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would win the applause of the nations, as we become more and more the objects of attention among intelligent spectators. We are indeed to be judged by the morality of our actions, but we are also to make an impression, and gain influence, by the civility of our manners, with which language is so intimately connected. Let us not, then, be afraid of putting too much emphasis upon the importance of a good style; whether we watch the progress of our own self-discipline, or assist in the cultivation of others.



[THE following song will be recognized as from the graceful pen of our mutual friend, Hon. WILLIAM M. RODMAN.]

"A song for THE SCHOOLMASTER!" a curious thing
For an outside quill-driver to think of, or sing;
For what do we know of scholarlike themes,
Of fountains Castalian, or muse circled streams?
Our books are all blanks, and metalic our pens,
And our brains are but "ant hills of units and tens."
Then where is the hour, aye, where is the minute,
To write a whole song, much more to begin it?
I ask you now, Doctor,* and earnestly pray,

As one quite bewildered, to show me the way.
Then if you'll but pilot my spirit along,

Through the gloom of per cent., to the sun slopes of song,

I will waken again my long silent lyre,

And give to the wild winds the dust on each wire;
And sing for THE SCHOOLMASTER, or any thing seen,

Be it Harper, Atlantic, or Youth's Magazine,
And the chime of my song shall as frolicsome be,
As the rolic of childhood when school is set free;
When just like a Lyric, full chorus'd and strong,
Its shoutings umeasured all blend into song.
The wild song of childhood-how sweet is its strain,
How glad its shrill cadence, how blithe its refrain,
How it leaps, how it dances, how exultant its chime,
How defiant of art, how regardless of time!
And yet though unmindful of letter and rule,
How much sweeter it is, than songs of the school.
Like the carol of birds 'mid the laurels of June,
It breaks on the ear at the glad hour of noon,
When out on the lawn, and from study let free,

It bursts in full chorus, like waves of the sea;
And just like those waves, rayed in opals and pearls,
Glad dancing 'neath sunbeams, in eddies and swirls,

It flashes around wild waltzing in light,

With no thought of its beauty, or dream of the night!
Sing on then glad childhood, regardless of rule,
And fling to the winds the dull dogmas of school;
Let your teachers of song from the forest be brought;
The refrains of your carols from echoes be caught;
Let the lark and the robin and bobolink be
Your leaders of song in your frolicsôme glee,
And keep your young hearts forever in tune,

With the warble of morn, with the drone of the noon;
With the sweet vesper notes of the bird on her nest,
When her twitterings soft lull her fledglings to rest;
With the hush of the twilight, when shadowings dim
Fall soft o'er the earth, like a seraphim's hymn;
When the mantle of day is curtained from sight,
And stars gem the vesture which circles the night;
With the pulsings of silence, with the chorus of mirth,
Let it ceaselessly blend with the discords of earth,
And thus carolling on, unto you shall be given
The key notes divine to the anthems of heaven.

Eleven o'clock P. M., March 29, 1866.


What a marvellous power has the Wise Man of condensing into a few apt words a comprehensive moral truth. Not a few of his aphorisms sound like riddles rather than precepts. What possible instruction, for instance, could he have hoped to convey by such a statement as this," The slothful man roasteth not that which he took in hunting?" How do hunting and roasting bear upon the general conduct of life. Or if his object was to condemn slothfulness, why is failure to cook game more disgraceful than any other fruit of indolence? Why should not that laziness which hinders one from roasting what he took in hunting prevent his hunting as well? On reflection the true solution flashes upon our minds. A man who may have striven after something with zeal, while excitement and enthusiasm

* Doct. CHAPIN, our Commissioner of Public Schools.

carried him along, may still lack the patience afterwards to extract from it the advantage making it worth striving for.

How vividly is this truth set forth under the figure of a tired sportsman bringing in his game and throwing it aside, too slothful to cook it. With what a bound he sprang from his bed, in the morning, to engage in his favorite sport. How blithe his step as he entered the forest with the crimsoning dawn just gleaming through the leaves. How steadily he made his way through tangled underbrush, over fallen trees, across quaking bogs and up tiresome cliffs to the covert of wild beast and bird. How patiently he waited for sight of game, while the sun rode high in the heavens. At last there is a rustling. He strains his ear. He is all eyes. Not a limb does he move, and scarcely does he breathe for fear of giving alarm. Now his hunter's instinct bids him hesitate no longer. Noiselessly he draws back the bow-string, deliberately he takes his aim, and unerringly the arrow whistles home to the victim's breast. Now comes the excitement of the chase. There is not an instant to waste. Swiftly the hunter pursues without a thought of fatigue. Superhuman energy seems to tremble through every nerve. Each sense takes on an unwonted delicacy as he rushes on like the wind. There are sounds of insects in the air which his dull ear never heard before. The wild flowers of the wood send up a strange fragrance to his nostrils, such as he might live years in a less awakened state, without smelling. At last, with miles left behind in his headlong course, he gains upon his victim and the poor animal sinks fainting on the ground, its mild, accusing eye turned on its foe.

Thus through the livelong day the sportsman plies his fascinating craft, unconscious of weariness. But, when the lengthening shadows warn him of the approach of evening, he gathers up his spoils and turns homeward. From his shoulder hangs the graceful fawn, its golden blood lacing its silken skin. In his hand are the partridge, with ruffled feathers and hanging head and sealed eye, and the rabbit with velvet foot. Bending under this dear-bought burden, with plodding steps, the hunter gropes his way through the thickening gloom to his camp. Now comes the true struggle of the day. Shall I dress and cook my game before retiring to rest? he asks himself? Or shall I cast it aside and sup upon hard bread requiring no effort for its preparation? Out on the mountain when the sun was high and he saw his prey on the distant cliff, he had no such doubt as this. Excite

ment then gave him resolution and he climbed without hesitation the wearisome steep. But now his decision deserts him. He sinks to sleep, hungry, almost supperless, not deriving the smallest benefit from the game he has spent the whole day in winning. "The slothful man roasteth not that which he took in hunting." Is not this a principle, reader, which we observe extending into almost every relation and pursuit of life? Do we not notice many men spending their energies for some end, which, through lack of patience and diligence, they fail to enjoy when gained? Look back a few years and see what you were then aiming at, as your chief desire. Was it fitness for some profession,-a certain position in society,-establishment in a particular business,—or the acquirement of some piece of property? In all probability, if then you really and heartily sought that object, you are to-day in possession of it, or of something still better. Nine times in ten persistent effort is rewarded by gaining what it seeks. But do you enjoy it as you thought you should do? Now the enthusiasm and the zeal of the quest are over, do you have patience enough to make the most of what you gathered up all your energies to win?

[Take, for example, the man who has secured a competency. He did not spare himself in gaining it. It is the fruit of years of laborious devotion to business. He passed numberless hours at his ledger, until the energy of his brain seemed to run out through the point of his pen, and spread itself over the densely filled folio. He hastened hither and thither with tireless feet to buy and sell. He allowed his mind no rest from thinking, and planning, and calculating. He carried his schemes home to his fireside, and revolved them over and over upon his bed, and the burden of his dreams was profit and loss. Now, this commendable toil has been rewarded. He can command a fair share of all that money can buy. But does he "roast what he took in hunting?" Does he now devote himself as unreservedly to the enjoyment of his gains as he did to gaining them? Does he fill his house with books, and perseveringly set apart time each day to reading them? Perhaps it was one of his favorite schemes, when he should be rich to do a great deal for the poor. Perhaps he thought he would build for them a whole village of model cottages, where they might live in comfort and cleanliness at a moderate rent. But has he decision enough to rear a single one, now it is in his power? When I see men who have gained large means by unremitting toil,

I cannot, in many cases, help asking what good it has all amounted to. Half the energy and the shrewdness, displayed in its acquisition, would wring from it the immense advantages which make wealth so desirable.

But now the enthusiasm of the pursuit is gone, and they either settle down into a state of animal indulgence, or hoard their gains for their own sake. They have taken rare game in their hunting, but have not the patience to roast it, and spread the savory viands upon the board, and feast their souls before they slumber. How cheering is it, on the contrary, to see some rich men truly making the most of their wealth, George Peabody, of whose New England birth we may well be proud, building model lodging houses for the poor of London, on a scale grand enough to awaken the gratitude of a Queen. Peter Cooper, pouring out vast means for the education and the culture of the working classes of New York,―and William Aspinwall, collecting a charming gallery of paintings for his own gratification, and for that of multitudes whom he freely admits to enjoy it.]

One of the great aims with which many young persons are animated is the gaining of a good education. To this object, the brightest and most beautiful years of their lives are devoted. How much innocent pleasure, how many pastimes, how much entertaining reading do they deny themselves, to attain proficiency in study. The daylight hours are not enough to satisfy them. They rise before the dawn. They burn the lamp far into the night. Perchance the flush of health fades from their faces,-they know the grinding agony of a wearied brain,- they lose the elasticity of youth. But they gain their end. Emulation and enthusiasm have carried them through. They graduate from the high-school or the college with honor,-and what then? Too often this is practically the only fruit of all their application. They have hunted noble game with ardor, but scarcely think of roasting it. Hardly the least conception have they how they can make their elementary training the foundation of a full, round, life-long culture. Too many scholars on leaving school cease studying altogether. They never take down their Cicero, or their Virgil, their Horace or their Homer, to complete, as a scholarly treat, the perusal of what they began in school as a task.

You, reader, who have, in your youth, expended much time in the acquirement of learning, ask yourself what it has amounted to. Have you added anything, since then, to your knowledge of natural science,

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