name of interruption; and we called a day,
a ticket. At the end of the half-year, each
pupil's lost days were counted, and, according
to their number, was the number of his prize.
Within the cover of his book was pasted a
small printed form, which, being filled up,
carried abroad the exact intelligence that its
owner had been present and attentive at
school a certain number of days, absent or
inattentive another certain number of days, and
had received that book as a first, second, or
third prize. The success of this plan was
greater than a man putting no faith in children
might suppose. Stout boys who could pull at
an oar with a strong arm, were not too big to
cry, sometimes, over a lost half-day. The ages
of the pupils ranged between eight and fifteen.
Now and then, it happened that some great
event outside, such as the freezing of a pond,
produced an irrepressible excitement. Common
restraints would not check talking and
inattention. The punishment then introduced
is horrible to tell: —There was no teaching.
All lessons were put aside. Instead of
extra lessons for a punishment, no lessons
appeared to me the best mark of supreme
displeasure. Lessons were not to be regarded
as their pain, but as their privilege; when
they became too unmanageable the privilege
was for a time withdrawn. Whatever you
may choose to call a punishment, becomes one
to an honest and well-meaning child. Stoppage
of lessons checked all turbulence at
once, and the school looked like a dismal
wax-work exhibition until the prohibition
was withdrawn.

Children are very teachable, and it is just
as easy to excite in them, and to lead them
by, a sense of honour and self-respect, as
to spur them on, by promoting among them
rivalries and jealousies, and to try to drive
them out of mischief with a cane.

Having explained our criminal code, let
me describe next our ordinary constitution,
which was from beginning to end one shock
to the feelings of Quemaribus when I detailed
it to him. Children are not fond of gloom or
ugliness, and it is not wonderful if they have
little admiration for the customary school-room
and its furniture. My crotchet on that
subject, was that the best room in the
teacher's house should be the schoolroom,
and that he should do all he in reason could
to give it a cheerful and even elegant appearance.
The school of which I speak, was established
by the seashore, and there was a very
fine view from our schoolroom window. It
must be confessed that there was plenty to
look at, and sometimes certainly a ship or a
donkey would appear at inconvenient seasons;
but, as we did not shut the world out from
our teaching, there was no good reason why
it should be shut out from our eyes. There
was a back room used for supplementary
purposes, but the front room was the main
work place. I was the first tenant of the
house, and papered it. For that schoolroom,
in defiance of all prejudice, and in the mad
pursuance of my crotchet, I chose the most
elegant light paper I could find— a glazed
paper with a pure white ground, under a
pattern that interfered little with the whiteness
and delicacy of the whole effect. After
two years of school-work in that room, it
being always full, the paper was left almost
without a soil. There had been a few ink-spots
that could readily be scratched out with
a knife, and one mishap with an inkstand, of
which the traces were sufficiently obliterated
with the help of a basin of cold water.

Upon the mantelpiece were vases, which
the children themselves kept supplied with
flowers. The room was carpeted, and it must
be granted that the carpet soon wore out.
There were neat little cane chairs instead of
forms, cheerful looking tables instead of
school desks. The aspect of the room was
as cheerful as I could contrive to make it,
and was a great shock to the prejudices of
Dr. Quemaribus. It did contain, however, a
black board, a pair of little globes, and a
great map of the world; —to which our references
were so incessant, and I believe often
so pleasant, that I think we all were glad to
be familiar with its features.

Dr. Q. called on us one Monday morning
before his own Christmas holidays were over
— ours being short —and he made a grimace
when he found us very snugly seated about
the room, one stirring the fire, and all talking
about the news of the day. I was insane
enough to devote every Monday morning to
that sort of study, and the Doctor candidly
confessed before he left, that it was not altogether
folly. Boys accustomed to discussions
upon history, looked at contemporary events
from points of view that appeared quaint to
him and not entirely useless. They bewildered
him by their minute acquaintance with the
recent discoveries at the North Pole, which
they had acquired while their hearts were
full of sympathy for Sir John Franklin.
There was a new scientific discovery of which
they were endeavouring to understand as
much as possible, and they were criticising
social movements in a startling way. The
Doctor observed too, how the tempers and
the humours of the children were displayed
in this free talk, and how easy it became,
without effort or ostentation, to repress in
any one an evil tendency —the tendency,
perhaps, to pass summary and contemptuous
opinions —and to educate the intellects of all
A great deal may be done when all seem
to be doing nothing. When news was scarce,
and time was plentiful, we filled that morning
with a lesson upon what we entitled "common
knowledge." That topic recurred two or
three times a week, and was concerned with
reasonings and explanations on the commonest
of everyday words and things.

We divided the day into two very distinct
parts. Half was spent upon book-study, as of
languages, arithmetic and mathematics; the