THE OLD SCHOOL-ROOM.

BY J. G. ADAMS.

"Again ye come — again ye throng around me—

Dim, shadowy beings of my boyhood's dream!"

GOETHE.

ANXIOUSLY and assiduously have I been searching my inner library for a theme, and suddenly and happily have I found one; not indeed the material for a penny sheet, or literary monthly tale of gentlemen and lady-love sentimentality, romance, and adventure, where turreted castles, mailed knights, fair forms, and glittering pageants float bewitchingly in the admiring vision, nor a critical essay on some renowned or obscure author whom I have never read, and not one hair of whose head would be made white or black by the mightiest efforts of my reviewing pen,nor, in short, any thing of the high ef forts of that fashionable genius whose presence, whether actual or imaginary, is so universally

courted in this day of sheets everlasting. I have a common theme, and yet one, to me, of the most pleasing interest. I doubt not it may prove thus with the reader, if he has a heart of good sympathies. For while memory retains its holy office, and the past, the present, or the future, can act upon us, what, in all the round of earthly recollection, comes up in brighter array before the retrospective eye, than the times and seasons of our youthful school-days?

That old school-room of my early boyhood; shall I ever forget it while this soul retains its identity, and knowledge and acquirement are terms used in appropriate connection? Verily not. I can see it now, just as it appeared when, after having made my first salutatory bow at its inner door, I took my place in the dingy-looking seat that stood near it. Although the old house has now gone, and a far more stately edifice occupies its place, still I can realize nothing of the glory of this latter building. It is not, in my mind, worthy to be compared to that of the former. It has often seemed to me that I would give worlds, were it in my power, to see and go back to that old temple of science, and live those mysterious and trying, yet joyous days, all o'er again; and I am actually afflicted when I sometimes realize that this is impossible, that no

responsive acquiescent voice is heard in answer to my soul's sincere petition :

"Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning!"

The old room of which I speak was somewhat spacious. Its size was suitable for the district in which it stood, one of the most considerable in a chief town of New Hampshire. The benches were of the long, continuous kind, constructed for the accommodation of "many in one." In these sat, day after day, about sixty fledgling sinners of various temperaments, means, and appliances, a portion of them honest and industrious in their appropriate studies, but most of them quite as intent on recreation, mischief, and even outrage. At one end of the room was a platform raised, on which stood the teacher's old, dilapidated arm-chair, a table for the accommodation of himself and a few select scholars, a huge desk, on which lay a massive ferule, and in which reposed, about one half the time, a dreaded cow-skin, (whose end was destruction by means of burglary and a jack-knife,) a few articles of stationery, and various contraband knickknacks once belonging to some scholars in particular, now inhabiting the old desk in general. Near an unique, black stove, on said plat

form, was coiled the bell-rope, that meddlesome agent, by means of which so many of our choicest communings without were suddenly broken off for immediate attention to our somewhat duller delights within.

Such, in brief, was the geography of our old school-room, in addition to which it may be remarked, that upon seats and ceiling, notwithstanding certain most absolute regulations to the contrary, were cut, carved, and etched, letters, words, devices, and representations "innumerable, both small and great." Without this tabernacle of knowledge was the play-ground, a stinted enclosure, where many a play was begun but never ended.

In this place did my young ideas receive the impulses of their developement. Homely as it may be imagined, and as it was in reality, it was a world to me. There was as great a variety of character and incident within and around it as I could well appreciate or enjoy. Something new occurred each day, something which made a lasting impression upon my youthful mind, and which led me to consider that place, next to my mother's hearth-stone, the very theatre of life itself, where all worth knowing or enjoying was concentred.

The master; how shall the lines of this dull

pen bring him fully out before the reader? I despair of doing this, and yet I ought to be sufficient for it, for I verily believe that every look and movement of this chief of ceremonies, and hero of many wars, is as vividly present with me now, as when, in that very room, I encountered his approving smiles or withering frowns. He was a tall, lean, thin-faced, blueeyed, Roman-nosed, bushy-headed man of about forty, with frame somewhat muscular, and with disposition none too well calculated for his station. He was an energetic man, but exceedingly passionate, so that although he secured unto himself and scholars a lively school, much of this life was noise and bluster. He was originally a backwoodsman, and had been educated in the common country schools. Although much of his rustic simplicity lingered about him, still he had in his character a besprinkling of the philosopher. Aside from scientific acquirements, he had some available, and often edifying knowledge of ancient history and intellect. He could quote short sentences from Solon, Chilo, Aristippus, and Diogenes; knew that Aristotle, although a learned man, was a vain fop; that Democritus was always laughing, and that Alexander had said, that "he who commanded his passions did more than he who commanded armies." This