If his scholars hate the muses, being presented unto them in the shape of fiends and furies. Junius* complains "de insolenti carnificina" of his schoolmaster, by whom conscindebatur flagris septies aut octies in dies singulos.” Yea, hear the lamentable verses of poor Tusser in his own life:

" From Paul's I went, to Eton sent,
To learn straightways the Latin phrase,
Where fifty-three stripes given to me

At ouce I had.
For fault but small, or none at all,
It came to pass thus beat I was ;
See, Udal,t see the mercy of thee

To me poor lad." Such an Orbiliust mars more scholars than he makes: their tyranny hath caused many tongues to stammer, which spake plain by nature, and whose stuttering at first was nothing else but fears quavering on their speech at their master's presence; and whose mauling them about their heads hath dulled those who in quickness exceeded their master.

He makes his school free to him, who sues to him "in forma pauperis.” And surely learning is the greatest alms that can be given. But he is a beast, who, . because the poor scholar can not pay him his wages, pays the scholar in his whipping. Rather are diligent lads to be encouraged with all excitements to learning. This minds me of what I have heard concerning Mr. Bust, that worthy late schoolmaster of Eton, who would never suffer any wandering begging scholar (such as justly the statute hath ranked in the forefront of rogues) to come into his school, but would thrust him out with earnestness, (however privately charitable unto him,) lest his schoolboys should be disheartened from their books, by seeing some scholars, after their studying in the University, preferred to beggary.

He spoils not a good school to make thereof a bad college, therein to teach his scholars logic. For besides that logic may have an action of trespass against grammar for encroaching on her liberties, syllogisms are solecisms taught in the school, and oftentimes they are forced afterward in the University to unlearn the fumbling skill they had before.

Out of his school he is no whit pedantical in carriage or discourse; contenting himself to be rich in Latin, though he doth not jingle with it in every company wherein he comes.

To conclude, let this amongst other motives make schoolmasters careful in their place, that the eminencies of their scholars have commended the memories of their schoolmasters to posterity, who otherwise in obscurity had altogether been forgotten. Who had ever heard of R. Bond, in Lancashire, but for the breeding of learned Ascham, his scholar? or of Hartgrave, in Brundly school,

• FRANCIS JUNIUS. who died in 1602, professor of divinity at Leyden, whose autobiography contains brief potices of his school and schoolmasters-is probably referred to. He was the author of Commentaries, Hebrew Lexicon, Translations of the Scriptures, etc.

† NICHOLAS UDAL, Head Master of Eton College, from 1530 to 1555, and of Westminster from 1555 10 1564. through the Schoolmaster of Roger Ascham, and Thomas Tusser's Account of his own life, seems destined to an unenviable immortality for his fogging propensities. He was born in Hampshire in 1506, educated at Oxford, and died in 1564. He was the author of a " Moral play" entitled Ralph Royster Dogster.

1 ORBILIUS PUPILLUS, was a native of Beneventum, where having received a good education, served as a soldier in Macedonia, taught for some time in his native place, until in the consulship of Cicero, B.C. 63, he removed to Rome and opened a school, which was attended by Horace, who seems to have carried away with him a stinging remembrance of his flogging propensities, and for which he has made him infamous to all time. In his Epistle to Augus. tus, (Ep. 11.'1, 70, he calls him

plagosum-fond of Alogging. Suetonius in his Liber de Illustribus Grammaticis describes Orbilius in these words : Fuit autem natura acerbæ non modo in anti sophistus, quos omni sermone lacrraril, sed etiam in discipulus, ut Horatius significat, plagosum eum appellans, et Domitius Marsus scribens :

Si

quos Orbilius ferula scuticaque cecidet. The ferula, the general instrument of punishment in school. was the stalk of a reed or cane of that name in which Prometheus conveyed the spark of fire from heaven. Many teachers act as though they thought some of the divine fire had impregnated the stalk for future use. Scutica was a lash, and a more flexible and severe instrument of punishment, like the rau hide, maile of uotanned leather twisted.

Orbilius lived to be nearly one huudred years old. and must have had a more cheerful temper than Horace gave him credit for. His native city erected a statue to his memory. He is said to have written a book on school-keeping.

in the same county, but because he was the first did teach worthy Doctor Whitaker ? nor do I honor the memory of Mulcaster* for anything so much, as for his scholar, that gulf of learning, Bishop Andrews. This made the Athenians, the day before the great feast of Theseus, their founder, to sacrifice a ram to the memory of Conidas, his schoolmaster that first instructed him.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 1728-1774. We shall have occasion to notice some of the peculiarities in Goldsmith's own education, and of bis experience as a teacher in the republication in a future number of his admirable Essay on Education, in which he claims to have anticipated some of the suggestions of Rousseau in his Emilius. The portraitures in the Deserted Village, whether drawn from Irish or English life, are among the classic characters of our language.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way
With blossom furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion skill’dto rule,
The village master taught his little school
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew.
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face ;
Full well they laugh’d, with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circling round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.
Yet he was kind; or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declared how much he knew :
Twas certain he could write and cipher too ;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage ;
And e'en the story ran that he could guage.
In arguing loo the parson own'd his skill,
For e'en tho' vanquished, he could argue still ;
While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around;
And still they gaz'd; and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew
But past is all his fame; the very spot
Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot.

JAMES DELILLE, 1738–1813. JAMES DELILLE, was born in Auvignon, in 1733, educated in Paris, and made 'Professor at Amiens, in 1760, and afterward in Paris,-

:

translated Virgil's Georgics into French verse, and afterward composed an original work of the same character, entitled Jardins. Driven from France by the revolutionary outbreak, he afterward resided in Switzerland and Germany. In 1792, he published the Country Gentlemen, (Homme des Champs) a poem in five cautos, in which he depicts country life in various characters and aspects--and among others, that of the school and the schoolmaster. We copy the last in an English translation by John Maunde. Some of the finest strokes are borrowed from Goldsmith's picture--unless both are copied from the same original. He died in 1813.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.
Descend, my muse, nor yet debate thy strain,
And paint the pedant of the village train.
Nor that suffice, but let thy prudent lay
Attach due honor to his useful sway.
He comes at length in consequential state,
And self-importance marks his solemn gait.
Read, write, and count, 'tis certain he can do ;
Instruct at school, and sing at chapel too;
Foresee the changing moon and tempest dread,
And e'en in Latin once some progress made:
In learned disputes still firm and valiant found,
Though vanquished, still he scorns to quit the ground;
Whilst, wisely used to gather time and strength,
His crabbed words prolong their laggard length.
The rustic gaze around, and scarce suppose
That one poor brain could carry all he knows.
But in his school, to each neglect severe,
So much to him is learning's progress dear,
Comes he? Upon his smooth, or ruffled brow,
His infant tribe their destiny may know.
He nods, they part; again, and they assemble:
Smiles, if he laughs; and if he frowns, they tremble.
He soothes, or menaces, as best befits,
And now chastises, or he now acquits.
E'en when away, his wary subjects fear,
Lest the unseen bird should whisper in his ear
Who laughs, or talks, or slumbers o'er his book,
Or from what hand the ball his visage struck.

Nor distant far the birch is seen to rise
The birch, that heeds not their imploring cries.

chance the breeze its boughs should lightly shake
With pale affright the puny urchins quake.
Thus, gentle Chanonat, beside thy bed,
I've touched that tree, my childhood's friend and dread;
That willow-tree, whose tributary spray
Amid my stern pedant with his sceptered sway.
Such is the master of the village-school:
Be it thy care to dignisy his rule.
The wise man learns each rank to appreciate;
But fools alone despise the humbler state.

In spite of pride, in office, great or low,
Be modest one, and one importance know,
Be by himself his post an honor deemed ;
He must esteem himself to be esteemed.

ROBERT LLOYD, 1733—1764. ROBERT LLOYD was born in London in 1733. His father was under-master at Westminster School, and after completing his education at Cambridge, became usher under his father, without bringing to the work that moral fitness and love for teaching, without which it becomes intolerable drudgery. He soon left the occupation in disgust, and tried to earn a subsistence by his pen. He died poor in 1764.

A SCHOOL USHER.

Were I at once empowered to show
My utmost vengeance on my foe,
To punish with extremnest vigor,
I should inflict no penance bigger,
Than, using him as learnings' tool,
To make him usher in a school.
For, not to dwell upon the toil
Of working on a barren soil,
And laboring with incessant pains
To cultivate a blockhead's brains,
The duties there but ill-befit,
The love of letters arts or wit.
For
one,

it hurts me to the soul,
To brook confinement or control;
Still to be pinioned down to teach
The syntax and the parts of speech;
Or perhaps what is drudgery worse,
The links and points, and rules of verse :
To deal out authors by retail,
Like penny pols of Oxford ale;
Oh'tis a service irksome more,
Then tugging at a slavish oar!
Yet such his task a dismal truth,
Who watches o'er the bent of youth,
And while a paltry stipend earning,
He sows the richest seeds of learning,
And tills their minds with proper care,
And sees them then due produce bear;
No joys, alas ! his toil beguiles,
His own is fallow all the while.
“ Yet still he's on the road, you say,
of learning.” Why, perhaps he may;
But turns like horses in a mill,
Nor getting on nor standing still;
For little way his learning reaches,
Who reads no more than what he teachen.

THE SCHOOL AND THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE, 1714-1763. WILLIAM SHENSTONE was born at Leasowes, in the parish of HalesOwen, Shropshire, in 1714. He was taught to read at a "dame school,” the house, and teacher of which, have been immortalized in his poem of the Schoolmistress-spent four years at Pembroke College, Oxford, and then impoverished himself in embellishing a small paternal estate, which he made the envy of men of wealth, and the admiration of men of taste. His poems, essays, and lectures, were collected and published after his death, which occurred in 1703. His “Schoolmistress,” a descriptive sketch in imitation of Spenser, ranks in poetry, with the paintings of Teniers and Wilkie, for its force and truthfulness to nature, as well as its quiet humor.

THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. (1.)
Ah, me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,
To think how modest worth neglected lies;
While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise;
Deeds of ill-sort and mischievous emprize;
Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try
To sound the praise of merit ere it dies ;

Such as I oft have chanced to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.

In every village mark'd with little spire,
Embowered in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name,
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Awed by the power of this relentless dame,

And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchin tree, (2.)
Which learning near her little dome did stowe,
Whilom a twig of small regard to see,
Though now so wide its waving branches flow,
And work the simple vassals mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat low

And as they looked, they found their horror grew,
And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view.