'Fellows,' issues from the stuffed mouth of another, 'I shan't be taken up to-morrow, I guess; they say the lesson is as hard as the d-l.'

Some decide upon a 'miss,' some upon 'tick;' the lesson is soon forgotten, and the potatoes rapidly disappear.

Some one raps! All are pale as death. Suspensions, publics, privates, stare them in the face.

The

'Clear the table! there, in that closet! -hush!' Some creep under the bed, and the room is still as a mouse, in a moment. rap grows louder. Who's there?' 'It's me.' 'Who's me?' I've got the porter.'

The door is opened, the emissary for porter appears, loaded with two bottles of beer. The company emerge from their hiding places, joking each other for being afraid. By taking turns, they finish the liquor, all drinking out of one glass. Now the cigars are introduced, and here comes the tug of war. All would be smokers, but few knew

how. It is got through with, with difficuity their supper; some retching and coughing. attempt of a freshman, who would imitate the in college, is called a blow-out.'

to some by the loss of And thus ends the first higher classes, in what,

CHAPTER VI.

Il n'y a que d'une sorte d'amour, mais il y'en a mille differentes copies.

LA ROCHEFAUCAULT

THE first term being ended, I returned home to a long vacation of seven weeks. My books were thrown aside, and I was glad to avoid the sight of them. It was the gayest part of the year in the city. I was received by all my father's acquaintance as a gentleman—a man—though a mere boy, then. I was invited to parties with my mother and sister, and treated with all the respect shown to any one. I drank wine with gentlemen, after dinner; frequented the theatre; had the command of my father's horses; made calls, and wore a starched shirt collar.

I was, however, in a measure charmed away from the enticements of a city life to a raw youth, by a fondness for music and an affection for my cousin. My sister kept me out of harm's way, frequently, by promising, if I would remain at home, to play for me as long as I wished her to; and my dear cousin sat by, and looked so much like an angel, that I was enticed by music and beauty away from folly and vice.

This cousin was really a beautiful girl; and though very much my senior, I felt for her the strongest attachment or reverence. She was twenty, and I a little more than fourteen. She was tall and well formed. She had a large dark eye, full of tenderness and sweetit was a majestic eye, too. She must have seen that I admired her. I was not conscious then that I evinced any extraordinary preference, but as memory carries me back, I can look upon myself as a fervent lover. My love was not expressed in words and gestures, but in looks and blushes. If I happened to touch her hand, it

ness

thrilled through me; if I found any thing belonging to her, I took deep delight in looking at it, and kissing it. I was unconscious of time, in her presence. I do not believe, though I was familiar at that time with all the vices of young men, by hearsay, that I ever coupled a sensual thought with my admiration for my cousin. She seemed the purest, the most perfect being, in the world, partaking more of a heavenly than an earthly nature.

It is difficult, in all cases, for a young man to reconcile the ideas he entertains of his mistress with the grossness of our natural passions so we young men, (and it is very lucky, for the good of society and the institutions of domestic life,) help ourselves along in the delusion, that what we love, is not so much of earth as heaven. We never look at the subject in its true light, but follow the blind meteors of the fancy. If men had been metaphysical in love, knighterrantry never would have existed: we should have lost on this account some of the finest creations of the poet; and, indeed, if every thing were to be viewed in its true colors, we should become so matter-of-fact, that machinery would be the only object of interest.

My cousin was Catholic. I attended her to church, and as we knelt before the imposing ceremonies of the service, I would sometimes steal a glance at her face. She was a devout believer in her religion, and gave up herself to its passionate idolatry. Good God! what emotions possessed me, as I caught the inspiration of her countenance! I could have knelt at her feet, and worshipped her. The organ, with its hollow thunders, swept over the soul, and lifted it to rapturous emotions. Oh, what would I give for the feelings of those hours back again! I know I was a fool, but I felt in the sincerity of childhood. I was bending in the adoration of the fanatic. I was only physically excited by love, and music, and grand ceremonies but it was bliss. Now, as I review these scenes, and look about upon the emptiness of this earth to me, I seem to have descended from heaven to hell to have lost and not gained by the comings of experience.

In the whole course of my life, visions or glimpses of what is good have constantly been presented to my mind, only to make me feel how far I am from what I should be. I have the double misery, too, of knowing all the causes which conspired to give uneasiness to my mind, and instability to my conduct. I had no strong anchors; I had no processes of thought in my mind; I was left open to impressions, but I could not seize upon them, to any good purpose. Every thing was vague and unsettled. Religion, love, music, fame, all passions, came and went, and left no trace. Each for the moment filled my attention to the utmost stretch; the fancy of the moment vanished, and left me vacant and empty.

It is not so with the young man who has been trained to think and understand his work. A science is to him a castle — a fortification to the citadel of the intellect. It retains good stores for a siege; it keeps back invaders; it systematizes what comes new into the head, and causes it to partake of the general order and arrangement the head is under. It gives a tone and character to our cogitations; for we then have something to compare our thoughts with—to refer them to, as a test.

But who can have a science without a taste for it? And who can have a taste for that which he does not understand, in abstruse studies? The mind of an undisciplined youth, who is open to good impressions from the circumstances of his birth, his situation, is like a rich, uncultivated field, surrounded by gardens; the winds of heaven scatter the seeds of good fruits over it, as society gives impressions; the showers place them in the earth, as our senses receive ideas. They come up in beauty to the light, but being neglected, and choked, and trodden down, by grosser feelings, as the brute tramples over the flower-bed, we lose what, with proper care, might have been made so useful and so beautiful.

Thompson told us a truth, years ago, in education, when he said, 'Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined.' We acknowledge it in theory, but we neglect it in practice. Every one, who thinks at all upon the subject of education, who understands the origin of character, and feels the effect of circumstances upon himself, knows that we too much overlook this truth in the education of the young. It is impossible to regulate entirely the impressions of children, for thousands occur whose influence is felt, though we receive them unconsciously; but strong and overpowering habits of thought should be inculcated, to do away the wrong notions we are necessarily exposed to imbibe.

I can point to thousands of my countrymen, born to the highest earthly hopes, whose lives have been wasted, whose health has been destroyed, who, while they lasted, spent bitter, bitter hours, and died young; whose bent was given in infancy; whose blood was stagnated by hothouse culture and indulgence, and who have seen and felt, as the lamp of life was going out, that with the highest capacity for doing good, they have done wrong by a kind of fatalism.

What mind can suffer more than such minds suffer? The prisoner chained to the wheel, is happy in comparison with that man who is chained to habits of vicious indulgence; who is constantly looking down the dizzy height over which he is about to be plunged, in hopeless ruin, for time and eternity.

During this vacation, an incident occurred which has been very influential upon my life. My father married a second wife. The cruelty and injustice of step-mothers is an old story to childhood. Mothers themselves, as if for self-protection, and with the jealousy of woman's heart, implant the hate of step-mothers in the hearts of their children; not often intentionally, and as a regular lesson, for people rarely expect to die and leave their children; but this sentiment falls in occasional remarks about their neigbors; in gossip parties, where ladies meet to canvass the claims of some unfortunate woman who has settled herself, and escaped an irrevocable old maidism, by accepting the station of wife to an old widower, with a large family of children. It is one of those involuntary feelings, which show themselves unawares to ourselves: at any rate, I record the fact, which is common enough, that children are prepared to dislike step-mothers. No matter how pure the substitute may be no matter how affectionate and kind—children cannot help viewing her as intruding upon their rights. If property is at stake, she lessens their share; if they loved their mothers much, if their memories be sacred in the heart,

children view the step-mother as the seducer of their father. To the chivalrous feeling of youth about love and constancy, it appears like a prostitution of the affections. While the child remembers the mother that watched o'er his childhood,' and finds her place filled by another, who demands her services, and assumes her name, he feels that there is an inconsistency, but he cannot explain it to himself; his heart is hardened in rebellion. The father, too, is all the time watching lest his wife meet with slight from his children, and every accidental neglect is construed by him into intentional insult. Difficulties occur in the family circle; mistrust and suspicion on one side, wounded affections on the other, and the stubborn sense of wrong; the father loses the regard of his offspring; his authority is defied, and his house abandoned.

Who can calculate the extent of such a state of domestic affairs upon the pliant character of youth? Possessed of a hasty and impetuous spirit, after the charm of novelty had worn off- after the wedding cake was eaten, and the congratulations over- after the temporary importance, any change, whether of death, birth, or marriage, gives its members - after all these excitements had subsided, by the law of moral gravitation, I began to hate my mother. Why, I cannot tell. I knew her in after years as the pattern of excellence, as the most patient, the most devoted of mothers to us all. She was by nature a mild woman, with highly cultivated tastes, and an unruffled sweetness of temper; but she was not suited to take charge of a young tiger or wild-cat. We were a large family, and my brothers were perfect torments: they were counterparts of myself; though heaven be praised, they have had better training. She succeeded in gaining their affections, for they were too young, at the time she entered our family, to have fixed prejudices. She moulded their characters after the pattern of her own, tamed the wild luxuriance of their minds, grafted upon them the love of knowledge and the love of virtue, gave them principles, and excited in them pure tastes. They are, I believe, fine fellows; but I have not seen them for twenty years.

I now look back with admiration at the patience and endurance with which she suffered all our slights and impudence. Never do I recollect of her having complained to our father. She suffered in secret. I have often seen her in tears. What misery she must have endured! Had she been a very fashionable, party-giving, shopping, journeying, hysterical, heartless woman, how different would have been the lot of my brothers! My father was a man of violent passions. A cunning woman might have gained the whole ground to herself, and turned us all out of doors; for my father was easily influenced by those he loved.

The difficulties were so frequent on my account, that since, soon after my father's marriage, I have never had a permanent home in my father's house. College vacations were planned to be spent abroad; and though for months, sometimes, I staid at home, yet never with the feeling that I was other than a visitor, whose presence could well be dispensed with.

Who does not know the sanctifying influence of the domestic hearth? Take from a young man his love for home - deprive him

of domestic habits and domestic affections- and the road is clear for base passions to enter. The young and enthusiastic mind must have something to cling to. Like the ivy, it will reach out its tendrils far to seek support, but finding nothing around which it may wind, it sinks to earth, and grapples with the base soil. I pity the orphan; I pity the stranger in a strange land; but, Oh! I pity most of all the desolate youth, who by his own vices, his own obstinacy, his own pride, has closed the hearts of his family to his welcome. Think of the misery that mind must endure, which, with the knowledge of what is good and refined, finds itself deprived of these legitimate privileges of its nature, and is driven by turns with despair and indignation to seek alleviation for the bitterness of its lot, in what looks to the inexperienced like pleasure. The youth without a home is like a mariner without a compass, in a boundless sea: he has no point from which or to which to direct his course, but is driven, here and there, upon a tumultuous ocean, unknowing and unknown. At a time when so much is said in the cause of education, and when so many plans are offered for its improvement, I am surprised that the influence of home is so much disregarded.

Parents! do not send your sons and daughters from home. Do not destroy the love for your fireside, and the objects about home. Let their eyes rest upon the same furniture, and the same prospects; let their slumbers be, where they slept when very young. There are valuable associations there. Keep them under the shadow of your wings. They were given to you; who can watch over them like you? Who can pray with them like you? Who can love them like you? Do not sever the bonds of home!

Home binds the

heart to virtue. Home is pure. Who would defile his father's house? Who dreams of vice in the presence of his younger bro-` thers and sisters? How healing to the sick and worn out spirit is the society of those young prattlers, whose blood, we feel in our hearts, is derived from the same source as our own?

Mistrust not the warning of one, who records deeds of folly and years of uselessness - the confessions of penitence-produced directly by exile from home - by having no home but a world full of vice; no friends, but the chance companions of pleasure. But do mistrust, I warn you to mistrust, the pretensions of schools, 'where every attention is paid to the morals of the pupils.' Their air is moral death. They deaden that fine sensibility which keeps us children of God, before we are under the influence of higher principles. Beside, children are always unhappy away from home, when they cease from their sports, and have time to think. How many blessed seasons of sorrow and contrition for faults are lost by this separation! A child will not open its heart to a stranger, or one he esteems as a governor. Were your child with you, how you might, in such seasons, rivet the principle of love and gratitude to you, and fix a strong impression upon some point of conduct! When every hour is training your child for some character, can you trust him in his ductile years to be absent from your hearths for months? When he shall return, you will not know him. He has become a different being from what he was when he left you. You do not now know the avenues to his heart, consequently you have lost your influence