The Old School House.
But while we yet linger on this sacred spot, will enter into the
school house where our young footsteps first attempted to climb the
hill of Science. The outward appearance is the same. A pretty one
story and a half building, painted yellow with white trimmings, and a
chocolate colored door, which is reached by two stone steps.
You are then admitted into a large hall, accommodated with shelves for
the convenience of the scholars, and as we pass through this and enter
the school-room, we feel almost a child again. But we see at a glance
that our dear old teacher does not occupy the desk, and it is a
stranger's voice that strikes upon the ear. As we glance at the
well-filled seats, we readily perceive there is not one of all the
group, no, not one, that occupied those seats when we were scholars
there. But we will sit calmly down upon the teacher's desk and recall
the dim shadowy forms of the past, the by-gone past. The breeze that
passes through the open window and fans the brow, might be mistaken
for the same playful zephyr that sported with our own silken locks in
childhood, as we stood before this same open window. The monotonous
hum of the school-room seems the same and the drowsy buzz of the
summer fly as it floats on azure wings brings to the ear a well
remembered sound, and we press our hand tightly upon our eyes and try
to think we are living over again years that are passed. It will not
do, there is a change--we must acknowledge that change. The teacher
who so long presided in this place, was a stern man, of commanding
figure, with a high, broad forehead and piercing black eyes, coal
black hair and beard, with rather a handsome countenance, although
nothing could ever provoke a smile upon it in school hours, and he
governed his pupils more by fear than love. But the lesson must be
perfectly committed and correctly recited, or the offending culprit
must fall under his severe displeasure, and this was a situation that
few in the school were willing to be placed in. I have heard of this
man's death, but in what manner or where I know not; but many are
the lessons I have heard fall from his lips which still live in my
heart--have had their impress upon the life, and will continue to
exist through the boundless ages of eternity. And now that the
thoughtlessness of youth has passed away, here, upon this spot, would
I offer a grateful tribute to his memory. Many others, too, occupied
this place, of whose destiny I am entirely ignorant, but yet remember
them with much affection.
One female teacher in particular, under whose instruction I sat six
summers in succession. Then she was young and healthful, and happy in
the bosom of her family; but now all have passed away save this one
surviving branch. She alone remains of her family, in feeble health,
and with that depression of spirits incident upon her situation.
On the low seat next to the desk, used to sit rather a fragile child,
with bright red hair and deep blue eyes that had a depth of meaning in
their earnest gaze. Her seat was vacant, and we heard, that Elizabeth
Ann was sick with typhus fever. We visited her in her chamber. She lay
tossing from side to side, upon her bed, even gnawing her fingers for
very pain. I gazed upon her with pity, and they told me she must die.
I had seen the aged pass away, but never the young. And musing long
and sadly upon this event, I sought my home, and spent a restless
night, repeating often the childish hymn, commencing,
"I in the burying place may see
Graves shorter there than I."
But the long night passed away with its sad presages, and the rising
sun peeped between the thick clustering leaves and flowers of the
morning glories that shaded the window, and diffused light and
radiance upon the joyous landscape. The birds awoke to new melody, and
in the gladness that surrounded me I almost forgot the impressions of
the previous evening. I arose, though slightly refreshed, repeating as
I did so,
"So like the sun may I fulfil
The duties of the day."
Almost the first intelligence that greeted my ear was the death of
Elizabeth Ann Prince. While the shadows of that night still lingered,
her pure spirit had passed away, and for the first time I realized
more fully than I had ever done before, that youth is no protection
from death. I saw her in her small coffin, and felt the marble
coldness of her pale brow, and as I saw the coffin descend into the
narrow grave, I turned sadly away with a grief-stricken, and perchance
a better heart. But for many months I could tell the exact number of
nights she had lain buried in the silent grave.
The next morning as I took my seat with a favorite companion, in
the one behind that formerly occupied by her, I almost started as I
fancied that her face was upturned to mine, and those blue orbs rested
upon me.
The dear friend that sat with me, has too, passed away, "and the
places that knew her once upon earth, now know her no more forever."
Rosa was an orphan, having lost both parents; she was the youngest
of four sisters, had an amiable disposition, and was an affectionate
friend. She was married to a wealthy man, and became the mother of
several children; but the destroyer came and bore her from her dear
family to the silent church-yard, and placed her beneath a grassy
mound beside her father and her mother. Sweet is thy memory, friend of
my early days, and very pleasant were the hours we spent together: but
they have passed away with the things that were, and like the rose
leaves that falling fill the air with their perfume, so the fragrance
of those hours still lives.
Next to Rosa Whittier sat Julia Balcolm, with saddened expression of
countenance and large deep blue eyes that gazed upon you with a deeper
expression of melancholly in their glances than is usual to the merry
age of childhood, and elicited your sympathy ere you knew her history.
Julia was a cripple. She was drawn to school by an older sister with
rosy cheeks, bright flashing black eyes, and a sprightly animated
countenance, and carried into the school-room in the arms of her
teacher, or some of the older scholars. And so she came, year after
year, mingling with the merry group. But where is she now? yon little
mound of heaped up earth covers her remains, and a narrow marble slab
tells the place of her repose, and we can but hope she who was denied
the privilege of walking on earth may now soar on angel's wings.
As we contemplate the deprivations of one situated as she was, we can
but realize the blessing of having "the common use of our own limbs."
This dear child was obliged to crawl from place to place after her
more favored companions, dragging her useless perished limbs behind
her. But he who careth for us knew what was best for her, and we
cannot doubt his infinite wisdom.
It were vain to endeavor to trace the destinies of all who used to sit
with us, in this favorite, place. Many have gone down to death--many
still live on the same premises where they first inhaled the breath
of life, and some have gone forth into the world to fulfil a darker
destiny on the broad ocean of human life, that is ever tossing its
tumultuous waves before the tempestuous winds of fortune, and have
been ship-wrecked upon the quick-sands of vice and dissipation. The
shady side of the picture has been presented; but those were bright
and joyous days, and our school-yard resounded with the merry laugh
and frolicsome mirth of childhood; yet they leave not that abiding
impression upon the mind that characterizes incidents of a more
sombre hue. But we will leave the dear old school house with all its
treasured memories that link it with the past, and pursue our way in
some other direction. It is hard to stop where so many images crowd
upon the mind, and come stealing upon us in the shape of old familiar
friends with whom we have walked side by side, day after day; but dear
familiar scenes, adieu.