,W 03LLAR PER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
TOWANDA :
Thursday Morning, February 21, 1861.
„§:lcctcl) Ibctrw.
[From the Century.]
A DIRGE!
Mourn for the young !
Mourn for the hrave !
Deep in the nnquiet sea
The dead lie J-eareTully.
VRhout a grave 5
And shall he go unsung?
Mourn for the yonng and bra re !
Our hearts cease not comi>larning
Of the anger of wind and wave ;
Cea* not arraigning
The mystei ious decree
That lias removed him hence.
Mourn for the excellence
That was, that would have been, and yot was not to be
sTonrn for the vonng .
Mourn for the hrave!
His death-bed was with tempo-ts huug ;
The storm shouted in his dying ear,
And the black wave
Became his bier,
The spirit is with Go 4 who gave it,
The holly that with tloods that lave it,
The memory with us here.
We grieve ii"t for the old,
For when the I'tain is cold
The limbs may be, a-, well-
Life's kernel is consumed;
forth harvests hut a .-Ml.
ITut, with the young,
What heart-wealth is entombed I
What joy and love .'
What flowers are plucked unbloomcd'.
What song- are hushed unsung !
For them, life marches to a triumph air;
I For tiiem. hope conquers everywhere,
like victors let them move
On to the consecrated ground—
Tncir temples b mnd,
Not with mournful wivatksof autumn-brown
But with a laurel crown 1
Monro for the young and brave 1
No friend was there
To place the stiffened limbs at rest.
To fold the garments on the breast,
And wring the drowned hair.
Mourn for the young 1
Mourn for the hrave'.
Beneath the throbbing billow
biceps he, with ocean for his grave,
Its green pall o'er him Rung.
He hath white coral
For his colfln pillow,
And seaweed for his crown and laurel 1
"WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT."
I Through the weary day, on his couch bt lay,
With the life-tide ebbing slowly away ;
[■ J .fl the dew on his cold brow gathering fast,
As the pendulum-numbered moments passed.
■ And I beard a sad voice, whispering, say,
" When the tide goes out, he will pass away.
Pray for.'a soul's serene release !
That ;be weary spirit may rest in peace,
When the tide goes out."
When the tide goes out from the sea-girt land*.
It bears strange freight from the gleaming sands ;
fhe white winged ships, that long may wait
Fur the foaming wave, and a wind that's late ;
The treasures cast on a rocky shore,
Emm the stranded ships tiiat shall sail uo more.
And hopes that follow the shining seas,
01 the ocean wide .shall win all these.
When the tide goes out.
But of all that drift from the shore to tho sea,
Is the human soul to Eternity ;
FWtine away from a silent shore,
I.lke a fated ship to return no more.
Saddest—most solemn of ail--a soul
Pausing where unknown waters roll.
Where shall the surging current tend,
Slowly dividing friend from friend.
When the tide goes out ?
For onr parting spirit, 0! pray,
While the tide of life is ebbing away,
I That the soul may pass o'er sunnier seas
Thau clasped of o'd the Hesperides.
i A bark whose sails, by angel bauds,
thai! be furled on a strand of golden sands ;
And the friends that stand on a silent shore,
Knowing that we shall return no more,
Shall wish us joy of a voyage fair,
With calin sweet skies, and favoring air,
When the tide goes out.
?clcftth (Cult.
My Housekeeper.
t.'} * pv w !'° can k've the best references as to charae-
Rhility, wishes a situation as housekeeper in a
j nun - family. Reference required. Address M. L.
* *ITU. Box 101)4.
t 1 was a bachelor. I had plenty of money,
Jll ' I was thirty five years old and had never
arrived at a satisfactory way of spending it.—
* deluded that my error was the want of a
"Re of my own. Conceiving a sudden div
s ; " for hotels and boarding houses, I took a
'Rndsome house in a respectable part of the
■ *n, and began looking for a housekeeper,
e advertisement which heads this narrative
*n- us , l , ra ? e ? e as * glanced over the
ants' in the evening paper. It pleased me.
, reading it for the twentieth time,
w jn a servaut knocked at my parlor door
' announced my sister-in law, Mrs. Eliza
' v 'P, and her daughter Eliza. Mrs. Bish-
j l .'^ a* the widow ot ray oldest brother, and
. a jrition to my comfort was really tonch
-1 - >he followed the servant into the room,
tying her pretty daughter, eldest and best
'"lu-ii of the three. She wus a handsome
'I.UI of commanding, imperial order, and
, p "oked her best that wintry afternoon iu
' ■ '"i - and velvets, her cheeks crimsou with
ex*J l°' een air and the
reise she had been taking.
as 1 f , TPr < v (f!ad t0 y°. Eliza," I said,
Hill,, " ' era c ' ia ' r - "There are some
yon women know more about than an
von i, r llke rne - and 1 wa t to consult
' ln „., Uave concluded to go to housekeep
ftvifbije lightened into an expression
I eveu more beaming than the one she had be
stowed on me. It never occurred to me that
she could be thinking of my future home as a
convenient place for herself and three children.
She answered warmly :
"An excellent idea, brother Sandie, if you
: are prepared for all the expenses and trouble
!it involves. The expense to be sure is not
I much of a consideration to yon. You have
been so successful iu business tbatyou will not
require so much economy in your house as I
used to practice iu poor Robert's time, lie
always said 1 used to make one dollar do the
work of three. But there will be a good deal
of tionble. In the first place you will have to
find a good housekeeper."
M The very thing 1 was wanting to speak to
you about."
" How kind, Sandie."
■"Not kind at all, troubling you about my
affairs."
" For shame ! as if you ever had reason to
think that anything 1 could do for you would
be a trouble."
A very just remark, considering that her
voluntary services on my behalf amounted to,
besides frequent visits, u pair of slippers with
a pink eyed pussy-cat on each toe, and a smok
ing cap with a green eyed poodle couehant.
I hastened to place before her the paper in
which I had marked the advertisement which
heads this article.
"There, Eliza, this is what I have been
thinking about. Somehow I fancy I should
like Mrs. M. L. Smith $ Mary, I imagine her
name is. lam going to write to Box 1004."
"But areu't you acting o:i impulse, San
die ?"
" Perhaps so—l always do—and somehow
my ventures have been tolerably fortunate.
"Yes, but this is such an important thing.
Of course yon know," —and she laughed rath
er uneasily —"that you will be sure to marry
the lady."
Marry ? I believe every woman has in her
the element cf Eve. Here was an apple 1
never should have seen but for my sister-iu-law.
It was my turn to laugh.
" Why, no, Eliza. That is an idea of course
I never thought of. I don't imagine it would
prove to be oue with tue. lam not a marry
ing man. Besides she is, without doubt, a
widow with children, und"—
I stopped, for I remembered my sister's be
reavement aud incumbrance. Iler face turned
crimson.
" All men do not think it impossible to mar
ry a widow with children, and you may not
when Mrs. Smith has kept house for six
months, though to be sure, I dou't think some
womeu could ever make up their minds to mar
ry again."
I suppose "some woman" referred to her
self, aud I was glad of this hint as to her sen
timents, for jioor Robert had left his family
very comfortable, aud I did not want to see
his children subject to the unteoder mercies of
a second papa. After a few more cautions
from Mrs. Bishop, and a few strong expres
sions of admiration of various ai tides of fem
inine adornment for little Eliza, which extract
ed from the pocket of the good-natured uuele
the customary amount of hush money, my vis
itors departed, and I wrote uiy letter to Box
1004. In it I stated my residence, the salary
I was willing to pay, aud the number of my
| household. I gave her my came and the
names of a few of my friends who would be
ready to afford whatever information she re
quired as to my means and character. 1 ad
ded a postscript to say that i particularly ob
jected to children, and should make it a point
with my housekeeper to leave hers behind. If
she liked the terms and stipulations, I request
ed her to call at my counting room the ensuing
evening.
It would be idle to say that I attended very
closely to business the next forenoon. The
housekeeper fever, the home lodgings, had ta
ken full possession of rue. I must confess, be
sides, to no small curiosity as to the personal
appearance of M. L. Smith. I wanted an
agreeable housekeeper. Not too young—that
wouldn't look well—no toothless, wrinkled
crone to sit opposite me at my board, but a
pleasant, cheerful woman, euough to make my
home lively.
It was about 11 o'clock when my young
man ushered the lady into the counting-room.
My previous favorable impressions were fully
confirmed by her appearance. I did not think
her handsome, certainly not in the style of my
sister-in-law. She was a small woman, light
footed and slender, with a sunny, pleasant face,
which might have testified to twenty-five sum
mers, but no winters surely ; or if she had
met storm aud chill, she had borne them with
such brave patience that her face reflected on
ly the sunbeam. Her brown hair was put
smoothly and simply away from her tranquil
face. Her mouth was not small, but winning
and smiling. When she spoke, her low, pleas
ant tones endorsed the expression of her coun
tenance.
"Mr. Bishop, I believe ; the gentleman who
wrote this letter ?''
She drew the epistle from her pocket.
"The same, madam."
" I came, sir, to say that I would accept
your propositions, if you still wish it, now that
we have met.
I was about to say that I wished it more
thau ever, since I had seeu her, but fortunate
ly recollected iu time that compliments to my
housekeeper were no part of the programme,
aud very decorously concluded my engagement
in a matter-off-act aud business manner.
The next week she entered upon her duties.
I had never knowu what it was to be so com
fortable. My house was a model ofjconvcuiencc
and simple elegance, at least my sister In-law,
when she went over it previous to Mrs. Smith's
commencing, pronounced it perfect. I had a
sort of home feeling that I had never known
before—room enough for all my possessions, a
place to welcome my friends to and a very
agreeable companion in my house-keeper when
I chose to talk to her, and an unobtrusive
miuister to my comforts when I was silent.
True, Mrs. Bishop fouud, when she houor
cd me with a visit, that something or other
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA„ BY R. W. STURROCK.
was not ordered as she managed it in poor,
dear Robert's time. Housekeepers, even the
best of them, she was wout to say, required a
little lookiog after. They ean't be expected
to take so much interest in one's affairs as
one's own relations—her comments did not give
me much uneasiness, however.
I went home one day a little earlier than
usual. I thought a little quiet chat with
my housekeeper over the dining-room fire
would not be unpleasant. I had begun already
to take altogether more interest in her thau I
was prepared to acknowledge to myself. I
pictured, as 1 hurried home, the cheerful room,
the table handsomely laid, and Mrs. Smith, iu
her neat, quiet dress, sitting with book or
work, waiting for dinner to be brought us. As
1 reached my own door, however, I found it
open, and in the hall were three children of
varying ages, taking a most affectionate fare
well of my housekeeper. I had never cared
| enough for any one before to experience snch
an emotion as jealousy, but I think no other
I word would adequately describe my feelings as
I walked into the parlor and shut the door.—
Presently Mrs. Smith made her appearance.
" I am sorry," she begau.
" Not at ali madam."
"Oli, but I am. I remember your stipula
tions about tho children, perfectly. I surely
did not intend they should annoy you. I pre
sumed you would have no objections to their
j coming sometimes in your absence, and I like
; to see them as often as I can, but they shall
: not be here again at any hour when you are
i likely to come home."
She must have thought mo an ungracious
; boor, for I growled out merely :
" No matter—uo matter at all."
I was in an ill humor. The pleasant anti
| cipations with which I had hurried home had
| not been realized. Moreover, 1 suspected I
| was becoming too much interested in my house-
I keeper to like to be reminded that others had
| stronger claims upon her. That evening I sat
| on one side of the bright fire—Mrs. Smith on
the other. I abbor furnaces—it is one of my
j whims. I loved, when I was a boy, to make
pictures in the fire, and the habit and I had
j grown old together. We sat silently for some
; time; I was watching in the embers two little
| boats sailing side by side. At length I asked
| abruptly :
| " What was Mr. Smith's business, madam?'
" A merchant. He was in a dry goods firm
■ and able to give us every luxury until he died."
So that was it. He had failed and died,
and left her all those children to support. I
■ looked in the fire again. The boats had drift
ed far apart, and were sailing down a flame
colored river—
" He on one side—she on the other."
" Perhaps I could have stood the children,
if it weren't for thinking she had loved some
body else. She'd be looking back all the
while, comparing rne with No. 1."
" Sir ?"
Mv voice had attracted Mrs. Smith's atten
tion from her book, but she had evidently not
understood what 1 said, and was looking up
inquiringly. Tlir.uk fortune for that. I laugb
j ed a little nervously, I imagine.
" Nothing—l was not speaking to you; I
think 1 was talking in my sleep."
She looked down again, and 1 watched her
instead of the lire. She was pretty—prettier
than 1 hail given her credit for at first. There
i was a delicate peach blossom on her cheek, an
| innocent, almost childish expression to her
face. Well, cheek and expression were noth
ing to me. I got up and went disconsolately
to bed.
The next day my sister in law came to see
me. As usual she had plenty of suggestions
to make to Mrs. Smith, which that ludj re
ceived in silence, but with a peculiar twinkle
iu her eyes. At length Mrs. Bishop followed
me into my library.
" Well, Sandie," she remarked, seating her
self, "since you do uot seem disposed to fulfil
my prediction, and marry your housekeeper, 1
suppose I may speak freely. I have thought
from the first that she was a very artful woman.
I have no doubt that when she came here she
meant to marry you. She is very attentive
now, but of course she has her own motive. If
any trial should come you would find out who
your true friends are."
Mrs. Bishop was right in this, for the trial
did come and I saw who my true friend was,
my own friend.
I was taken ill early in the spring. My
sickness came on suddenly. I was attacked
with a severe headache and sharp pains iu my
back. The first two days Mrs. Bishop spent
in assiduous care of me; though, to confess the
truth, her attentions were unwelcome, and I
would far rather have been abandoned to the
tender mercies of my housekeeper, who rarely
came into the room when my sister-in-law was
there. The third morning my physician pro
nounced my disease small pox Even in that
moment of terror I looked at Eliza Bishop.—
Her face paled, and I could see her hand
shake. She spoke in a trembling voice.
" I wish I could stay with you, Sandie ; I
wish I could. If it was only for myself, I
would; but my children 1"
" I would not have you stay." I answered.
" I would not have you stay for worlds. I
trust you have noi endangered yourself. Good
bye, sister Eliza."
" She went out of the room, aud I turned to
Mrs. Smith, who was standing near.
" Now you must go also. The doctor will
find some one to nurse me, and you, too, must
look out for your children."
" I must look out for you, sir ; my duty is
heie now. Live or die, I shall stay with you
while you ueed me.
The little woman's voice was firm, and her
eyes shone with a clear, resolute light. I had
not thought she possessed so much resolute
will and courage.
"Consider," I said, "do you realize all the
risks you run ? Of loathsome disease, disfigure
ment, and perhaps terrible death ?"
" I have considered all, sir, and shall die."
Was I selfish to allow it ? Perhaps so, but
eveu in the hour of deadly peril, I who had
never loved a woman before, longed to have
" REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER."
her at my side, to share my danger —nay, to
die, if I died; to live for LUC, or failing that,
for no other.
I need not give the details of the sickness
that followed—tho weeks of terrible suffering
when my soul and body could scarcely cling
together. I look back upon it, strong man as
I am, with shivering dread. It was owing un
der God, to her that death, who stood waiting
day after day at my pillow, at last passed by
me. What a nurse she was ! Vigilant, sleep
less, untiring. Perhaps it was owing to her
calm courage that she did not take the disease.
She seemed to be always near me, and yet
she found time to make herself look as neat
and even tasteful as usual. Everything in my
room, after I was able to notice anything.was
in scrupulous order. Delicate flowers, as fresh
and sweet as herself, bloomed on my tabic; a
pleasant, dreamy half-light filled tho apart
ment. What & chauge from boarding-house
days I
1 was thinking of ail this glorious care ar.d
tenderness as 1 sat np for the first time at the
window, Mary—l had learned to call her so
during my illness—was out of the room, but
the tokens of her presence were all around rac.
Presently she came in and sat down at my
side.
"Mary," I said, almost involuntarily, " I
have been thinking I ought to thank you for
saving my life. Aud yet I do not know as I
am grateful. Lifo will not be of much value
unless you will share it. With you for my wife
1 could be happy; but if you canuot love me,
you might us well have let me go by the
board."
I had spoken as I felt, seriously and sadly,
but a merry twinkle danced in her eyes.
" So you think now you could stand not only
the children but my having loved some one
else ?"
" Then you heard that foolish speech, after
all. It wasn't meant for your car —forgive it.
You are too good for me, anyway; I ask noth
ing better of you, if you can love me, thau to
take you just as you are."
" Children and all ?"
" Children aud all ; I'll try to be a father
to them. Heaven help me "
" I shall be satisfied, sir, if you will be a
brother to then, since they are my mother's
children and not mine."
" And Mr. Smith is—?"
" My father, lie failed in business last year
though I am happy to say lie is living and
well. I wuutcd to help him, but the only thing
I knew how to do was to keep house. It seem
ed a proper euough occupation for an old maid
like me. You see lam not very young, sir.
When I found that you thought I was a widow
with children, I determined to favor the odd
mistake. I am not Mrs. Smith, though, but
Mary Smith, spinster, at your service iu your
family, if you like that way of stating it bet
ter."
"And you will change your title and retain
your situation ?''
Her answer is no one's business but my own.
Six weeks afterward my sister-in-law was
invited to my wedding She looked surprised,
but she torbore any comment save the remain
der of her prediction that Mrs. Smith would
conquer my prejudices against widows with in
cumbrances. The langh was against her when
1 told her that Mrs. Sandie Bishop was to go
to the hvmenial alter for the first time.
1 have been married five years. My preju
dices have yielded to the fascinations of a
bold little Sandie, and a winsome little Mary,
and sitting by my own peaceful fireside 1 bless
the day and Providence that first made me
known to my house keeper.
Ma. SPII.LMAN had just married a second
wife. One day after the wedding Mr. S. re
marked:—
" I intend, Mrs. Spillman to enlarge my
dairy."
" You mean our dairy, my dear," replied
Mrs. Spillman.
" No," quoth Mr. Spillman, " I intend to
enlarge my dairy."
" Say our dairy, Mr. Spillman."
" No, mv dairy."
" Say cur dairy, say our screamed
she, seizing the poker.
"My dairy, my dairy!'' yelled the hus
band.
" Our dairy, our dairy ! " re-echoed the
wife, emphasizing each word with a blow on
the back of her cringing spouse.
Mr. Spillman retreated under the bed. In
passing under the bed clothes his hat was
brushed off He remaind under cover sever
al minutes, waiting for a full in the storm.
At length his wife saw him thrusting his head
out at the foot of the bed, much like a turtle
from its shell.
" What are you looking for ?" exclaimed
the lady.
" 1 am looking for our breeches, my dear,"'
says he.
THE PRIEST'S ANSWER. —Paddy Malone
went to his priest and asked him " what is a
Mericle, your revereuce ?" The priest asked
him several questions, and found he had been
to a revival meeting and heard the strange
talk. He was very niad and telling Paddy
to stand out before him, he gave the poor
fellow a tremendous kick iu the rear. Did it
hurt you ?" asked the priest. "To be sure it
did ?" said Paddy. " Aud it would have
been a miracle if it did'nt," replied his rever
ance, with which Paddy went away—answer
ed, but uot satisfied.
A PRINTER'S RISE. —The Roman Catholic
Bishop of Pennsylvania recently visited Port
land Maine, and in noticing his visit, the
Bangor Whig says : " Thirty years ago, he
was an apprentice in the Argus office. He
entered a Catholic college in Ohio soon after
he become of age, aud has now been Bishop
for six years. Printers can be made into
anything.
A negro on being examined, was asked if
his master was a christian. "No sir, he is a
member of Congress," was the reply.
Woman.
Mrs. Murray, an English lady, has been a
gipsying among the Spanish islands, and has
written a book wherein she enthusiastically de
scribes woman. A London critic takes the la
dy up as follows :
" These are pretty portraits which the lady
has given us ; but one blight, brave English
woman with her energy and her courage, her
se'f-reliance and her honor, is worth the whole
bevy. The marble skiu and languid loveliness
of the harem beauty, her glorious eyes, her
matchless hair, her bewitching mouth, make
her very effective as a portrait; so is the
Spanish woman, with her natural flowers
braided into her magnificent hair, and her dark
eyes beaming so eloquently from under her
arched brows. Let the palm of beauty pass :
let the fair haired English girl look pale and
expressionless beside these glowing beauties ;
but at home, who but she bears off the prize
before all women of the world ? Who so neat,
so hourly well appointed, so regular in her hab
its, so charming in her management ?—who so
sweet a home companion,so reliable, so truthful,
so mate like as she? Not the Moorish maiden,
ignorant, and to be protected by cage wires
and impregnable walls ; nor the Spanish wo
man, who washes the babies ou the dining ta
ble, trails through the morning dressed like a
ragged beggar, and may not even go to mass
without her duenna and her guardian. For
our own part, we would rather pay onr homage
to such women as we see painted in the Acad
emy, in scarlet* petticoats, Balmoral boots,
turned hats aud gauntlet gloves, with that fear
less look of honesty and dariug which only ex
ists where there is freedom, self respect and
social esteem, than to all the lights of the ha
rem. '
Yes, or to any American woman, who makes
home of a cottage, and smiles her gentle sway,
a queen in calico. But it so happens that we
have a great many ladies and not nearly so
many women as we once had ; those who grace
a frame more than they do a family ; good to
write poetry too, and sing, "Meet me by moon
light alone" too, and make "Books of Beauty"
about, but neither Rachels nor Ruths. A
classic nose is a happy accident, and so is a l p
fashioned alter Appollo's bow, the nether one
as if "some bee had stung it newly but a
sweet spirit aud a graceful life are not acci
dents ; they are 1 orn of patience and self
denial, aud womanly faith.
It is the nonsense of the thing called gal
lantry, that has robbed the world of many a
woman, only to make a lady of her; the stuff
about, 'angels in disguise,' aud 'kneeling at
their feet,' and 'paying homage to beauty' is
as ab.urd to day, as the scene in the yard of
the inn where Sancho Panza watched the
first night of his errauty. As if it were pos
sible to be anything better on earth than a
woman; a woman in its true sense, who like
Mary of old is last at every scene of suffering
and first at every resurrection of a hope.—
Chiaigo Journal.
Carolina Bombast.
The Charleston Mercury of the 29th indul
ges in the following calm reflections :
At this moment, the army and navy are
both demoralized; and with half a dozen States
to be subdued, the Federal despotism will have
its hands full and the Treasury empty !
But tiic problem is to be worked out, ala
Scott, by a due reference to Jackson's policy
and Webster's speech. Our ports are to be
blockaded ! The Constitution, and the Mace
donian, and the Wyoming, and the Brooklyn,
and possibly a score besides, are to hang about
our ports, and the duties, which are all our
loving brethcrn want at our hands—mouey—
tribute—uot love, nor fellowship—these are to
be collected at the entrance of our harbors !
We will pay no tribute !
Let the ports be blockaded. Charleston and
Savannah, and Mobile, and New Orleans.—
We will foi'ai goodly fellowship when onr
ports are blockaded. We bid you welcome to
the simple fare of an agricultural people. We
have provisions enough ou every homestead
in South Carolina to last a year—hog and
hominy in abundance. We will bny no more
Northern hickshaws. We will make our own.
By next August God will give to our grauaries
a good corn crop. In September we shall be
gathering from millions of acres of cotton.—
We have ranch cotton on hand now, which
the world wants. What Great Britain and
France will do for cotton, with our ports
blockaded, we cau't exactly say ; but we sus
pect that they will find away to bring us Eng
lish and French cloths and cassimeres, and
negro cloths, in place of those rascally, shaggy
aud worthless stuffs, with which the Yaukees
have been cheating us year after year. We
will wear those cloths, be sure, and Great Brit
ain and France may get our cotton as they
can.
The bully programme, for it is nothing n:ore
will soon cure itself. Up to the very moment
when our shot smote the Star of the West in
her cheeks, these scoundrelly asses of the
Northern press wore telling the miserable
moonlings whom they have gulled to their ruin
that ours was the bullying game ; that we
were not in earnest; that all they had to do
was to hold on, and they would sec us, cap in
hand, begging to be received to favor. They
judged of other people by themselves. They
have been playing the thimble-rigging, the
bragging, and the bullying game all their lives
and as each best measures his neighbor's corn
by his own false bushels,so these people would
measure ours. But there must be a finish some
day to all games ; and the thimble-riggers are
likely to find themselves at last ia the hands
of the constable. We shall play out our game
honestly, as we begun it, and fling our shot
into tho faces of the bullies whenever they ap
pear.
"Ah, Doctor, how is my wife to day?"
The Doctor shook his head and said:—" Yon
must prepare for the worst."—" What!" ex
claimed the alarmed husbaud, "is she likely
to recover ?"
VOT.. XXT. —NO. 38
(ftwtatifwtl ftfidwti
Visiting Schools hy Parents.
This if? a hackneyed subject, constantly talk
ed about, —but seldom done, acknowledged by
all to be a duty, aud yet, a duty neglected by
all. Every parent concedes that it would en
courage bis oaii children, strengthen the au
thority of the teacher, assist him in control
ing unruly pupils, if he have such, and greatly
benelit the whole school ; still every parent
stays away from the school, from one year's
end toauothe;\
All parents are interested in toe education
of their children, and they feel anxious to
have them make' the greatest possible pro
gress. Yet they seldom go uear the house in
which they are to receive their education.—
While tlioy give strict attention to their do
mestic animals, and watch carefully the Indi
viduals having charge of them, they pay but
little attention to their own offspring, so far
as their education is concerned, and seldom if
ever go to the school house to see what the per
son having charge of them is doing with them.
They would immediately dismiss an unfaith
ful man from their employ in the shop, or
store, or farm, but the teacher may wholly
neglect bis duty to the children, and no par
ent will know it unless his children enter com
plaint. The teacher may teach morality, or
immorality, he may instruct in the sciences
correctly or incorrectly and the parent will
not know which lie is doing unless he be in
formed by some of the pupils.
Now why do parents thus neglect an ac
knowledged duty, a duty too, which they owe
to the objects of their strongest affections. to
their children whom they love as they do their
own sonls ?
Some say they cannot find time to visit the
schools ; but, let me a-k do they not take time
for other things not half so important? If
their children were at work for them, would
they not find time, to at least occasionally see
how they were getting ulong ? Even if it
does take a little time, should not parents af
ford it, when the bc-at interests of their chil
dren are at stake ?
But say others, vre do dot understand tie
branches studied, and consequently we cannoi
tell whether the scholars are doing well or not.
If they do not understand all of the branch
es, they do some of them. They do know
when their children read and spell well, if
they hear them, they can tell whether they re
cite readily and promptly, whether they are
studious and obedient, or lazy, idle and trou
blesome.
If they will go to the school occasionally,
they will know whether or not, their own chil
dren are supplied with books such as they re
quire to make good progress, they will find
out too, what many parents seem not to know,
whether the school house is comfortable and
convenient, or whether their children, whom
they are most careful to make as comfortable
as possible at home, are obliged to sit all day
in rooms so cold that they are in danger, every
hour, of contracting diseases that will consign
them to early graves ; they will ascertain, by
going to the school now and theu to spend
an hour or two, whether seats without backs,
stoves without doors, and outside doors with
out latches are such things as the pupils and
teachers ought to be satisfied with.
Others say, it is the business of the Direct
or* to employ the teachers and visit the schools
also, nr.d we are thus exonorated from all re
| spousibi'ity in the matter ; but is this so ?
. Because the law requires directors to hire, and
superintendents to examine and license teach
ers, and also, to visit the schools does it there
fore free parents from the duty they owe to
their children. Shall f neglect my child be
cause the law obliges directors to hire persons
to teach him, together with the other children
of the neighborhood? Shall I pay no atten
tion to the health of my boy, because a phy
sician has been employed to look to his bodily
ailment* ? No attention to bis morals because
he lias a Sabbath school teacher, selected per
haps, and appointed by some other person 1
Well, exclaims another, we have A first rata
teacher, all the scholars says so, and I am sat
isfied that all goes right, and even if it does
not, I cannot alter it, so what is the nse in
my spending time in running to the school.—
Suppose you have a first rate teacher, he may
not have all first rate scholars, and let me say
to you in all kindness, that it takes good schol
ars, as well as a good teacher to make a good
school, lie wants sympathy, and encourage
ment, and perhaps advice, if he is a first rato
teacher, and he wants them from you, parents.
You have a first rate band in your store, or
shop, or on your farm, —do you therefore
neglect him for months, and thereby show to
him that you feel no interest in what he is
doiug. You employ a first class physician
when your child is sick, hut do you not want
to know whether lie is killing or curing him?
Do you never give any attention to a suit in
court, because you have secured the services
of a first class lawyer to manage the case?
Parents, if you only knew how glad your
teachers would be to see you at the schools, if
it were but once a term even, you could not
stay away. If you knew how much you would
delight your own children, how much you
would encourage the teacher, and how much
good you could do the whole school by spend
ing an occasional hour with the scholars and
teacher, you conld not stay away, terra after
term and year after year.
Will you not go and see what kind of hou
ses your children have to spend their days in,
what kind of desks and seats and out door
conveniences they have furnished for them in
their young, sprightly, hopeful days. Go
among them in their sports on the muddy high
way, see how those little dear ones, of whom
you are so tender when at home, are obliged
to get along and suffer and endure in the
houses in which they are to attempt to get an
education.
'"There, John, that's twice you've come homo
and forgotten that lard. " La mother ;it
was so greasy that it slipped aiy uiiud.