pearls. els which Milton was proud to study for their elegance of diction and purity of imagination. The appearance of Mrs. Browning's "Aurora Leigh" has done much toward the reform-for such we regard any movement which repudiates the false and we think we may safely promise that the "spasmodic era" is about past. When the English critics and readers grow enthusiastic over an American production of anonymous authorship, as they have in the case of "The Arctic Queen," it is pretty evident they are again eager for what is truthful in passion and pure in expression. Carlyle was not "all in fun," surely, when he said that he who takes to writing latter-day poetry must surely be lost. We were taught, by the masters who ruled over us kindly at "the seminary," that the first constituent of poetry and prose was sense; the second, sense; the third, sense; and, having that standard before us, we are forced to pronounce such rhyme and rhythm as the above superlative nonsense, notwithstanding a modern critic says "it would sparkle as a gem in the old dramas." It is useless to say the poem has a double meaning; we ask, what is it? Where is found, among the great masters of the Muse, a precedent for such imagery to illustrate what Shakspeare, or Shelly, or Coleridge, would have called "An April Shower?" Let us quote again, for by such illustration the reader will be all the better advised of the kind of "poetry" which a certain clique of young writers would foist upon us, in place of the truly noble and inspiring strains the generation passing away were accustomed to dwell upon. We are told by "the of the best American mind," that the author of the following "has a truer poetic sense, a finer poetic feeling, than Hoffman, Pinckney, and Morris, all put together:" On this side of the water we have been afflicted with the spasms, in some instances; but Yankee Doodle is too shrewd to be a mere reecho of the Englishman, as he has sought to become startling in another way; namely, by writing what was unexpected; as instance the follow-organ ing, much bepraised by down-east critics, and, therefore, to be taken as their standard of poetic excellence : "The sky is a drinking-cup That was overturned of old, We drink that wine all day, Till the last drop is drained up, By the jewels in the cup." This certainly is simple enough, and yet is highly "startling." But scan it closely, and see of what stuff our poetry would be composed did certain critics succeed in their efforts to direct the taste of the reading public. The sky is a cup, a drinking cup, overturned of old, pouring into the eyes (!) of men its wine of gold, airy GOLD! This is "startling," with a vengeance; for there must have been gods "of old," huge enough to drink from that "cup," and to capsize it; but, how we are startled to find that, though it was "overturned of old," it is still pouring down its singularly compounded wine of air and gold! Yet, the wonder does not "Adown the haunted copse I went, It cowered beside the marshy road, Then on I went with hurried tramp, 'What is the matter, old mother Crawl?' We ask, in all humility, what single attribute of a fine poem this possesses? We fail to detect in it any thing that should entitle its author to such lavish encomium as he receives, and must |