LETTER XXIV.

Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, —
We love the play-place of our early days;
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone
That feels not at that sight—­and feels at none. 
The wall on which we tried our graving skill;
The very name we carved subsisting still;
The bench on which we sat while deep employ’d,
Though mangled, hack’d, and hew’d, yet not destroy’d. 
The little ones unbutton’d, glowing hot,
Playing our games, and on the very spot;
As happy as we once to kneel and draw
The chalky ring and knuckle down at taw. 
This fond detachment to the well known place,
When first we started into life’s long race,
Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,
We feel it e’en in age and at our latest day. 
          
                                     Cowper.

Tu quoque ne metuas, quamvis schola verbere multo
Increpet et truculenta senex geret ora magister;
Degeneres animos timor arguit; at tibi consta
Intrepidus, nec te clamor plagaeque sonantes,
Nec matutinis agitet formido sub horis,
Quod sceptrum vibrat ferulae, quod multa supellex
Virgea, quod molis scuticam praetexit aluta,
Quod fervent trepido subsellia vestra tumultu,
Pompa loci, et vani fugiatur scena timoris. 
          
                                Ausonius.

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Schools. {15}

Schools of every Kind to be found in the Borough—­The School for Infants—­The School Preparatory:  the Sagacity of the Mistress in foreseeing Character—­Day Schools of the lower Kind—­A Master with Talents adapted to such Pupils:  one of superior Qualifications—­ Boarding Schools; that for young Ladies; one going first to the Governess, one finally returning Home—­School for Youth:  Master and Teacher; various Dispositions and Capacities—­The Miser-Boy—­The Bully-Boy—­Sons of Farmers:  how amused—­What Study will effect, examined—­A College Life:  one sent from his College to a Benefice; one retained there in Dignity—­The Advantage in either Case not considerable—­Where, then, the Good of a Literary Life?—­Answered—­ Conclusion.

To every class we have a School assign’d,
Rules for all ranks and food for every mind: 
Yet one there is, that small regard to rule
Or study pays, and still is deem’d a School: 
That, where a deaf, poor, patient widow sits,
And awes some thirty infants as she knits;
Infants of humble, busy wives, who pay
Some trifling price for freedom through the day: 
At this good matron’s hut the children meet,
Who thus becomes the mother of the street: 
Her room is small they cannot widely stray, —
Her threshold high they cannot run away: 
Though deaf, she sees the rebel-heroes shout, —
Though lame, her white rod nimbly walks about;
With band of yarn she keeps offenders in,