enteenth century, to the hills of Eastern Connecticut. But, though strongly tempted, I can not wander far into the past to-day.

The home of my childhood was in one of the wildest of these wild districts, sloping down to the beautiful Shetucket. Every rock and stream, as well as every shrub and flower indigenous to the region, was as familiar to my youthful eyes as the lambs of my father's flock or the fruits of his orchards. For no sooner were the winter snows melted from the hills than a merry party of us went forth to search for the scarlet berries of the winter-green among the leaves, or for the sweet, shade-loving arbutus, with which the woods abounded. And every summer month brought some new incentive to our roving young feet. There were whole meadows of strawberries in June, thickets of whortleberries and blackberries in July, copses of hazel-nuts in August, and all the autumnal fruits in grand succession to crown the closing year.

hung to dry in the store-room of every farmhouse, while elderberry wine found a place in the cellar amidst the choicest domestic beverages. From some person-it must have been from the parish minister, I suppose, since no one else around knew any thing about Hebrew-we learned that that nation formerly made a musical instrument of the elder wood, called a "sambuca," whence its botanical name.

It was quite too learned a name, however, for the Bakertown boys. Their own plain elder or pop-gun wood suited their tastes better, and was a good deal more significant. "The oldest Jew living," they used to say, boastingly, "never begun to see any thing made of elder half equal to a Bakertown pop-gun!"

I don't know but the boys were right. I am very confident that pop-guns of such length and calibre were never seen elsewhere! And those were the weapons of the Bakertown Militia.

Every boy in school, and some of the girls too, The district school-house stood in a secluded if I recollect aright, had a gun suited to his size spot-a spot too barren for the culture of any and capacity. Some of them were prodigious, thing on earth save country lads and lasses. But and carried a double charge—and that, too, bethese flourished well here under birchen rule, fore the days of Colt's revolvers-not of fire and and have gone forth noble men and women to death, however, but only of tow wads. Such the remotest ends of the world, with a farewell large arms belonged exclusively to the officers. to Bakertown on their lips, and rich memories of many a Bakertown frolic in their hearts. Brothers and sisters of my native district, in whatever lands the fates may have wafted you, "Long may ye wave!" Should your eyes ever fall on this simple sketch, you will be ready to bear witness to the faithfulness of the representation.

Some of our readers may have heard of the wag's logical way of showing the true ruler of a Connecticut community to be the Yankee schoolmaster, "who ruled the boys, who ruled their mothers, who ruled the men, who ruled the roost!" One winter our time-honored ruler went to seek his fortune elsewhere, and we had a new teacher—a gentle, book-loving young man, reared in the neighborhood, consequently, prophet-like, without honor.

In

The old master had long been absolute. subordination never prevailed in his realm, for every symptom of disobedience was most effectually crushed in the bud. An adamantine barrier rose betwixt his dignity and the turbulent waves of youth, which, surge and foam as they might, could never o'erleap that boundary wall.

Our school-house, like the Gospel-house, was "founded on a rock." Behind it rose a lofty ledge of granite-a natural fortification of the little seat of learning below. Every winter bastions and block-houses of snow were ranged along the summit of this ledge, and youths with martial airs, armed with strange-looking weapons, were seen going hither and thither, as though the Bakertown district were threatened with some foreign invasion. Sometimes a gay "Rob Roy" banner would float for a few hours over the parapet. But when school was closed you might have seen the same modestly folded around the form of the prettiest girl in the dis-ening to her strange stories? Every body in the trict-sweet Carrie Waldo, whose death not long after dissolved the whole parish in tears.

But the Bakertown boys became a little obstreperous at last, and as neither Brunswickers, Pudding-hillers, nor Pinch-gutters came to meet them in "battle array," they began, as larger armies have sometimes done, to seek a home field for action. Their weapons, which have not yet been described, became instruments of offense altogether, and led to their own destruction.

But another order of things came in with the new régime. Was not the pale, stripling-looking youth the crazy old huckleberry woman's son, whom the children all laughed at while list

district knew "Granny Woodban." She was one of the Bakertown appurtenances, living in the berry fields all summer, and wandering off no one knew where in winter. Her son was a scholar and a genius, and had fitted himself for college behind the plow and in the chimney-corner of the farmer's kitchen, to whom he was "bound."

Such was the young man who had presumed to ask the district fathers for the privilege of Never in any locality has the elder-shrub guiding their sons and daughters a little way (Sambucus caprifolia) grown in greater luxuri- along the path of science, and for the consideraance than in Bakertown. Its hedge-rows, crown- tion of ten dollars a month to outfit him for coled with myriads of white, umbrella-looking clus-lege. For which act of presumption the marters, were the summer fragrance of the fields. tial youths of the district voted him a suitable So valuable were these blossoms accounted in butt for pop-gun aim. As though the poor felthe nursery hygiene that huge bouquets were low's homelessness and worse than orphan lot

To fiercer burn, as with sudden shame; While the vale below and the hills between Are drowned in a yellow mist of flame.

rogues were then drilled in the "Practice of | And the braided banners of cloud are seen arms;" and the way the pop-guns were handled for the next hour was amusing to the girlish spectators, though quite too tedious to detail. Enough that they "drew ramrods," "rammed eartridges," "made ready," "took aim," and "fired," until but one charge of tow was left. Then nothing remained for them but to "march" again at the master's command back into the school-house and fire a last gun.

It was done; and but one more order was given.

"Captain Tracy, I am satisfied with your company. Instruct your soldiers now to deposit arms;'" and he pointed significantly to the open Franklin stove.

There was no shrinking nor hesitation. With a proud gesture the gallant young leader advanced toward the stove and laid his own weapon first on the blazing fire, and' in five minutes every pop-gun was reduced to ashes.

"We are your boys now for the winter, Sir," said the Captain-a great noble-hearted lad in spite of his mischief, as he bowed respectfully to the now recognized sovereign of the schoolroom! "We only wanted to know our master, and have found him at last, entirely to our satisfaction."

And a farmer's boy, all aglare with light,
Looks over the cliff where the cedars grow,
And shades with his hand his dazzled sight,

And calls to his comrades down below.

Then the brazen woodlands echo and ring, And the earth and sky seem to shout with him;

A

pearly arch is the hawk's fleet wing;

And the sweltering landscape seems to swim.

On yonder hill-side a cottage shines-
The window westward flashes and glows-
It nestles amid its sheltering vines

Of glistening ivy like a rose.

And there in the porch two lovers woo-
Her slender figure his arms enfold;
While two doves in the dove-cote kiss and coo,
And ruffle their necks of green and gold.

A READING BY CHARLES
DICKENS.

N Thursday, April 13, of the present year,

The drill ended in a hearty laugh, with the kindest feelings on all sides. At noon the popgun company was disbanded by mutual consent Piccadilly. I was in London, and went to hear and dispersed forever. A "debating club" arose him. This was the second in a series of three out of its ruins; and before spring those same readings, and consisted of the "Christmas Carsoldier-students were gravely discussing ques-ol" and a chapter from "Martin Chuzzlewit," tions of national policy and moral justice, to the introducing Mrs. Sairey Gamp. infinite surprise and satisfaction of the districtfathers, and of the old parish minister also, who never, to his dying day, forgot the salute of the Bakertown Militia.

Mr. Dickens appeared about eight o'clock, dressed in a sumptuous manner. Thus the nosegay at his button-hole was a size larger and several hues brighter than that pleasant conceit of nature in fashionable circles is apt to be. And the area of frilled linen presented by his bosom was in extent great, and in whiteness out of the reach of suspicion. It was, moreover, studded with doubtless expensive and certainly showy buttons. In addition to which there was that in the tie of his white cravat which bespoke faculties of mind not developed, so far as I am aware, in any of the published works of its author. The handsome suit of black, with its crest of dazzling linen, was carried off well by his figure. Some men are born to dress well, some achieve fine dress, and an unfortunate majority have it thrust upon them. Most of us prefer to slouch, because conscience advises us that broadcloth and fine linen is not our clothes' line, I was not shocked by the elegance of Mr. Dickens's dress. I did not believe, as I regarded from my stall its many attractive features, that they were combined as an occasional oblation to the British aristocracy which was gathered about me and directly in front of him, in all the fullness of toilet, and all the glory of four shilling places (one stipulation of admission to which, duly "intimated" on the tickets, was the total' absence of bonnet from the female head), and with which I was bravely pretending to be re

lated, although inwardly conscious of offending | ter of the "Four Georges." It was not by imthe proprieties of that select circle at every but- personation, not by tone, gesture, and attitude, ton-hole and in every crease. Not shocked, because surely that man could not be accused of deferring to any poor and slavish taste; it could not be said that he needed the indorsement of good clothes to cover weak brains and empty heart. Indeed, it was gratifying to the senses to see the snug fit of his garments, for it told plainly that youth still holds hopeful and genial rule in the person of one of the world's best men, and that time has stolen from him none of the elasticity and strength which go into all of his sweet human philosophy, and give his writings their sympathetic touch. Besides, it was a handsome dress for any man. It was becoming and harmonious, and so was a piece of art as much as the finest-toned picture the writer ever drew. I am rapidly writing myself down a snob: but the English pay more attention to dress than we Americans; and in view of the comeliness and decent behavior which are imparted to all their public assemblies by attention to this matter, I am disposed to note the observance of a polite habit by Charles Dickens for the benefit of all men of letters in this country who profess an interest in æsthetics, and who hope to extend their cultivation by appearing before the public in mysterious and eccentric garb.

I would say, if closely questioned, that the crowning characteristic of Boz in print is youthfulness; just so of Boz in person. He is spry, stanch, and bright there; so he is here in St. James's Hall, Piccadilly. Years have gone since his boyish form was circumvented and besieged by my eager fellow-countrymen, and time, since then, has worn upon the edges of his life as the ocean has worn upon its shores; but I believe that, if his ample beard is growing gray, and if his active brain has at last cleared a small space on the top of his head, nevertheless the glance of his eye is full as rapid, and sure, and brilliant as then, his step just as light, and his fingers just as nimble for the story of the year. Long may it be before any one of the wonderful energies which have been exerted so long only for blessing and drawing together the people is paralyzed!

But I am not, like Mr. Thackeray, writing a series of "Roundabout Papers," and should be telling about the reading.

that Mr. Thackeray realized to his audience the characters of those illustrious monarchs; and you would say that as that little Christmas Story had already spoken for itself to hundreds of thousands of the old and young, and had left the impress of its characters upon all hearts capable of receiving an impression at all, it would bear the gentle treatment of the lecturer's desk without loss of effect. I can imagine the "Christmas Carol" read by its author with good emphasis and a sufficiently clear voice, but without any attempt to convey the distinctive traits, or character, of each personage beyond that of the words themselves; and can imagine an audience moved irresistibly by the simple reading. Add, then, to the natural effect of any intelligent reading of the matchless sentences of Boz, the great personal interest of a reading, even the simplest, by their live and hearty author; and superadd to this the powerful influence of one of the greatest actors alive. By this compound addition only can you form a conception of the actual charm of a reading by Charles Dickens. For Dickens is an actor; and the drama is all the more wonderful because the dramatis personæ are sustained by one man, and presenting, as Mr. Dickens's characters eminently do, the "very form and substance of the times," varying from light to shade as truly as the natural landscape, are sustained with equal fidelity and with the same striking success.

The English are proud of Robson. To leave London any time in the last ten years without seeing Robson would have been, as it is now, a liberty taken with the Lion. His little theatre in Wych Street is permanently plethoric. It is where Parliament "lets up." The bar and the clergy go to Robson for encouragement to pursue their steep and straight ways. If the excellent Queen shows a decided preference for any one of her round of metropolitan amusements, I think it is for the Olympic, for the royal box seems always swept and garnished as if she might drop in at any time, and royal laughter has had a good deal to do in raising the roof of the house time and time again. The night before this reading I had seen Mr. Robson in one of the parts which are deemed "his own"— a serio-comic old chandler in a little drama called "The Chimney Corner," which was then crowding the Olympic every night. The effect of the performance was so strong upon me- there was such deep feeling in the whole delineation of a single-hearted, queer-spoken tradesman, subjected to the crushing suspicion that his loved son was an arrant and heartless scoundrel, and struggling to bear up a name that, humble as it was, had never been dishonored, and to sustain the spirits of his old woman while his own were fallen quite out of reach-that I was in a measure And here, at the outset, and once for all, I must loth to experience Dickens so soon, lest the best protest against the word read in this connection. impression he could give me would be dull beThat verb could have been properly used to ex-side the vivid and warm impression of Robson. press the process of Mr. Thackeray in the mat- Yet it was not the enthusiastic verdict based

I suppose the applause of the large and intelligent audience which followed the first spoken words of Mr. Dickens, namely, that with permission he would pause five minutes after the reading of the "Christmas Carol," was a spontaneous grant of that permission, given in entire good faith, and in ignorance of the spell of eloquence which should presently bind every heart and make it stingy of time. It had just time to die away before Mr. Dickens began to read the "Carol."

upon some solitary stroke of mimetic skill, or particular sketch of character, but a gradually grown and ripened conviction, when the last word had been spoken and Dickens was himself again, that not only was he a greater than Robson-not only the greatest actor I had seen in England-but an artist who realized for the first time positively my highest conceptions of the art, and enfolded it so tenderly and imperceptibly with nature that it became a part of one's self-sensitive, suggestive, and intimate.

breaking) line, who was daily ferocious about small scraps of paper flown to the floor, and used-up pens, and who died-a snug rest to his little soul!-some years after the publication of the "Carol?" It was evident to me, after comparing this sketch of a morose old man with kindred "assumptions" (regularly critical) experienced at various theatres, that this was Mr. Dickens's forte, or, to be more professional, his line; and I regretted sincerely that I was deprived of the pleasure of seeing his Scrooge with the important auxiliaries of dress, scenery, and space more extended than that of a desk. I wished that Tavistock House were opened occasionally to the select and critical public, or that Mr. Robson might be enabled to effect an engagement with Mr. Dickens, or that Mr. Dickens might become sole lessee and proprietor of the Olympic, and engage Mr. Robson as first supernumerary.

I am not a dramatic critic. But if it were my business to discriminate nicely-to play the detective upon the passions and sentiments of the human heart-I should be extremely happy to point out many of the most notable effects produced in the reading of the "Christmas Carol." First, I should give, as concisely as possible, the plot of this interesting No, is it not written among the bright holly-berries of every Christmas tree, and deep down amidst the "This is wonderful!" I observed to the beauuttermost plums of every Christmas pudding? tiful white flower without any smell that was Has it not sounded cheerily over thousands of sticking in the copious hair of the blonde arisleagues of winter frost, and with its Christian tocrat in the stall before me, as out of that same warmth made land and land one great hearth- mouth proceeded a small and pleading voice, stone of charity and love? Will plum-puddings precisely like that of Scrooge's clerk; and the perish ever-will the cry of merry wishes ever be same remark, with forte emphasis, was addressed forgotten-will stockings fail of their saccharine to the folds of my handkerchief when a stern, supplies, while type holds together to tell that inflexible, and apparently remote voice called wondrous tale? Well could the reader omit Scrooge to the scenes of Christmas Past, and many of the mere descriptive passages. The the audience about me were hushed as I have dramatic skeleton was clothed by his genius seen many an audience hushed for the ghostly with flesh and blood; and the memory, not the scenes of Hamlet or the "Fiery Phantom of imagination, of the hearer supplied the outer the Ferns," and I expected that the glaring lights garments in which it was first introduced to so- of the chandeliers in the dome would burn low ciety at large. Digressively, I thought that the for once, and the nose of an old gentleman a critics who accuse Dickens of an excessive elab- few seats distant would emit a pale phosphororation and descriptive word-spinning found some escent glow; and once more, at the risk of being confirmation in this blotting out of all back- tiresome, I repeated it to my shilling “Carol” ground from his pictures, and leaving his fig- when the sick and lame little voice of Tiny Tim ures to stand alone against the clear blue of na- arose from the bosom of the Cratchit family; ture. His dramatic power is shown so great and, finally, when I had actually seen the mothat I wonder the action was ever encumbered ther of that family, and trembled in the comby episodes of the imagination, however brilliant pany of the two other spirits, and established an or startling. Yet I believe that, in some thea- acquaintance of a close nature with the streettres, the accumulation of scenery and properties boy whom Scrooge requested to go and fetch is so enormous that they must be displayed on the big turkey still hanging in the corner shop, the stage in great and perhaps unwarranted pro-and whose response consisted of the one word fusion nightly, simply to get them out of the

way.

"Walker!" articulated with shrill incredulity, I saw clearly that that remark had lost all its original force, and was no longer applicable to any circumstance of the case whatever.

I was

charm of those private entertainments at Tavistock House, and to attribute the lion's share of the success to its master and proprietor; and was able to understand the interest in persons and things theatrical which has given the world, in the pages of his works, so many faithful sketches of life and character "behind the scenes."

"This is wonderful!" I said to my shilling copy of the "Christmas Carol," when I found that certain gruff tones, like those of Scrooge-ready to believe all I had ever heard of the and so unlike the manly and pleasant tones of Mr. Charles Dickens-were actually proceeding from that gentleman's mouth. That mouth was strangely altered from the playful expression it wore a moment since. The jaw was dropped, and in falling it had pulled the corners of that mouth down with it, together with each and all the muscles of the face in general, so that the expression conveyed was one of tightness, and hardness, and coldness. What wonder that the voice which proceeded from that pucker of bad feelings should have seemed like the voice of my old master in the bill-breaking (and heart

Besides all this versatile and truthful delineation-and I entreat all persons who have seen it and felt it to bear me out that I have not exaggerated its extraordinary dramatic merit-there is an element of the reading, which, although more closely allied to the personal than to the art