Introductory material (continued 3)

“Her father arrived, attended by the doctor; the last with heartfelt sorrow assured us, that all attempts to revive her were useless—that the slumber of death was even now on the gentle girl. The father, in his desolation of soul, sought the throne of mercy, and we united in committing the spirit of the beloved one to the Shepherd of Israel, and prayed that ‘his rod and staff might comfort and support her.’ Her freed spirit winged its flight, just as the sun's last rays gleamed on her pillow, which all with uplifted hearts blessed as the omen of that spirit's future happiness.

“We sorrowed, but not as those without hope. What saith the scripture? ‘The hope of the righteous is as an anchor of the soul, sure and steadfast.’

“I assisted in depositing the beautiful clay in the earth, and planted over it the evergreen fir. It was a dear spot to me, and as long as I remained on the island I resorted to it, to commune with the image of her who was once the animating spirit of all that surrounded me.

“Soon after her death, an opportunity offered for my return to Denmark. I embraced it, promising, if circumstances should ever induce me to visit Iceland, that I would seek the hospitable mansion of Holstein. I never saw Osman again, but I was told by the owner of a boat on the coast, that he had been seen on the night of the fatal encounter, to leap into a fishing craft lying on the beach, and disappear.

“Thus I have given you some particulars connected with my past life. I have rushed into busy scenes—I have tried to forget my own sorrows in relieving the distresses of others—but in vain; the image of that bleeding form haunts me. I long for the hour when the kind hand of death shall blot the recollection forever from my memory.”

V.

THE LAUGHING GIRL.

Lines suggested on viewing a Painting of a Female laughing.

Oh, let me laugh out, till my eye-lashes glisten With tear-drops, which joy, like affliction, will bring; Be not vex'd my dear Hal—I must laugh, you may listen, And count the shrill echoes that cheerily ring. Hark! to the morning gun, Hail to thee! rising sun, Dances my heart with exuberant glee. The sky-lark from earth Flies to heaven with its mirth, But it cannot ha! ha! and be merry like me. Mine is no half-suppressed drawing-room titter, Strangled before it escapes from the lips; Nor the sardonic smile, than wormwood more bitter, Which might wither those flowers the honey-bee sips; But the fountain of joy, Without care or alloy, Springs in my bosom—refreshens my heart. Forest and river, then, Echo my laugh again— Never may gladness from Julia depart. Look not so grave, gentle Henry, at me, As if you would say all my griefs are to come; No gloom in the morn of my life can I see, And my laugh will scare sorrow away from our home. Pleasure unending Our footsteps attending, One brilliant May day through our lifetime shall last. Time shall not wear us, No trouble come near us, But the future be gilded by light from the past. Now laugh, for my sake, dearest Hal, and the kiss Which you sued for, I'll give, if you cordially roar. Well done!—never barter a pleasure like this, Were a crown to be purchased by laughing no more. In contentment and health, Tho' untrammel'd by wealth, True bliss from the store of our hearts we may draw. Let us laugh as we glide O'er mortality's tide, And cheer our last days with a rattling ha! ha!

E. M.

COURT DAY.

To a northern traveller in the southern states, there is scarcely any thing more novel or entertaining than a Court Day. Familiar as the occasion and its scenes may be to a Virginian, there is something in the whole aspect of this monthly festival which rivets the attention of a stranger. And I have not been without my suspicions that the influence of this custom and its adjuncts upon society, manners, and character has never been appreciated. In our northern country there are no occasions upon which the whole population of a county, even as represented by its leading freeholders, convenes at one spot. County courts are attended by functionaries, litigants, and very near neighbors, but not, as in the south, by the gentry and yeomanry of a whole district.

The consequence of such an arrangement as that of the south is, that all the landholders and gentlemen of a neighborhood become mutually acquainted, and lay the foundation for friendly and hospitable reciprocities, which may be continued through life. The whole texture of society has a tincture from this intermingling. It is undeniable, that while aristocratic family pride, and chivalrous elevation of bearing, exist no where in greater vigor than at the south, there is a freer intercourse on the court-house-lawn between the richest planter and the honest poor man, than is ever witnessed in the manufacturing districts of Connecticut or Pennsylvania. This constant mingling of the aged with the young, tends to keep up national characteristics and to perpetuate ancient habits and sentiments. And let an old-fashioned man be allowed to whisper in the ear of this innovating age that all is not antiquated which is old, and that the hoary stream of tradition brings down with it not only prejudices, but wholesome predilections.

To enjoy a genuine and unsophisticated Court Day, one must select a county in the heart of the real Old Dominion, where emigration has not too much thinned the population, nor foreign settlers made the mass heterogeneous. It should be moreover in a region where the increase of villages has not modified the ancient character of the large estates.

I have in my mind's eye the very beau ideal of an old Virginia Court House. The edifice itself is neither large nor lofty, but “time-honored” and solid, and embosomed in a grove of locusts, which at the May Court fill the air with their balsamic odor. The lawn, which surrounds the house and grove, has not the deep green of our northern commons, nor is the earth so perfectly hidden by matted grass, but it is sufficiently soft and fresh to tempt many a group of loungers. But the scene becomes more lively as the day advances. Stalls and booths are rapidly erecting, and wagons of vendibles are disposed in rows; no doubt by pertinacious wanderers from New England. The porches of two or three plain-looking stores are filling rapidly with visiters who are arriving every moment. A northerner is amazed at the number of equestrians, and the ease and non-chalance with which even little boys manage their spirited horses. I must pass a thousand traits which in the hands of Irving or Kennedy would afford a tempting picture. The cordiality of greeting with which Virginians meet is delightful; and from ample trial I am able to pronounce it sincere and available. This heartiness is encouraged by such monthly gatherings. It is vain to object to this vehement shaking of hands and emphatic compellation. As my old pastor used to say, “The form without the power is better than neither;” and as Solomon says, “He that is a friend must show himself friendly.” By the time of dinner, a thousand morsels of business, postponed during the month, have been transacted; a thousand items of precious little family news have been exchanged; hundreds of clusters, under porch or tree, have discoursed of the reigning political topic; or mayhap, the mighty mass has all been moved toward some little eminence to hear the eloquence of a genuine “stump-speech.”

From my very heart, northman as I am, I admire and affect this good remnant of olden time. May no revised code ever disannul it, no sapient convention ever parcel out your counties into little municipal fragments!

I state it as an opinion very deliberately formed in my own mind, after some opportunities of comparison, that the elocution of southern men is more easy, more graceful, more natural, more vivacious, and more pathetic, than that of their northern compatriots. This is fairly to be traced to the influence of such occasions as the one which I describe. The moveable and excitable throng of a court-house-green is precisely the audience which awakens and inspires the orator. The tide of feeling comes back upon him at every happy appeal, and redoubles his energy. It was the Athenian populace, who “spent their time in nothing else, but either to tell or to hear some new thing,” (what a picture of a court day!) which made the Athenian orator. The practice of addresses to the literal and real constituency by every aspirant, brings into trial, very early, all the eloquence of the state. The manner of the best models is in some small degree perpetuated. The mere listening to such men as Patrick Henry, and John Randolph, not to mention the living, affords a school of eloquence to the youth of the country, and cultivates the taste of the people. And then in every little group upon yonder green, there is an ardor of conversation on political topics, which, as feeling rises, approaches to the character of harangue. I have never heard the impassioned conversation of southern men, in a tavern or by the way-side, without observing the natural tendency to a higher tone of elocution than would be tolerated in a similar circle at the north.

Whether the practice of “whittling,” during conversation, has any connexion with ease of utterance, is a question too abstruse for my present cursory investigation. The celebrated doctor Rush used jocosely to characterize some of his southern students, by their “R-phobia et Cacoethes secandi.” It may be noted as a token of the “free-and-easy” manner of certain courts, that we have seen advocates whittling during a defence, and judges whittling on the bench.

But finally, and most seriously, I trust no fanaticism of a faction at the north will ever so far prevail against the good sense and sound feeling of the community, as to interrupt the genial flow of hospitality, with which in every individual case I have known, northern men have been received by the gentlemen of old Virginia.

A NORTHERN MAN.

A BIRTH-DAY TRIBUTE.

When the dark shadows of approaching ills Have fallen on the spirit, and depressed Its proudest energies—when fear instils Its dastard maxims in the noblest breast, Preventing action and denying rest— When, undefined in distance, dimly glow Spectres of evil, till, by fancy drest, The illusive phantoms on the vision grow, And giants seem to wield the impending blow— When, wearied by uncertainty, we pray For what we fear, and deprecate suspense— When gleams of hope are painful as a ray Flashing at midnight from a light intense, And leave the darkness of despair more dense— When pleasure's cup is tasteless, and we seek No more the brief relief we once drew thence— When comes no sabbath in the lingering week Harassing thought to end, or coming bliss to speak— When even “desire it faileth,” and the voice Of softest music irritates the ear— When the glad sun makes fields and groves rejoice, While to our eyes the prospect still is drear— When the mild southern gale, that used to cheer With its bland fragrance, while it cooled the brow With lingering fever wasted, pained and sere, Has lost its power to charm—'tis then we know The worth of woman's love, and what to her we owe. Her holy love is like the gentle rill, Born where a fountain's waters bright are playing, (As from the birth of time they have, and will Till time shall end,) in noiseless beauty straying O'er golden sands, through verdant meads, and staying, To irrigate and freshen, as it flows Where man's proud works around in ruin lying, Proclaim the triumph of his many foes, Lust, passion, jealousy, and all the fiends he knows. And worse than these his breast will enter in, And each in turn his labored love control. The fond idolatry, which is not sin When woman loves—that yielding of the soul, Which hardly asks return, but gives the whole, He knoweth not; but, in the folds of pride, He seeks his gloomy spirit to enroll: Then her, who loves him most, he'll basely chide, And with his bitter words her constancy deride. Aye! thus infatuate, he will delight To lord it o'er the fond, devoted one Who breathes, but lives not, absent from his sight, If, for a moment, sorrow is unknown, Ambition gratified, or foes o'erthrown. But when his soul is darkened with alarms, And piercing thorns are in his pathway strown, He yields a willing pris'ner to her charms, And seeks to rest his head where love her bosom warms. But as the savage, when his eyes behold The bright creations of the artist's mind, Where light and shade the loveliest forms enfold, And chastened taste with nature's lore is joined, Pauses in ecstacy; yet seeks to find What hath his untaught spirit so subdued, But all in vain; so man, to love resigned, Can comprehend not what hath so endued Fair woman with the power to soothe his nature rude. He gazeth on the rill that is her love, But cannot pierce the bower of modesty Where roses, and where lilies twine above Its fount, and load the air with fragrancy. He hears its voice of heavenly melody; He sees, above, the bow of beauty spanned; He drinks; the draught has power his soul to free From all its ills; he feels his heart expand; He bears a charmed life; he walks on Eden land. Creature of impulse! but of impulse trained To do the bidding of a gentle heart, What man by years of study hath not gained, Thy spirit's teaching doth to thee impart. To him the unknown, to thee the easy art, To sway his reason and control his will; And when the unbidden gusts of passion start, To lay the whirlwind and bid all be still, And Peace, the vacant throne of Anarchy, to fill. * * * * * My cherished one! this tributary lay Upon thy natal morn thy husband brings; The gathered thoughts of many a weary day. Weary, save that my soul, on Fancy's wings, Borne as a bird that towards its eyrie springs, Flew where was thine to hold communion sweet: Save that each blissful memory, that clings Around my heart, would, as a dream, repeat Unnumbered vanished hours, with love and joy replete. As, when the orb that makes the day, declines, The twilight hour prolongs its cheering reign, My sun (thy love) through memory's twilight shines, Till its fair morning breaks on me again. Then shall my song resume in bolder strain The praises of thy sex, while I behold The loveliness, whose image I retain Within my heart—then shall my arms enfold Her who hath been to me, more than my lay hath told.

MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT POETRY.

Ever since I could write my name, I have been troubled with a disease which is spreading alarmingly in this our day and generation—I mean Cacoethes Scribendi; and the best antidote I have ever been able to discover for it, I received lately from the “Literary Messenger”—the rejection of my articles. At that time I imagined myself perfectly cured; but, unlike some other diseases, this can be had more than once, and the man who could invent some vaccinating process to prevent it, would deserve more gratitude from the present generation than the discoverer of vaccination against small pox.

I remember distinctly my first attempt at poetry. I was quietly resting under the shade of a stately elm, one bright summer day, turning over the leaves of a favorite author, and listening to the merry carols of a mock-bird that had perched on a thorn just before me. There was a beautiful lawn gently declining from the knoll where I lay, to the river's edge, green with luxuriant long grass, interspersed with the simple lily of the valley. There seemed to be a general thanksgiving of nature, and every thing tended to inspire my juvenile muse. After sundry bitings of the nails, and scratchings of the head,¹ I succeeded in pencilling on a blank leaf of the “Lady of the Lake,” lines “To a Mocking Bird.” No sooner had the fever of composition resolved itself into three stanzas, than the mock-bird, the green elms and humming waters, lost all their enchantment, and I hurried home to copy my verses and send them to the printing-office. I selected the whitest sheet of gilt-edged paper I had, made a fine nib to my pen, and soon finished a neat copy, which was forthwith deposited in the office of a respectable hebdomadal. Publication day came, and so did the carrier. Of all ugly boys, I used to think that carrier was the ugliest; but when he handed me the paper that I doubted not contained the first effort of unfledged genius, I thought he had the finest face and most waggish look I had ever seen—and in good truth, I never was so glad to see the fellow in my life. Wonderful metamorphosis! thought I, eagerly snatching the paper from him. But judge, oh! gentle reader, of my surprise and mortification, at not finding my cherished little poem either in the poet's corner, or even among the advertisements. The phiz of the carrier changed to its accustomed ugliness as if by magic, and, as he passed out of the door, he cast on me a sardonic leer, grin'd “a ghastly smile,” and “left me alone in my glory.” I had too much philosophy, however, to remain long in a passion, or to suffer myself to be unhappy for such a trifle. I contented myself, therefore, as well as I could, and determined never to write another line until my first effort saw the light. How fortunate for you, kind reader, and perhaps for me, had my young muse then been nip'd in her incipient budding. But that first effort did see the light the next week, and ‘Solomon in all his glory’ was not so happy as I. You who have written and published, can have some idea of the sensations produced by the success of a first essay. Those who never have, cannot imagine the pleasure, the fluttering of heart, the gratified ambition, and the flattered vanity of him thus first dignified with print. Since then I have been rejected, but never so mortified as when my first poem did not appear when expected. And since then I have written, published, been republished and quoted, which is surely glory enough for one man, but have never been so happy as when my maiden effort first appeared among the blacksmiths' and tailors' advertisements of a village newspaper.

¹ Be careful, when invention fails, To scratch your head, and bite your nails.—Swift.

THY HOME AND MINE.

Is this thy home? The wild woods wave Their branches in the mountain breeze— And nature to thy mansion gave A treasure in those noble trees. Here flows a river bright and pure Along its silver-winding way, While on its white and pebbled shore A fairy group of children play. Here calm and clear looks heaven's blue dome— This is thy lovely Highland home! This is thy home—at evening's hour A social band assemble here, With converse sweet and music's power, To chase each gloomy thought of care. Affection's gentle language speaks In every eye thine eyes behold— Here revels love on beauty's cheeks And bids her braid her locks of gold. In search of bliss you need not roam— But this is not—is not my home! My home is where the waters roll Deep, wide and blue to ocean's caves— How sweetly soothing to the soul The murmur of their dashing waves! Oft has their music charmed mine ear At twilight's soft and dewy hour— When one I fondly love was near To feel with me its witching power, And watch the billows crown'd with foam, Break on thy walls, my lowland home! My home! how soon that single word Can cause regretful tears to flow! It thrills on feeling's finest chord— Still does it make my bosom glow. Oh what a fountain of delight Does that one little sound unseal! When far away, to mem'ry's sight What scenes of bliss does it reveal! 'Tis the voice of nature bids me come To thy shrine of love—my own sweet home! Wealth may be ours, and fame may spread With trumpet-voice our names afar— In honor's cause we may have bled And braved the crimson tide of war— But wealth, and fame, and glory's crown Are bubbles which a breath may burst, As quickly as a breath hath blown; They cannot slake the burning thirst For happiness—for this we roam, And this is only found at home!

E. A. S.

SECOND 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.

On Parental Faults.

When I last had the honor of addressing you, I promised that I would endeavor to expose all such parental faults as obstruct the progress of correct education. This promise I will now proceed to fulfil, with only one prefatory request, which is, that if any individuals present shall apply a single remark to themselves, to bear it constantly in mind that such application is made by their own consciences—not by me. My observations will all be general—theirs should be particular, and should be carried home to their own bosoms and business; or all that I shall say, might as well be uttered to so many “deaf adders,” as to intelligent, rational, and moral beings.

Having been a parent myself for nearly forty years, and a close observer of other parents ever since I turned my attention particularly to the subject of education, I have much experience to “give in” relative to parental faults and vices. Whether this experience will avail any thing towards their cure, or even their mitigation, your own feelings and judgment can alone decide. The picture which I shall endeavor to draw will be a very revolting one, although not in the slightest degree caricatured or aggravated. But not less revolting is the sight of cancers in the human body, which require to be both seen and thoroughly examined before they can be extirpated. The cancers of the mind, however, as all faults and vices may justly be called, are infinitely harder to cut out; for in all these cases the victim and the operator must be the same person. Here, according to the old adage, every one must be his own doctor—since all that can be done for him by others is to tell him of his malady, and to convince him, if possible, in spite of his self-love and blindness, of its highly dangerous tendency, as well as of its certainly fatal termination, unless he himself will most earnestly and anxiously set about its cure. To produce this conviction in all my hearers who need it, arduous as the undertaking may be, is the sole purpose for which I now address you.

Although the obstacles to the progress of correct views on the subject of education, as well as to the adoption of the best means for promoting this all-important object, be too numerous easily to determine which are the most pre-eminently mischievous, I shall begin with those which appear to constitute the very “head and front of the offending.” These are created under the parental roof itself, where the first elements of education are almost always acquired, and where it is most obvious that if any but good seed are sown, the most precious part of the child's subsequent existence must be spent rather in the toilsome, painful business of extirpating weeds, than of bringing to perfection such plants as yield the wholesome bread of life. Hence, in a great measure, the little benefit, in numberless instances, from going to school; because, the short time generally allowed for this purpose (particularly in the case of girls) is too often occupied solely in clearing away and rooting out from the mind that which must necessarily be removed before any useful and lasting knowledge can well be implanted.

The first parental fault which I shall notice, is that by which children are first affected. It begins to influence them with the first dawnings of intellect—augments as that expands—accumulates like compound interest, and never ceases to exert its baneful power until fixed for life. This fault is the glaring and frequent contradictions between parental precepts and examples, although the least experience will suffice to convince any one who will consult it, that the latter will forever be followed rather than the former; nor will any thing ever check it but the fear of some very severe punishment—the rod (for example) on the back of the far less guilty child, instead of the shoulders of the parental tempter. The father or mother who calculates on their children totally abstaining, unless by external force, from any vicious indulgence whatever, of which they see their parents habitually guilty, counts on a moral impossibility. As well might they expect water not to boil when sufficient heat is long enough applied, or dry tinder not to burn when brought in contact with fire; for these appliances are to water and tinder what vicious parental examples will always prove to the juvenile mind. Woe, double and triple woe, be to those who set them, for they incur the most awfully dangerous responsibility of rendering their children utterly worthless! I confidently appeal, as in a former lecture, to the experience of every one who now hears me, and I beseech them to ask themselves how many drinking, gambling, profane, lazy, idle fathers have they ever known whose sons were exempt from these vices? How many have they ever known who habitually gave way to bursts of anger and wrath—to a rude, dictatorial, despotic, quarrelsome disposition, especially in the privacy of home, which many seem to think a suitable place for acting as they would be ashamed or afraid to act in public, where they would meet with somewhat more formidable checks than helpless wives and children; how many such fathers can any recollect, whose sons did not resemble and probably surpass them in all their worst habits? Equally sure, too, will the daughters be to follow their mamma's goodly examples, should they also habitually display any of those faults or vices that are calculated to sully the purity of the female character, or in any way to degrade and render it odious. With such facts continually before the eyes of all parents, what supreme folly and madness—nay, what deadly guilt must be theirs, who do not avoid setting bad examples to their children, as they would shun the utmost extremity of misery!

Among those parental faults which soonest begin to work incalculable mischief, is the habitual practice of talking and acting in such a manner, in regard to the whole class of teachers, that by the time their children are sent to school they learn to look upon the entire tribe of schoolmasters and schoolmistresses as belonging to a class much inferior to that of their parents, and to consider their being placed under such supervision as a kind of purgatorial punishment. I once knew a gentleman in whose mind these early notions had taken deep root, who used to say, that he could never pass through a pine-wood resembling that in which his first schoolhouse stood, without being thrown into a cold perspiration by it. Without doubt he had been exposed to the parental practice I am now condemning, the almost inevitable consequence of which is, to create contempt and aversion for teachers, reluctant obedience, distrust in their capacities to teach, and not unfrequently open insubordination. Manners and polite deportment are deemed quite hidden mysteries to these teachers, or matters with which the parents never designed they should meddle—it being frequently intimated that they never had opportunities for acquiring the first, nor feel any interest in teaching the last, farther than to protect themselves from injury and insult. Awkwardness, if not rudeness also, is often deemed an almost inseparable part of their character; and their pupils are not unfrequently encouraged by parental smiles to laugh at and ridicule “the poor schoolmaster or mistress,” instead of being checked by timely reproof in all such conduct. If there happen to be the faint semblance of a little wit or humor in these remarks, many silly parents take the first opportunity of retailing them with evident pleasure, even in the child's presence; and the silly delight manifested at this supposed proof of marvellous precocity, completely overcomes all sense of the culpability of the act, or of its very pernicious influence on the dispositions of the child. At most it is pronounced to be quite a venial peccadillo, amply compensated by the intellectual smartness which it evinces. The seeds of vanity, self-conceit, and censoriousness are thus sown in the youthful mind as soon as they can take root, and by the very hands too whose sacred duty it is to protect it from all harm.

Closely allied to the foregoing fault is the ever restless haste of very many parents to make men and women of their children sooner than nature intended. It may well be called the hot-bed system, and like that from which it takes its name, produces plants out of season, incapable of withstanding necessary exposure to the open atmosphere and the vicissitudes of climate. The consequence is, that the period of scholastic education is most injuriously shortened, particularly for girls. The boys are pushed forward into professions, and turned loose to act for themselves, with a mere smattering of literature and science—often before any power for serious reflection has been acquired, or indeed could well be formed in such juvenile, inexperienced minds, in regard to the great, complicated duties of life, the objects most worthy of pursuit, and the all-important principles which should ever govern them in fulfilling the first, as well as in attaining the last. False estimates of human life, aggravated by innumerable miscarriages in their ill-digested plans, necessarily follow; and the poor youths are most unjustly condemned for failure in pursuits wherein they have been either forced or suffered from most foolish and mischievous indulgence to engage, long before they had maturity either of body or mind sufficient to render success even probable. They are stimulated—nay, often driven to sea, on the vast, tempestuous ocean of life, without compass or rudder to their little barks, and then are most grievously abused for getting wrecked, when the pilots who should have steered their fragile vessels had most unpardonably abandoned their trust. But should the frequent occurrence of such a calamity create any surprise, when we find so many, even of those who know better, so far yielding to the popular error, as to manage their sons in this way? It is quite enough to overcome all their wisest resolves, to be told by the majority of their acquaintance, that “it is a shame to keep their boys so long in leading-strings—they should be doing something for themselves.” This sapient admonition usually settles every doubt, and the unfortunate youths, in all the perilous immaturity of boyhood, are forthwith converted into men, left to think and act for themselves. But their mental outfits for so arduous a business being entirely inadequate, their outfits of property are not unfrequently squandered, and irretrievably lost, several years prior to the time when they could reasonably be expected to understand their only true and legitimate uses. Hence we have many examples of young men who have actually run quite through their estates but a little beyond the time when they should have been first put into possession of them, and who have lost all respectability of character at a period when they should be only commencing their career of active life. If these unfortunate victims of parental folly—may I not say, wickedness—then open their eyes to their real situation, it will often be only to shut them again in utter despair, and plunge into all the fathomless depths of dissipation and vice, as their only refuge from the hopeless misery, the inextricable ruin in which they too late perceive that they have involved themselves. Hasty, inconsiderate marriages are often found to cap the climax of all this wretchedness, by adding helpless women and children to the number of sufferers, and thereby immeasurably augmenting the miseries of a condition which, without this, would seem to admit of scarcely any farther aggravation. A similar catastrophe often befals our girls who have had the deadly misfortune to be subjected to this hot-bed system. With unformed constitutions, and still more unformed minds, they are hurried into situations where they have to act the parts of women, before they are rid of the dispositions, inclinations, and follies of children. They not unfrequently marry and become mothers, while yet distant from the age of maturity, and thus have to fulfil the all-important duty of forming the hearts, minds, and principles of children, when, in fact, they are little more than children themselves. Loss of life is, in many instances, the forfeit paid for such premature marriages. But should they escape this awful sacrifice, they rarely fail to have their constitutions broken down, their powers of useful exertion greatly impaired or irrevocably lost; and an early grave, often—alas! too often, closes the heart-rending scene over these poor, unfortunate victims of parental mismanagement, at a time when probably they would just have reached the meridian of mature life, had they been properly prepared for all the momentous duties of wives and mothers, before they were compelled to fulfil them. Their helpless offspring are thus bereft of maternal nurture, when the parent was just beginning probably to understand what it ought to be—and how holy, how sacred she should esteem her obligations, to fulfil it most unremittingly to the children of her bosom. The same forcing process is then applied to the innocent little survivors; and they, in their turn, are to be married, if possible, when they should still be at school—to have the care of children before they know how to take care of themselves—and often to die, when they should be just beginning to live as the mistresses of families. Boys and girls have thus to act the part of instructers, while they themselves should yet be pupils; and the elementary education of their offspring, which is by far the most important part, is inevitably exposed to all the danger of being entirely perverted, by the inexperience, the unavoidable ignorance, and the moral incapacity of such very juvenile teachers. In regard to daughters especially, it may truly be said, that a cardinal article in the nursery creed of multitudes of mothers is, that they must marry, and marry early, even without nicely weighing moral consequences, if it cannot be done as prudence, common sense, and correct principles would dictate. The period for going to school is thus necessarily curtailed within limits scarcely sufficient for the simplest elementary instruction, that the young candidates for conjugal honors may be pushed into general society and public amusements, which are considered the great marts for matrimonial speculations. Now, although marriage is highly honorable, as well as the state which may afford most happiness in this life, it is indisputably true, that it can be neither honorable nor happy, unless very many circumstances, too frequently overlooked or disregarded, concur to make it so. It can produce nothing but disgrace and unhappiness if contracted, as it often is, without affection, esteem, or even respect for the husband, who is married merely for his wealth; or, because the poor girl has been taught to dread the condition of an old maid as something so terrible, that it should be avoided at every hazard. Equally certain is it that marriage can procure no happiness—nay, that it is a truly miserable condition, without good morals, good temper, and a tender regard among the parties. Yet thousands of unfortunate girls marry rather than live single, simply because their parents and other connexions have made them believe that to remain unmarried, is to become objects of general derision and contempt. Even if this were true, as it certainly is not, surely there is no rational person who would not pronounce such a state much more bearable than a union for life with a man who was vicious both in principles and conduct, who was cursed with a bad temper, and incapable of any sentiment even resembling conjugal love. A very large portion of the miserable marriages which we see in our society, may justly be ascribed to this most cruel—I may say, wicked error in the parental nurture of daughters. It is too shameful to be acknowledged by any as committed by themselves; yet there is not a person probably in the United States who cannot cite many instances of it in others.

Another parental fault of very extensive prevalence, is their sufferance, if not actual encouragement of an opinion very common, at least among their male children, that it is quite manly, magnanimous, and republican to oppose, even by open rebellion, (if nothing less will do) all such scholastic laws and regulations, as they, in the supremacy of their juvenile wisdom, may happen to disapprove. This has been signally and most lamentably verified in regard to that particular law so indispensably necessary to the well being of all schools, which requires the students to give evidence when called upon, against all violators of the existing regulations, without respect to persons. How an opinion so absurd and pernicious first got footing, unless by parental inculcation, it would be difficult to say; but nothing is more certain than its wide-spread influence, nor are there many things more sure than the great agency it has heretofore had in preventing any good schools from being long kept up in a flourishing condition, at least in our own state, where they are as much wanted as in any part of the Union. Such an opinion is the more unaccountable—indeed, it appears little short of downright insanity, when we come to reflect that all think it right for adults to be punished for refusing to give evidence before our courts when required, in regard to any breaches of the laws under which they live; and yet, the same individuals who entertain this opinion, almost universally uphold their own children in committing a similar offence, by withholding their testimony when any of the laws under which they live are violated at their respective schools—even should such violation go to the very subversion of the schools themselves. Nay, more—if a poor devoted teacher or professor should dare to punish these very independent young gentlemen for such unjustifiable and fatal contumacy, a universal clamor is immediately raised against him—his character is instantly stigmatized for cruelty and tyranny, while that of the rebel youths is eulogized as much as if they were really martyrs to generous feeling and magnanimous self-devotion to the good of others. All sense of just punishment and disgrace is thus effectually taken away, and the young offender is taught to pride himself on what should be his shame. That fathers should acquiesce in the wisdom and justice of laws to punish themselves for certain offences against society at large, and be unable to see the justice and wisdom of laws to punish their sons for similar offences against the little societies called schools, is surely one of the greatest and most inexplicable follies of which men, in their senses, can possibly be guilty. Have not these last named institutions precisely the same right and reason, that national governments have, to pass laws for their own preservation? How, indeed, could either long exist without them? It will be in vain to deny the prevalence of this most pernicious folly, so long as we find a very large majority of the youth of our country acting under the opinion of its being highly disgraceful to do that before the faculty of a college, or the head of a school, which their fathers deem it perfectly right to do every time they themselves are called as witnesses before the juries and courts of their country. I have said more on this parental fault than otherwise I should have done, because I am thoroughly and deeply convinced that there never can long exist any flourishing schools, academies, or colleges, in any portion of our country, where so radically mischievous an error prevails. Our youth must be taught, and by their parents too, that they have no more right to exemption from the restraints of scholastic law, than men have from the inhibitions of the laws of their country—that all legitimate human institutions have a clear, indisputable, and necessary power to make regulations for their own preservation; that this power must be obeyed, or it is utterly useless; and that if obedience be proper, honorable, and indispensable in their fathers, it cannot possibly be improper, unessential, or dishonorable in their children. Let our sons be taught this lesson at home, and the absolute necessity of always acting up to it every where, and we may then confidently hope, but not until then, that all our seminaries of instruction will flourish in a far greater degree than we ever yet have witnessed. “It is a consummation most devoutly to be wished,” and one, towards the accomplishment of which, neither time, money, nor intellectual effort should be spared.

Another fault committed by many more parents than are aware of it is, that either from very culpable neglect in studying their children's characters, or from most fatuitous partiality, they often send them to school, in full confidence that they will prove most exemplary patterns of good principles and good conduct, when, in fact, they are signally deficient in both. The consequence is, that should any teacher be daring enough to communicate the painful intelligence, it is either entirely discredited, or it comes on the unfortunate, self-deluded parent with the suddenness and shock of a clap of thunder. If the account is believed, the punishment justly due to the real author of the mischief, the guilty father or mother, is not unfrequently inflicted on the child; or, should it be deemed false, young master or miss (as the case may be) is immediately taken away, and turned loose at home to unrestrained indulgence, or sent to some instructer who has more of the cunning of worldly wisdom than to make any such startling and incredible communications.

In close connexion with the foregoing fault is one of still greater and more injurious prevalence. It is assumed, as a settled point, probably by a majority of parents, that if heaven has not bestowed on their offspring more than a usual proportion of brains, at least a very competent share has been allotted them; and that they—the parents, have not failed previously to sending the children to school, in doing every thing necessary to enable those brains to work beneficially for the craniums which contain them, and for the bodies whose movements are to be governed thereby. Yet there are certainly many children—very many, who from great deficiency of natural talent, appear to be born for nothing higher than to be “hewers of wood and drawers of water.” This truth cannot be denied; yet the fathers and mothers of these children, in despite of nature, will often persist in attempting to make them learned men and learned women. The consequence is inevitable. An irreparable waste of time and money results from the abortive attempt, and thousands who might have become useful and highly respectable day laborers, at some easily acquired handicraft, are converted, by this most misapplied and cruel kindness into ridiculous pretenders to situations that nature never destined them to fill. This parental notion of marvellous talents and virtues in their children—if it happen to be unfounded—and much too often it unfortunately proves so, leads certainly to the conclusion, that whatever scrapes the children get into at school, or, however deficient they may appear in acquirement, when they go home, the whole and sole blame attaches to the teachers; and the children are withdrawn, often without the slightest intimation of the real cause, leaving the luckless instructers to infer, that, probably, they have given satisfaction.

Another very general and deeply rooted fault in parents, is, the readiness with which they believe and act upon the complaints of their children, often without taking the smallest pains whatever to ascertain whether these complaints may not be at least exaggerated, if not entirely unfounded. The humorous author of Peter Plymley's letters has said—“that a single rat in a Dutch dyke is sometimes sufficient to flood a whole province.” The idea intended to be conveyed by this, is eminently true, especially in relation to female seminaries, where only one gossipping, talking girl, although free, perhaps, from malicious intent, is quite enough to destroy an entire school. Were it possible for teachers before hand, to know the propensities of such little bipeds, they should exclude them as carefully as the Dutch attempt to do the small, apparently impotent quadrupeds, that do them so much injury. But suffer me to cite some instances to sustain my opinion. Let us suppose, for example, that the grievance complained of is partial treatment. To say nothing of the difficulty of proving a negative, or of disproving, even when heard, a charge which covers so much ground, and which is rarely suffered to reach the teacher's ears—it is perfectly easy to demonstrate, that it may, and often will be made, without the shadow of truth. When to this is added, its utter incompatibility with that portion of common sense, which all instructers, who are not miserable drivellers, must possess, and which they, of course, will exercise, in comparing their infinitely small and doubtful gains, with their great and certain loss by such injustice towards the complainants, (putting all principles of honor and public pledges out of the question,) the accusation ought to appear in most cases, past all rational credibility. But let us return to the proof, that the charge of partiality may and will often be made without the shadow of truth. It is a thing which deeply concerns all schools, and is therefore a subject of common and vital interest—both to them and to the public. None have so little experience as not to know, that among the scholars of every school there will be irregularities of conduct with corresponding inequalities in talent, application, and acquirement, and that the old adage, that “one man can carry a horse to water, but that four and twenty can't make him drink,” is equally true in a figurative sense as to children at school. Hence, some pupils go on very successfully, without punishment of any kind, while others not unfrequently require it in all its most effective forms. This equitable and obviously necessary difference in treatment, between offenders and non-offenders, is always sensibly felt by the culprits themselves—often deeply resented; the true cause of it, rarely well understood, and still more rarely acknowledged or explained, especially to parents and guardians: for self-accusation is least apt to be made by those who most frequently commit acts that should produce it. Much the most common course among the violators of any moral law or obligation whatever, whether they are children or adults, is to seek refuge from the consciousness of one fault, in the commission of some other—which other, generally, is, to shift the blame, if possible, from themselves. That humble, contrite, self-abasing spirit which caused the prodigal son to exclaim—“Father, I have sinned against heaven and thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son,” is hardly to be expected, in any great degree, among children at school: yet they should possess it, before their parents ought to rely on their competency to judge and decide in their own cases, whether they or their teachers are in the wrong—cases too, wherein it is perfectly obvious, that if the teachers are the offending party, they must have become so in opposition to their best interests. From the foregoing considerations, it is manifest, that among such children at school as are justly reproved or punished for misconduct, unjust complaints of partiality in the teachers will frequently arise; and that these will often be too readily credited, without any investigation, or even the slightest hint to the persons thus secretly accused, of what has been alleged against them. In all such cases a withdrawal of the pupils almost certainly follows, succeeded by abuse of the schools, which often becomes the more bitter and inveterate, from the parents themselves having an unacknowledged conviction, that they are the injurers, instead of the injured party. With all such persons the self-applied cure for the mortification arising from incurable dullness, or depravity in their children, is to slander their teachers wherever it can safely be done.

Another proper and necessary difference in the scholastic treatment of children proceeds from difference of age. But most unluckily, it sometimes happens, that very young little masters and misses expect to be treated like grown up young gentlemen and ladies; and should such very rational expectations be disappointed, as they most assuredly should be, these premature aspirants to the privileges and immunities of manhood and womanhood, take most grievous and unappeasable offence at it. Heavy, but vague complaints of partial treatment follow of course; parental tenderness is naturally excited; parental credulity lends too easy credence to the tale of juvenile woe; and a change of school is the frequent consequence, without the really innocent teachers even suspecting that any such cause could possibly have produced it.

Another most extensively pernicious fault in parents, is the incompatible expectations formed of what teachers can do, with the practice of treating them, and speaking of them, as scarcely above the menial class of society. The expectations of many fathers and mothers would appear to be something not very far from a belief, that instructers are masters of some wonder-working process which can inspire genius where it never existed; give talents that nature has withheld; correct in a few weeks or months every bad habit, however long indulged; and force knowledge into heads, pertinaciously determined to reject, or so constructed as to be incapable of receiving it. The general conduct towards such intellectual magicians, where consistency is at all regarded, should certainly be, at least, to place them on a footing of perfect equality with the members of the most esteemed professions in society. But what is the fact? Why, that schoolmasters and schoolmistresses are viewed by multitudes of those who arrogate the right to decide, as a class of persons, essentially vulgar and awkward in their manners; ignorant of the world; of low, grovelling, selfish principles, and nearly incapable of any of those feelings and high sense of honor which are claimed, as a kind of inalienable property by all who believe, (and there are thousands of such individuals,) that wealth and worldly distinctions authorize them to be proud, arrogant, and contemptuous towards all who are deficient in the gifts of fortune. It is not easy to trace this opinion respecting teachers to its source, because one would think that the least pittance of common sense would teach parents the impossibility of their children ever being well taught by any persons for whom they felt no respect, and the equal impossibility of respecting those whom their parents evidently despised. Two causes probably may have produced this mischievous variance between the conduct of parents towards instructers, and the momentous duties which these last are expected to fulfil. First, that many who have taken upon themselves the profession of teachers, have neither the talents, the knowledge, the temper, nor the manners necessary to discharge its numerous and arduous duties; and secondly, that the pride of wealth, which generally indulges itself in an exemption from bodily and mental labor, naturally seeks to dignify its idleness by assuming a superiority over all who work either with their hands or their head. But be the origin what it may, the cause of education is most injuriously affected by it.

Another parental fault is, the interference both as to matter and manner in which children are to be taught; and this is sure to be committed in proportion to the self-conceited competency, but real inability of the advising, or rather commanding party. Let a single exemplification suffice, out of very many others I could give of this most ridiculous, but very pernicious fault. I select it because it is one of those occurrences in the “olden time,” the relation of which can hurt the feeling of none, but may afford a useful lesson to many. My informant told me, that many years ago he knew a lady who could barely read and write, to carry a little girl whose acquirements extended not much farther than her own, to a school conducted by a gentleman well qualified for his profession. She announced herself, as having brought to him a pupil, who was immediately to be taught some half dozen sciences, the names of which she had somewhere picked up, but could scarcely pronounce; and that “he must make haste to do it, as the little miss had not much more than a year, if that, to go to school.” I was not told whether or not the teacher laughed in her face, but if he refrained he must have had much more than common control over his risible muscles. “It was enough,” (as the hero of Cherubina says,) “to make a tiger titter.” This most compendious way of manufacturing learned young masters and young misses, when viewed in its effects upon the great interests of our community—upon the happiness of families, as well as of the nation at large, is enough to sicken the heart of any person capable, even in a moderate degree, of serious reflection. Numerous instances have I known, in my limited sphere of observation, especially in female schools, where, just as the pupils had acquired a taste for reading, and were beginning to make good progress in their studies, they were hurried away, and plunged headlong into the vortex of gay, pleasure-seeking company, there to lose—far more rapidly than it was gained—all desire, all anxiety for intellectual culture. Books, together with all the useful lessons they are calculated to impart; the whole long-labored scheme of moral instruction, from which so much good had been anticipated; the anxious preparation for a life of active beneficence, are all forgotten or neglected, for constantly recurring schemes of frivolous gaiety, and utter idleness in regard to all really useful pursuits. The only subject of intense interest which seems to occupy these fanatic devotees of worldly pleasure, is marriage; and provided they can succeed in procuring a wealthy husband for their daughters, all other matters are deemed of very subordinate importance. After the teachers of these unfortunate girls may have been laboring for years to convince them that the value of eternal things is immeasurably greater than that of any merely temporal things whatever, they are to be “finished off,” (as it is called) in the school of the world, where all these calculations are utterly reversed, and present objects alone are made to occupy all their thoughts and time.

Another fault of parents, and I may add guardians too, is to be led away by mere reports in regard to the character of schools and their teachers, without always inquiring for themselves, as they should do where possible, minutely into both. Thus, it often happens that, governed entirely by rumor not to be traced to any authentic source, all will be anxiously hurrying to secure places for their children in schools said to be already full to overflowing, so that no more can possibly get in; while schools of equal merit are carefully avoided, because the same common untraceable rumor proclaims that they are losing all their scholars; which, if not true at the time, soon probably becomes so, from the capricious love of change, and the desire to get their children's brains swept by the new broom, or from the common habit of ascribing all removals of pupils from any schools whatever, to incompetency or misconduct in the teachers. These ebb and flood tides of popularity often happen to the same schools, without any change whatever in the schools themselves, except increased fitness in the teachers, from additional experience. A signal instance of this fell under my observation, many years ago, in the case of a long established, highly respectable, but no longer existing city school. This institution, after maintaining very deservedly a high character for many years, was literally stripped almost entirely naked of pupils, by some utter strangers, who, although possibly as meritorious, were certainly not known to be so, by a single individual of the whole number that immediately sent scholars to them. It is true, that the old school, after the public imagination had time to sober a little, somewhat recovered from the shock, although never sufficiently to regain its former standing. What is called “patronage,” had fled from its walls, which were soon entirely deserted, and answered little other purpose than to present another striking monument of public caprice, fickleness, and folly. This case is cited from no invidious motive whatever—both schools having long ceased to exist; but it furnishes a most striking proof of the existence, as well as of the pernicious effects of the last parental fault noticed. As a necessary consequence of this fault, comes the frequent changes made from school to school, often without any assignable cause, but the mere love of novelty; or some secret, but unfounded dissatisfaction imbibed from the ex parte misrepresentation of the children, most carefully concealed from the teachers themselves. If the matter ended here, it might not do more harm than occasion the loss of the particular pupils to the offending teachers; but the fancied injury, although never communicated to the person chiefly interested in removing the unfounded imputation, is, in general, the more diligently made known to others. With all these, the characters of the teachers are deeply injured, if not entirely ruined, without the possibility of a vindication, from utter ignorance of its being any where necessary. Persons who are thus regardless of what they say of schools and their conductors, and who are so careless as to the sources from which they seek a knowledge of their characters, are liable to be greatly deceived, even when making inquiries, in a manner that appears to them most likely to obtain correct information. Thus, in the opinion of these precipitate and reckless judges, it is at once concluded, that if an individual of their acquaintance has merely been at any particular school, whether in casually passing or specially to see it, this person must necessarily be well qualified to tell, describe, and explain every thing about it; and therefore, that the sentence of approval or condemnation produced by this off-hand judge, must be decisive, although it may go no farther than a simple “ipse dixit”—“he or she said it.” Details are rarely, if ever asked by such inquirers, (for I have often witnessed their method of proceeding) but the mere opinion of the informant, for or against the school, is deemed all sufficient; the brief assertion, “I've no notion of it,” or “I like it mightily,” settles the question. It seems never to be even suspected, that to form a just and impartial judgment in regard to the merits or demerits of any school, requires much more time, learning, knowledge of the principles and management of schools in general, acquaintance with the various modes of instructing youth, but, above all, more power of discrimination than most persons possess. Hence, the characters both of schools and teachers, are generally at the mercy of individuals extremely incompetent to determine what they really are.

Another common fault with many parents and guardians, has always reminded me of the old miser who inquired of his merchant for a pair of shoes, that must be at once “very neat, and strong, and fine, and cheap.” They confound together cheapness and lowness of price, although no two things generally differ more widely; and hence they always endeavor to purchase their schools as they do their merchandise. It is certainly true that a high price does not necessarily make either schools or merchandise of good quality; but it is equally true, that a low price can never have any such effect. The principle of equivalents must be alike consulted in both cases, or no fair, equitable bargain can be made, either for bodily or mental apparel. If much is required, much must be given, provided both parties are free to give and take; and those who act upon different principles—be they parents, guardians, or teachers, deserve to be, and generally are, utterly disappointed.

There is another fault which I will here mention—not on account of any connexion with that just noticed, but because the recollection of it has just presented itself. It is of most fearful import, for I verily believe it to be the foundation of most of the infidelity which prevails among the youth of our country. I mean, the neglect of parents to require their children to seek religious instruction by constant attendance at places of religious worship—places where they themselves, if professors of religion, deem it their sacred duty to attend. They require—nay, insist upon these children seeking classical, scientific, and literary knowledge by attending schools and colleges; how then can they possibly justify, or even excuse their attendance at church, not being at least equally insisted upon. They themselves, unless hypocrites, must deem religious knowledge far more important than all other kinds united. To leave their children then, at full liberty to seek or not to seek it, and to coerce them in seeking these other kinds, is to act, not only inconsistently and foolishly, but wickedly.

One of the greatest and most pernicious faults of all, I have reserved for the last to be noticed. It is the utter indifference which, not only parents and guardians but all other persons except the instructors themselves, appear to feel for the reputation of schools and their particular conductors, although this reputation is really a matter of the deepest interest to the whole community. Of these institutions and their managers, it seems in an especial manner, and most emphatically true, that “what is every body's business is no body's business.” Slander and its effects may certainly be called every body's business, since all are exposed to it; yet no individual appears to think it his own, or likely to be so, until it touches his own dear self, although one of the best modes of protecting himself from it, most obviously is—to manifest, on all occasions, a readiness to protect others. But while men remain so prone to believe ill, rather than good, of their fellow creatures, and are too regardless of any reputations but their own, it is hardly to be expected, that so long as they themselves are safe, much care will be felt whether the persons assailed, are openly or secretly attacked, or whether they have opportunities to defend themselves or not. Hence, there are no courts in the world that exercise a more despotic, reckless sway, than what may justly be called courts of defamation; the only qualifications for which are, a talent and love for malignant gossipping. Even the tribunals of the inquisition make a pretence at justice, by calling the accused before them; but the self-constituted inquisitors of reputation, who often, in the course of their various sessions, sit upon schools and their conductors, disdain to use even the mockery of a trial. With them, to try, to condemn, and to execute the character, while the body is absent, constitute but one and the same act; and like so many grand sultans, whose power is supreme, whose word is law, and whose arguments are the scimitars and bow-strings of death, they are alike uncontrolled and uncontrollable by any considerations even approaching towards truth and justice. If defamation never meets with any thing to check it but the unheeded, unavailing complaints of the immediate sufferers from its diabolical spirit, it will continue greatly to impair, if it does not utterly destroy one of the most copious sources of human happiness—I mean, the heart-cheering confidence, that all will acquire fair reputations by always acting in a manner to deserve them, and that nothing can bereave them of this inestimable blessing, but actual misconduct. It is true, that our laws hold out something like a remedy for slander by known individuals. But what is this remedy? While house-breaking and house-burning have often been made punishable by death—character-breaking and burning have met with no other legal corrective than pecuniary fines, and these too, dependent on enactments hard to be applied to any particular case, and upon the capricious, ill-regulated, not to say, prejudiced, judgments of others. To mend the matter, public opinion generally attaches no small disgrace to the seeking this species of redress; as if to sue for damages to character, implied, on the part of woman, some strong probability of guilt, and on the part of man, a great presumption both of guilt and cowardice. Against the effect of inimical motives, calumnious opinions, and their underhand circulation, no law affords any protection whatever. These matters are entirely beyond the reach of all legislation, and unless they can be cured by moral instruction, moral discipline, and such a public sentiment as will keep alive in every bosom a strong sense of our obligations always to judge charitably and justly of each other, the members of our society, one and all, must still live exposed to this deep and deadly curse of secret defamation. Such is the baneful nature of this deplorable evil, that to fear or despise will only serve to aggravate it—while to live above it, although very comfortable to our consciences, can never entirely prevent the injuries it often has the power of inflicting upon even the best of mankind. The disastrous effects of it upon education, so far as this depends upon scholastic establishments, are incalculable; for although some particular schools might rise or fall a sightless distance above the hopes of their most sanguine friends—below the wishes of their bitterest enemies—without materially affecting the general cause of instruction; yet that cause cannot possibly flourish—cannot even approach its maximum of general good, without far greater protection from public sentiment. It must protect, and with parental solicitude too, the reputation both of teachers and schools, or none whatever, even the best, can be secure of a twelve months' existence. None can possibly last, unless all who have any power of giving the tone and character of public opinion, will unite in marking with the severest reprobation the kind of spirit which so frequently gives birth and circulation to the numerous, unfounded calumnies we so often hear against the very best of them; calumnies too, to the greedy swallowing of which, it forms no objection with many, that they have no authors who have hardihood enough to avow them. But the same violent spirit which ruins some schools by calumny, often exerts itself with so little judgment as to destroy others by intended kindness. Thus, the same tongues which will persecute particular schools in secret—“even unto death,” will praise and puff others so immeasurably, as to excite against them that never dying envy and animosity, which is always roused to action by high seasoned commendation of others. These headlong, unreflecting puffers, are either utterly ignorant, or entirely forget that the world is still full of people who are brothers and sisters, at least in feeling, to that Athenian who voted to banish Aristides, (whom he acknowledged he did not know,) solely, as he declared—“because he was weary and sick at heart, on hearing him every where called the Just.”

The foregoing faults, as far as I can recollect, are the chief and most pernicious of those which attach particularly to parents and guardians. But there are many others to which they are parties, either as principals or accessaries with that great and complicated mass of human beings, which, when considered in the aggregate, constitute what is called—“the public.” These often form themselves into large subdivisions, arrayed against each other with all the bitter animosity of partizan hostility, as the assailants and defenders of particular schools; without appearing, for a moment to reflect, that complete success to either party must sweep from the face of the earth one half of the existing schools, although it is manifest to all who will look soberly at our present condition, that the supply of good schools, still falls very far short of the demand. But if this exterminating war between the partizans and enemies of schools in general is never to cease, would it not be far better for the world, if all the schools in it, with their friends and enemies, were crushed together in one promiscuous mass—that some new, and, if possible, better road might be opened to science, literature and religion?

In education there should be, in reality, but one party—(if I may be allowed to say so) that of knowledge and virtue; but one object, and that object human happiness. Until this principle can be universally established and acted upon—until the class of instructers shall not only be held in higher estimation, but be more secure of being protected by public sentiment, from unmerited obloquy and secret detraction, thousands of those who are most capable of fulfilling all the momentous duties of teachers, will shrink entirely from so thankless, so discouraging an occupation. It is true, that even under present circumstances, we have the appearance of much good resulting from the various attempts to educate the rising generation; but no very extensive advantage—no permanent benefit, at all commensurate to the wants and wishes of our thirteen millions of people, can possibly result from them while things remain exactly as they are. This is not the worst consequence of such a state of public sentiment—for, not only will the accessions of highly qualified persons to the class of instructers be much fewer, but those already belonging to it, will either abandon it, or, perceiving that the privilege of teaching is usually let to the lowest bidder, and that their profession is generally treated as an inferior one, having few claims to generous sympathy, and none to that respect and esteem which would bear them harmless, at all times, against all suspicions of meanness and servility, will insensibly contract the spiritless, submissive feelings which they find are commonly supposed to belong to their situation. Seeing also that a spirit of independence—a nice, high-minded sense of honor, are deemed by many, sentiments of much too exalted a grade for those who follow such a calling, their principles are always in danger of sinking to the level of such a standard, however arbitrary and unreasonable may have been its establishment. Woe to the unlucky wight of a schoolmaster or schoolmistress who happens to be gifted with so rebellious a heart, as to betray any feeling, even approaching to indignant resentment, for such treatment! Silence is their true policy, for it will be considered his or her humble duty; and silence must be kept, cost what it may, unless they are prepared to encounter the worst consequences of derision, scorn, or deprivation of what is called patronage.

It is readily admitted, that persons of this profession are more highly estimated than they were forty or fifty years ago; for I distinctly recollect the time when all I have said of the degrading treatment of teachers generally, both by parents and others, was literally true; when to the question, “who is such a one?” the common reply was, “oh, nothing but a schoolmaster or schoolmistress;” and when they were all commonly viewed precisely as we might imagine from such an answer. But although they have, of late years, been elevated a spoke or two higher up the ladder of respectability, still they are not admitted to a level with several other classes, whose real claims to superiority have no better foundation than their own silly, groundless pride.

The following extract from the London Examiner affords a striking proof that what I have affirmed of the public sentiment relative to the class of teachers in the United States, is true to a still more pernicious extent in Great Britain.

The author remarks, “A trust is generally accounted honorable in proportion to its importance, and the order of the qualities or acquirements requisite to the discharge of it. There is, however, one striking exception to this rule in the instance of the instructers of youth, who, specially appointed to communicate the knowledge and accomplishments which may command respect in the persons of their pupils, are, in their own, denied every thing beyond the decencies of a reluctantly accorded civility, and often are refused even those barren observances. The treatment which tutors, governesses, ushers, and the various classes of preceptors, receive in this boasted land of liberality, is a disgrace to the feelings, as well as to the understanding of society. Every parent acknowledges that the domestic object of the first importance is the education of his children. In obtaining the services of an individual for this purpose, he takes care to be assured” (not always so with us) “that his morals are good and his acquirements beyond the common average—in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a thousand, we may add, beyond those which he himself possesses, and on which he sufficiently prides himself. When he has procured such a man as he believes this to be, he treats him with perhaps as much courtesy as his cork-drawer, and shows him less favor than his groom. The mistress of the family pursues the same course with the governess which the master adopts towards the tutor. The governess is acknowledged competent to form the minds and manners of the young ladies—to make, indeed, the future women: but of how much more consequence in the household is she who shapes the mistresses caps, and gives the set to her head-dress—the lady's maid! The unhappy teachers in almost every family are only placed just so much above the servants as to provoke in them the desire to pull them down—an inclination in the vulgar menials which is commonly encouraged by the congenial vulgar and jealous pride of the heads of the house, impatient of the intellectual equality or superiority which they have brought within their sphere. The remark, however, does not apply to the narrow-minded only. All of us regard too lightly those who make a profit of communicating what all of us prize, and what we know entitles us to respect when we possess it. Some carry their neglect or contempt farther than others, but all are, in a greater or less degree, affected by the vicious standard of consideration common in the country. The instructers of youth serve for low wages; that is a sufficient cause for their being slighted, where money puts its value upon every thing and being. The butler and groom, indeed, serve for less than the tutor; but, beside the lowness of price, there is another peculiar ingredient in the condition of the last, which is, the accompaniment with it of a claim to respect on the score of a requital. It is this very claim, so ill-substantiated in hard cash, the secret force of which wounds the self-love of purse-proud nothingness, which sinks the poor tutor in regard below the man of corks or currycombs. We will not deny, too, that there are families in which the care of wine and the training of horses are really accounted, although not confessed, of superior importance to the care and training of youth. These are extreme cases, however, which we would not put. The common one is that of desiring and supposing every thing respectable in the preceptor, and denying him respect—of procuring an individual to instil virtue and knowledge into the minds of youth, and showing them, at the same time, the practical and immediate example of virtue and knowledge neglected or despised in his person. How can a boy (and boys are shrewd enough) believe that the acquirements, the importance of which is dinned in his ears, are of any value as a means of commanding the respect of the world, when he witnesses the treatment, the abject social lot of the very man, who, as best stored with them, has been chosen his instructer? Will he not naturally ask, how can these things obtain honor for me which do not command even courtesy for him who is able to communicate them to me?”

We remember, in a little volume treating on instruction, to have seen this anecdote:

“A lady wrote to her son, requesting to look out for a young lady, respectably connected, possessed of various elegant accomplishments and acquirements, skilled in the languages, a proficient in music, and above all, an unexceptionable moral character—and to make her an offer of 40l. a year for her services as a governess. The son's reply was—‘My dear mother, I have long been looking out for such a person as you describe, and when I have the good fortune to meet with her, I propose to make her an offer—not of 40l. a year, but of my hand, and to ask her to become—not your governess, but my wife.’”

Such are the qualities expected or supposed in instructers; and yet, what is notoriously their treatment?

I will here end this long and painful catalogue of parental faults, and shall devote the next lecture to the faults of teachers—merely remarking, in conclusion, that my sole undertaking being to point out things which require reformation, I shall present no favorable views of the various parties concerned in the great work of education, although many very animating ones might be given. To aid in removing the numerous obstacles which so fatally impede its progress, being my only purpose, I would fain render the nature of them as odious as possible, believing this to be the best means of accomplishing the great end in view.

May the moral mirror which I have endeavored to present to all parents and guardians who may now hear me, enable them so to see and to study their own peculiar faults as speedily to correct them.

TO MISS ——, OF NORFOLK.

Which ever way my vision turns, To heaven or earth, I see thee there, In every star thy eyebeam burns, Thy breath in every balmy air; Thy words seem truth herself enshrined, Sweet as the seraph minstrel sung, And thou, in dignity of mind, An angel with a silver tongue. What dreams of bliss entrance the soul, When Persians watch their idol light, What pleasing visions o'er them roll Caught from his beams serene and bright, Thus, when a sparkling ray is given, From eyes so soft, so pure as thine— We feel as though our earth were heaven And thou its radiant light divine.

B.

FROM THE MSS. OF FRANKLIN.

In vain are musty morals taught in schools, By rigid teachers and as rigid rules, Where virtue with a frowning aspect stands, And frights the pupil with her rough commands. But Woman— Charming Woman, can true converts make— We love the precepts for the teacher's sake: Virtue in them appears so bright and gay, We hear with transport, and with pride obey.

Editorial.

RIGHT OF INSTRUCTION.

The pages of our Magazine are open, and have ever been, to the discussion of all general questions in Political Law, or Economy—never to questions of mere party. The paper on the Right of Instruction, which forms our leading article this month, was addressed, in the form of a letter, to a gentleman of Richmond. The letter concluded thus—

“I assure you, my dear sir, that I hesitate about sending these sheets to you under the denomination of a letter. But I began to write without knowing how far the subject might carry me on. No doubt had I time to write it over again, I might avoid repetition and greatly abridge it. But I pray you to take it with a fair allowance for all imperfections of manner; for the opinions and argument I confess my responsibility.

Most truly and respectfully your obedient servant, —— ——.”

CRITICAL NOTICES.

LETTERS ON PENNSYLVANIA.

A Pleasant Peregrination through the Prettiest Parts of Pennsylvania. Performed by Peregrine Prolix. Philadelphia: Grigg and Elliot.

We know nothing farther about Peregrine Prolix than that he is the very clever author of a book entitled “Letters descriptive of the Virginia Springs,” and that he is a gentleman upon the wrong side of forty. The first fact we are enabled easily to perceive from the peculiarity of an exceedingly witty-pedantic style characterizing, in a manner not to be mistaken, both the Virginia and the Pennsylvania Letters—the second appears from the first stanza of a rhyming dedication (much better than eulogistic) to John Guillemard, Esquire, Fellow of the Royal Society, London—

I send my friend a little token Three thousand miles across the sea, Of kindness, forty years unbroken And cherished still for him by me.

However these matters may be, it is very certain that Peregrine Prolix is a misnomer, that his book is a very excellent thing, and that the Preface is not the worst part of it.

Our traveller, before setting out on his peregrinations, indulges us, in Letter I, with a very well executed outline sketch, or scratch, of Philadelphia, not troubling himself much about either his keeping or his fillings in. We cannot do better than just copy the whole of his picture.

Philadelphia is a flat, rectangular, clean, (almost too clean sometimes, for on Saturdays “nunquam cessavit lavari, aut fricari, aut tergeri, aut ornari, poliri, pingi, fingi,”¹) uniform, well-built, brick and mortar, (except one stone house,) well-fed and watered, well-clad, moral, industrious, manufacturing, rich, sober, quiet, good-looking city. The Delaware washes its eastern and the Schuylkill its western front. The distance between the two rivers is one mile and three quarters, which space on several streets is nearly filled with houses. Philadelphia looks new, and is new, and like Juno always will be new; for the inhabitants are constantly pulling down and new-vamping their houses. The furor delendi with regard to old houses, is as rife in the bosoms of her citizens, as it was in the breast of old Cato with regard to Carthage. A respectable-looking old house is now a rare thing, and except the venerable edifice of Christ Church in Second above Market Street, we should hardly know where to find one.

¹ Plautus, Pænuli, Act i., sc. 2, l. 10.

The dwelling-houses in the principal streets are all very much alike, having much the air of brothers, sisters and cousins of the same family; like the supernumerary figures in one of West's historical paintings, or like all the faces in all of Stothard's designs. They are nearly all three stories high, faced with beautiful red unpainted Philadelphia brick, and have water tables and steps of white marble, kept so painfully clean as to make one fear to set his foot on them. The roofs are in general of cedar, cypress or pine shingles; the continued use of which is probably kept up (for there is plenty of slate,) to afford the Fire-Companies a little wholesome exercise.

The streets are in general fifty feet wide, having on each side convenient trottoirs well paved with brick, and a carriage way badly paved with large round pebbles. They are kept very clean, and the kennels are frequently washed by floods of pure Schuylkill water, poured from the iron pipes with which all the streets are underlaid. This same Schuylkill water is the cause of many comforts in the shape of drinking, bathing and clean linen, (indusia toraliaque;) and enters into the composition of those delicious and persuasive liquids called Pepper's beer and Gray's ale and porter.

This water is so pure, that our brothers of New York complain of its want of taste; and it is as wholesome and refreshing as the stream of father Nilus. It is also so copious, that our incendiaries are scarcely ever able to burn more than the roof or garret of one or two houses in a month. The fire companies are numerous, voluntary, well-organized associations, amply furnished with engines, hose, and all other implements and munitions necessary to make successful war upon the destroying element; and the members are intelligent, active and intrepid young men, so skilful from daily practice, that they will put you out three or four fires in a night, in less time than Higginbottom, that veteran fireman of London, would have allowed them to kindle.

The public confidence in these useful, prompt, energetic and faithful companies is so great, that no citizen is alarmed by the cry of fire; for he knows that the first tap on the State House bell, arouses hundreds of these vigilant guardians of the city's safety, who rush to the scene of danger with one accord; and with engines, axes, ladders, torches, hooks and hose, dash through summer's heat, or winter's hail and snows.

The old State House, in whose eastern room the Declaration of Independence was signed, has on the top of it, a sort of stumpy steeple, which looks as if somewhat pushed in, like a spy glass, half shut. In this steeple is a large clock, which, twice as bad as Janus, presents four faces, which at dusk are lighted up like the full moon; and as there is a man in the moon, so there is a man in the clock, to see that it does not lag behind, nor run away from father time; whose whereabout, ever and anon, the people wish to know. This close observer of the time is also a distant observer of the fires, and possesses an ingenious method of communicating their existence and position to his fellow citizens below. One tap on the great bell means north; two indicate south; three represent east, and four point out west; and by composition these simple elements are made to represent also the intermediate points. If the fire be in the north, the man strikes successive blows with solemn and equal intervals, thus; tap——tap——tap——tap; if it be in the south, thus; tap tap——tap tap; if it be in the north east, thus; tap——tap tap tap———tap——tap tap tap; so that when the thrifty and well-fed citizen is roused by the cry of fire at midnight, from a pleasant dream of heaps of gold and smoking terrapins and whisky punch, he uncovers one ear and listens calmly for the State House bell, and if its iron tongue tell of no scathe to him, he turns him on his side and sleeps again. What a convenient invention, which tells the firemen when and where to go, and the terrapin men when to lie snug in their comfortable nests! This clever plan is supposed to have been invented by an M. A. P. S.; this however, we think doubtful, for the Magellanic Premium has never, to our knowledge, been claimed for the discovery. This reminds us that the American Philosophical Society is located² in Philadelphia, where it possesses a spacious hall, a good library, and an interesting collection of American antiquities, gigantic fossil bones, and other curiosities, all of which are open to the inspection of intelligent and inquisitive travellers.

² A new and somewhat barbarous, but exceedingly convenient yankeeism, which will probably work its way into good society in England, as its predecessor ‘lengthy,’ has already done.

The Society was founded by the Philosophical Franklin, and its presidential chair is now occupied by the learned and venerable Duponceau.

There exists here a club of twenty-four philosophers, who give every Saturday evening very agreeable male parties;³ consisting of the club, twenty invited citizens and any strangers who may happen to be in town. These parties are not confined to any particular circle; but all men who are distinguished in the arts, whether fine or mechanical; or in the sciences, whether natural or artificial, are liable to be invited. The members of the club are all M. A. P. S., and the parties are supposed to look with a steady eye towards the cultivation of science; the other eye however regards with equal complacency the useful and ornamental arts of eating and drinking. The only defect in the latter department that we have discovered, is the banishment of ice cream and roman punch.

³ Called Wistar parties, in honor of the late illustrious Caspar Wistar, M.D., Professor of Anatomy in the University of Pennsylvania.

The markets are well supplied with good things. The principal one is held under long colonnades running along the middle of Market street, and extending from Front to Eighth street, a distance of more than one thousand yards. The columns are of brick and the roofs of shingles, arched and ceiled underneath. If I were to say all they deserve of its beef, mutton and veal, there would be no end to the praises that flesh is heir to; but the butter and cream-cheese in the spring and summer, are such dainties as are found in no other place under the welkin. They are produced on dairy farms and by families near the city, whose energies have for several generations been directed to this one useful end, and who now work with an art made perfect by the experience of a century.

Here is the seat of the University of Pennsylvania, which comprehends a College of the Arts and several preparatory schools; and a college of Medicine the most celebrated of the United States, in the list of whose professors are many names advantageously known in all civilized nations.

The Hospital for the insane, sick and wounded is a well conducted institution, and worth a stranger's visit. Go and see also the Museum, the Water-Works, the Navy-Yard, and the public squares, and lots of other things too tedious to write down.

The site of the city promises very little for the scenery of the environs; but unlike the witches in Macbeth, what is promised is more than kept. Take an open carriage and cross the Schuylkill by the Market street bridge, and ride up the west bank of the river for five or six miles, and your labor will be fully rewarded by a succession of lovely landscapes, comprehending water, hill and dale; wood, lawn and meadow; villas, farmhouses and cottages, mingled in a charming variety.

On the west bank of the Schuylkill opposite to the city, we regret to say, is an enormous palace, which cost many hundred thousand dollars, called an Almshouse, (unhappy misnomer,) which is big enough to hold all the paupers that would be in the world, if there were no poor laws to make them. But you had better go and see it, and take the length and breadth and height of our unreason, in this age of light, when we ought to know better.

The people of Philadelphia are in general well-informed, well-bred, kind, hospitable and of good manners, very slightly tinged with quaker reserve; and the tone of society is good, except in a small circle of exclusive imagines subitæ, who imitate very awkwardly the exaggerations of European fashion. The tone of the Satanic school, which has somewhat infected the highest circles of fashion in England, has not yet crossed the Atlantic.

There are many good Hotels, and extensive boarding houses; and the table of the Mansion House is said to be faultless.

Taking every thing into consideration, this is certainly the very spot for annuitants, who have reached the rational age of fifty, to nestle in during the long remnant of their comfortable days. We say long remnant, because as a class, annuitants are the longest livers; and there is an excellent company here, that not only grants annuities, but also insures lives.

The climate of Philadelphia is variable, and exhibits (in the shade,) all the degrees of temperature that are contained between the tenth below, and the ninetieth above zero, on the scale of Fahrenheit. In general, winter does not begin seriously until after Christmas, but he sometimes lingers too long in “the lap of spring,” and leaves a bridge of ice on the noble river Delaware until the tenth of March.

There are generally three or four weeks of severe cold, during which the thermometer sometimes at night sinks below zero, and sometimes in the day does not rise to the point of thaw. This period is generally enlivened by two or three snow storms, which set in motion the rapid sleighs, the jingle of whose lively bells is heard through day and night. The Delaware is not frozen over every winter, but there is always made an ample supply of fine crystalline ice to last the citizens until the next winter. The annual average duration of interrupted navigation may be four or five weeks. In March there is sometimes a little Scotch weather in which Sawney would rub his hands and tell you, here is a fine cauld blawey snawey rainy day. There is however not much such weather, though the March winds have been known to blow (as Paddy would say,) even in the first week of April; after which spring begins with tears and smiles to coax the tardy vegetation into life.

Spring is short and vegetation rapid. Summer sprinkles a day here and there in May, and sets in seriously to toast people in June; during which month there are generally six or eight days whose average temperature reaches the altissimum of summer heat. In July the days are hot, but there is some relief at night; whilst in August the fiery day is but a prelude to a baking night; and the whole city has the air of an enormous oven.⁴ The extremely hot weather does not continue more than six weeks, and so far from being a misfortune, it is a great advantage to the inhabitants; for it makes every body that can spare twenty dollars, take a pleasant journey every year, whereby their minds are expanded, their manners improved, and they return with a double zest to the enjoyments of Philadelphia, having learned, quantum est in rebus inane, that is, in the rebuses of other places.

⁴ The season of the Dog Days. A witty Philadelphia lady being once asked, how many Dog Days there are, answered that there must be a great many, for every dog has his day. At that time the city abounded in dogs, but the corporation has since made fierce war upon them, with a view perhaps of lessening the number of Dog Days, and improving the climate, by curtailing those innocent beasts.

The autumn, or as the Philadelphians call it, the Fall, is the most delightful part of the year, and is sometimes eked out by the Indian Summer as far as Christmas. The Fall begins in the first half of September and generally lasts until the middle of November, when it is succeeded by the Indian Summer; a pleasant period of two or three weeks, in which the mornings, evenings and nights are frosty, and the days comfortably warm and a little hazy. The Indians are supposed to have employed this period in hunting and laying in game for winter use, before the long-knives made game of them.