"Gradus" of his boyhood, ornamented with his pen-drawings of ships,-the keepsake which he gave my father when he ran away to join the British navy. Those drawings show that "the boy is father of the man,' and how the under-current of the mind works out the character, regardless of the drift at the surface for he was an excellent scholar, and was to have had the "first part" on leaving school. But I must not be "all digression," or I shall have some lizard of a critic down upon me, for not making that, which was never meant to be, "a work of art."

66

Somewhere about 1811, the public Latin School was under the charge of a man, whose sobriquet was Sawney,' an extremely original and eccentric character, who lorded it over four or five classes of the most intractable and turbulent fellows, sixty or seventy in number, that ever met together to have Latin and Greek hammered into them. Yet among them were some spirits finely touched," who were destined to shine with "the bright, particular stars" of the intellectual firmament. I will point out one of them.

66

It is 8 o'clock, A. M.: and the thin gentleman in black, with a small jointed cane under his arm, his eyes deeply sunken in his head, has asked that spiritual-looking boy in blue nankeen, who seems to be about ten years old, to "touch the bell,"-it was a privilege to do this;-and there he stands ! that boy-whose image, more than any other's, is still deeply stamped upon my mind, as I then saw him and loved him, I knew not why, and thought him so angelic and remarkable,-feeling toward him more than a boy's emotion, as if a new spring of brotherly affection had suddenly broken loose in my heart. There is no indication of turbulence and disquiet about him; but with a happy combination of energy and gentleness, how truly is he the father of the man! He has touched the bell, and while he takes his seat among his fellows, he little dreams that, in after-times, he will strike a different note, and call around him a school of the transcendental philosophy. He is RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

After a prayer, the morning exercises commence. Sawney, with the jointed cane in his hand, prepares to hear the lessons, studied over night. A boy has committed some indiscretion, and the ratan, rushing through the air, descends on his shoulders.

"I won't be struck for nothing!" screams the urchin.

"Then, I'll strike you for something," replies Sawney, while the ratan whizzes again about his ears.

"Mind out, how you hit me on the cheek!" exclaims the same fellow, at the top of his voice.

"Do you call that your cheek! rejoined Sawney, imitating a malignant smile, and at the same time cutting the boy in the immediate neighborhood of the breech," then turn your other one, you scamp!

While this thrashing and the altercation between the thrasher and the thrashed are going on (and they generally go together), the other side of the room yells out a hideous shout in full chorus, much in the style of the New York milkmen of Winnebago celebrity; and while from this choir, some one performer more conspicuous than the rest is singled out for a flogging, the other side, in its turn, screams like a wounded elephant, or a steamengine. Thus for some minutes, Sawney has to travel backward and forward, thrashing this side and saluted by that, alternately; till at last he stops short in the middle of the room, while the tumult stops short likewise. "I'll tell you what it is, my fine fellows," says he, reconnoitring the enemy, and peering through his rough eyebrows at them, with mock ferocity,

"If you'll be good, I'll thank you!

If not, I'll spank you!"

He generally gave such orders in rhyme; and he now delivers himself of this elegant distich in the queer, sarcastic manner so peculiar to himself. At this the boys explode in one simultaneous burst of laughter; which, through the successive stages of cachinnation, titter and snuffle, finally subsides beneath the influence of ratan.

The exercises are now resumed. "Go on!" says Sawney. "Bangs! what is an active verb?"

"An active verb" replies Bangs, "is a verb which expresses

"Well! what does an active verb express ?"

Bangs twists and turns, and looks imploringly, first at his right-hand class-mate and then at his left; but neither can prompt him, if he knows; as probably he does not.

"Well!" continues Sawney, switching the air with his cane, "well, mutton-head, what does an active verb express?

After a little delay,-"I'll tell you what it expresses," he resumes, bringing the stick down upon the boy's haunches with decided emphasis, "it expresses an action and necessarily supposes an agent, (flourishing the cane, which descends again as before,) and an object acted upon. As castigo te, I chastise thee do you understand now, hey?"

"Yes, sir! yes, sir!" replies the boy, doing his best to get out of the way of the ratan. But Sawney is not disposed to let him off so.

"Don't you?" follows Sawney: "then I'll inform you. An active verb is called transitive when the action passeth over (whack, whack!) to the object. You (whack!) are the object. I am (whack!) the agent. Now take care how you go home and say that I never taught you any thing. Do you hear?" (whack!)

"Don't hit me again on the ear!" shrieks Bangs, shaking his head at the master, and doubling up his fists under the form. But a few more whacks undoubles them again, and reduces him to a sullen obedience.

"The class in Viri Roma!" exclaims Sawney.

Some dozen boys now flutter their dogseared books, and prepare for their customary hiding.

"Smith second, begin!"

Smith second licks his lips, but not exactly as boys do when they hear the Governor's proclamation for Thanksgiving of a Sunday afternoon in the "meeting-house "-that annual death-warrant to the turkies; but he licks his lips, notwithstanding, and begins"Hæc clades-hæc clades-" alas, he can get no further.

"Well!" says Sawney, "translate; what is the English of hæc clades, I should like to know."

"Hæc clades," resumes Smith second, "these things."

"The next!" cries Sawney, in disgust.

The next, knowing no better than the first, is nevertheless thankful to Smith second, for having said something, and he evidently believes the aforesaid to be pretty good authority, for he very promptly insists on his translation, by repeating after him—

"Hæc clades-these things."

"The next!" exclaims the master, restlessly.

But they all follow in the wake of Smith second, and insist upon "these things" to the last one-who happens to be the first and the only one who knows any thing about the lesson.

"Hæc clades," says LEVERETT, afterward the accomplished principal of the same school, "this overthrow"

"Right!" exclaims the master. "go

"Richardson's" for a mug of "cider and pearl-ash."

Refreshed with this accustomed beverage, Sawney's himself again; and casting his eyes round the room, he discovers some idle fellows trapping flies and securing them in cages cut in the forms and nicely grated with pins. The ratan is among them instantly. The flies soar away to the ceiling, and Sawney's imagination soars in company.

"I'll tell you what it is," sings the pedagogue bard:

"If I see any boy catching flies,

I'll whip him till he cries,

And make the tears run out of his eyes."

In the Virgil class, a translation (Davidson's) was always handed round for the use of the boys, who, notwithstanding this indulgence, hardly ever took the trouble to study more than their respective sentences; for, as the recitation invariably commenced with the head of the class, each one could calculate pretty nearly which passage would come to himself. A new tutor, however, finding this out, one day threw the class into confusion by beginning with the fag end. That gentleman, now a distinguished clergyman, undertook in a very praiseworthy, though then unpopular manner, to effect somewhat of a reform in the school, so far as he was concerned; and the scenes that were enacted in consequence would be almost incredible in these days of better order.

In the absence of the principal, the discipline of the new tutor produced a complete rebellion. Not content with disputing every inch of ground in the conquest he attempted, they shot at him with pop-guns; and, during the recess, filling their pockets with stones, they hurled them about the room till the floor was like the upper part of a sea-beach. One boy actually stepped out on the floor, and challenged him to a game of fisticufls. He got a thrashing for it of course, but it only made matters worse. However, in a day or two after, Sawney returning, there was a general dusting of jackets, and comparative order was restored.

Sometimes, of a warm summer afternoon, nothing whatever was done in the school, and Sawney beguiled the hour by calling to his desk every boy in rotation, and questioning him as to the profession or occupation he intended to pursue in after-life. The boys, generally, made sport of this; for while one said that he meant to be a minister, and another a lawyer, most of them proposed such employment for their manhood as candlesnuffers and lamplighters; and he had always a word of advice or a joke for each, according to his avowed intention.

If the boys desired a half-holiday, on the occasion of a "muster" or the like, they had nothing more to do than to unhang the bell-rope and hide it away, and the vacation

was the bribe, and the only inducement that could be brought to bear upon them, to restore it.

Before a public examination, there was a general preparation and cramming for the occasion. A very few pages of the book we were to be examined in were marked off and regularly drilled into us day after day; and the boys were so often "taken up at a particular place during the preparation, that no one could doubt an instant of the exact passage he would be called on to show off in, before the fathers of the town. I very well remember that one boy, having been drilled pretty thoroughly in the declining of "duo," was inadvertently called on to decline "tres," before the assembled wisdom. He faltered, looked toward Sawney, at first completely dumb-foundered; then, in utter despair, faltered out" That's not my word, sir!" The mistake was instantly corrected, and the boy did "duo" to admiration.

Such, far from being exaggerated, are some of my boyhood memories of schools; and were it not for wearying the reader, (for how can I be sure of his interest?) I could tell of even stranger things: as for instance, of nearly three months' vacation at one time, while the master was out of health, and the boys, in the mean time, frolicked at their will, their unconscious parents flattering themselves that all was going on well. But let it pass, with the fun we had with the old tailor who worked below, and "all that sort of thing!"-for it ended sadly in the death and funeral of the good and highly intellectual teacher, at whose obsequies the illustrious BUCKMINSTER officiated in the old Hancock House.

I cannot, however, resist the pleasure of noting a few delightful reminiscences of the fine country school, first taught by JARED SPARKS. He was not there at the time I call to mind; but he imparted a character to it, (which was well sustained by Mr. EMERSON and Mr. MILES, of Boston High-school celebrity,) and left behind him a name embalmed in love and admiration. His immediate successor-a worthy, learned and amiable manwas the centre of the most romantic of school establishments, in the most romantic of country villages.

It would task the genius of the Midsummer Night's Dream, to embody the mysterious beauty of that place, and group all its fascinations and allurements. Love and lore did not reign there alternately, but roamed abroad in dreamy indolence together, wearing each other's smiles. The master was in love, and the boys (some of them certainly) were in love. A few of the most genial spirits of the South, rusticating from Harvard College, were there, all in love: beautiful

girls, too, from Boston and the neighborhood, who are never in love and who never were, even before the "Young Lady's Friend" was written; but who were lovely and beloved, I know to a certainty. For my part, I was in love with every body and every thing. Oh, the sweet, delicious walks and rides of those happy hours! Study, too, was delightful; for our teacher permitted us to con our tasks in the open air, and one might see a tree-full of boys, rustling the leaves of Virgil and the leaves of the beach-tree in harmony. Recubans sub tegmine fagi, was a beautiful reality there. What a contrast of life it presented, to have escaped from the Boston dominie's purgatory, to that blessed elysium!

But the season has changed, and a new master is there,-a fine fellow truly, though different from the other; an excellent disciplinarian and a gentleman. It is winter; and in the early moonlight the skates ring again on the clear ice, and the hills resound with the echo of glad voices. There is a tall thin youth learning to cut figures on the frozen mirror, but his eyes are always turning to the stars. He is fond of circles and triangles, and perhaps unconsciously, describes them with his skates. He casts eclipses when he returns to his room, while his chum is writing verses. He tries to do the poetical, and fails; but he excels every one in mathematics. Again the boy is father of the man. It is ROBERT TREAT PAINE, the astronomer.

At a place where the river is wide, and five or six fathom deep, there are two boats, "manned" with boys, who are about to engage in a sham naval battle. Each is resolved to "capture "the boat-hook of the other. Down they come for the contest, the paddles of the 66 oarsmen” flashing rapidly through the water. At the bow of one of the boats stands a splendid boy,-his dark, curling hair streaming to the wind and playing over a face and form handsome and bold enough for a young Achilles. An hour ago he was mus

ing over a mass of snow, and shaping it into the form of life. He is now braced for the strife, and looks the genius of boy-daring. His boat runs smack into the other, and in an instant he seizes the enemy's boat-hook.Huzza! 'tis the tug of war. Huzza, boys! hang on, hang on, for the life of you! But there is only one to six: yet the one holds on bravely till at last, the six at the same time let go, and the one is precipitated into the riv

er.

Huzza, for the fun of that! There is no danger the one still holds his prize and gains the shore. It is his turn to huzza now. Look at him as he triumphantly gazes down the stream. There again the boy is father of the man, who now looks down the tide of time victoriously. It is HORATIO GREENOUGH, the sculptor.

SEVERAL years since, I embarked at New Orleans for Louisville. The steamboat was of the largest size, between four and five hundred tons. It was filled with the usual motley group of people. The number of cabin-passengers amounted to sixty or seventy. Among them were all nations and tongues. There was the tall, muscular Kentuckian, as rough as his native wilds; the indolent southerner, extending his length on every bench to the exclusion of all others; the conceited Yankee, guessing and reckoning about every subject suggested. There were ladies returning to Louisville, loaded with jewelry, who had been to New Orleans to collect fashions for the ensuing season; also, a priest who seemed willing to become confessor to the boat community.

A

Various little incidents beguiled the tediousness of the voyage. At one time we struck upon a snag, and then such terror! all distinctions of rank and nation, hitherto rather scrupulously observed, were now forgotten. Deck-passengers and cabin-passengers mingled promiscuously, and all made a rush to the ladies' cabin at the stern, as the danger seemed most threatening at the prow. One little incident I well remember, true to nature. young woman was hastening towards the prow of the boat; she urged her way against the multitude, and nothing could withstand her eagerness. "You are going the wrong way," said I, supposing her bewildered with terror. "Oh no! no!" she exclaimed, "my child, my child is there!" It was some time before it was discovered that the boat had suffered no serious injury, that the boiler had not burst, but was still able and willing to do its duty.

This little incident had brought us into closer contact and made us more united. We now began to be social in our amusements. A little card-playing, a little dancing, a great deal of talking, and occasionally a little preaching from the good priest, made up the incidents of this miniature world.

Those who have a taste for the sublime or the picturesque have other sources of enjoyment. The constant novelty that presents itself in the valleys and bluffs, the little settlements scattered along the shores, often half inundated with water,-the appearance of desolation that reigns in these vast swamps, the evening roar of the waters, and the hollow blast that comes sweeping over the forest, all give a tinge of melancholy to the scene. How often have I seated

myself in some solitary spot and looked on the mysterious world around, till by a natural connexion my thoughts soared to the invisible, to the Creator of all!

Those who attach least importance to the spot which is to be their last earthly tenement, shudder at the thought of being buried on a shore like this. The long moss which spreads its aerial drapery over the trees and is a beautiful object in many of the Southern states, here loses its graceful character, and hangs matted, dark and heavy, like a funereal banner waving over the regions of death and disease.

We are undoubtedly much indebted to association for the sublimity connected with this mighty river. We carry our imagination to its source, and wander with it through immense tracts of wilderness in solitary grandeur; we see it receiving a thousand tributary waters, yet preserving its own unchanging character, and rolling along with frightful vehemence unheeding the devastation it causes. The oak, the magnolia and the sycamore, with other giants of the forest, are torn up by the roots, and are borne on its swollen waters thousands of miles. Sometimes they become entangled near the shore and remain struggling to get free; deposit after deposit is added till a natural levee is formed, and what they call a batture projects from that shore, while the flood indemnifies itself on the opposite side. The batture often bears the stamp of a variety of soils; every species of vegetation is tributary to it, from the Rocky Mountains to the spot where it is arrested.

I was leaning over the side of the vessel, when I found we were approaching one of these battures, to supply our boat with wood. It presented a striking appearance from its cultivation, and the contrast it formed to the dismal swamps. There was a neat dwelling upon it, that looked as if it were constructed for two families. As the boat neared, a group of children, followed by a large dog, came running to the shore. The Catholic priest was by my side. I had become acquainted with him. "We shall stop here," said he, "an hour; they are old friends of mine in the cottage yonder; will you go ashore with me?" I gladly assented.

The good father was no sooner visible to the children than they set up a joyful shout. Two young women, evidently the mothers of the group, came out to meet him. I never saw more demonstrations of affection and sensibil