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Miss Smith. Dear me, mamma, you are perfectly incorrigible! You

have no pity on my nerves.

most distressing manner!

Want of harmony grates on my ear in the

Mrs. Brown. A nice pair, you and my Jemima are, Miss Molly.

Miss Smith. The world grows wiser, madam, every day; and you can not, with our opportunities for mental development, check the spirit's aspirations!

Mrs. Brown. Prespiration! In course not, child; it's very dangersome to check prespiration! Why, if here ain't my Jemima! (Enter Miss Brown and friends.) I'll just take a seat and wait for you, Mimey that is, if you don't stay too long; for I calkilate to git that ironing done up this arternoon !

Miss Smith. [Aside.] Mamma, here are some of my friends. Perhaps you and Mrs. Brown would prefer the sitting-room, as our chat can scarcely interest you.

Mrs. Smith. Don't put yourself out, Moll; your friends is my friends, and any thing that pleases you pleases me. I'll stop and take some lessons in your new ways.

Miss Smith. [With a gesture of resignation.] Allow me, then, to make you acquainted with my friends,-Miss St. Clair and Miss Graham, mamma; Miss Le Brun, I believe, you already know.

Mrs. Smith. Not a bit of it; I only know little Jemimy Brown, the daughter of my old friend there.

Miss Le Brun. And I am still the same, dear madam, though I must confess I should like to improve our name. I am sure we have a right to

"Le Brun."

Mrs. Brown. Don't be silly, Mimey; be satisfied with your good fortin, in having an honest father that's made soap and candles enough to keep you in pocket-money.

Miss St. Clair. [To Miss Graham.] I thought Minnie said her father was a retired merchant.

Mrs. Brown. Retired, did you say, my dear? Yes, we allus did live retired-over the shop-till Mimey coaxed her pa to move up town, and a mighty onconvenience him and me find it.

Mrs. Smith. [Looking at Miss St. Clair through her glasses.] It appears to me I've seen you before. Why, I do believe you're little Kitty Sinclair as used to play with Molly, when your aunt kept that little shop around the corner!

Miss St. Clair. I! madam, I! You are mistaken. I never remember to have met you until to-day.

Mrs. Smith. Well, some people's memories is shorter than Tom Thumb's tooth-picker. But I never was more certain of any thing in my life than that you used to play with my Molly, and I wonder you forgit the nice hot suppers I used to give you.

[Exit.

Miss St. Clair. To me! You are mistaken, madam. But I must leave you, Marie; I have an engagement. Au revoir. Miss Smith. Oh! mamma! what have you done? my dearest friends!

Mrs. Smith. I hope not, Moll.

Offended one of

I'll go right out after her, and ask

her to stay and take pot-luck with us.

Miss Smith. Not for the world.

Mrs. Brown. No, Betsey, don't trouble yourself! I wouldn't encourage anybody in no such foolishness.

Mrs. Smith. I don't encourage nobody's foolishness; I'd see their dead corpse walk fust. But I never like to hurt any one's feelings-not even a cat!

Miss Gordon. Do not let it grieve you, madam; Eugenia will not take it much to heart. She should have been more true to herself-no one would respect her any the less.

Mrs. Smith. Well, to be sure; you are a nice clever-spoken young lady. I'm just of your sentiments.

Miss Gordon. Or, rather, my dear mother's. I have often heard her speak of the great advantages we enjoy, and the facilities for improvement which were unknown in her youth. She has always impressed us with the feeling that we should be grateful for them, but not on that account to consider ourselves superior.

Mrs. Smith. And a very sensible woman she must be. I should be proud to see her. Pray, did you ever hear her speak of one Jimmy Gordon who lived in Market Space?

Miss Gordon. Frequently, madam; he was my grandfather.

Mrs. Brown. And a very good man he was, and deserved a great deal of credit, too. Why, I have heard that he commenced life an errand boy, and got up by degrees to the tiptop of the ladder.

Miss Gordon. So I have heard, madam.

Miss Graham. An errand boy! Oh, horrors, Ella! I'd never own it. Miss Gordon. I see no reason to be ashamed, so long as he was honest and upright.

Mrs. Smith. Certainly not, my dear. You have more right to be proud, than if he had been like some of these make-believes, that allurs put me in mind of old John Dobbs-going around asking for work, and praying he never might find it.

Mrs. Brown. Poor Johnny! He was too lazy to live!

Miss Le Brun. Mamma has not much sympathy for the "dolce far niente."

Mrs. Smith. What kind of a farm did you say it was?

Miss Le Brun. I was merely repeating a well-known Italian phrase,

madam.

Mrs. Smith. Well known, is it? Well, I must say I've traveled a

great deal a hundred miles or more beyond the rhubarbs of the city, where the calvary was camped, but nobody never pointed that farm out to me!

Miss Graham. Perhaps, madam, your eyesight, like your hearing, is defective.

Mrs. Smith. Gone to look for your good manners, perhaps, miss!

Miss Smith. I can not hear my mother addressed with any want of respect, Eugenia. I may, as she says, have had some false notions, but I have to thank you and Kate St. Clair for opening my eyes before it is too late. You will forgive me, dear mamma, for not having better appreciated you; but I do not think I shall easily forget the lesson I have learned.

Mrs. Smith. You was always a good child, Molly; I thought you'd come right at last. You can do what you like to the house. Have your boaydoors, your sapphiras, bristles carpets, and candeleeries, your memerandrews; but don't go and be ashamed of your mother that loves you, because she sticks to her homespun and knitting!

OB

THE PROS AND CONS OF OBJECT-TEACHING.

BJECT-TEACHING combines two modes of developing truth-first, instruction by familiar lecture on the part of the teacher; second, thought or investigation induced in the pupil. These, undoubtedly, lie at the foundation of all successful teaching.

But instruction by lecture is the feature wherein the new system is specially different from the old modes of teaching. It disregards text-books, and the dry study of truth on printed pages. The ancient learning of lessons, often at the cost of vexation and tears, is removed, and the pupil is indulgently allowed to consider the teacher as a sort of encyclopædia of all things worth knowing. How far this method of instruction is carried. in the course of education; how far the advocates of the system would wish it to be carried, I do not know. But if carried much beyond childhood, the practice would, doubtless, begin to defeat itself. The remission of tasks, the pretty manner of instruction, and the idea of getting so much by working so little, would surely be highly agreeable to the restless class of pupils that attend our schools. It would also relieve the anxious parent, insuring him that the boy, who "always has his own way at home," has the same, at least in a degree, at school. But despite these advantages, whether as much could be gained, the same progress made, the same positive result be made visible, as by using other methods, is very reasonably to be questioned.

The alternative is to cause the scholar to prepare a lesson in a text

book. This having been learned-memorized, if necessary-the teacher will explain familiarly, adding facts, and shedding a new light on what the pupil, by hard study, may have graven on his memory. In this manner interest will be given of an abiding kind, and the pupil in the course of study, will have made a substantial acquisition-one that he may call his own. The language of the instructor is, "Study this now until you know it. Hard work only will enable you to learn, and by such you will daily grow in knowledge and mental strength. If there is any thing you do not understand, come to me, and we will explain it together. If you have ideas of your own on the subject, do not hesitate to express them." Such would be the advice of the good teacher in whatever branch of study. It is not object-teaching; but it has a feature of object-teaching-an attempt to interest the pupil by awaking his mind, and evincing your de sire for his progress."

- That object-teaching is receiving so much attention is evidence that teachers are taking better views of education. In so far as it enlivens and enables the old and stale systems of stock teaching to take new forms, the agitation of the subject is beneficial. As a system, however, too much is perhaps claimed for object-teaching.

A practical objection will occur to every one-the disqualification of the majority of teachers to use the system. It is above them. It is too high a kind of instruction. It requires more available knowledge, tact, and experience than most teachers can command. We are not all Arnolds or Manns. We may be useful as before, but can not attain to the independent instruction that object-teaching demands. But it is assumed, of course, that this is not an objection against the system, but against the present adoption of it. Besides, the very objection shows a want in American schools; a great want. The teachers, as a class, need to be advanced in ability and experience. Elevation is needed, both of the teacher and his position socially considered. Teaching is too much a makeshift-a stepping-stone for young men. Change is the characteristic of our national life; and every man, with restless look, is anticipating high posts of honor or emolument. But this spirit of advancement is unfavorable to the production of great educators. Few great and good teachers will appear in such a state of things, and the tone of the class must be infeior. There is, however, an improved feeling on the subject. Educasion, as a profession, is advancing. Of this, the discussion and partial adoption of object-teaching is proof.

SOME one once said to Talleyrand that the Abbé Sièyes was a very profound man. "Profound!" was the reply; "yes, he is a perfect

cavity."

JULIAN GURDON: STUDENT AND SCHOOLMASTER.

MY

CHAPTER I.

Y father was a graduate of Elmtown College, and I came with him to attend the commencement. How many years ago, I need not tell; for, when on the down-hill road of life, we do not care to count the milestones which we have passed. It saddens us to realize how far behind we have left the scenes of youth.

I am no longer young; but I do not care to call myself old, now, though I was, at sixteen, impatient of my youth, and thought my attainments pointed to maturer years. I was proud that my father believed me sufficiently advanced to enter his venerable Alma Mater. He had brought me there, not only to be edified by the commencement exercises, but as a candidate for examination and admission to the freshman class. This was his first care on arriving; and it was not till he had the pleasure of knowing that I had passed my examination successfully, that he sought his old class-mates and friends who had assembled among the alumni to enjoy the annual reunion.

I, a shy little freshman, attended him everywhere, and was somewhat abashed when presented to dignified and gray-haired men, many of whom now occupied the highest stations. I could hardly believe that they had ever been boys, like myself, trembling through their first examination, and shrinking, as I did, from the awful plunge into the new life.

But when I saw the unbending of these great men, the almost boyish zest with which they recalled the pranks of college life, and heard the mingled fun and pathos, and now and then a ring of triumph in their tones, I realized that it was but in years that we differed that they had once been boys like me, as I should some day be a man like them. Circumstances must modify my character. I might be neither good nor great like any of these; but the years would steal away the illusions, mar the projects, rust away the keen bright edge of the triumphs, bring me disappointment, care, weariness, gray hairs, failing limbs; and, though they should bring me fruitions as well, instead of the free joyousness of my boyhood, I should then need some such stimulus to enjoyment as the present meeting of these old friends, to enable me to recall with pleasure the youthful sports and employments that had been so vivid in passing.

These thoughts were somewhat saddening to a boy of my tender years, leaving for the first time a beloved home; but the tendency of my mind. was thoughtful and moralizing. I had a precocious and vivid imagination, which had always been subject to pruning and the discouragement of its vagaries; and this treatment had forced the development of a "great gift of silence" so that, when my whole inner being was alive with thoughts,

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