MACAULAY'S SCHOOL-BOY.

ALMOST every one, in reading Macaulay, must have been struck by the numerous allusions to an imaginary school-boy, who is called upon to refresh the memory of the reader upon subjects as widely different as the date of a king of England, the construction of a Greek play, or the theory of government. I have always had a great reverence for this imaginary personage, whom I think as badly treated as was the famous Mr. Blank, mentioned in the Spectator.

One Sunday afternoon, a few weeks ago, I was sitting in my room with a volume of Macaulay in my hand, musing upon the looks and character of my friend the school-boy, when there came a knock at the door. To my shout of "Come in!" there entered a person whom I at once recognized as the wonderful boy I had so long desired to see. His head was small; his eyes had a sleepy look in them, and were of dull gray; his nose inclined to the pug; and his mouth was large and inexpressive; but his hair was what chiefly attracted my attention. It was long and unkempt, and had a sort of character to it that struck my fancy.

For a moment we gazed at each other in silence; finally I asked, "What is your name?"

"I have none," he replied, stolidly, and gazed at me as before. Provoked by his stupidity, I asked impatiently, "Why can't you say something?"

"You have not asked me a question that every one knows, or ought to know," responded he of the flowing locks.

"Oh!" said I. "Well, when was Charles I. beheaded?"

The change that came over that boy in a moment was remarkable! His face lighted up, his eye gleamed, and he said with precision, -

"Charles I. was beheaded in 1649, on January 30; he - "

"Very well," said I; "you would console Mr. Dick."

Just then, to my great astonishment, in came another boy, ruddy and cheerful, as different as possible from the first. His face seemed familiar, but I could not quite remember where I had seen

him.

"Hullo, Prig!" he exclaimed to my companion, "you here?"

"I thought you had no name," said I to Macaulay's creation.

"That is only what people call me," he grumbled.

"Well, what is your name?" I inquired of the new-comer.

"Tom Brown," was the reply. That explained it! Now I knew why his face was so familiar.

"I say," he continued, "are you from Harvard? I have a cousin there, Tom Hammersmith; do you know him? People say he looks like me."

"Yes, I know him," I replied. "He does look something like you, but is dressed rather differently; still he acts much as you do. He is a good fellow."

"Humph!" ejaculated young Brown. "I always thought he was something between a snob and a fool!"

Then turning to my companion, he said, "Come, Prig, and have a game of cricket."

"No," said the other, "I must study," and he began to repeat a list of the Popes. "Besides," he added, "here is a quotation from Pope that Macaulay says every one knows by heart, and I must learn it."

"O, well, make a dig and a fool of yourself, if you will - Good by [to me]; my love to Hammy; and, if you ever come to England, come and see me." And, nodding brightly, off he ran. I was just about to ask another question of my literary friend when I was suddenly called away. On my return no one was to be seen. I thought I heard some one in the distance repeating, "Arma virumque cano; Trojae -"; but I may have been mistaken; and, in fact, I am a little afraid that my imagination, always strong, on this occasion completely ran away with me. However, since that time I have lost much of my admiration for my former idol, and am rather getting to think Tom Brown the better fellow of the two.