CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 10

CROMWELL: by Edward Lytton Bulwer

MEMOIRS OF MRS. HEMANS: by Chorley

CONCLUDING LECTURE on hindrances to education: by James M. Garnett

THE RAINBOW

RIGHT OF INSTRUCTION: by Roane

DEATH OF THE PATRIOT: by W. Gilmore Simms

BRITISH PARLIAMENT IN 1835

IANTHE: by Morna

A TOUR TO THE ISTHMUS: by a Yankee Dauber

SACRED SONG

THE TWO SISTERS: by Madame Julie Delafaye-Bréhier

THE BARD'S FAREWELL: by John C. McCabe

MY BOOKS

EDITORIAL

CRITICAL NOTICES PHILOTHEA: by Mrs. Child SHEPPARD LEE: by Robert M. Bird HAZLITT'S REMAINS: by E L. Bulwer, M. P. and Sergeant Talfourd, M. P.

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II. RICHMOND, SEPTEMBER, 1836. NO. X.

T. W. WHITE, PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.

CROMWELL.

BY EDWARD LYTTON BULWER.¹

¹ This Tragedy is now in the press of Messieurs Saunders and Otley, (with whom Mr. Bulwer has made an exclusive arrangement for the issuing of his works here simultaneously with their appearance in England,) and will be published forthwith. We are indebted to the attention of these gentlemen for Act I, in anticipation, copied from the original MS.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—A Room in Whitehall. At the back, folding doors hung with black crape. Henry Martin—Harrison—Ireton.

IRETON. Does the crowd gather still?

HARRISON. Ay! Round the door The godless idle cluster; nor with ease Can our good guards—the tried men of the Lord— Ward off the gapers, that, with thirsty mouths, Would drink, as something sacred, the mute air Circling the dust of him that was a king.

MARTIN. Ev'n as I passed the porch, a goodly cit, Round and tun-bellied, plucked me by the robe: ‘Sir, can I see the king?’ quoth he. I frowned:— ‘There is no king!’ said I. ‘The man called Charles Is the same clay as yours and mine. Lo! yonder Lies, yet unburied, a brave draper's corpse; Go ye and gaze on that!’ And so I passed. Still the crowd murmured—‘We would see the king!’

IRETON. Ay, round the vulgar forms of royalty, Or dead or quick, the unthinking millions press; They love the very mummery of their chains, And graceless walks unsceptred Liberty To their coarse gaze. 'Twas a bold deed, that death!

HARRISON. A deed we ne'er had had the souls to do, But for the audible mandates of the Lord. I did not sleep seven nights before my hand Signed that red warrant; and e'en now, methinks Midnight seems darker and more sternly still Than it was wont to do!

IRETON. A truce with this. When saw ye last the General?

MARTIN. Scarce an hour Hath joined the Past, since I did leave him praying.

IRETON. The pious Cromwell!—'Tis a blessed thing To have a lodge above, and, when the air Grows dim and rank on earth, to change the scene, And brace the soul in thoughts that breathe of Heaven. He bears him bravely then, that virtuous man?

MARTIN. Bravely; but with a graver, soberer mien Than when we councilled on the deed now done.

IRETON. Yea, when he signed the warrant, dost thou mind How, with the pen yet wet, he crossed thy face, My honest Harry! ('twas a scurvy trick!) And laughed till merry tears coursed down his cheek, To see thy ruddy hues so streaked with black? Ha! Ha!—and yet it was a scurvy trick! And thou didst give him back the boon again, And both laughed loud, like mad-caps at a school, When the grim master is not by. I was The man who, next to Cromwell, planned the act Which sealed old England's freedom; yet that laugh Made me look back—and start—and shudder!

MARTIN. Tush! Thou know'st thy kinsman's merry vein what time The humor's on him. I'll be sworn, nor he Nor I thought lightlier of the solemn deed For that unseemly moment;—'twas the vent Of an excited pulse; and if our own, The scaffold we were dooming to the Stuart, We should have toyed the same.

HARRISON. Why prate ye thus— Lukewarm and chill of heart? When Barak broke The hosts of Sisera, after twice ten years Of bondage, did the sons of Israel weep? Or did they seek excuses for just mirth? No; they sang out in honest joy—“Awake! Captivity is captive! and the stars Fought from their courses against Sisera.” Our Sisera is no more—we will rejoice!

IRETON. (aside to Martin) Humor him Harry, or we 'scape not so This saintly porcupine of homilies Bristling with all the missiles of quotation: Provoke him,—and he pricks you with a text. (aloud) Right, holy comrade, thou hast well rebuked us. But to return to earth. The General feels, My Harry, how the eyes of the dumb world Are fixed on us—how all of England's weal Weighs on our shoulders, and with serious thought Inclines him to the study of the HOUR: For every moment now should womb designs, And in the air we breathe the thundercloud Hangs mute:—may Heaven disperse it on our foes!

MARTIN. Ireton, his soul foresees, and is prepared. He will not patch new fortune with old fears, Nor halt 'twixt doubt and daring. We have done That which continued boldness can but bless; And on the awful head we have discrowned Must found our Capitol of Liberty!

HARRISON. (who has been walking to and fro, muttering to himself, suddenly turns round) Who comes? thou hast ill omen on thy brow. Art thou—nay, pardon!—soldier of the Lord!

SCENE II.—To them Sir Hubert Cecil.

CECIL. Where is the General? Where the lofty Cromwell?

IRETON. Young Cecil! Welcome, comrade! Just from Spain? What news I pray? The dust upon thy garb Betokens weary speed.

CECIL. False heart, away! Where is thy master, bloodhound?

IRETON. Art thou mad? Is it to me these words?—Or that my sword Were vowed to holier fields, this hand——

CECIL. (fiercely) That hand! Look on it well. What stain hath marred its white Since last we met? And you, most learned Martin, And you, text-mouthing Harrison—what saws Plucked from the rotten tombs of buried codes, What devilish garblings from the holy writ, Gave ye one shade of sanction for that deed Which murdered England's honor in her king?

HARRISON. (interrupting Martin and Ireton, as they are about to reply) Peace! peace, my brethren! Leave to me the word: Lo, my soul longs to wrestle with the youth. I will expound to him. Thus saith the Lord——

CECIL. Blaspheme not! keep thy dark hypocrisies To shroud thee from thyself! But peace, my heart! I will not waste my wrath on such as these. Most honest Ireton, did they tell me false, Or is thy leader here? thy kinsman, Ireton?— Oh God! hath stout-armed Cromwell come to this!— The master deathsman of your gory crew?

IRETON. I would he were, young madman, to requite Thy courteous quoting of his reverent name. Go seek our England's David at his hearth, And chide the arm that struck Goliah down.

HARRISON. I will wend with thee, rash idolator! So newly turned to the false gods of Horeb; My soul shall wrestle with thee by the way.

CECIL. (to Harrison, who is about to follow him) Butcher, fall back!—there is a ghost behind thee, That, with a hueless cheek and lifeless eye, Forbids thee henceforth and for aye to herd With men who murder not. And so farewell! (exit Cecil)

HARRISON. (looking fearfully around) A ghost! said he, a ghost?

MARTIN. Ay, General, ay; And he who stands upon the deadly brink Of Cromwell's ire, may well behold the ghosts He goes so soon to join. (Enter a Puritan Soldier)

SOLDIER. Worshipful Sirs, The council of the faithful is assembled, And the Lord President entreats your presence.

IRETON. Come, Martin; come, bold-hearted Harrison, Bradshaw awaits.

HARRISON. Get thee behind me, Satan! I fear thee not! thou canst not harm the righteous. Ghost, quoth he! ghost! Seest thou a ghost, good Ireton?

IRETON. What, in broad day? Fie, General!

HARRISON. Satan walks Daily and nightly tempting; but no more! We'll to the council. Verily, my soul Darkens at times the noon! The fiend is strong. (exeunt)

SCENE III.—A Room in Cromwell's House. The Lady Claypole. Edith.

LADY CLAYPOLE. So leave we, then, the Past! The angry sky Is cleared by that same thunderstroke which cleaves The roof of kings; the dark time's crowning evil Is o'er; the solemn deed, that stern men call Necessity, is done;—now let us hope A brighter day for England!

EDITH. Who knows Cromwell, Knows him as one inflexibly austere In what his head deems justice; but his heart Is mild, and shrinks from the uncalled-for shedding Ev'n of the meanest blood: yet would to Heaven, For his own peace, that he had been less great, Nor sate as judge in that most fearful court, Where either voice was peril. What the world Will deem his choice, lies doubtful in the clouds That shade the time. Thank God that we are women!

LADY CLAYPOLE. Yea! in these hours of civil strife, when men Know not which way lies conscience, and the night Scares the soft slumbers from their haggard eyes By schemes of what the morrow shall bring forth, 'Tis sweet to feel our weakness, and to glide Adown the stream of our inactive thought!— While, on the bank, towers crash and temples fall, We sail unscath'd; and watch the unvex'd life Mirror that peaceful heaven, earth cannot mar! (after a pause, with a smile) Yet scarce indeed unvex'd, while one wild power Can rouse the tide at will, and wake the heart To tempest with a sigh;—nay, blush not, Edith.

EDITH. I have no cause for blushes; and my cheek Did wrong my thought, if it did speak of shame. To love!—ah! 'tis a proud, a boastful joy, If he we love is worthy of our love!

LADY CLAYPOLE. And that, in truth, is Cecil: with his name Honor walks spotless, and this stormy world Grows fair before his presence; in his tongue Lurks no deceit; his smile conceals no frown: Ev'n in his very faults, his lofty pride And the hot frankness of his hasty mood, There seems a heavenly virtue, by the side Of men who stalk around, and, if they win Truth to the soul, wear falsehood on the brow.

EDITH. Speak thus forever, dearest! for his praise Makes thy voice music. Yes, he is all this; And I, whose soul is but one thought of him, Feel thought itself can compass not the girth Of his wide merit. Was I not right to say I could not blush to love him? Yet, methinks, Well might I blush to feel that one like Cecil Has love for Edith!

LADY CLAYPOLE. If, sweet coz, I cease To praise him, it shall be for sweeter words Ev'n than his praise!

EDITH. Impossible!

LADY CLAYPOLE. And yet, Were I a maid that loved as Edith loves, Tidings of him I loved were sweeter words Ev'n than his praise.

EDITH. Tidings!—Oh, pardon, coz!— Tidings from Spain?

LADY CLAYPOLE. No, Edith, not from Spain; Tidings from London. Cecil is returned. Just ere we met, his courier's jaded steed Halted below. Sir Hubert had arrived, And, on the instant, sought my father.

EDITH. Come! And I to hear it from another's lips!

LADY CLAYPOLE. Nay, coz, be just: with matters of great weight— Matters that crave at once my father's ear— Be sure that he is laden. (Enter a Servant)

SERVANT. Pardon, Madam! Methought the General here!

LADY CLAYPOLE. Who asks my father?

SERVANT. Sir Hubert Cecil, just arrived from Spain, Craves audience with his honor.

LADY CLAYPOLE. Pray his entrance. Myself will seek the General. (exit servant) Thank me, Edith! If now I quit thee, wilt thou thank me less?

EDITH. I prithee stay!

LADY CLAYPOLE. Nay, Friendship is a star Fading before the presence of Love's sun. Farewell! Again, those blushes!—Edith, fie! (exit Lady Claypole)

SCENE IV.—Cecil and Edith.

CECIL. Where is the General?—Where—Oh, Heaven! my Edith?

EDITH. Is there no welcome in that word? Am I Unlooked for at thy coming?

CECIL. Pardon, Madam! I—I—(aside) Oh, God! how bitter is this trial! Why do I love her less? Why fall I not At her dear feet? Why stand I thus amazed? Is this not Edith? No! 'tis Cromwell's niece; And Cromwell is the murtherer of my king!

EDITH. ‘Pardon’ and ‘madam!’—do I hear aright? Art thou so cold? Do I offend thine eyes? Thou turn'st away thy face! Well, Sir, 'tis well! Hubert! still silent! (In a softer voice) Hubert!

CECIL. Oh, for grace! For heaven's dear grace! speak not in that sweet tone! Be not so like that shape that was my Edith!

EDITH. (Gazing upon him with surprise and anger, turns as if to quit the stage, and then aside) Sure he is ill! Keen travail and the cares Of these unhappy times have touched the string Of the o'erlabored brain. And shall I chide him? I who should soothe? (Approaches and aloud) Art thou not well, dear Hubert?

EDITH. By the vows That we have plighted, look not on me thus! Speak not so wildly! Hubert, I am Edith! Edith!—thine own! oh! am I not thine own?

CECIL. My own!—my Edith! Yes, the evil deeds Of that bold man cast forth no shade on thee, Albeit they gloom the world as an eclipse Whose darkness is the prophecy of doom!

EDITH. Hush! hush! What! know'st thou not these walls have ears? Speak'st thou of Cromwell thus, upon whose nod Hang life and death?

CECIL. But not the fear of death!

EDITH. What change hath chanc'd, since last we met, to blot Thy champion and thy captain from thy grace? Why, when we parted, was not thy last word In praise of Cromwell? Was he not the star By which thy course was lighted? Nay, so glowed His name upon thy lips, that I—ev'n I— Was vexed to think thou'dst so much love to spare!

CECIL. Ah, there's the thought—the bitter, biting thought! Boy that I was, I pinned my faith to Cromwell; For him forsook my kin; renounced my home, My father's blessing, and my mother's love; Gave up my heart to him, my thoughts, my deeds,— Reduced the fire and freedom of my youth Into a mere machine—a thing to act Or to be passive as its master wills; On his broad banner I affixed my name— My heritage of honor; blindly bound My mark and station in the world's sharp eye To the unequal chances of his sword! But then methought it was a freeman's blade, Drawn, but with sorrow, for a nation's weal!

EDITH. And was it not so, Hubert?

CECIL. Was it? What! When (with no precedent, from all the Past— That solemn armory for decorous Murther!) Some two score men assumed a people's voice, And sullied all the labors of long years, The laurels of a war for equal laws, By one most tragic outrage of all law! Oh, in that stroke 'twas not the foe that fell! 'Twas we who fought!—the pillar of our cause; The white unsullied honor of our arms; The temperate justice that disdains revenge; The rock of law, from which war's standard waved;— The certainty of RIGHT;—'twas these that fell!

EDITH. Alas! I half foreboded this, and yet Would listen not to fear. But, Hubert, I— If there be sin in that most doubtful deed— I have not shared the sin.

CECIL. No, Edith, no! But the sin severs us! Will Cromwell give The hand of Edith to his foe?

EDITH. His foe! What madness, Hubert! In the gloomy past Bury the wrong thy wrath cannot undo; Think but in what the future can repair it.

CECIL. I do so, Edith; and, upon that thought, I built the wall 'twixt Cromwell and my soul. The king is dead—but not the race of kings; There is a second Charles! Oh, Edith, yet— Yet may our fates be joined! Beyond the seas Lives my lost honor—lie my only means To prove me guiltless of this last bad deed! Beyond the seas, oh, let our vows be plighted! Fly with thy Cecil!—quit these gloomy walls, These whited sepulchres, these hangman saints! Beyond the seas, oh! let me find my bride, Regain my honor, and record my love!

EDITH. Alas! thou know'st not what thou say'st. The land Is lined with Cromwell's favorers. Not a step But his eye reads the whereabout. From hence Thou couldst not 'scape with life, nor I with honor!

CECIL. Ah, Edith, rob not Heaven of every star! From home, and England, and ambition banished— Banish me not from thee!

EDITH. What shall I say? How act—where turn? Thy lightest word hath been My law—my code of right; and now thou askest That which can never be.

CECIL. Recall the word! There's but one ‘never’ for the tongue of Love, And that should be for parting—never part. Oh, learn no other ‘never.’

EDITH. Must thou leave me? Must thou leave England—thy old friends in arms— The cause of Freedom—thy brave spirit's hope? Must thou leave these? Is there no softer choice?

CECIL. None other—none!

EDITH. So honor bids thee act; So honor conquers love! And is there, then, No honor but for man? Bethink thee, Hubert, Could I, unblushing, leave my kinsman's home, The guardian of my childhood—the kind roof Where no harsh thought e'er entered? For whate'er Cromwell to others, he to me hath been A more than parent. In his rudest hour For me he wore no frown; no chilling word Bade me remember that I had no father! Shall I repay him thus:—desert his hearth In his most imminent hour; betroth my faith To one henceforth his foe; make my false home With those who call him traitor; plight my hand To him who wields a sword against his heart?— That heart which sheltered me!—oh, never, Hubert! If thou lov'st honor, love it then in Edith, And plead no more. (enter Servant)

SERVANT. The General hath sent word That, just released from council, he awaits Sir Hubert Cecil at Whitehall.

CECIL. I come! (exit Servant) So fare thee well!

EDITH. (passionately) Farewell!—and is that all? And part we thus forever? Not unkindly? Thou dost not love me less? Oh, say so, Hubert! Turn not away; give me once more thine hand. We loved each other from our childhood, Hubert; We grew together; thou wert as my brother, Till that name grew a dearer. I should seem More cold—more distant; but I cannot. All Pride, strength, reserve, desert me at this hour! My heart will break! Tell me thou lov'st me still!

CECIL. Still, Edith, still!

EDITH. I'm answered—bless thee, Hubert! One word! one parting word! For my sake, dearest, Rein thy swift temper when thou speakest to Cromwell. A word may chafe him from his steady mood In these wild moments; and behind his wrath There gleams the headsman's axe. Vex him not, Hubert!

CECIL. Fear not! This meeting hath unmanned my soul, Swallowed up all the fierceness of my nature As in a gulf! and he—this man of blood— He hath been kind to thee! Nay fear not, Edith! (exit Cecil)

EDITH. He's gone! O God support me! I have done That which became thy creature. Give me strength! A mountain crushes down this feeble heart; Oh, give me strength to bear it, gentle Heaven! (exit)

SCENE V—A Room at Whitehall; (the same as in Scene I) Enter Cromwell, Ireton, and Martin.

CROMWELL. So be it, then! At Windsor, in the vaults Of his long line, let Charles's ashes sleep. To Hubert and to Mildmay we consign The funeral cares; be they with reverence paid. Whoever of the mourners of the dead, The friends and whilom followers would assist In the grave rite, to them be licence given To grace the funeral with their faithful wo. We spurn not the dead lion.

MARTIN. Nobly said. Wouldst thou I have these orders straight conveyed To the king's friends?

CROMWELL. Forthwith good Martin. (exit Martin) So With those sad ashes rest our country's griefs. Henry, no phœnix from them must spring forth; No second Charles! Within the self-same vault That shrouds that harmless dust we must inter Kingly ambition; and upon that day Proclaim it treason to declare a king In the King's son! The crown hath passed away From Saul, and from the godless house of Saul.

IRETON. The Parliament is fearful, and contains In its scant remnant many who would halt Betwixt the deed and that for which 'twas done.

CROMWELL. They must be seen to, Henry! Seek me out This eve at eight; we must confer alone. Strong meat is not for babes! But of this youth, This haughty Cecil! Thou hast seen him then? Is he, in truth, so hot?

IRETON. By my sword, yea! That which I told thee of his speech fell short Of its rash madness.

CROMWELL. 'Tis a goodly youth; Brave and sound hearted, but of little faith, Nor suited to the hunger of these times, Which feeds on no half acts! And for that cause, And in that knowledge, when we had designed To bring the King to London, I dismissed him With letters into Spain. We must not lose him! He is of noble birth; his house hath wealth; His name is spotless:—he must not be lost!

IRETON. And will not be retained!

CROMWELL. Methinks not so. He hath the folly of the eyes of flesh, And loves my niece; by that lure shall we cage him.

IRETON. Yet he is of a race that, in these times, Have fallen from the righteous.

CROMWELL. Ay, and so The more his honest courage. In the day When the king's power o'erflowed, and all true men Joined in a dyke against the lawless flood, His sire and I were co-mates—sate with Pym; On the same benches—gave the self-same votes; But when we drew God's sword against the king, And threw away the sheath, his fearful heart Recoiled before the act it had provoked; And, halting neuter in the wide extremes, Forbade his son to join us.

IRETON. But the youth—

CROMWELL. More bravely bent, forsook the inglorious sire, And made a sire of Cromwell. In my host There was not one that loved me more than Cecil! Better in field than prayer, and more at home Upon his charger than his knee, 'tis true; But to all men their way to please the Lord! To heaven are many paths!

IRETON. So near to thee, And knew not of the end for which we fought? Dreamt he it was against the man called king, And not against the thing called kingly?

CROMWELL. So The young man dreamed; and oft-times he hath said When after battle he hath wiped his sword, Oft hath he sighing said, ‘These sinful wars— Brother with brother, father against son, Strife with her country, victory o'er her children— How shall they end? If to the hollow word Of this unhappy king no truth is bound, Shall the day come when he, worn out with blood, Will yield his crown to his yet guiltless son, And we made sure of freedom by firm laws, Chain the calm'd lion to a peaceful throne?’

IRETON. The father's leaven still! most foolish hope To plaster with cool prudence jarring atoms, And reconcile the irreconcileable— The rushing present with the mouldering past!

CROMWELL. Thou say'st it, Ireton! But the boy was young And fond of heart; the times that harden us, Make soft less thoughtful natures. (enter a Puritan Soldier)

SOLDIER. Lo! your worship, The youth hight Hubert Cecil waits thy pleasure!

CROMWELL. Friend, let him enter. Henry, leave us now! At eight, remember! (exit Ireton) It hath lamely chanced That Cecil should return upon the heat And newness of these fierce events; a month Had robbed him of their horror! While we breathe Passion glides on to Memory:—and dread things, That scared our thoughts but yesterday, take hues, That smooth their sternness, from the silent morrow. (Enter Cecil—Cromwell leaning on his sword at the farther end of the stage, regards him with a steadfast look and majestic mien) Well, sir, good day! What messages from Spain? (Cecil presents him despatches—Cromwell glances over them, looking, from time to time, at Cecil)

CECIL. (aside) What is there in this man that I should fear him? Hath he some spell to witch us from ourselves, And make our natures minion to his own?

CROMWELL. Plead they so warm for Stuart? 'tis too late!

CECIL. It is too late!

CROMWELL. Since last we parted, Hubert, He, the high author of our civil wars, Hath been their victim. 'Twas an evil, Hubert; But so is justice ever when it falls Upon a human life!

CECIL. God's mercy!—justice! Why justice is a consequence of law— Founded on law—begotten but by law! By what law, Cromwell, fell the King?

CECIL. Cæsar may find his type amidst the living; And by that name our sons may christen Cromwell.

CECIL. Arouse thine anger, Cromwell! rate me, vent Thy threats on this bare front—thy kindness kills me!

CROMWELL. Bear with me, son, as I would bear with thee! Add not to these grim cares that press upon me. Eke thou not out the evils of the time; They are enow to grind my weary soul. Restrain the harsher thoughts, that would reprove, Until a calmer season, when 'tis given To talk of what hath been with tempered minds; And part we now in charity.

CECIL. O Cromwell, If now we part, it is forever. Here I do resign my office in thy hands; Lay down my trust and charge,—

CROMWELL. [hastily] I'll not receive them; Another time for this.

CECIL. There is no other. I came to chide thee, Cromwell; ay, to chide, Girt as thou art with power: but thou hast ta'en The sternness from my soul, and made the voice Of duty sound so grating to my ear, That, for mine honor, I, who fear thee not, Do fear my frailty, and will trust no more My conscience to our meeting.

CROMWELL. Wouldst thou say That thou wilt leave me?

CECIL. Yes.

CROMWELL. And whither bound?

CECIL. The king's no more; and in his ashes sleep His faults. His son as yet hath wronged us not: That son is now our king!

CROMWELL. Do I hear right? Know'st thou, rash boy, those words are deadly? Know'st thou, It is proclaimed “whoever names a king In any man, by Parliament unsanctioned, Is criminal of treason?”

CECIL. So 'tis said; And those who said it, were themselves the traitors.

CROMWELL. This, and to me!—beware; on that way lies My limit of forbearance.

CECIL. Call thy guards; Ordain the prison; bring me to the bar; Prepare the scaffold. This, great Cromwell, were A milder doom than that which I adjudge Unto myself. 'Tis worse than death to leave The flag which waved above our dreams of freedom— The Chief our reverence honored as a god— The bride whose love rose-colored all the world— But worse than many deaths—than hell itself, To sin against what we believe the right.

CROMWELL. [moved and aside] And this bold soul I am about to lose! [Aloud] If me thou canst forget, and all my love, Remember Edith! Is she thy betrothed, And wilt thou leave her too? Thou hid'st thy face. Stay, Hubert, stay; I, who could order, stoop And pray thee stay.

CECIL. No—no!

CROMWELL. [with coldness and dignity] Then have thy will. Desert the cause of freedom at her need,— False to thy chief, and perjured to thy love. I do repent me that I have abased Myself thus humbly. Go, Sir, you have leave; I would not have one man in honest Israel Whose soul hath hunger for the flesh of Egypt.

CECIL. [approaching Cromwell slowly] Canst thou yet make the doubtful past appear Done but in sorrowing justice?—canst thou yet Cement these jarring factions—join in peace The friends alike of royalty and freedom, And give the state, secured by such good laws As now we may demand, once more a king?

CROMWELL. A king! Why name that word? A head—a chief, Perchance, the Commonwealth may yet decree! Speak on!

CECIL. I care not, Cromwell, for the name; But he who bears the orb and sway of power Must, if for peace we seek, be chosen from The Stuarts' lineage. Charles the First is dead: Wilt thou proclaim his son?

CROMWELL. [laughing bitterly] An Exile, yes! A Monarch, never!

CECIL. Cromwell, fare thee well! As friends we meet no more. May God so judge As I now judge, believing thee as one Whom a bold heart, and the dim hope of power, And the blind wrath of faction, and the spur Of an o'ermastering Fate, impel to what The Past foretells already to the Future. Dread man, farewell. [exit Cecil]

MEMOIRS OF MRS. HEMANS.¹

¹ From the Memoirs of Mrs. Hemans, by Chorley—now in the press of Messieurs Saunders and Otley, to whom we are indebted for some of the sheets.

It will be yet more clearly seen, from further portions of Mrs. Hemans' correspondence, with what devotion and gratitude she regarded German literature; she spoke of its language as “rich and affectionate, in which I take much delight:”—how she gratefully referred to its study as having expanded her mind and opened to her new sources of intellectual delight and exercise. For a while, too, she may have been said to have written under the shadow of its mysticism; but this secondary influence had passed away some time before her death. It is not the lot of high minds, though they may pass through and linger in regions where thought loses itself in obscurity, to terminate their career there. The “Lays of many Lands,” most of which appeared in the New Monthly Magazine, then edited by Mr. Campbell, were, we are told by herself, suggested by Herder's “Stimmen der Volker in Liedern.” Her next volume was formed of a collection of these, preceded by “The Forest Sanctuary.”

Mrs. Hemans considered this poem as almost, if not altogether, the best of her works. She would sometimes say, that in proportion to the praise which had been bestowed upon others of her less carefully meditated and shorter compositions, she thought it had hardly met with its fair share of success: for it was the first continuous effort in which she dared to write from the fulness of her own heart—to listen to the promptings of her genius freely and fearlessly. The subject was suggested by a passage in one of the letters of Don Leucadio Doblado, and was wrought upon by her with that eagerness and fervor which almost command corresponding results. I have heard Mrs. Hemans say, that the greater part of this poem was written in no more picturesque a retreat than a laundry, to which, as being detached from the house, she resorted for undisturbed quiet and leisure. When she read it, while in progress, to her mother and sister, they were surprised to tears at the increased power displayed in it. She was not prone to speak with self-contentment of her own works; but, perhaps, the one favorite descriptive passage was that picture of a sea burial in the second canto.

The whole poem, whether in its scenes of superstition—the Auto da Fe—the dungeon—the flight, or in its delineation of the mental conflicts of its hero—or in its forest pictures of the free west, which offer such a delicious repose to the mind, is full of happy thoughts and turns of expression. Four lines of peculiar delicacy and beauty recur to me as I write, too strongly to be passed by. They are from a character of one of the martyr sisters.

But the entire episode of “Queen-like Teresa—radiant Inez”—is wrought up with a nerve and an impulse, which men of renown have failed to reach. The death of the latter, if, perhaps, it be a little too romantic for the stern realities of the scene, is so beautifully told, that it cannot be read without strong feeling, nor carelessly remembered. And most beautiful, too, are the sudden out-bursts of thankfulness—of the quick, happy consciousness of liberty with which the narrator of this ghastly sacrifice, interrupts the tale, to reassure himself—

Sport on, my happy child! for thou art free!

The character of the convert's wife, Leonor,—devotedly clinging to his fortunes, without a reproach or a murmur, while her heart trembles before him, as though she were in the presence of a lost spirit,—is one of those, in which Mrs. Hemans' individual mode of thought and manner of expression are most happily impersonated. As a whole, she was hardly wrong in her own estimate of this poem: and on recently returning to it, I have been surprised to find, how well it bears the tests and trials with which it is only either fit or rational to examine works of the highest order of mind. But here, also, would criticism be impertinent.

The next work of Mrs. Hemans, and the one by which she is most universally known, was the “Records of Woman,” published in 1828. In this, to use her own words, “there is more of herself to be found” than in any preceding composition. But even the slightest analysis of these beautiful legends would be superfluous; suffice it to say, that they were not things of meditation, but imagined and uttered in the same breath; like every line that she wrote, as far as possible from being a studied exercise. It is true, that in some lyrics more than others, her individual feelings are eagerly put forth—in those, for instance, wherein aspirations after another world are expressed, or which breathe the weary pining language of home sickness, or in which she utters her abiding sense of the insufficiency of fame to satisfy a woman's heart, however its possession may gratify her vanity—or wherein she speaks with a passionate self-distrust of her own art, of the impossibility of performance to keep pace with desire. The fervor with which these were poured forth seriously endangered a frame already undermined by too ardent a spirit, whose consuming work had been aided by a personal self-neglect, childish to wilfulness. So perilously, indeed, was she excited by the composition of Mozart's Requiem, that she was prohibited by her physician from any further exercise of her art, for some weeks after it was written. Few more genuine out-bursts of feeling have been ever poured forth than the three following verses of that poem.

Most of the poems above referred to, were written at Rhyllon; the last and most favorite of Mrs. Hemans' residence at Wales. Some of them will be found colored by a shadow which had recently passed over her lot—the death of her mother. To this, which she always felt as an irreparable loss, will be found not a few touching allusions in many following letters.

A small woodland dingle, near Rhyllon, was her favorite retreat: here she would spend long summer mornings to read, and project, and compose, while her children played about her. “Whenever one of us brought her a new flower,” writes one of them, “she was sure to introduce it into her next poem.” She has unconsciously described this haunt over and over again with affectionate distinctness; it is the scene referred to in the “Hour of Romance,” and in the sonnet which is printed among her “Poetical Remains.”

Many of the imaginations which floated through her brain in this retirement, were lost in the more interrupted and responsible life, which followed Mrs. Hemans' departure from Wales; when the breaking up of her household, on the marriage of one of her family, and the removal of another into Ireland, threw her exclusively upon her own resources, and compelled her to make acquaintance with an “eating, drinking, buying, bargaining” world with which, from her disposition and habits, she was ill-fitted to cope. One of these unfinished works was the “Portrait Gallery,” of which one episode, “The lady of the Castle,” is introduced in the “Records.”

CONCLUDING LECTURE

Of the Course on the Obstacles and Hindrances to Education, arising from the peculiar faults of Parents, Teachers and Scholars, and that portion of the Public immediately concerned in directing and controlling our Literary Institutions.

BY JAMES M. GARNETT.

Since the first lecture of the course on the obstacles to all correct education was delivered, so much time has elapsed, and so many of you, probably, have not heard the whole, that some farther recapitulation than was given when I last addressed you, seems necessary fully to understand what I still wish to say in conclusion.

It will be recollected, I hope, that I have endeavored to fix upon parents themselves much the greater portion of the guilt, as well as the folly of creating these obstacles; since they, and the nurses whom they choose, are unquestionably the first moral and intellectual instructers of their children. I tried to prove that the deadly mischief was accomplished by a process commencing almost with their birth—a process which consists in checking or misdirecting the first dawnings of intellect and feeling in these helpless little beings; in teaching their heads, and neglecting their hearts; in cultivating sensual rather than intellectual appetites; in the irregularity of their moral discipline, which encourages or silently permits, at one time, the outbreaking of certain juvenile propensities, which, at another, they will severely punish; in performing this painful duty much oftener from caprice and wrath than sound judgment; in transferring their authority and their duties to others with far too little consideration; in their frequent changes of schools and teachers; in their reckless attacks upon the characters of both; in suffering their children often to choose for themselves—not only where, but what and how they shall be taught; in confounding the mere going to school and confinement in a school-room, with profitable study; in frequently disgusting their children with books in general, and all scholastic learning in particular, by making application to their lessons a punishment, rather than a pleasurable occupation; in preparing them for insubordination, by treating and speaking of the class of teachers as much inferior to themselves, and by taking part against the former, upon almost every occasion where complaints are made by either party; in making holidays seasons for feasting, idleness, and dissipation, rather than of rational recreation and agreeable diversity in the mode of intellectual and moral improvement; in educating their offspring for situations which they will probably never fill, and giving them tastes and desires never likely to be gratified, thereby disqualifying them at one and the same time, for attaining any of the real enjoyments of the present life within their reach, or for gaining the promised blessings of the life to come; but what is worse than all, in presenting a continual variance between their own precepts and practice, and substituting worldly motives as inducements to acquire knowledge, rather than the love and practice of wisdom and virtue, as absolutely essential to happiness, both in our present and future state of existence.

In speaking of the obstacles created by teachers as a class, I charged them with deficiency of moral courage in pursuing the course essential to the maintenance of that high station in society to which all well qualified teachers who faithfully discharge their duties are justly entitled. I accused them of making the business of teaching a mere stepping-stone to some other pursuit, rather than a regular profession for life; and, of course, neglecting the necessary means to give it that respectability and influence in society which it ought to have, and certainly would possess, if they took the same care to prepare themselves to become good teachers, that other men take to distinguish themselves in the particular professions which they have finally determined to pursue. Another charge against them was, that instead of always aiding each other as members of the same fraternity, their insane jealousy often operated in such a way, as to bring their whole class into disgrace and contempt; that their grand panacea for stimulating to study, is emulation—a nostrum, which may perhaps cure the disease of idleness, but will leave in its place those diabolical passions—jealousy, envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness; that their favorite punishments generally are corporeal ones, which can never do more than effect some temporary amendment of their pupil's conduct, without producing any in their bad principles; that the application of these punishments—these skin-deep remedies—is much oftener a process to work off the teacher's own angry passions, than to cure the pupil's faults—these last being considered rather as school annoyances, to be put out of the instructer's way with the least possible trouble and delay, than as deep-rooted diseases of the heart, requiring the utmost tenderness and skill in the methods of cure—diseases too, which must utterly destroy the sufferer's happiness, unless radically conquered. I also endeavored to show, that in their modes of teaching as well as in the books taught, they either obstinately follow the course in which they themselves have been taught, thereby precluding themselves from adopting any real improvements which the progress of society may produce; or they run wild in pursuit of every new project which the reckless spirit of innovation is so constantly obtruding on the public. It was likewise alleged against them, that their efforts, even when most zealously made, were too generally directed, solely to stocking the minds of their pupils with words, instead of being applied with still greater assiduity to fortifying their hearts with just principles of thought and action; that they made education to consist simply in what is called school learning, instead of rendering it a development as perfect as possible, of all our faculties, both intellectual and physical; hence the ascendancy given to mere scholastic and scientific acquirements, over those great moral and religious principles, without a thorough knowledge and practice of which, man, although educated, is little better than a beast of prey, furnished with increased powers of doing mischief. But the worst perhaps of all the faults ascribed to teachers, is, that they rarely manifest any particular interest in the moral and religious improvement of their pupils—any strong anxiety for their future happiness—any great solicitude for the correctness of their conduct, farther than the teacher's own ease and reputation are concerned; in a word, any of those kind, affectionate feelings towards them, which will almost invariably secure their warmest attachment, and at the same time establish an influence over them immeasurably more powerful that can possibly be created by any other means.

In illustrating the obstacles to education created by pupils, I endeavored to show, that they too generally look upon learning as physic, rather than food; that they mistake both the nature and extent of their teacher's authority over them, and consequently, of their own obligations to obedience; that they view all holidays or hours stolen from school as positive gains, rather than losses—at least of time, if nothing else; that to thwart their teachers is a proof of independence—to cheat them, an evidence of genius; that their own tastes and judgments are very soon deemed better guides for them, than their teacher's; that going to school at all, is a business, rather to please their parents than to benefit themselves—a most irksome restraint upon their natural liberty—a bondage which they may break as often as they can; and consequently, that their teachers are jailors, hired to confine, to teaze, and to punish, rather than good friends, ever ready to show them the best paths to knowledge, virtue, and happiness. I charged them generally with mistaking, while at school, the mere mechanical process, called “going through their books,” for thoroughly understanding and mastering their contents; hence such pupils always measure their scholarship, solely by the length of time they spend at school, and the number of pages which they there read, instead of estimating it by the amount of really useful acquirement. I likewise attempted to show that pupilage is viewed by vast multitudes of youth, as the period for idleness—for reckless enjoyment, rather than earnest and assiduous preparation for fulfilling faithfully all the important duties of adult life; that the great moral laws made for the government of mankind in general, were not, as they believe, made for boys and girls at school—or that they may break almost any of them with impunity, provided their teachers do not detect them; that no thought nor care for forming their future characters need molest them, until after they leave school, which will be quite soon enough to undertake so troublesome a business; and, of course, that they may offend as often as inclination prompts them—not only against good manners—but truth, justice, and honor, without the least hazard to their reputations. To crown the obstacles to correct education, created by the faults and errors of youth, I will state one omitted in its proper place, which prevails to a most deplorable extent; it is the belief, that the matters usually taught in schools, such as will enable the pupils to get a college diploma, comprehend the whole of what is called education; and that these requisites to collegiate honors are to be obtained, if at all, merely for worldly purposes, not as auxiliary means only, towards perfecting, as far as practicable, all those admirable faculties bestowed on us by God himself for the noblest of all uses—that of promoting human happiness, both in time and eternity.

Superadded to all these formidable obstructions to education as it should be, many more arise from other classes of society than parents, teachers, and scholars. The chief of these are, the want of persevering zeal in this vital cause, and the general neglect of all whose business it should be to inquire minutely and thoroughly into that part of the management of schools, which, very rarely, if ever, is made the subject of newspaper publication or individual scrutiny. Yet is this, beyond all comparison, the most important; I mean the particular methods of instruction, and the conduct of the teachers towards their pupils both in and out of school.

It is really not enough for the public to be told that at such and such schools, all arts, sciences, languages and accomplishments are taught dirt cheap, and in the shortest imaginable time—admitting the possibility of any such incredible promises being fulfilled. The main points—the great, essential groundwork of all right education, are the moral discipline—the punishments and rewards—but above all, the motives and inducements to study, which the teachers inculcate; for if this part of the process be essentially wrong, no other part can well work rightly. Into all these particulars, continual, earnest, and diligent inquiries should be made by competent judges—not to expose nor to injure individuals, but to supply what is deficient, and to correct what is wrong in all schools. Teachers themselves would not be long in setting about the work with due diligence, when they found public sentiment opposed to any part of their practice; and the community in general more disposed minutely and judiciously to investigate all such particulars relative to the management of schools, as it is always important, should be thoroughly known and understood. Most persons judge of schools by what they hear—not by what they see, or certainly know; and so little concern is usually felt about them, by any but those who have children there, that none else scarcely ever ask any questions on the subject. The consequence is, that although many will occasionally talk, as they do about various other matters which they do not understand, yet they rarely ever judge correctly. Idle gossip—the spirit of detraction—ignorance, and malice—will do infinitely more harm to these establishments, than the partiality of friendship, which is often equally blind, can ever do good; for the work of pulling down is always an easier, and frequently, to many, a much more agreeable task, than building up. Another great benefit which would result from so close and accurate a scrutiny as the one recommended, would be, that the investigators, and through them the public, would learn to make somewhat more charitable estimates of the difficulties which all teachers, especially of large schools, have always to encounter from the faults and vices of their scholars, aggravated by the interference of ignorant, injudicious, and immoral parents. All who would open the eyes of their understanding would certainly discover, that not a few of these difficulties infest even female schools, wherein the common opinion seems to be, at least with most parents in regard to their own daughters, that “nothing can in any wise enter that defileth;” or, in other words, that “the beau ideal” of woman—all innocence, purity and loveliness—is the real character of all her female children, and inseparably attaches to them, wherever found, whether at home or abroad. Such a discovery, possibly, might also lead such all-confiding parents to the painful, but salutary suspicion, that they themselves may have been, by early neglect on their part, the real cause of these sore evils. Notwithstanding these parental hallucinations in regard to daughters, all experience proves that girls differ from boys in their faults and vices, only according to the degree of their exposure in early life, to the contraction of bad principles and bad habits. What, in reality, are schools, either of boys or girls, but the world in miniature, annoyed and distracted by nearly all the same faults and vices—in a mitigated form, it is true, yet still operating to the extent of their respective spheres, and in proportion to the power of the peculiar temptations by which the pupils are assailed, as well as of the good and bad principles which they carry with them from home? This is true as the Gospel itself—yet where are the parents who could bear to have any of these follies and vices ascribed by this rule to their own children, especially if they were daughters, or would believe the accusation, if made? What would become of the luckless teachers who would have candor and hardihood enough to venture on such revolting disclosures? In all probability the loss of employment would be the consequence, if nothing worse befel them. Yet, that disclosures of this kind might very frequently and most justly be made in regard to many individuals in all large schools, none can possibly doubt, who will deliberately reflect on the composition of very many of these institutions. What would be the result of such reflection? Why, that many of the scholars have traits of character nearly as bad as could well be expected at so early a period of life, and habits such as inevitably lead to moral degradation and destruction, if not radically cured during the period of pupilage. Children of all grades of capacity, from the highest to the lowest—of all degrees of moral and literary acquirement, from a considerable portion of culture and improvement, to a very deplorable state of ignorance, idleness, and vice, and of all imaginable varieties of dispositions and tempers, are often found huddled together in these institutions. The unavoidable consequence is, that innumerable obstacles of almost invincible power to obstruct the progress of education, are continually presenting themselves—that numerous acts are committed to deplore, and a thousand things practised for which there can be no cure, unless both parental authority and public sentiment will steadily and most actively co-operate with the teachers, both in devising and applying the proper remedies. But how can this co-operation possibly be made, while the necessity for it is undiscerned—while the obstacles created by each party remain uncorrected, and the current coin between parents and teachers continues to be flattery and deception, instead of full and confidential disclosures by the last, of the children's faults and misdeeds, met by efficient support from the first, in every measure of salutary discipline? A reformation however, in these momentous particulars, is among the last things thought of, in regard to schools, where, in countless instances, the limbs and bodies of the pupils appear to be deemed much better worth training than their hearts and souls. If the first and last lesson taught a child, before it quits its home to be placed under other teachers, be, that the admiration and applause of the world must be the chief objects of pursuit, what success can the subsequent instructers possibly expect, who venture to inculcate a different lesson? What hope can they rationally entertain of substituting the love of wisdom and virtue—the fear of sin, and the holy desire of pleasing our Maker in all things, for the passions of pride, vanity, and ambition, sucked in almost with the mother's milk? Would it do to acquiesce so far in this primary instruction, as to tell the pupils that they must cherish these passions, but beware how they direct them? Would not such prescription be quite on a par in folly with granting a child inclined to drunkenness, liberty to drink every day to the point of intoxication, or with exposing ono who had any other vicious propensity, to opportunities of indulging it? The truth is, that if children are turned over immediately from the parent's to the teacher's hands, with passions rarely or never restrained—vicious inclinations and wills unsubdued—stubbornness, idleness, and insubordination habitually indulged, the tutor who attempts their correction has scarcely a possible chance of success. The very first serious effort would probably soon cause the removal of such pupils, who would be almost sure to complain, and would as surely be believed; for parents who spoil their children, are, most unfortunately, often found to confide in their veracity just in proportion as they should distrust it. But should the teacher's efforts to reform, fail to produce misrepresentations to the parents, they would usually be met by some such remonstrance as the following:—My father and mother never used to care about such things, and why should you? What right have you to condemn and forbid that which they suffered to pass unnoticed, and therefore, probably approved? Is the prospect any better, when there is no chance of appeal from the tutor's authority, nor of improper interference from such parents or guardians as have neither sense nor experience to know what is best for the children? It certainly ought to be, provided the instructers were well qualified for their offices. But alas! they too are often equally unfit, either from temper, ignorance, or subservience to the prevalent follies, prejudices, or culpable practices of the time present. If those whom it seems their interest to please, happen to be wrong-headed—unsettled in their principles, and vicious in their conduct, these suppliant teachers permit all their abstract notions of right to vanish into thin air, and will frequently abandon, not only their modes of teaching, but the matters to be taught, although confident of their great importance, that they may keep in favor with such really worthless patrons. It may be urged, at least, in mitigation of this, as well as several other faults of teachers, that they have to act both a difficult and most arduous part; for they have many wills, opinions, and principles besides their own to consult; many pernicious whims and wayward caprices to encounter; numerous prejudices to overcome; and not a few practices to oppose, which have either the parental sanction openly avowed in their favor, or that silent acquiescence in them, on which most children rely with equal confidence. Possessing little more than a mere nominal authority, and having always much work expected from them—such, for example, as making models of good conduct and literary acquirement out of all kinds of children—not only the well trained, but those who have been immeasurably petted and indulged—not only the talented, but the stupid—teachers are driven to the expedient of taking what generally appears to them “the shortest cut.” This is, if possible, to produce among their pupils, that anxious struggle for pre-eminence and victory over each other in scholarship, which can neither be excited nor kept alive without calling into action some of the worst passions of the human heart. But such struggle being recommended by the imposing misnomer of “noble, generous emulation,” passes without examination into its moral tendencies, and is almost every where resorted to, as the only effectual means to secure diligence, ardor, and perseverance in the pursuit of scholastic knowledge. To fulfil, therefore, the unreasonable expectation of such persons as seem to calculate on a child's education being finished with almost as great despatch as a dexterous cooper sets up and turns off his flour barrels—as well as to save themselves trouble, seems to be the chief, if not the only reason why teachers have so generally cultivated the principle of emulation in their schools, as a species of “king-cure-all.” It is a poor excuse however, for instilling into the youthful mind a poison which rarely fails to baffle all the future efforts of moralists and divines who attempt its extirpation. That it is entirely unnecessary, has been again and again demonstrated by some of the most eminent writers, and most successful teachers who have ever lived. All who are concerned in the business of education should make common cause against this fell destroyer of the soundest principles of instruction; and he or they who could succeed in its utter extinction, would deserve the united blessings of every parent and child in the United States.

The following very striking remarks, from “A practical view of Christian Education in its earliest stages,” by T. Babington, member of the British Parliament, are so apposite to my present purpose, that I cannot forbear to quote them. In speaking of the father's duty, this admirable writer says—“He must hold out examples to his child in such a way as not to excite emulation. To imitate an example is one thing: to rival any person, and endeavor to obtain a superiority over him, is another. It is very true, as is maintained by the defenders of emulation, that it is impossible to make progress towards excellence without outstripping others. But surely there is a great difference between the attainment of a superiority over others, being a mere consequence of exertions arising from other motives, and a zeal to attain this object, being itself a motive for exertion. Every one must see that the effects produced on the mind in the two cases will be extremely dissimilar. Emulation is a desire of surpassing others, for the sake of superiority, and is a very powerful motive to exertion. As such, it is employed in most public schools; but in none, I believe, ancient or modern, has it been so fully and systematically brought into action, as in the schools of Dr. Bell and Mr. Lancaster. Whatever may be the merits of the schools of either of these gentlemen in other respects, (a question which it is unnecessary to enter,) in this they appear to me to commit such an offence against christian morals, that no merits could atone for it. I cannot but think emulation an unhallowed principle of action, as scarcely, if at all, to be disjoined from jealousy and envy, from pride and contention—incompatible with loving our neighbor as ourselves—and a principle of such potency, as to be likely to engross the mind, and turn it habitually and violently from the motives which it should be the great business of education to cherish and render predominant—namely, a sense of duty, and gratitude, and love to God.” Instead of enlarging on this subject, I beg leave to refer to Mr. Gisborne's remarks upon it, in his “Duties of Women.” “If emulation (says he) is an unhallowed motive, it cannot innocently be employed, whatever good effects may be expected from it. We must not do evil that good may come. But if any christian should deem it not absolutely unhallowed, few will deny, I think, that it is questionable and dangerous. Even then, in this more favorable view of emulation, ought it to be used, unless it can be shown to be necessary for the infusion of vigor into the youthful mind, and for securing a respectable progress in literature? I can say, from experience, that it is not necessary for the attainment of those ends. In a numerous family with which I am well acquainted, emulation has been carefully and successfully excluded; and yet the acquirements of the different children have been very satisfactory. I can bear the same testimony with respect to a large Sunday School with which I have been connected for many years. I have often heard of virtuous emulation—but can emulation ever be so characterized in a christian sense? Whether it may in that loose sense of virtue which those adopt who take the worldly principle of honor for their rule, I will not stop to inquire.

“But it is not sufficient not to excite and employ emulation on plan and system, as a stimulus in education—great care ought to be taken to exclude it. And great care will be necessary, for it will be continually ready to show itself; and if not checked, it will soon attain strength, strike its roots deep in the heart, and produce bitter fruits, which, in the eyes of a christian, will be ill-compensated by the extraordinary vigor and energy it will give to scholastic studies. When examples are held out for imitation, (a very different thing, be it remembered, from emulation,) or as warnings, the child must be made sensible that its state in the sight of God is rendered neither better nor worse by the virtues or the faults of others, except so far as they may have influenced, or may have failed to influence, its own conduct—that it ought to love its neighbor as itself, and to rejoice in every advance made by another in what is good, and to lament over all his faults and defects, without one selfish thought being suffered to check the joy or the concern—that it ought therefore to wish all its companions all success in their common studies, with the same sincerity with which it wishes its own success—and to be affected by their faults and failures in the same manner it would be by its own. It should be made sensible, in proportion as it may give way to feelings the reverse of these, that its ‘eye will be evil because others are good’—and it will act in opposition to the injunction, ‘mind not every one his own things, but every one also the things of others,’ and to a whole host of Scriptural precepts and examples. These things must be inculcated, not by lectures in general terms, but by applying such views to all the little incidents which call for them as they successively arise. The child must also be made sensible, how much better it is for himself that his companions should be eminent for laudable attainments and good qualities; for that, in proportion to their excellences in these respects, they will be useful and estimable companions, and ought to be objects of his affection. All little boasts of having done better than this or that brother or sister, and every disposition to disappointment when they succeed best, should be most carefully checked, and the lesson of ‘rejoicing with them that do rejoice, and of weeping with them that weep,’ must be very diligently inculcated.”

To these authorities of Babington and Gisborne, I believe might be added that of every writer of any eminence on the subject of education, from the first who denounced emulation as an unchristian and most pernicious principle of action, to the most distinguished of our own times. Yet, strange to say, it continues to be made the master-wheel of the whole machinery of instruction in almost all the schools of the United States. Very few exceptions can any where be found. The deleterious nostrum is administered far more extensively than any quack medicine ever yet invented—nay, than all of them put together; and common sense and christian morality interpose their warning cries in vain. Parents, teachers, and scholars are all playing into each others hands, (if I may so express myself,) to perpetuate this fatal quackery; but the sin lies principally at the doors of the first. They influence and direct, mediately or immediately, the whole system of education; and if they will not commence the Herculean work of reformation, it must remain an utterly hopeless undertaking, since none else have either the authority or the power to make it. Self-amendment therefore in them, must necessarily precede amendment in others. But how is this to be brought about, when the leaders themselves, or rather those who should be so, in this vital work, are just as blind generally to their own faults, as so many insane persons; while the few who can see them, have not enough moral courage even to attempt their extirpation. The great popularity of emulation is easily explained: it saves parents the difficulty and trouble of explaining and enforcing the duty, demonstrating the advantages, and portraying the pleasures of literary, scientific, and moral acquirements; for teachers also, it is the same labor-saving process; while it imparts to the pupils themselves a stimulus to mental effort, similar to that which alcohol produces on bodily exertion—a stimulus that excites feeling, while it deadens judgment, and irresistibly transforms benevolence into the most unqualified selfishness. And thus it is, that instead of genuine christian morality and true religion being made the only basis of all education, a spurious principle of most pernicious tendency, fatal alike to both, is substituted for them. Such a principle is emulation, however sophistry may disguise, or our own bad passions recommend it. The victory for which it constantly goads us to struggle, must be obtained, cost what it may to the peace, the fame, or the happiness of others.

It may perhaps be objected, that if the moral and religious instruction of children were as much and as closely attended to as I seem to require, no time would be left for any thing else; and consequently, that on the principles here recommended, the mind would soon be miserably contracted by bigotry and fanaticism. Very far should I be, even if I had the privilege, from restraining the powers of the understanding, or limiting their exercise only to moral and religious subjects; although these, if prosecuted to their full extent, embrace quite enough for man's happiness in both worlds. No, God forbid; let these powers be carried to their highest point of attainable perfection—let them be most assiduously, most unceasingly cultivated to the latest period of human life, for such is the divine will of Him who bestowed them all. But I would invariably have it done in perfect accordance with His will, and solely for the promotion of human happiness—our own, of course, as well as that of others. It never should be done, for the wretchedly selfish, contemptible purpose of surpassing each other, and obtaining the applause of beings equally frail, imperfect, and sinful with ourselves.—Shall I be asked, if I would exclude the love of praise from human motives? Assuredly I would, if it cannot be used without being made a paramount principle. For however pure it may appear, at first, there is always so much impurity mixed with it, especially when it results in active emulation, that almost all who are nurtured upon such diet, soon learn to feed upon the garbage of indiscriminate applause, when they cannot procure the nicer dishes of this species of mental aliment. The taste for it is perpetually becoming more and more depraved by indulgence—whereas the love of God, and of wisdom and virtue as his requirements, can never run to excess, nor can ever operate in any other way than to enrich, improve, and exalt the soul for all the great purposes, both temporal and eternal, to which it was originally destined. Shall we be told that the first motive is so much easier to inculcate than the last, as to produce a necessity for resorting to it? I shall continue to deny the fact until the experiment can fairly be made. This has never yet been done in a sufficient number either of families or schools, to furnish the necessary proof, to say nothing of the utter incompatibility of the two kinds of motive as controlling principles of conduct. Let us endeavor to illustrate this by numbers. If a hundred children under the process of education, are constantly urged on in their course by the stimulants of emulation and ambition, for one who is taught that these are not proper motives of action, (and I believe the proportion is still greater,) ought we to wonder that ninety-nine should be found both emulous and ambitious—should be found preferring the lesser to the greater good? Ought we to feel any surprise if human praise, present, palpable, and certain—held up too as the most desirable thing in this world, should be much more highly esteemed, than the remote, and with very many, the doubtful prospect of gaining something, they know not what, in a world to come—by acting as if human praise, however delightful, should not be the mainspring of our conduct in the present life? Yet where shall we turn our eyes or ears, and not find it so? Where shall we search without finding this cancer shooting its fatal roots into the very centre even of the youngest hearts? The process begins with the nursery slang of—“dear, sweet, precious little darling!—ar'n't you the most beautifullest, the best, the smartest little child in the whole world? and sha'n't you be far before them all?” This inordinate, immeasurable excitation is continued in all possible forms and modifications, until the well grown son or daughter is transferred to some distant school with the valedictory dose of—“Farewell, my dearest child—be sure never to let any of your schoolmates get before you in your studies; you must outdo them all, or you will disgrace yourself and family.” With such food, thus seasoned by nurses, parents, teachers, companions and all, from the first dawnings of intellect to its maturity, when the youth of our country issue forth from their schools, academies, and colleges, “with all their blushing honors thick upon them,” where will the young brain be found that will not be turned with pride, vanity, and ambition? Where will be the young lady whose heart will not sicken at the thought of a rival in beauty or accomplishments?—where the young gentleman who would not be ready, should he deem it necessary, to assert his imaginary supremacy with sword and pistol, against all who might appear likely to cross his path, or mount the ladder of worldly honors and distinctions faster than he could? The driest tinder will not sooner blaze from contact with a lighted match, than will the passions of all young men, thus educated, take fire, and consume both others and themselves, if their selfish views of any kind are likely to be disappointed by conflicting claims to selfish gratifications. Can any persons, in their senses, believe it will be enough to save their sons and daughters from pride, vanity, and ambition, occasionally to tell them, “take care, my good children, you must not be either proud, vain, or ambitious,” although they themselves are continually sowing the seed of these vices, and using all suitable means to make them vegetate and ripen. Would it not be stark madness in parents to expect that their sons should obey their injunctions to sobriety, if they placed them under continual temptations to get drunk; or, that their daughters could long remain innocent, if exposed constantly to all the allurements of vice in its most seductive forms? Yet equally mad are all parents who first subject their children to all the corrupting influences of merely worldly morals, and then expect from them such uniform examples of virtuous conduct as can flow from no other imaginable source but the morality and religion of the Gospel of Christ Jesus himself. For the immoral propensities and vices of children, there is no other radical cure under heaven than christianity; but alas! in many, even of the most popular schools in the United States, both christian morals and the christian religion, if not actually a species of contraband, are yet untaught as an essential part of the regular scholastic course.

Human happiness being acknowledged on all hands to be the only legitimate object of all education—happiness both here and hereafter—it has always seemed to me passing strange, that we should act in regard to the vegetable kingdom, where mere abundant fructification is the only object, on much more rational principles than we do in relation to that to which we ourselves belong. For example, from the tops of such plants as man has subjected to his culture, we never expect even leaves, still less fruit, until we have first taken good care to give their roots all the appliances which we believe necessary and proper. But a course nearly opposite is generally pursued with the human subject. We go to work most laboriously upon the head, before we so much as think of the heart, which may well be called the root of all our actions. Teachers themselves too frequently take it for granted, that every thing which ought to be done in this behalf has already been done at home, and is therefore no part of their business. But the deplorable fact is, that in very many cases, nothing, or worse than nothing, has there been done. In every such instance, the all-essential duty, however often neglected, of teachers, is to exert every faculty they possess for remedying so deadly an evil, since no great and permanent good can ever be imparted to the pupil without it. But is this done generally, or even in many instances? To prove that it has not been done, an appeal has been made to the experience of all who have well examined this subject, and I challenge a denial. It has been affirmed that our schools in general, from the lowest to the highest, do not sufficiently attend to the inculcation of moral and religious principles—do not make them, as it were, the foundation, cement, and finishing of all the various materials which contribute to form the superstructure called Education. The charge is certainly a very serious one; but fortunately, if it be unjust, the difficulty of disproving it will not be very great. It may be done, first, by the various public notices of what the conductors of our schools generally promise to do for those confided to their care; and second, by an exposition, fully and faithfully made, how far and in what manner these promises are fulfilled. Shall we find, in a majority of these notices, any thing more than a brief, general declaration, “to attend strictly to the manners and morals of the pupils?” If we can, then are they acquitted so far as public pledges can go. Have we yet been informed, that in a majority of these schools a regular and constant course of moral instruction is given, and that religious principle, not only in the abstract, but in practice, is earnestly and most assiduously inculcated by every means in the power of the teachers? Then ought they to be acquitted also, on the score of performance. But let the appeal be made to these two tests when it may, and the melancholy truth of my assertion will flash conviction on the most incredulous minds. We shall find very many schools where languages, sciences, arts and accomplishments are well taught; while few, very few will be discovered, in which that alone which makes all these things of any permanent value, is taught at all, or taught in such a manner as to enable young people correctly to discriminate between the various species of knowledge, and to assign to each its just measure of real, intrinsic worth. For proof of this assertion, I would ask what body of trustees or visitors (call them what you please,) of our schools, do we ever hear of, making inquiries into any thing more than the literary qualifications and decent characters of those who either have, or offer to take charge of them? Would this be the case?—could it possibly happen, if religious and moral instruction held the rank which it ought to do, in their estimates of the comparative value of the matters to be taught? If the christian code of morals, the christian system of faith, have any advantage whatever over the faith and practice of those who think that they can do very well without christianity, or at least with a mere nominal belief in it, ought such inquiries ever to be neglected?—nay, should it not be considered an imperative duty always to make them? How many of our schools of any kind do we hear of, wherein even the formality of daily prayers, and regular attendance at places of public worship, are either insisted upon or recommended? Is this done in a majority of them? If not, how can the neglect be explained, but on the ground of disbelief in the duty and utility of these practices? And yet we are said to live in a christian community! and much offence, I presume, would be taken, were any person to address the public as if the contrary were the fact. But as trees must be judged by their fruit—not by their names, so must communities as well as individuals be characterized, rather by their practices than their professions.

There is still another and far stronger proof of our assertion, that moral and religious instruction is much and very generally neglected in our schools. Let any one who chooses to make the experiment, take, indiscriminately, any number of young persons, of both sexes, who have just left school, and ask them—“are you members of any particular christian church? If you are not, have you formed any distinct, settled religious opinions in consequence of the course of religious instruction received from your teachers? Has any regular, earnest, unremitting effort been made to instil into your minds the general principles of christianity?” I verily believe that the multitude answering in the negative would shock any one who had the least particle of true religion in him. To this opinion I have been led, not by vague conjecture, but by much inquiry and observation.

It may perhaps be urged, that even theological schools—schools exclusively devoted to moral and religious instruction, sometimes turn out infidels, hypocrites, and profligates upon society. I admit the fact, but deny that any inference can fairly be drawn from it which could, in the slightest degree, invalidate the assertion that moral and religious instruction should ever be made the basis of all education. But one method indeed, occurs to me, by which this vital truth (as I firmly believe it to be) could be rendered even doubtful. It would be fairly to compare, if practicable, the numbers of worthless young persons from all our schools of every kind. Then, if the proportion from theological institutions was greater than from any other, or even should it prove as great, the peculiar kind of instruction there given might well be deemed worthless. But if this proportion really be smaller, almost beyond calculation smaller, as I verily believe it will be found, it must be as clear as a cloudless sun that the religious and moral principles taught in theological schools, are infinitely more available in making good and virtuous men, than all the other principles put together which are taught in other schools, and are consequently greatly superior to them, even for this world's use. Shall I be asked by the scoffers at religion, if I would educate all our boys for parsons? I will reply by another question—will not the scoffers themselves be willing to educate their children for heaven, if there be such a place? If there be not, what could they possibly lose, even in the present life, by having them taught to believe that truth, justice, mercy, and charity in its broadest sense, with all other good qualities that exalt man to his highest state of moral and intellectual excellence, have no other sure foundation, no other permanent sanction, but christianity? As a mere matter of worldly calculation, and upon the supposition that there is error, or at least the risk of it on both sides, any rational man would think that the point should be settled forever, even by so simple an argument as the one used by Crambé with his master Martinus Scriblerus, when invited to join a society of free-thinkers. Crambé's advice was, “by no means to enter into their society unless they would give him sufficient security to bear him harmless from any thing that might happen after this life.” This is a kind of calculation which must always have some weight even with the most reckless, hardened sinner. As here presented in the identical words of Dean Swift, it may possibly have the appearance to some, of unbecoming levity on so momentous a subject. But I trust not, as nothing is more remote from my own intentions. No matter which can possibly engage our attention, can bear the smallest comparison with this in importance; and in this respect, the reformation of our schools throughout the country, is a subject of the deepest—the most vital interest. In many, very many of them, no religious instruction whatever is given; nor indeed, is there any regular, systematic course of moral study pursued as the most essential of the whole course; but (as I have before remarked) languages and sciences—sciences and languages, alternated in all imaginable modes and forms, constitute nearly the whole process of education for our sons; while our daughters, to compensate for their not being allowed to go quite so deep into such matters, have their feet and fingers taught to execute many truly marvellous tricks—and moreover, are instructed in the grand art of getting husbands by “dress and address,” as the quintessence of female education.

The sum and substance of all my remarks on this, as on former occasions, will prove, I hope, that many great and radical obstacles exist to the adoption and practice of a correct system of education, which are far from being necessary evils, although the various mischiefs done by them may be considered as working most fatally on the very vitals of society. Many of these obstacles have been, most justly, as I believe, ascribed to parents—many to teachers, numerous others to scholars, and not a few to the public in general. Whether these last will find any parents willing to acknowledge them, is more than I can tell. But believing that their existence cannot be denied—for they are seen and deeply felt every where—the conclusions to be drawn from such facts remain in their full force.

These are, that the teaching of the heart must always precede that of the head; that right motives must be inspired before good conduct can be expected, and that the Logadian plan of building houses from the tops downwards, must not be so closely imitated in rearing our edifices of education, if we wish them to answer any other than a very temporary and comparatively contemptible purpose. In other words, we must take care always to commence with the foundations, and have them exactly as they should be, or the superstructures can never be either useful or durable to the extent they might be made. These foundations are—not the alphabet, nor the arithmetical characters, nor grammars, nor dictionaries, nor foreign languages, nor sciences—but the love of God and man to be displayed in overt acts rather than by empty professions, and to govern, in fact, the whole life. To make our entire work indestructible hereafter, as well as estimable in the highest degree here, the main pillars, as well as the corner stones and whole groundwork must be—aye, must necessarily, absolutely, unconditionally be, such as will pass inspection in the next life, as well as in the present. This brings us back to what has heretofore been so much and so earnestly insisted upon—the unqualified, the sacred obligation of all who have any thing to do, from first to last, with educating the youth of our country, to make, as far as practicable, not only their motives, but the ultimate ends of their whole course of study, such as may bear examination at the last great and awful day of our final account before the Almighty Judge of heaven and earth. This most momentous truth of a final judgment in another state of existence, for all “our deeds done in the body,” instead of being the first thing taught to our children as soon as their minds are capable of receiving truth at all, is generally left to find its way into them as it may—to be forced upon them in after life, as it rarely fails to be, by the terrors, the remorse of a guilty conscience, reproaching them for the commission of deeds against which early moral and religious instruction might effectually have guarded them. Yes, my friends, if there be any truth in God's word, such instruction would guard—would save them from these terrors and this remorse. What awful responsibility then attaches to all those who neglect to give it! What an appalling consideration should it be, that thousands upon thousands of our youth are taught—so far as parental example can teach, to smother all thoughts of a final judgment in feasting; to drown them in intoxication; to forget them in the long and deadly sleep of a bestial debauch; or to banish them from the heart by the various pursuits of vanity, pride, avarice and ambition! Yet most of these very parents themselves well know, that all such sensualities and indulgences together are utterly unavailing always, to ward off the dark, solemn hour of serious reflection and agonizing remorse, which will come, soon or late, to all offenders against the laws of God. Then rushes on the startling remembrance of all their misspent hours—their vicious pursuits—their criminal deeds, to haunt their guilty imaginations with ceaseless terrors, and to leave them no rest but in the temporary oblivion procured by a repetition of some long practised debauchery or other. Such must inevitably be the fate, in a greater or less degree, of all who act as if no future accountability attached to them for present conduct; unless indeed, their profligacy has been so great, so incessant, as to have silenced entirely “the still, small voice of conscience;” and then, the sooner death sweeps them from the face of the earth the better—certainly for society, and none the worse probably for themselves. But what, my dear friends, does all this prove? Is it not demonstration strong as proof from holy writ, that religious and moral principle should invariably be made the basis of all education, and that nothing which is called education should be suffered to be carried on, unless in close connection with, and subordination to this all-absorbing truth of final and eternal punishment for sin—of final and eternal happiness for a life of holiness and virtue in the present world?