“I feel like one who treads alone
Some banquet hall deserted.”
Moore.
The iron bolted-door swings and creaks upon its hinges, and we are
standing within the dilapidated walls of “the old academy.” Fifteen
years have elapsed since we last stood here, a wild and happy
school-boy. Then, this building was the chief attraction of a little
village, which was made up of a pretty church, one old store and
post-office, and a cluster of some twenty rural dwellings, situated on a
broad street, canopied with venerable elms. In coming up here this
afternoon, we noticed that the various woodlands on the surrounding
hills were much narrowed by the farmer’s axe, and we thought of the
armies of men which time is continually leveling with the earth. Near a
large pool in which we were wont to bathe many years ago, now stands a
railroad depot, where locomotive engines do congregate, to enjoy a brief
rest from their labors. Upon the walls of the old academy there seemed
to be brooding the spirit of desolation, and we approached it with a
heavy heart.
What a throng of recollections is rushing upon us as our footsteps now
echo in the silent and abandoned place! The past appears before us like
an open and familiar volume.
Here we are in the vestibule, where we scholars used to hang our caps
and coats, and which we remember as the scene of many a scrape and
scuffle between hot-headed and unfledged lawyers, doctors and divines!
Oh, how real does everything appear! We could almost believe that not
even a week had elapsed since our own loud laugh resounded here, when
our heart knew not the burden of a care. There is the same old rent in
the ceiling, which was made by a stroke of lightning, during a severe
storm, when the whole school were pale and breathless with mortal fear;
and yonder is the identical peg which Billy Langdon, “the bully,” tried
to usurp from us, and whom it was our good luck to punish with a
flogging, thereby securing to ourself a reputation for possessing
genuine courage. Since then, we have been a dweller in the wilderness
and pent-up city, and have ever found courage to be a valuable quality
in our intercourse with men. But a man may have a stout heart and yet be
poor, unloved and unknown.
With timid footsteps we move along, peering into each nook and corner
with curious eye. The threshold of another door is passed and we are in
the large general school-room, with its rows of desks for the boys, and
the platform with the large old-fashioned chair in the centre for the
master. There, upon the floor, lies a tattered copy of Virgil, another
of Euclid, a few leaves out of the National Preceptor, and a chapter or
two of Murray’s Grammar. Having fulfilled their office, they have been
thrown aside as of no farther avail, even as some of the _noble-hearted_
in the world are wont to treat their most faithful friends. Here, at our
side, resting upon its shattered frame, stands the identical globe over
which we once pondered with a wondering heart. It is covered with dust,
through which we can just discover that the uppermost country is
England. True, England is indeed without a rival in her glory, but is
there not a stain of something resting upon her domain? Look at the
condition of her people, who are sorely oppressed by the mean ambition
of her aristocracy.—But to return. How neglected and lonely is this
place! The dust upon the floor is so thick that our footsteps are as
distinctly visible as when we walk upon the snow. A sunbeam stealing
through a western window points us to the wall where hangs the old
forsaken clock. Its song of “Passing away” is ended, and has been for
many a year; but the language of its familiar countenance seems to be,
“They are all gone, the pleasant, old familiar faces!” Yes, they are
gone—but where? We know not the destiny of a single one. The hour-hand
is resting upon the figure four, the hour of all others which we boys
loved. Stop, did we not see the waving hand of our master, and hear the
bustle of dismission? Yes, we have caught our cap—we are the first one
out. Now listen to the loud, clear, hearty shout of half a hundred
boys.—’Tis only the vision of a heated brain, and we are sitting once
again at the same desk and in the same seat which were ours fifteen
years ago. Here is the same fantastic ink-blot which we made when we
indited our first and only poem to the eyebrows of a charming little
girl, with whom we fancied ourself in love; and there is the same square
cavity in the desk, which we cut with our knife, and where we used to
imprison the innocent flies, which remembered fact is a memorial of our
rare genius. But look! are we not a trespasser? for here cometh an
ancient-looking spider with vengeance in his very gait. In moving out of
his way, we notice that his gossamer hammock is in prime order. How like
a nabob liveth that old spider! Around his home, we see the carcasses of
a hundred insects that have afforded him food; he is monarch of all he
surveys; and if he desires to become a traveler, he has but to leap upon
the slender threads leading to the remotest corners of the room, which
are to him safer and better than a railroad. This seat, which hath been
inherited from us by a poor solitary spider, we now look upon perhaps
for the last time. But we cannot take our final leave without dwelling
upon one incident with which it is associated. That is the spot where we
plead our cause, when once arraigned by the masters of the academy for
having been the ringleader of a conspiracy. It was the third day of
July, and on dismissing the school, our master had informed us that we
must celebrate the memorable Fourth by _attending school_. Surprise, and
a shadow of disappointment fell upon every countenance, and we sought
our respective rooms murmuring. That evening our marbles and balls were
idle. At my suggestion, the wink was tipt to a chosen band of patriots.
We met, and after discussing the outrageous conduct of our principal,
unanimously resolved that we would spend the following day at the
neighboring village of Brooklyn, where we knew there was to be a
celebration. We went, had a glorious walk, saw revolutionary soldiers,
enjoyed a sumptuous dinner, heard a smart oration, fired unnumbered
cannon, saw lots of pretty girls, and were at home again a little after
sunset. On the following morning, the patriots were changed into a band
of culprits, standing before our compeers to be tried, condemned and
punished. Having been proved to be the leader, we are the chief speaker,
and, in our boyish estimation, “defender of the constitution.” Then it
was, and in the seat already mentioned, that we delivered our maiden
speech. It was a powerful appeal, no doubt, but was of no avail. We were
condemned, and our punishment was, to be expelled. The next day,
however, the whole of us were readmitted as regular members, and thus
ended the affair of our impeachment.
Walking in this room and thinking upon this incident has brought before
us a troop of shadows, that have once had a material existence. Our
principal was one H——, who had thin lips, a sharp nose, gray eyes, and a
cold heart. He was a good schoolmaster, but nothing more. He knew not
what it was to be loved, for he could not sympathize with a single one
of his pupils. He seldom smiled, and when he did it seemed to be against
his nature. He was a most cruel man, as a scar upon my poor back might
testify even now. What has become of him we know not, but if he be among
the living, we are sure he is a solitary being and a misanthrope. His
assistant, named W——, we distinctly remember as the ugliest-looking man
we ever saw; but he was a good-hearted soul, and merited the friendly
feelings which were lavished upon him so abundantly. When we last heard
of him he was a much respected and well-established clergyman. And so it
is that time works its changes.
Dearly do we love the memory of our school-fellows! Charley Snow was a
rattle-headed southerner, who hated books, loved a frolic, and spent his
money, of which he had an abundance, like water. The poet of our academy
was Edward Hunt, the son of a poor woman and a widow, who lived upon a
neighboring farm. He was a beautiful boy, fond of being alone, and when
with his playmates shy as a captured deer. All the manual labor of his
home he performed himself, and yet he had but few superiors as a
student. More than half of his time was spent with his mother, and for
that reason my heart ever yearned towards the noble boy. Our
metaphysical philosopher was one Henry Clare, who had been made
decidedly mad by too much learning. A splendid landscape or a brilliant
sunset he could not understand, but over a piece of gray stone, a homely
little insect or a leaf of sorrel, he would be in perfect raptures. But
the youth who exerted the most salutary influence upon us was William
Vane, whom his Maker had formed a cripple, but gifted with a superb
intellect and the disposition of an angel. How kindly did he endeavor to
cheer up those boys who came out of school with blistered hands, or were
suffering with other troubles! Seldom did we ever hear an oath in the
presence of William Vane, for few could endure his manly frown and
reprimand. Many a soul will enjoy, or is enjoying a happy immortality on
account of that unfortunate—no, that thrice-blessed youth, for from very
childhood he was a Christian. One queer fellow that we had with us was
Joe Leroy. He thought more of performing an odd caper than of anything
else; but his particular passion was for athletic feats, such as
climbing, running, and jumping. Once, with the aid of a rope, we saw him
ascend one side of the academy building, pass over the roof, and descend
upon the opposite side. He could outrun the whole of us, and in the
department of jumping he was equal to a kangaroo. Jack Harmer was
another lad to whom books were a terror. He longed to be a sailor, and
devoted all his leisure time to sailing a little brig on a sheet of
water in a meadow, two hundred feet wide. And so we could go on for
hours, mentioning the names of those who were the playmates of our later
boyhood. Where they are, and what their destiny, we cannot tell. That
our own name has long since been forgotten by them we do not doubt. Is
it not foolish, then, to cherish their memories in our heart as we do?
No, for they are linked with a portion of the past that we would have
immortal—the spring of our existence. The power of recalling the sunny
hours of life, we would not part with for the world; next to our dreams
of heaven, do we value the dreams of our early days. But like a weaver’s
shuttle is our life, and it were unwise for us to forget the future in
thinking of the past. If we are permitted to live, how soon will our
body be like this crumbling edifice, in whose deserted chambers we are
now a pilgrim. Years ago we came here to school our mind; now, we are a
teacher ourself, and of ourself too, but a very poor one, for we cannot
rule the unruly passions of our heart. Our only hope is in the fountain
filled with blood.
But if we remember rightly, there is a room in this old building that we
have not yet visited. Yes, here is the narrow stairway that led to the
Exhibition Hall in the second story. Cautiously we enter it; but here
also has the spirit of desolation a home. On these mutilated seats once
thronged thousands of spectators; and yonder is the platform where the
youthful orators were wont to “speak in public on the stage.” The only
breathing creature that meets our eye is a little mouse running to his
hole, almost frightened to death by our appearance. When last we stood
in this place, thousands of human hearts beat happily, for parents
listened to the eloquence of their children, and those children gloried
in the realization of their long-cherished hopes. How vivid are our
recollections of that exhibition day! It concluded an exile of three
years from our far distant home in the wilds of Michigan. The period of
return our heart panted after continually, for we were away from the
home of boyhood, from a mother, a father, and sisters; and though we
often visited, and were under the care of kindred, we felt ourself to be
alone and companionless. And with that day, too, are associated events
that flattered our youthful ambition; and though we know them to be idle
as a tale that is told, we cannot but cherish the memory of that day
even for them. But with our last day at school are associated some
clouds and shadows, the most prominent of which were our leave-takings
with our schoolfellows. We parted for our widely separated homes, and
where we all are, or what is our present condition are things known only
to the Father of the world.—It is well—it is well. “Our sorrow voices
itself to the stranger many; and all that in other days were gladdened
by our song—if still living—stray scattered through the world.” It is
well.
But the hours of day are almost numbered, and it is time for us to be
gone; and besides the glow upon yonder window tells us that “the sun
hath made a glorious set,” and that we should improve the hour to the
gratification of our passion for the poetry of the sky. A few moments
more, and we are on the green in front of the Old Academy. Forgetful of
the unnumbered feelings it has inspired and the pictures it has
recalled, we are wending our way to the home of a kind friend, wholly
absorbed with the gorgeous appearance of the western sky and the solemn
twilight by which we are surrounded. The hour is one that we have ever
dearly loved, for it is the sabbath of the day, when a solemn stillness
is around, and an unutterable joy is wont to take possession of the
soul.