to us. We were left to our own
self-instruction, which, on account of our enthusiasm, emulation and
rivalries, was the very best of school-masters. We studied parliamentary
law from a little volume called Cushing's manual; for who could tell
when he might be called upon to be an officer of the club, or at what
point he could with safety move the previous question? Very amusing were
some of the attempts of the students to speak extemporaneously; the
stammering, the hesitation, the confusion and final flunk; the
confidence with which some one would spring to his feet, as if full to
the muzzle, and the entire inconsequence and futility of his words,
ending in apparent abject paralysis of speech. We dealt liberally in
jeers at any exhibition of bathos or fustian; in laughter and applause
at any touch of eloquence or wit. What better training was there than
this? I have always had a fond lingering desire to be an orator, but
when before an audience found myself as cold as a clod. Toward essay
writing and reading our attitude was somewhat different. Yet here we
looked for and were only satisfied with eloquence--good, resounding
periods with plentiful classical allusion and quotations of poetry. We
always expected at least one apostrophe to "Science Hill," which was the
consecrated name of the eminence on which the academy building stood.
Progress, liberty, the Fathers of the Republic and other patriotic
themes were those on which we sharpened our pens. For purely literary
subjects there was no interest whatever; and, because of this
indifference, occurred what was, to me, one of the most mortifying
episodes of my youth. I had come into the possession of Milton's poetry,
and though untouched by his Paradise Lost, his Lycidas was a revelation
to me of the music and rhythm and allusions possible to poetry. I
committed it to memory and startled my class one day by reciting it as a
part of the regular exercises. It was customary for some criticism to
follow such exercises; but, to my distress, my beautiful poem, that had
filled me with delight, was received in absolute silence. It had fallen
like a bolt from heaven on those young wights. Covered with confusion, I
went to my seat feeling that I had committed the unpardonable sin of
attempting to do something beyond my capacity. No comment on my effort
was made at the time; I was not even rallied about it outside the class
room; and only after fifty years had passed did I learn the r