Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 133.djvu/66

60 origin; and of late the Danubian provinces have figured among the threads which are entangled in that great knot, the Eastern question. But, half a century ago, there were no Roumanians bearing that name, and the youth of twelve must have been a marvel of geographical erudition if he knew anything about Moldavia and Wallachia in connection with ancient history. The fact was, Eutropius, still known as very useful in his way, is remarkably easy, and was made even easier by the addition of an or do; that is to say, an arrangement of the Latin words, in English order, placed under the proper text, as in the Delphin editions. Even this would not do; that the task might be easier still, a boy read not the text but the ordo, and this, be it repeated, was our crack book. There was a vague tradition that somebody had once studied Cornelius Nepos; but I set that down among the myths of the place.

Many books were not purchased; but, thanks to the financial genius that pervaded the establishment, and which, I think, was embodied in the person of Trowel, some of those that were sold must have fetched high prices. The boys, as a rule, were of that happy-go-lucky kind who, when they quit school, do not care to be burdened with reminiscences, but leave their books behind them. In that case the volumes were invariably sold over again; and he was a lucky youth, on the fly-leaf of whose Eutropius the name of a former schoolfellow was not inscribed.

There are many worthy people now living who are of opinion that, at our "great schools," too much time is expended on the study of the dead languages; and if they have followed me to this point they are probably admiring Dr. Saunders for the quantity of sound useful knowledge that he diffused, while thus lightly skimming over the surface of Greek and Latin. If so, they are egregiously mistaken. If the reverend doctor aspired to anything besides the reputation of a popular preacher, it was to the character of a promulgator of classical lore. No head master at Eton or Harrow, in the good old days, had stronger views in this matter than he. We all, indeed, learned writing and arithmetic under the guidance of an authorized assistant, but when some ill-fated wretch was compelled, at the request of his ignoble parents, to solve a few problems in Bonnycastle's "Geometry," I well recollect with what contempt the pursuit was regarded by his fellows. Geometry was all very well for a future carpenter, but what possible interest could be taken in it by any one who aspired to the character of a gentleman? Of course the vulgar science fell into the province of the assistant, for never would the august Dr. Saunders have been seen with a pair of base mechanical compasses in his hands. Did they think highly of mathematics at Cambridge? If so, so much the worse for Cambridge.

But the royal road to French discovered by the Rev. Dr. Saunders was a masterpiece. Two of us were placed side by side at a desk, with an old-fashioned French novel (warranted harmless) before us. This we were expected simply to puzzle out together, without being subject to any examination, either by the doctor, or by any other third party. That, in this irresponsible position we ever looked at the novel at all is to me a matter for marvel, but, most assuredly, we did so; though, it must be owned, the narrative was frequently interrupted by conversation on our own private affairs. On one occasion, the illicit discourse was interrupted by the doctor, who, with considerable ingenuity, had contrived to place his head, unobserved, between ours, and harshly commented on our abuse of the trust with which we were so handsomely and so unacademically honored. We mildly pleaded that the novel was "dry," and — wonder of wonders! — when we returned to the schoolroom after the half-hour spent in the play-ground habitually conceded to the boys in the course of a day, which lasted from about half-past nine to one, our plea was thought feasible, and the triumphant doctor placed before our eyes the more amusing "Hermann of Unna," a work translated from the German, and of which an English version was eagerly read at a time when Mrs. Anne Radcliffe was at the height of her popularity. I am able to affirm that we did find this book more entertaining than its predecessor. On what ground, with our very imperfect mastery over the French tongue, we found one book more amusing than another, I can't conjecture.

Even our studies of the vernacular were sometimes pursued after a laissez-aller fashion, which scarcely accorded with the importance attached to them. Dr. Saunders had an aged father-in-law, who had cut off whatever communication was left between himself and the outer world by taking strong and frequent pinches of coarse black rappee, and this respectable but somewhat clingy gentleman was 