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" | For the Agitator.
geow better.
better! let each shining sun
8 still find thee upward tending;
Remember life has just begun,
Bui it will have no ending.
Re thoughtful, resolute and strong
To civo the Bight assistance.
And oh ! when tempted to the wrong
Qrow better by resistance.
Oh monrncr! sorrowing o’er the truth
And trust of days departed.
The pride and promise of thy youth,
miich left thee broken-hearted— . j
look np ! for there remameth still
One glorious assurance,
The .oil that calmly bears with dl
Grows better by endurance.
Then with one sigh for errors past,
One tear for by-gone sorrow;
Turn to the Now, for duties fast
Arc crowding; and to-morrow
Yet more await the earnest soul
Baptized with griefs immersion ;
Still faithfully perform the whole,
w Grow better by exertion.
And oh! we all are marching to
The kingdom of God’* glory j
The angel hosts almost in view
Are telling their sweet story.
*.ca of death that realm shall bound
Foml hearts and hands to sever,
Bat there we may as time rolls round,
Grow wise and’ good forever.
The Three Wishes.
A BUTCH LEGEND.
At a small fishing village in Dutch Flanders,
fare is still shown the sight of a hut, which
ruan object of much attention whilst it stood,
on account of a singular legend that relates to
its first inhabitant, a kind-hearted fellow, who
depended on his boat for subsistence, and his
own happy disposition for cheerfulness during
nory hardship and privation. Thus the story
goes;
One dark and stormy night in winter, as Jan
Schalken was sitting by his good-natured buxom
tife by tire fire, he was awakened from a tran
sient doze by a knocking at the door of his
j-at. He started up, drew back the holt, and a
itranger entered. lie was atall man, hutlittle
Mali be distinguished, either of his face or
Ejore, as he wore a large dark cloak, which he
hid contrived to pull over his head after the
fashion of a cowl.
“lam a poor traveler,” said the stranger,
'tad want a night’s lodging. 'Will you grant
itto me?”
“At, to be sure,” replied Schalken, “but I
m afraid your cheer will be hut sorry. Had
na come sooner you might have fared better.
Sil down, however, and eat what is left.”
The traveler took him at his word, and in a
nort time afterwards, retired to his humble
sleeping place. Iri the morning, as he was
shout to depart, he advanced towards Schalken,
and, giving him his hand, thus addressed him;
“It is needless for you, my good friend, to
ir,;r who I am ; tut of this be assured, that I
tsaand will be grateful; for when the rich and
powerful turned me last night from their inhos
pitable gates, you welcomed me as man should
itlcome man, and looked with an eye of pity
tn the desolate traveler in the storm. I grant
you three wishes. Be they what they may,
base wishes slmlljbe gratified.”
Xow Schalken certainly did not put much
isith in these promises, hutjstill he thought it
lac safest plan to make trial of them ; and ac
cordingly, began to fix how he should fix his
wishes. J:in was a man who had few or no
rabiliems views, and was contented with the
wav of Jifo in which he had been brought up.
In fact, jhe was so well satisfied with his situa
tion, that he had not the least inclination to
tss a single day. of his laborious existence;
let, on the contrary, had a very sincere wish
of adding a few years to those which ,he was
destined to live. This gave rise to wish the
srst-
“Let my wife and myself live,” he said,
‘‘fifty years longer than nature has designated.”
“It shall be done,” cried the stranger.
iHiilet Schalken was puzzling his brains for
s second wish, he bethought him that a pear
which was in his little garden, had been
toucntly despoiled of its fruit, to the no small
-•ament of the said tree, and grivous disap
fcatment of its owner.
"Fur my second wish, grant that whoever
J-fchs my pear-tree shall not have power to
it until my permission be given.”
This was also assented to. Schalken was a
man, and liked to sit down and chat with
wife of an evening ; but she was a bustling
and often jumped up in the midst of a
that she had only heard ten or
k'-lve times, to scrub the table, or set their
splatters in order/ Nothing disturbed him
grouch as this, and he was determined if pos
to prevent the recurrence of-the nuisance,
this object in view, he approached close
J/ta stranger, and in a low whisper told him
h? third and last wish: that whoever sat in a
Ocular chair in his hut, should not be able
out of it until it should please him so
border. This wish was agreed to by the trav
el who, after many greetings, departed on
J Way. Years passed on, and his last two
had been fully gratified by often detain
-h thieves in Ins tree and his wife in her chair.
time was approaching when tho promise
'•longevity would be falsified or made mani-
lfc happened that the birthdays of the
and his wife were the same. They
sitting together on the evening of the day
him 79 years, and Mietjie 73 years
■ l& ge, when the moon that was shining through
of the hut seemed suddenly to be 1
‘-itinguished, and tho stars rushed down the
clouds, and lay glaring on the surface of
Ji °cean, over which was spread an unnatural
although the skies seemed to be mas
-7*2 by the \vinds, and were heaving onward,
their mighty waves of cloud. Birds
ypped dead from the boughs, and tho foliage
* trees turned to a pale red. All seemed
■'prognosticate the approach of Death, and in
minutes afterwards sure enough he came.
however, very different from all that
* worthy couple had. heard of him. He-was
Mainly rather thin, and had very little color,
x i? WAs dressed, and his deportment
t of a gentleman. Bowing very politely
419 ancient pair, he told them he 'merely
THE AGITATOR
vol. m
came to give notice, that by right they should
have belonged to him on that day, hut a fifty
years' respite -was granted, and when that period
had expired, he should visit them again. He
then walked away, and the moon, and'the stars,
and the waters regained their natural appear
ance. For the next fifty years every thing
passed on as quietly as before; hut as the time
drew nigh for the appointed advent of Death,
Jan became thoughtful, and he felt no pleasure
at the idea of the anticipated visit. The day
arrived, and Death came, preceded by the same
horrors as on the former occasion.
“Well, good folks,” said he, “you now can
have no objection to accompany me ; for assu
redly you have hitherto been highly privileged,
and have lived long enough,
i The old dame wept, and clung feebly to her
husbahd, as if she feared they were to be divi
ded after passing away from the earth on which
they had dwelt so long and so happily together.
Poor Schalfcen also looted very downcast, and
moved after Death but slowly. As they passed
by Jan’s garden he turned to take a last look
at it, when a sudden thought struck him. He
called to Death and said, “Sir, allow me to
propose something to you. Our journey is n
long one, and we have no provisions ; I am too
infirm, or I would climb yonder pear tree, and
take a stock of its best fruit with us; you are
active and obliging, and will, I am sure, sir,
get it for us.”
Death, with great condescension complied,
and ascending the tree, gathered a great num
ber of pears, which he threw down to old
Sohalken and his wife. At length he deter
mined upon descending, but, to his surprise and
apparent consternation, discovered that ho was
immovable; nor would Jan allow him to leave
the tree until he had given them a promise of
another half century.
Virginia,
They jogged on the old way for fifty years
more, and Death came to the clay. He was l»y
no means so polite as he had formerly been,
for the trick that Schalken had put upon him,
offended his dignity and hurt his pride not a
little.
“Come, Jan,” said he, “you used me scur
vily the other day, (Death thinks but very little
of fifty years 1) and I am determined to lose no
time—come.”
Jan was sitting at his little table, busily em
ployed in writing, when Death entered. He
raised his head sorrowfully, and the pen trem
bled in his hand, as he thus addressed him, “I
confess that my former conduct towards you
merits blame, but I have done with such
knaveries now, and have learnt to know that
life is of little worth, and that I have seen
enough of it. Still, before I quit this world I
would like to do all the good I can, and was
engaged when you arrived in making a will,
that a poor lad.who.has been always kind to us,
may receive this hut and my boat. Suffer me
but to finish what I have begun, and I shall
cheerfully follow wherever you may lead.—
Pray sit down; in a few minutes my task will
be ended,”
Death, thus appealed to, could refuse no lon
ger, and seated himself in a chair, from which
he found it as difficult to rise as he had*for
merly to descend the pear tree. Ilis liberation
was bought at the expense of an additional
fifty years, at the end of which period, and ex
actly on their birth-day, Jan Schalken and his
wife died quietly in their bed, and the salt
water flowed freely in the little village, in which
they had lived long enough to be considered
the father and mother of all its inhabitants.
Pat and the Wedded Pair.
“Last month Gen. Sampson Dove, of Winep
usa, married the darter of the American Keoun
sel (consul) to Dublin, r Miss Jemima Fox. Did
you ever see her, stranger?” “Never,” I said.
“Well, that’s a cruel pity, for you would have
seen a peeler, I tell you—a real corn fed gal,
and no mistake. Just what Evo was, I guess,
when she walked about the garden, and angels
come to see her, and weren’t so everlastin’ thin
and vaporyvlilte I sunbeams. Well they first
went to wedding ‘tower/ and
after they had stared af"the lovely place till
they hurt their eyes, they came down here to
see the Groves of Blarney, and what noc. Well,
the gineral didn’t want folks to know he was
only just married, for people always run to the
winders and doors to look at a bride, as if she
was a bird that was only seen once in a hun
dred years. It’s onconvanient that’s a fact,
and it makes a sensitive, delicate-minded gal
feel as awkward as a wrong boot, f So says the
gineral to Pat, “Pat,” says ho, “don’t go now
and tell folks we are only just married ; lie low,
a t\d keep dark, will you ? that’s a good fellow.”
“Bedad, never fear, yep honor, divil a much
they’ll get out of me, I can tell you. Let me
alone for that; I can keep a secret as well as
ever a priest in Ireland.” Well, for all that
they did star© in a way that was a caution to
owls: and well they might, too, for it ain’t of
ten they saw such a girl as Miss Jemima, I can
tell you; though the Irish gals warn’t behind
the door when beauty was given out—that’s a
fact. At last the gineral sec something was in
the wind, above common, for the folks looked
amazed in the house, and they didn’t seem half
pleased either. So says he, one day, “Pat,”
says he, “I hope you did not tell them we were
only just married, did you?” “Tell them you
was only just married, is it, yer honor?” said
he ; let me alone for that! They were mighty
inquisitive about it, and especially the master
—he wanted to know all about it, entirely.—
Married, is it?” says I; “why they ain’t mar
ried at all, at all; the divil a parson ever said
grace-over them ! But I’ll tell you what —(for
I was determined it was hut little truth he’d get
out of me) —I’ll tell you what,” says I, “if you
won’t repeat it to nobody, they are goin’ to be
married in about a fortnight, for I heard them
say so this blessed day, with my own ears.”—
If the general wasn’t raving, hopping mad, it
ain’t no matter. In half an hour he and his
wife were on board the steamer for England,
and Pat is in bed here yet from the licking he
got,” —Dublin University Magazine .
It is the opinion of a western editor that
wood goes further when left out of doors than
when well housed. He says some of his went
half a mile.
aaefeoteg to tftc SSytension of tfce a«a ,#m&o«i atia tt>e SptcaO of &ealtd£ a&tfotm.
WHILE THEBE SHALL BE A WRONG UNEIQHTED, AND UNTHi “MAN’S INHUMANITY TO MAN" SHALL CEASE, AGITATION MUST CONTINUE.
WELLSBORO, TIOGA COUNTY, PA., THURSDAY MORNING, AUGUST 4, 1859.
A Victim of Circumstantial Evidence.
Joe Brace was a farmer's son in the town of
and by his tricks and pranks caused
his watchful “parienfc" no little trouble some
times. It happened on one occasion, tliat Mas
ter Joo was caught in some misdemeanor, and
as n punishment for the same, .bad been com
pelled to hoe in the cornfield until sucm time as
the said “parient" should judge proper) that Ko
should be released. Joe, like a dutiful son,
took his hoe, and straightway commenced sad
havoc among the weeds which obstructed the
growth of the corn. Dinner time crime and
passed iby and still no call for poor j[oe, who
began to think his punishment “greaier than
he conid bear; but still he toiled on, expecting
every moment to hear the which
would release him for a time at least from his
task. But there was no such good luckjfor him.
The old man determined that he should “sweat
it out/* as he termed it; and stretching himself
on the lounge in the back, room, was soon fast
asleep. Joe labored faithfully until ndar three
o'clock, when, hunger getting the betterjof duty,
.he resolved to obtain something to stay his
“stomach" at-all hazards. So, dropping his
hoe, he steered cautiously for the hoiise; and
entering the back door unobserved, succeeded
in reaching the pantry without detection—the
old man being asleep, and the other portion of
the household being engaged with sojme com
pany in the front part of the house, who had
arrived a few moments before. On entering,
he commenced an attack on a mince jpie, that
had been set before the window to coi)l, being
just from the oven. When he had about half
demolished.the pie, and - was thinkingiof some
means to escape detection, his nieditatipns were
disturbed by something coming in contact with
his limbs. On looking down, he saw t!he favor
ite pussy, who had stolen in at the cloor, and
was rubbing herself, and purring, as if expres
sing her entire satisfaction at the prjceeding.
On perceiving her he thought of a pUn which
he put into immediate execution. Grasping her
fore-logs, he dabbled her fore-feet abcut in the
remaining part of the pie, and placing her on
the shelf, left the pantry, the oat jumping to
the floor, and following him, leaving h jr tracks,
of course, both on the shelf and on the floor.—
Joe now made immediate haste for the field,
much refreshed by his “bait," and was soon
diligently at work.
lie had been hoeing but a short ti
hearing a noise in the rear, he look
saw the old man coming, with tabby
arm, and his gun over his shoulder,
spoke; the old man passing by, and
round behind a knoll which hid him
view.
Joe loaned on hishoo for a moment, listening,
when the silence was disturbed by th-s report of
a gun and the screechings of a cat, plainly in
timating what had been the fate of pjoor pussy.
In a moment more the old man reappeared with
his gun in his hand, the smoko still curling
from the barrel; and as he passed by his labor
ing hopeful, if he had not been a little hard of
hearing he might have heard : goes an
other victim to circumstantial evidence.”
Marriage. —ln the pressure that now weighs
upon all persons of limited fortune, sisters,
nieces, and daughters, arc the only commodities
that our friends arc willing to bestow upon us
for nothing, and which we cannot a: ford to ac
cept, even gratuitously. It seems to have been
the same, at a former period, in France. Mat
tie Jean Picard tells us that, when) he was re
turning from the funeral of his wife, doing his
best to look disconsolate, such of tb j neighbors
as had grown-up daughters and co isins came
to him, and kindly implored him not to he
inconsolable, as they could give him a second
wife. “Six weeks after,” says Maitre Jean,
“I lost my cow, and, though I really grieved on
this occasion, not one of them offered to give
me another.” It has been recorded- by some
anti-connubial wag, that when two widowers
were once condoling together on tbjo recent be
reavement of their wives, one of them exclaimed,
with a sigh, “Well may I bewail my loss, for
I had so few differences with the de ir deceased,
that the last day of my marriage was as happy
as the first,” “There I surpass y6u,”said his
friend, “for the last day of mine wes happier /”
Genius and Labor. —Alexander Hamilton
once said to an intimate friend: “.Men give me
some credit for genius. All the genius that I
have lies in just this: When I have a subject in
hand, I study it profoundly. Day and night
it is before me. I explore it in all its bearings.
My mind becomes pervaded withi;. Then the
effort which I make is what the people are
pleased to call the fruit of genii s. It is the
fruit of labor and thought.” •
Mr Webster once replied to a gc ntleman who
pressed him to speak on a subject of great im
portance: “The subject interests me deeply, but
I have not time. There Sir,” pointing to a
huge pile of letters on his table,. “is a pile of
unanswered letters, to which I must reply before
the close of the session, (which was then three
days off.) I have not time to master the subject
so as to do it justice.” “But, Mr, Webster, a few
words from you would do so mu;h to awaken
public attention to it.”
“If there be such weight in my words as you
represent, it is because I do not allow myself to
speak on any subject till I have imbued my mind
with it.”
Long-winded persons can gath
the following:—
“Here, John,” said the gentler
vant on horseback, in the rear, “
and just take hold of my hors
mount; and, after lam dismoun
dismount, too. Then John, nng
of your horse, and put it down;
please ungirth the saddle of my
it down. Then John, tako up
your horse and put and girth i I
Afterwards, John, take up the
horse and put and girth it on youi
John, I will seat myself in yo:
you can scat yourslf in minp, a
sume our journey.” I
“Bless me, master," said tl
couldn’t you have simply said 1(
dies.?”
COMMUNICATIONS.
For th« Agitator.
Old Stiles at the Dinner Table.
The “Autocrat at the Breakfast Table,” hag
earned for himself a name worthy to rank with
the best authors of our country. Besides this
he has had an opportunity to have his say on
almost every imaginable subject, a piece of
luck which docs not present itself to everybody
in this world; and when the editor of the Ag
itator invited me to a place in his columns, I
took care to stipulate as a condition of my com
ph'inoe, that I should say just whatever I
please. I will confess in the outset that my
object in writing is not to gain a name in the
“world of letters”—for alas! how small a space
is one county in that great world ! —but just to
hare my say for a few months about matters
and things in which we all take an interest. If
you choose to sit down with me and hear me
talk, why all the better for you; if not, you
need not say anything against me, or tako ex
ceptions to my conversation.
Now some person, naturally inclined to find
fault—and there are lots of such persons in
the world, and they deserve our pity instead of
our censure—may say “Old Stiles takes a good
deal of a load upon himself, in trying to imi
tate the ‘Autocrat,' and he will certainly fail."
No sir; you are wrong. I don’t intend to give
you learned or philosophical disquisitions on
anything. X will only imitate him in so far as
I talk at the table. Unlike the “Autocrat" I
am a married man. I have a wife, my am, and
two children (and nobody ought to have more
than two, even if John Rogers had nine small
children and—l mean ien; but that was when
the world was younger than it now is, and
more room for them,) and a cousin and a mother
in-law—only six of us in all. We live in a
little house up town—you needn’t mind what
town it is—and we generally have enough to
live on.
lam a middle aged man. If I hadn’t been,
you would never have seen this article, and I
will tell you why. When I was a young man,
I used to write poetry for the papers —the county
papers you know—and one day I called upon
the editor of the Gimlet Eyed Argus and asked
him if ho didn’t consider “The Soldier's Grave,”
and “Lines on the Death of Mary Jane Pye,” *
and “Napoleon’s Lament,” (these were pieces
I had sent to him,) worth at least a dollar a
piece ! lie was a queer old fellow, was the
editor of the Gimlet Eyed Argus, and he went
into convulsions of laughter at my speech.
When he recovered sufficiently to talk, ho said
to mo: “Young man, I have charged your
father sixteen dollars for putting your “poems”
as you call them, in my paper, as that is just
the amount of spaco they took up ; but, look
here ! if you will agree never to inflict upon me
any more such stuff, I will receipt the bill.” My
feelings on that occasion aro more easily imag
ined than pleasant to describe. Shame and in
dignation struggled for supremacy in my young
heart, and I wondered if everybody thought me
as great a fool as the editor did. With shame
uppermost in my mind, I arose to leave the
office, when he stopped me with, “Don’t be in
a hurry Mr. Stiles, 'l have a few words more
to say to you. is the receipt. You are
a young man of promise. You have ambition,
and—though I say it to your face, genius. Now
take my advice. I have published the Gimlet
Eyed Argus forty years, and know something
about what lam talking. A great many young
people think if they can only make verses or
rhymes, that therefore they are born poets.
There was never a greater mistake. They are
born fools, sir, and their folly is only equal to
their vanity. Let me state a case in point, sir.’’
(Ilere the editor pulled out a drawer and took
from it a manuscript.) He continued: “Now
here, sir, is a poem “written expyessly for the
Gimlet Eyed Argus, by Miss Amelia Sweetly”—
that’s tho way it is headed. It is an account of
an accident which occurred in Washington
township done into rhyme. The friends of the
bereaved liked it; Miss Swectly’s friends liked
it; 'they were astonished at her talent and ad
vised her to send it here to mo, supposing no
doubt, that they were conferring a great favor
upon me. I will read you the third verse, sir,
so you can see what it is, and judge for your
self:
ime when,
: *d up and
under his
Neither
roceeding
rom Joe's
The tree it struck him on tho head
And mashed out all his brains
And now hes numbered with the ded
Free from all caro and pane
There sir, that’s what some folk think is the
result of genius ! Take it and read it for your
self, and remember, never write a line of poetry
till you are forty years old Thus saying the
editor bowed me out of his office. I took his
advice, aqd for twenty years I never wrote
either poetry or prose for the papers. But I
couldn’t help writing both, and I have lots of
doggerel laid up to dream over in my old age,
and lots of essays wherewith I may at any time
remind myself of the visions of my youth. But
the vanity and vexation of spirit, the restless
nights, and the sometimes gloomy and some
times joyful days on which these brain chil
dren of mine saw the light, were known only
to myself. No envious sneer, no turned up
nose, no laugh of ridicule ever greeted my pro
ductions; neither did* words of praise from
those who knew not how to judge, ever lead my
mind astray by tickling my vanity, for the very
best of reasons, namely, nobody ever saw them
but myself. 1
But as I said, I am now a middle aged man.
My son is nearly man-grown and is at present
studying law in Foxtown. I gave him a name
when ho was a child—Ezekiel—and he was the
means of giving me a name which I will proba
bly be known by till I die. When ho grew up,
our neighbors, more vulgar and disrespect
: ful among them, called me “Old Stiles” to
designate me from him. I have been tohLso by
members of roy own family, for no man ever
dared to speak it to my face. I adopt it here,
so that my son may not be blamed with these,
articles, my own name being Uko his— Ezekiel.
My daughter’s name is Letitia, but wo call her
Letty for short. She is younger thanEzekiel,and i
is at present at a boarding school. My cousin,
Jemima Short is a single female, and says-she
is only twenty-eight years old—was never mar-;
rlcd, and lives with us because nobody else can
ir a hint from
man to his sof
“icome forward,
t e while I dis
nted John, you
;irth the saddle
; then you will
horse, and put
the saddle of
it on my horse,
saddle of my
ir horse. Then,
nr saddle, and
ind we will re-
le man, “why
It’s change sad-
bear her; and Mrs. Bright is the name of my
mother-in-law. Haying thus introduced the
family, (all eicept my wife who will introduce
herself in dde time,) next week I may tell you
d few talks we had at the dinner table.
MEMENTO.
My son, be this thy simple plan:
Serve God, and love thy brother man;
Forgot not in temptation’s hour,
That sin Tends sorrow double power j
Count life a stage upon thy way.
And follow conscience, come wbat may;
Alike with heaven and earth sincere,
With hand and brow and bosom clear,
“Fear God—and know no other fear.”
EDUCATIONAL.
PBIZEjESSAY.
The Duties and Responsibilities of the
Common School Teacher.
BT VICTOR A. ELLIOTT.
The duties and responsibilities of the conr
mon school teacher are many. They cannot
be recounted and described in a short essay of
this kind; therefore, this must be considered a
mere corapend of facts, with few comments, and
with little or no embellishments. Duty and re
sponsibility seem to me to he inseparably con
nected. I cannot conceive a duty with which
there is not linked a responsibility, either great
or small, accordingly as we possess power to
perform that duty, and wherever power ceases,
there responsibility ends ; for as we are not re
quired to perform anything but what is within
our power, so we shall not be held responsible
for what is beyond our control. Hence it fol
lows that an essay upon tho duties and respon
sibilities of the common school teacher will be
nothing more than an enumeration of his duties,
with a few comments and conclusions. To this,
then, I proceed:
The first duty of the common school icad&er
is his duty to himself. Not that this is hU high
est or greatest duty; for that would seem to
convey the idea of selfishness, which should
form little or no part of the teacher’s qualifica
tions, as little at most, as the extreme selfish
ness of human nature, which Wfs declared that
“self preservation is the firjplaw of nature/'
will admit; but the comcqjffn school teacher
should educate himself for/the high profession
which he intends to follow. Ho should prepare
himself by thorough mental and moral discipline
for the responsible station which he expects to
occupy; and he should not offer himself as
teacher of the young, (until ho has undergone
such a course of training. •He who disregards
these obligations not tfply violates a plain duty
which he owes to himself, but he brings untold
injury upon his scholars.. Experience and ob
servation have shown ,tjbat those teachers have
succeeded best in teaching, who have fortified
their minds with thelSSst moral principles, and
have stored them with /the greatest amount of
available intellectual knowledge.
The teacher should (Jultivatc a good disposi
tion. Ntwperson is properly fitted to become a
teacher ofl the young, Whose temper is easily
ruffled, or] who is cross, [peevish, or fretful. A
sudden outburst of ang&r in the school room,
would endanger the bomiea and even the lives
of the scholars ; while Ncross, words
wpuld be likely to spoil them dispositions, ruin J
their reputations, and perhapSkinjure their mor-1
al characters. The teacher ehobM be careful to
guard against tattling, envy, malice, or hatred ; j
for he may bo assured that if such evil passions
be allowed to corrode bis spirit corrupt
his character, they will soon find their into
the hearts of his scholars, and dfestroy' every
thing that is lovely and amiable there. Such
is the power and influence of example, that tfee
teacher is teaching when he least expects it,
and the scholar is learning what he most desires
to conceal. The teacher who uses profane or
obscene language, or makes use of low slang
phrases before his scholars, or indulges in tho
use of intoxicating drinks, has not rightly per
formed his duty to himself before entering upon
the duties of the school room. The teacher
should cultivate good manners in himself; he
should be polite and gentlemanly in his conver
sation, neat in his personal appearance, punc
tual in performing his labors, and faithful in
fulfilling his promises; in short, he should bo
a gentleman in the truest and best sense of the
terra; he should bo moral, upright, refined; and
and he should so conduct him
self that the scholars under his charge may be
led to “shun the very appearance of evil.”
Again, the teacher should possess the art of
pleasing. The cultivation of this art forms one
of the many important duties which the teacher
owes to himself; and that teacher who neglects
this necessary accomplishment must expect to
fall very short of accomplishing the good he
otherwise might do in his sphere of usefulness.
There arc certain persons in whom there seems
to be an inherent natural attractiveness which
draws us instinctively toward them, teaches us
to love them, to put confidence in them, and to
imitate them. What in them wc attribute to
genius, is nothing more than the result of cul
tivation ; it is the result of a desire to please
practically carried out. If the teacher would
win the love of his scholars, gain their confi
dence, and teach them by precept and example
what is right and r good, he must cultivate this
art of pleasing; thus be will have the good;
; will and hearty cooperation of his scholars, j
which will be found the most powerful auxil-'
aries in accomplishing his object, and without
which all his efforts will be a miserable failure.
A person cannot consistently become a teacher
if lie neglects this art of pleasing; for that
alone can ensure success. He can acquire this
art by open-hearted, manly conduct, by being
generous in his conversation, and obliging in
bis mariners; by manifesting an interest in the
affairs of others—joy in their prosperity, and
kindness even in their adversity. But in this
he must be most sincere, for nothing is more
offensive than affected kindness, or affectation
of any kind.
The next great duty of the teacher is his duty
to his scholars . And here, I think, is where
his great responsibility lies. Responsibility at
taches itself to all hia duties, but hero it rests
most heavily. The great prime object of the
teacher should be to benefit and improve his
scholars, to train up their minds to use-
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fulness, to develop their latent powers, to culti T
vate their mental faculties and to mold them
into proper form by a plastic though firm and
steady hand, and to give shape and direction to
the future action of the entire man. For the
accomplishment of these desirable objects, the
scholars are placed in the school-room at his
disposal. Here he rules supreme. His power
is unlimited, save by the Directors of the town;
who seldom exercise their authority, bat trust
implicitly to his judgment; and thus he is made
the sole arbiter of his own will and of that of
his scholars. Here, then, we have the extent
of the teacher’s responsibilities, which are as
great as his power is boundless. Who would
thoughtlessly, and without j}nq preparation,
place himself in the position of the toromon
school teacher, attempt to perform his duties,
and willingly bear his Her#
before him are his scholars—bright, blushing
boys, and bonny, blue-eyed maids—the darling
objects of many a mother’s love and father’*
pride; they are entrusted to his keeping; and
he must watch over them, protect them, and in
struct them in wisdom’s way, apd teach them
to feel and know its troth. attrac
tions the school-room may possess for his schol
ars, the teacher must create; he must create
the interest in their studies while in school, and
the harmony in their plays while out. "What
ever is done here, the teacher sees and hears,
guides and controls, and must answer for its
consequences and bear the" responsibility ; in
short, he is the great central light of the school
room, the dispenser of joy and happiness, or
the source, of grief and sorrow; the power
around yrhich all revolve; ruling over,.control
ling nnd governing all. It is unnecessary to
. 'rther point out his duties ; they are as plain
ly manifest as the sun in the canopy of heaven,
which sheds its refulgent light on the lessor
orbs; guides, controls, balances," upholds the
solar system, and sustains the universe.
Behold the faithful teacher, as he enters upon
the discharge of his daily duties. With sub
dued, but firm and manly voice he reads d por
tion of God’s word as his morning devotion,
and as a thank-offering, he brings a smiling -
countenance and a kind and cheerful heart.—
He talks to his scholars of the things that are
good for this life and for the life to come. Ho
teaches them kindness to their companions, and'
urges upon them the necessity'of industry and
untiring perseverance in their daily studies.—i
He next proceeds to the regular exercises of the
day. With one hand he points the way of sci
ence ; with the other he waves a gentle token
of submission to the disobedient pupil; with
the one he lifts up the unfortunate and discour
aged, inspiring them with confidence by his
kind assistance and cheerful words ; with the
other he inflicts deserved punishment upon the
head of the willful transgressor. 1 He moves like
a guardian angel among his s^olars; settling
disputes, preventing quarrels, and rendering
them happy by the radiance of his own genial
and illumined spirit, while he teaches them to
be both good and wisel- I can trace the scene
no farther. My space is short. These are
some of the duties, though faintly delineated,
of the common school teacher to his scholars.
The third and last duty of the common school
teacher which I shall enumerate, is his duty to
his country. This duty comprehends all others,
When the teacher is discharging his duty to
himself, by disciplining his intellectual and
moral nature, by cultivating a good and amiable
disposition, by acquiring the art of pleasing,
and by forming proper habits, of life, he is at
the same time performing his duty to his coun
try; for the reason that he is making of him
self and honest man. When he is dis
charging his duty to his scholars, whether by
sowing the seeds of morality in their hearts,
by developing the germs of intellect in their
young minds, or by walking before them an ex
ample of righteousness, love, and truth, he is
performing his duty to his country, because he
is making of his scholars good and honest citi
zens. But the duty of the teacher does not end
here. It hrts a more extended application. It
is not confined, to the narrow sphere of self, nor
is it circumscribed by school house walls; nor
is it yet limited to his scholars, nor bounded by
the circle of his own immediate neighborhood;
but it is a duty that goes with him wherever ho
goes; it is the duty of the patriot citizen, and
it should be faithfully discharged wherever his
lot may chance to be cast. 1 - The teacher should
become a missionary to bcriWt and improve the
community in which ha roottta, and wherever
he is acquainted. He shoula\o a civilizing
agent, not only for the development uc.the mor
al and intellectual condition of man, by teach
ing him virtue and intelligence; but also f nr
the improvement of' his social condition, by
making him more useful and obliging to his fel-'
low man. By this means, he would be eleva
ting tjhe standard of society, and advancing the
cause of civilization; he would be bettering the
condition of his fellow mortals, and would thus;
be discharging that highest of all duties, his'
I duty to his God.
Very intellectual women, we find, by obser
vation, are seldom beautiful.—Tim formation
of their features, and particularly cheir fore
head, is more or less masculine. MissLandmi
was rather pretty and feminine in tho face, but
Miss Sedgwick, Miss Pardoe, Miss Leslie, and
the celebrated late Anna Maria and Jane Por
/ter, the contrary. One of the Miss Porters had
a forehead as high as that of an intellectual
man. I never knew a very talented man who
was admired for hia personal beauty. Pope
was awful ugly; Dr Johnson was no better, and
Mirabeau was the ugliest man in all France,
and yet he was the greatest favorite among the
ladies. Women more frequently prize men of
sterling qualities of the mind, than men do wom
an. Dr Johnson chose a woman for a wife who
had scarcely an idea above an oyster. He
thought her the loveliest creature in existence,
if we judge by the inscription he left on her
tomb.
A young Miss, having accepted the arm of a
youth to gallant her home, and afterwards fear
ing that jokes might be cracked at her, if tho
fact should become public, dismissed him about
half way, enjoining secrecy. “Don’t be afraid,
said he,.“of my say ing any thing about it, for I
feel as much ashamed of it as yon do,