THERE

MATHEMATICAL GEOGRAPHY.

HERE is probably no subject so universally studied, and so little understood by the pupil, as Mathematical Geography. The reasons for this, I think, are two, which, I concede, are equally applicable to other subjects. First, It is presented to the pupil at the wrong time. The first pages of nearly every primary and intermediate geography are devoted to it. Now, to pupils at the age usual to such classes, an extended treatise upon geometry would be equally intelligible. By dint of hard work, certain definitions are committed, which, if the teacher hear soon, can be recited. The same would be true of geometrical definitions, presented abstractly. But that the pupil understands them, I have never found a teacher bold enough to affirm. Yet, in spite of this, every successive class is put through the same drill, to the infinite disgust of both teacher and pupil. Second, It is presented in the wrong manner. Usually a book is placed in the pupil's hands, and he is told to learn more or less of this subject. Now succeeds a week or more of patience-trying recitations, until he is fairly through "zones and circles." Constant reiteration does not fail to leave some faint impressions of the subject, which usually entirely disappear before the pupil reaches the "map of Europe."

The remedy for this is as plain as the cause of the defects, and equally as simple.

First, Present the subject at the proper time. All will agree that it is useless to present any subject to a pupil until he is of sufficient age and development to understand it. Now, my experience has been, that no pupil in a primary school can answer these conditions in respect to mathematical geography; and it is not until we reach the second or first classes of our grammar-schools, that we can find such pupils. Pupils can be found in primaries, even, who can answer the questions in the textbook, but this is no sign of comprehension of a subject. A maturity of mind is required which can be obtained only by long training. For the subject is abstract to a much greater degree than any study of early school-life; and it is not until a pupil has had sufficient discipline of mind to enable him to grapple with the abstract, that this subject can be advantageously presented to him. We repeat, then, that this discipline is not usually reached until in the second or first class of the grammar-school. Therefore, in graded schools, the subject is more profitably presented then than at any earlier period.

Having now secured pupils capable of understanding the subject, the second requisite for success is this: Present the subject in the right manner. Granted; but what is that? Certainly not to assign a page of it to be committed to memory for the next day's recitation. Without claiming the following method as the right way, I suggest it as better than the one

usually followed. I write upon a large card or blackboard the following analysis. As we progress, I have each pupil make a copy. Some teachers may prefer a different arrangement in a few places. Some, too, would add, and some take away from it. But still the idea will be the

I commence by instructing the pupils, first, the definition of geoggraphy and its three great divisions, with definitions of each. Then, taking the first division of mathematical geography, I illustrate the shape of the earth in all practicable ways, and give as many proofs, with their illustrations, as I think the class may be able to comprehend. The next day I educate the pupil. He is required to produce the lesson of the previous day. He gains his knowledge for this purpose from my explanations of the day before, and from books to which he was referred.

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To illustrate without any question or direction from the teacher, the first pupil rises and gives the definition of geography; the next, its divisions; the next defines each of the divisions; the next gives the eight divisions of mathematical geography; the next, the shape of the earth; the next gives proofs of its globular shape, etc., etc.

I then run the plowshare of some practical question through the even plane of this recitation, to discover, if possible, any rocks of ignorance or roots of errors. Finding none, I go on with the next day's lesson, which, in connection with the first day's, is reproduced upon the third day.

I find these advantages in this plan :

1. The teacher must be thoroughly acquainted with the subject: his explanations then are clear, and the pupil readily comprehends.

2. The pupil, instructed by a live teacher, finds the subject interesting, and, therefore, easily learned.

3. By following this outline, a number of days' lessons are easily recited in a short time. This repetition serves to fix them in the memory, and to reveal any parts not clearly understood. It also obliges absent pupils to look up the lesson given in their absence.

4. It is more sensible than the question and answer system; and common sense is as much valued by pupils as by many who are older.

THE

A SINKING CITY.

HE commune of Buonanotte, in France, is hourly menaced with utter destruction. Five manufactories have already been overthrown, and sixty-four more are threatened with imminent ruin. The inhabitants have fled in the greatest consternation to the neighboring villages. The cause of the disaster is a sudden and violent depression of the soil, which is at the present time accounted for by one of two reasons-either the fall of an immense mass of earth in the west of the district, or the yielding of the roof of an extensive subterranean cavern. But in reality nothing certain is yet known as to the cause of this most deplorable event. A number of civil engineers have hastened to the spot, and prompt measures are in course of adoption to prevent still greater disaster.

JULIAN GURDON: SCHOOLMASTER.

CHAPTER III.

MAKING A BEGINNING,

HERE was neither bell nor knocker, and I was forced to beat loudly

TH

with my clenched hand upon the panels of the outer door. A dis tant sound, like a subdued roar, reached me after the first summons. With the second, the sound changed to a bellow, with something articulate in it, that, to my waiting ear, conveyed the welcome answer, "Come in !"

I opened the door then, and entered the hall-a large square hall, severely, coldly clean, with a yellow painted floor, and a great uncarpeted flight of steps in the center. On the whitewashed wall, between two doors, hung a smoke-discolored map of the United States, and underneath this stood a small table covered with green baize. Other furniture the place had none; and I stood there holding the open door by one hand and my valise by the other, wondering which of the four doors leading from this cheerless apartment would admit me to the sight of fire and human faces.

I could hear voices, but no one came to greet or show me the way. I stood upon the threshold of this strange home as I did upon that of my new life, wondering vaguely, and not quite cheerfully, whither my steps were to tend, and what was to be the result.

At length the voice I had heard before disengaged itself from the mingled sounds within. Unmodulated and harsh it fell upon my ear: "Come in, can't ye?" it said. "What on airth are you waitin' for?" Thus adjured, I closed the outer door, set down my valise, and went forward in search of the bodily presence of the invisible voice. I opened a door on my right, and stepped into the family circle of Deacon Lawrence.

"I s'pose you thought we kep' servants here to run and open the door for you," the voice continued; and the next moment the owner of it rose up from his great three-cornered armchair by the Franklin, where a large wood-fire burned-an elderly man, huge of form, with bushy grizzled hair, and eyebrows beneath which twinkled a pair of keen gray eyes. He did not advance to meet me, and I stood upon the threshold abashed.

"Come along in, come along in," he said, in a tone considerably softened. "You're the new schoolmaster, an't you? Come in, I say, Mr. you're kindly welcome."

As he said this, I had gone forward, and laid my slender boyish hand in the great brown palm stretched out to me. The last words reassured me. For once the voice was not an index of the man's nature. It was not refined nor genial, but it was kindly.

"Lizzie,

"Wet and cold, an't you?" Deacon Lawrence continued. bring a chair. This is Mis' Lawrence, Mr.." Again a pause, in which I interpolated "Gurdon." "Ah, yes, Gurdon, yes, yes; and these are my darters, Lizzie, and Ruth, and Emeline; and this is George; and this is the Widow Barnett's boy, Thomas, and the rest of them will be in by and by. Most half your school here, Mr. Gurdon. Mis' Lawrence, Mr. Gurdon ought to have his supper right off. An't it most ready?”

I had bowed all round, and now sat down shivering with cold, and overpowered with bashfulness before the fixed stare of at least five out of the seven pairs of eyes by which I was surrounded.

The mother and her eldest daughter withdrew, and a welcome sound of hissing and frying, together with a most savory smell, soon issued from the adjoining apartment, which was evidently the kitchen.

Deacon Lawrence resumed his chair and pipe, and continued to smoke and talk. The two daughters, girls of sixteen and fourteen, and the boys, younger urchins, stared at me intently. I answered in monosyllables. The dreariness of the closing day, the fierce dash of sleety rain against the windows, the unaccustomed scene, and the thought of the strange duties to which it was a prelude, all weighed upon my spirits. For the second time in my life I felt homesickness-that fever of the heart and longed for the touch of my mother's hand, her kiss upon my brow, and her voice in my ear. That half-hour, in which I waited for my supper, was the longest of my life; and nothing but the knowledge of the utter impossibility of escape kept me from rushing out into the storm to retrace my steps. But I thought of the savory supper preparing for me; of the good deacon's attempts at my entertainment; and then came the sudden thought of how these, my future scholars, would despise me if they could once know how terribly I was afraid of them. There was something ludicrous in the idea that I, Julian Gurdon, was, in spite of my social advantages and my education, afraid of these little rustics staring at me with their round unwinking eyes, in which not much of the light of intelligence shone, and I laughed aloud.

Deacon Lawrence paused in his harangue, amazed. The staring eyes turned from me to exchange glances. But the laugh had broken the painful charm that bound me. I was myself once more, with mind active and alert. The harsh, prosy voice, the round, staring eyes no longer held me as in a spell, and, with another laugh, I lightly explained that the memory of some ludicrous incident of my journey had caused the explosion. I related it with all the humor I could bring to my aid, and before I had finished, my audience were joining in the laugh.

We were called to supper, and over the smoking viands our merriment must be explained, and was renewed. The deacon's eldest son, Robert, had come in. He was older than I, and pretty well informed. We fraternized at once, and kept the table in a roar. Before we rose, I knew I