Chapter IV: Letter III (2)

In England, the real and undeniable sovereignty is in the House of Commons. The British peerage is a mere phantom, a little more respectably clothed than that of France, but quite as much of a phantom. Still this very British Peerage, which is condemned to obey the Commons and register their edicts, preserves all the appearances of supremacy! It continues to command the Commons to appear at its bar, who regularly obey this summons, preceded by their speaker! And when the Lords, seated in their own chamber, have signified the royal assent to the wishes of the Commons, the latter withdraw, bowing as they go out! The real upper or superior chamber consents to be called and to appear always as the inferior.

How much do I prefer to these ceremonious _levees_ of the British speaker, the popular balls of the president of the French Chamber of Deputies, where no orders are given to the guards to prevent the entry of persons not in costume! Above all, I like those numbered letters of invitation—the four hundred and fifty-nine first for the representatives of the people, and then the four hundred and sixtieth for the Duke of Orleans, as the first peer of the realm, and so on for the rest. In France the peerage comes after the people!

It is much to be regretted that the French do not remove the abuses themselves, as they do their names and customs. Their system is different from the English, but it is very doubtful if it be the best. The latter are always very respectful subjects; they kneel {473} down at the feet of royalty in supplicating it to take their will for its pleasure. The former hold themselves erect and firm before their monarch, who leads them by the nose, suffering them all the while to proclaim themselves at their ease, the true sovereigns of the kingdom.

Mr. Abercromby, the present speaker, by no means solicited the honor of the chair which, at the opening of the session, was decreed him by the first act of the reformers. Constrained to maintain, in the name of the house, the privileges of that body, he represents that assembly with all the dignity that his grotesque wig will permit. Happily he has thick grey eye-brows, which harmonize extremely well with his light-colored official _perruque_. In spite of the enormous quantity of hair that overshadows his person, there is nothing savage in his appearance; on the contrary, a mild and affable dignity eminently distinguishes him; his manners are marked by a noble ease; he also speaks well, and his full and sonorous voice is admirably suited to the station which he occupies as president of a large and popular assembly.

The conservatives will never forgive him for having, even involuntarily, dethroned their candidate. They regret the airs of a superannuated dandy, and the old-fashioned elegance of Sir Charles Manners Sutton, who, having grown old in the chair, had been long accustomed to regard toryism with a favorable eye. It is true that Mr. Abercromby, an avowed partizan of the reformers, has not, in consequence of his acceptance of the speakership, become the inexorable censor of his radical friends. So that when O'Connell, provoked by some imprudent noblemen, branded them with epithets never to be effaced, Mr. Abercromby was guilty of the heinous crime of not interposing to check the vengeance of the outraged orator. Impartiality, according to the tories, would consist in permitting their attacks, without allowing the insulted or injured party the rights of defence.

I have now given you a general and hasty sketch of the leading characteristics of the house; it only remains for me to carry you to one of its sittings. We will select the occasion of the presentation of the bill for the reform of the English and Welch Corporations, which was, after a month of argument, finally voted. On the evening of the 5th of June, then, it was known that Lord John Russell was to introduce his bill in the Commons. What was to be the nature of this measure, so long promised and so impatiently expected on one side, and so much feared on the other? Curiosity in London was at its height; it was the third day of the Epsom races! No matter! Every one returned to the city—horses were abandoned for politics. As early as twelve the crowd began to encumber the environs of Westminster, pressing towards the gates of the palace of the Parliament. With great difficulty I succeeded in squeezing myself into the public gallery.

At three, prayers being said, the speaker having counted with the end of his little flat three-cornered hat the members in attendance, and more than forty being present, the session opened.

There was at first a long discussion of a bill regulating the distribution of water in the parish of _Mary-le-bone_; the debate was of but little interest, though Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer, Mr. Hume, and Sir Francis Burdett look frequent part in it. My attention was fixed on their persons, if not on their discourses.

Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer is a young radical who leads a life altogether aristocratic. He is renowned for the elegance of his grooms and of his vehicles. Nobody wears a black frock so short and so tight. He speaks well and easily, with a voice somewhat unpleasant, his head elevated and thrown back after the fashion of men of small stature. He is the elder brother of the novelist, and is himself the author of a work on France, in which he judges of French manners, society, politics and literature with a degree of insane ignorance hardly less disgusting than the _naïve_ buffoonery of Lady Morgan. It is a distinguishing characteristic of the English, to write without knowledge, observation or study on every country they pass through. It is a pity that a man of common sense and intelligence such as Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer, should have made his literary _debut_ by so vulgar a piece of national _gaucherie_.

There is nothing about the person of Mr. Hume that would strike you; he looks like a good-natured, unaffected, broad-shouldered countryman, independent in his character, and utterly careless of fashion. His mere manner, to say nothing of his words, expresses invincible aversion to all ceremony. His appearance does not belie his character. His enunciation has all the ease, firmness, and roughness of his opinions. One of the chief priests of radicalism—an inexorable and incorruptible reformer, he has sworn never to sit, but on the benches of the opposition; it is from fidelity to his oath, not from sympathy, as you might well conclude, that he now sits in the ranks of the conservatives.

Sir Francis Burdett differs from Mr. Hume both in his air, height, and figure. Picture to yourself a long body, about five feet ten inches, in white velvet breeches, with boots turned down at the top, and a blue frock. A white vest, a white cravat, a little bald, flat head, well powdered, will complete the portrait. The fate of public men who outlive themselves, is often singular. Sir Francis Burdett, ten years since, was as fashionable as his dress. He was the favorite of Westminster—the popular orator of the House of Commons. He caused himself to be imprisoned in the Tower, for having dared to speak too boldly against royalty. Now he is suspected by the people—they suspect him of voting with toryism. They despise him, they accuse him of versatility. “But,” he replies, “it is you, perhaps, who have changed. Reformers formerly, you are now radicals! Tories in my day, you are now reformers! I have preserved my opinions and my dress!” Well! the error is with you, Sir Francis Burdett; you should have changed also, or not have lived to become old. If you had died at the proper time, perhaps you might now have your statue of bronze near that of Canning, in Westminster square. Who knows if to-morrow the same people who formerly carried you in triumph, may not ornament your white breeches with the mud of the streets leading to the Parliament house?

At last the discussion touching the waters of Mary-le-bone draws to a close. The house having to vote on this unlucky bill, the galleries for the reporters and the public were cleared. This is the custom of Parliament; decisions never take place but with closed doors.

When I returned to the gallery, the hall presented {474} quite an altered appearance. The less piece was finished—the great one was about to commence. The ranks on the right and left grew thicker every moment—each member hastened to his post.

Lord John Russell, the official commander in chief of the reformers, had appeared on the ministerial benches, to the right of the speaker. By his side, you observed his principal aides-de-camp, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr. Spring Rice, with a large bald forehead, and the countenance of a Satyr, the most ready, if not the ablest speaker in the cabinet; Lord Morpeth, secretary for Ireland, a large young man whose premature grey hairs, appear at a distance to be of a light yellow, looking like a timid and blushing youth; Lord Palmerston, an old bloated dandy, whose fat face seems to swell itself out between his thick whiskers with more satisfaction since he is no longer led by the nose by Talleyrand—Lord Palmerston, who has not wished to be made a peer since his last return to power, pretending that his eloquence has a more open field in the Commons than it could have in the House of Lords.

In front of the ministerial group, and separated from it only by the table of the clerks, sits Sir Robert Peel, surrounded also by his conservative aids, among whom you may distinguish Lord Granville Somerset the quasimodo of Westminster, whose double hump does not prevent him from being one of the most alert to sound the Protestant tocsin against Popery.

Here and there you may have observed other distinguished members of the house; Daniel O'Connell, the great O'Connell, calm and absorbed in the reading of some new book, of which he is cutting open the leaves, in the midst of his sons, his nephews, and his Irish Catholics, who form what is called _his tail_; a tail, if you please, but one which leads the head of the state. After them, Lord Stanley, the young heir of the house of Derby, that ambitious and disappointed _elegant_, who has yet only in heart deserted the benches of the reformers.

Next you have remarked two young men standing up, and differing as much in their height and figure as in their opinions; but equally celebrated, each one in his own way, in the world, and who, in consequence, deserve to be described.

The first is Viscount Castlereagh, son of the Marquis of Londonderry, a mad conservative like his father, but less simple and possessed of much more discretion. Thin and pitiful in his person, without figure and without talent, it is not in the house that he really exists; in the saloons of the west end is his true atmosphere—it is there alone that his stupidity finds the air that it can respire. Lord Castlereagh is one of the chiefs of the new school which has regenerated English fashion. This school is entirely different from that of Brummell, which founded its distinction upon dress. The new fashionables of the sect of the noble lord, affect, on the contrary, entire negligence in the dress, and the greatest freedom of manners. Nothing is brilliant in their equipages, nor in the style of their servants. Their vehicles are of dark colors and sombre liveries; for themselves extreme simplicity in appearance. No flowered vests; no gold or silver lacing about them; no jewels; at the most the end of a gold chain at the button of a black coat; an engraved ring betraying some mysterious sentiment known to the whole city. Add to this the most refined impertinence of vanity, a sublime contempt for every one not of the exclusive circle into which they alone find admission, and an ambitious senseless jargon. Lord Castlereagh is the perfect type of this first and principal class of London fashionables.

The second, Mr. Edward Lytton Bulwer, the well known author of _Pelham_ and other novels, is, like his brother, an avowed radical. He is large, and would, did he not stoop and hold himself in other respects badly, appear to advantage. His hair is thick, light, and curly. His long inexpressive countenance, and his large moist and fixed eyes, scarcely reveal the writer of genius. I suppose it is in some measure the incontestible success of his writings that has opened to him the doors of that exclusive society, with which he is very much at home. For the style of his costume he is indebted to old traditionary fashions. You will rarely ever meet him but with his bosom open, the skirts of a luxuriant surtout lined with velvet or silk floating to the wind, with the rest of his dress of clear brilliant shades, and varnished boots, brandishing some cane encrusted with a rich head. He would remind you of those _parvenus_ of bad taste who encumber the _avant_ scenes of the opera at Paris. I do not deny the really interesting character of some of the novels of Mr. Bulwer, though they are in other respects so wretchedly written; but it seems to be that he acted very ridiculously in endeavoring to exaggerate their real value, at the expense of exhibiting the absurd vanity betrayed in every page of the sad rhapsodies he has recently published under the title of the _Student_. I would however sooner pardon him for this last work, than an act of his of which I have been informed. A young American called on him the other day, with letters of introduction. “I am delighted to see you, sir,” said Mr. Bulwer, “but I will tell you beforehand that it will be difficult for me often to have that honor; I have already more acquaintances than my leisure will allow me to cultivate, and, in conscience, it is to them that I owe the moments at my disposal.” Do you not discover in this piece of politeness something that even surpasses the characteristic amiability of the English? The English do not ruin themselves by hospitality. If a stranger is introduced to them by letters of introduction, they give him a heavy and long dinner, with a supper for dessert; then, having stuffed him with roast beef and filled him with Port and grog, and having spared no pains to cram him, they take their leave of him; and if the unfortunate individual survives this cheer, their doors are afterwards closed against his entrance. Sir Walter Scott, who was perhaps as great a novelist as Mr. Bulwer, did not consider himself exempt from the common duties of politeness and attention to visitors who happened to be introduced to him. So far from it, he treated them with much more hospitality than is the custom in England; it is true, however, that Sir Walter, though a great novelist, was not a great _fashionable_.

There also you may have recognized Doctor Bowring searching about, running up and down, from one bench to another, shaking the hand of every member who will allow him to do so. The doctor is well known in Paris; and as he did not quite waste his time in promenading the streets of that capital, he soon discovered that charlatanism was one of the most powerful means of success. {475} He took the most direct route to attain his end, and proceeded straight to the journals. The French journalists, when one knows how to deal with them, are complacency itself. In a short time no one was talked of but Doctor Bowring. The doctor did not take a single step that was not duly registered; it was Doctor Bowring here, and Doctor Bowring there, every where the doctor; and the honest public of the French capital, deafened by these trumpet-tongued praises, took him for some extraordinary important personage. On this side of the channel we better understand the puffs of the press, so that every body laughed, I assure you, when this Doctor Bowring was strutting through France, so splendidly decked out with the importance which he had purchased from the newspapers of Paris. He returned to London, but without this glorious mantle. That had been detained at the custom house as a sort of prohibited French merchandise. In fine, the doctor remains just what he was before, that is to say a reformer, anxious to profit by reform, a pale disciple of the utilitarian school of Lord Brougham; a sort of travelling clerk of the foreign office, speaking sufficiently well three or four living languages; a poet, who furnishes some stanzas of ordinary poetry to the magazines; as for the rest, the very best physician in the world.

It was now near six; no one remained to be heard; the moment had arrived for opening the lists. According to the order of the motions for the day, the speaker gave the floor to the minister of the home department. Suddenly the waves of the assembly subsided; a profound silence ensued; Lord John Russell rose to speak.

Lord John Russell, third son of the Duke of Bedford, is extremely small, scarcely five feet high; the smallness of his person almost renews his youth; one would hardly suppose him forty-five years of age, as he really is. A head large about the forehead, and small towards the chin, forming a sort of triangle; chesnut-colored hair, short and thin; large eyes surmounted by well arched brows; a countenance pale, calm, soft and phlegmatic, marked by a sort of half-concealed cunning, are the features that would alone strike you. His manner of speaking is in perfect harmony with his modest and quiet exterior. His voice is weak and monotonous, but distinct. In speaking, his body is scarcely more animated than his discourse. All his action consists in gliding his left hand behind his back, seizing the elbow of his right arm, and balancing himself indefinitely in that position.

Lord John Russell expresses himself plainly and without effort; his language is cold and dry, but clear and concise. An author more concise than elegant, his style of writing exhibits itself in his off-hand speeches. He has nothing of the tiresome volubility of Thiers, who is minister of the home department in France; he says no more than is necessary, while he says every thing that he wishes. His sarcasm though frozen, is not the less sharp. The blade of his poignard does not require to be made red hot to inflict a deep wound. He has none of those sudden flashes which electrify and inflame an assembly; his light is of that peaceable and steady nature that illuminates and guides. His mind is a serious one, full of appropriate, condensed, and well resolved reflections.

In less than an hour he had unrolled the whole plan of his bill, and concisely explained its principles and details, not without letting fly some well sharpened arrows against the corrupting influence of the tories over the municipal constitution, the reform of which he demanded.

As soon as Lord John Russell had resumed his seat, and in the midst of the various murmurs which his speech had excited, Sir Robert Peel rose to address the speaker.

The ex-first lord of the treasury is of moderate height; his figure would be elegant, but for the fatness which has already begun to render it heavy; his dress is neat and studied without being dandyish; his manner would not convict him of the approach of fifty; his regular features have an expression of contemptuous severity; he seems to affect too much the manners of a great man; natural distinction has more ease and carelessness about it.

Moreover, studied affectation is also the prevailing characteristic of his oratory. Gesture and language both betray his ambitious affectedness. He has more of the actor than becomes a public speaker. It is irksome to see him agitate, struggle, and throw himself incessantly about. I do not like to see a statesman exhibit so much acquaintance with the positions of an elocutionist. It may be well enough by one's own fireside to cross one leg over another and to play with the guineas in the pockets of one's pantaloons. One may play with his collar in a drawing room, or throw back the skirts of his frock, without any great impropriety; but in public, and, above all, in places devoted to the solemn discussion of the laws of a nation, this style of flirting manners is by no means appropriate. Sir Robert abuses the purposes for which his hands and arms were given him. One almost loses his words in the incessant agitation of his person.

In other respects I will acknowledge that his elocution is spirited, easy, and intellectual; he may be listened to with pleasure. I am always well pleased with the manner in which he applies his rhetorical skill to public affairs. He has every thing which the art of speaking can give him; but the warmth which animates him is always artificial. The true fire of conviction which is so naturally communicated from the speaker to his audience, is always wanting. There is no sincerity about him. He is an ambitious tory in disguise, who, in order to seize again the golden reins of government, has hypocritically cloaked himself under the mantle of a reformer, and who would pass over to the radicals with his arms and baggage, if there was any chance of remounting by their aid to the power which he covets, and of securing himself in its enjoyment.

In accepting, with ample reservations, the principle of the bill, Sir Robert Peel, in answer to the sharp insinuations of Lord John Russell, made several witty and amusing observations, which diverted a good deal the house.

The minister replied in a few polite but firm observations. The serenity of the noble lord is perfectly unchangeable. He is as calm when defending himself, as when attacking his adversaries. I consider this political temperament as the most desirable for a statesman actively engaged in public affairs. Such coolness disconcerts the fury of one's assailants. One is never worsted in a combat when he retains such undisturbed self-possession.

{476} Some remarks on the details of the bill were made by different members. No one having opposed its introduction, the members began to move off. It was already night, and the hour for dinner; the candles were not yet lit; the house rose in a body.

An individual in a brown curly wig, and dressed in a blue frock, whose broad shoulders and athletic form displayed great personal strength, descended from the ministerial benches, and stepped in the centre of the hall. The sound of his voice called every one back. Silence ensued. This was the great Irishman, the _giant agitator_, as he is called—a giant they may well call him. This energetic old man has alone more youth and life than all the young men in the Commons together, than the whole chamber itself.

The darkness of the evening was not sufficiently great to conceal him from my view. I see him now before me, erect on his large feet, his right arm extended, and his body inclined forwards; I seem to hear him speak. His remarks were not long; he said but a few words, but all his power was condensed in them. The lion fondled while he growled. His approbation was imperative and threatening. “So the bill has only looked to England and Wales! Must Ireland then be always forgotten, that its turn never comes but after the other countries of the United Kingdom? Has it not enough of venal and corrupt municipalities? Nevertheless, he would support openly and with all his strength, the plan of ministers. It was a noble and glorious measure; he wished for nothing more for Ireland.”

He did not wish for more, that is to say, he did not order more for Ireland. The wishes of O'Connell are not to be despised. In consequence, Mr. Spring Rice hastened to satisfy him. “He need not give himself any uneasiness,” said the Chancellor of the Exchequer; “the government would equally do justice to Ireland. It should likewise have its corporations reformed, and perhaps during the same session.”

“Thanks!” murmured O'Connell, mixing himself with the crowd of members pouring out of the hall; “I will remember this promise for Ireland.”

_Ireland!_ you should have heard him pronounce its name with that excited, trembling accent, so full of tenderness, which emphasizes and lingers on every syllable of the beloved word; you should have heard him, to comprehend the power of his irresistible eloquence. Pure love of country lends one a super-human strength. A just cause, honestly and warmly embraced, is an irresistible weapon in hands capable of wielding it.

I am not surprised that desperate conservatives, seeing their tottering privileges ready to be trodden under the feet of O'Connell, should treat him as an agitator, madman, destroyer. But how is it, that among the reformers themselves, he has so many inconsistent admirers, who will never pardon him for the bitter violence and inexorable severity of his speeches? Do these moderate and quiet men believe that honeyed phrases, and the submission of prayers, would have obtained the redress of even the least of the Irish griefs? No! had he not struck roughly and pitilessly, the old edifice of usurpation and intolerance would be still entire. Let him go on—let him be pitiless; he has made an important breach in the walls—let him level them with the ground. To overthrow such things is not destruction; it is but the clearing of the ground to build up public liberty.

O'Connell is unquestionably the best speaker, and the ablest politician in Parliament. Friends or enemies, every one acknowledges, at least to himself, that he is the master-spirit; thus he is the true _premier_. The members of the cabinet are nothing but puppets, dressed up for show, and worked by his agency. His influence over the masses of the people is also immense and universal. He is not the popular idol in Ireland only, but also in England and Scotland. Long life to him! the hopes and future welfare of three nations are centered in his person.

I have nothing further to say of the sitting of the 5th of June, except to remark, that a sufficient number of working members were left in the room to continue for many hours the despatch of business of secondary importance. It is but justice to the House of Commons to state, that great political questions do not retard the execution of local and private business. They will often get through in a single night, more work than the French Chamber of Deputies would in a month of thirty days.

You have seen that the opposition of the conservatives gave way before the corporations bill. It was not without deep mortification, as you may imagine, but prudence rendered it indispensable. It is necessary, at any sacrifice, to assume the appearance of not hating too violently the principles of reform. The plan is not without cunning.

But the opposition counts with confidence on regaining its ground on the question of Irish tithes and their appropriation. It is on this question that it has halted and offers combat. “We have abundantly proved,” say their proclamations, “that we are reasonable reformers, but our love of change cannot induce us to sacrifice the church.” And their church, that ungrateful and unnatural daughter, which has denied and plundered its mother, invokes with all its power the old prejudices of the Protestants to the aid of its champions; it sounds the tocsin with its bells taken from Catholic steeples. Every where it stations its bishops in its temples without altars, and makes them preach a new crusade against Catholicism. Hear them: Of the innumerable religious sects which encumber the three kingdoms, taking them in alphabetical order, from the Anabaptists to the Unitarians, there is not one so hateful and dangerous as the Catholic church. The Popish sect is the only one that endangers the state, the throne and the property of individuals. It is necessary to burn again the Pope in effigy and in processions, as formerly under the reign of Queen Elizabeth; and it would not be bad to burn on the same occasion that impious majority in the Commons, who wish to appropriate a part of the Protestant tithes in Ireland to the education of the poor of all religions! God be praised, the selfish and insensate voice of the conservatives has only cried in the desert. Their fanaticism will not succeed against the general good sense of the nation. Within as without the chamber, their defeat is inevitable. To use the beautiful metaphor of Mr. Shiel, the first Irish orator after O'Connell, the church of Ireland will be the cemetery of toryism and Protestant intolerance.

{477}

THIRD LECTURE

Of the Course on the Obstacles and Hindrances to Education, arising from the peculiar faults of Parents, Teachers and Scholars, and that portion of the Public immediately concerned in directing and controlling our Literary Institutions.

_On the Faults of Teachers_.

It will be recollected, my friends, that my last effort was to expose the vices and faults of parents, so far as they obstruct the progress of education. Those of instructers shall next be exhibited, since they are certainly entitled at least to the second in rank in their power to do mischief. I might sum up all _their_ faults in one sweeping condemnation, by saying that they render the persons guilty of them enemies to themselves, to their professional brethren, and to the public. But specifications are wanting, and such I propose to give, as minutely and distinctly as I can.

In the first place, they injure themselves by the style and language often used when they tender their services to the public. The expressions are frequently such as to encourage the idea, already too prevalent, that _they_ are the only party to be obliged—_they alone_ to be the receivers of favors never to be adequately compensated. Whereas the truth is, if they are really fit for their business, and desirous to perform it faithfully, they never receive the millionth part of a cent for which they do not make a most ample return—a return, the real value of which can never be measured by mere dollars and cents. But the language in which they seek or acknowledge employment, often expresses a degree of humility below the lowest gospel requirement—a doubt of their own qualifications to teach, which, if true, ought forever to exclude them from the class of instructers. It sometimes, in fact, deserves no better name than a servile begging for patronage, as if they considered it a species of gratuitous alms. Ought it to be wondered at, when this is the case, that the public should understand them literally, and treat them accordingly? If they avoid this extreme in tendering their services, it by no means follows, as a necessary consequence, that they should run into the other, which is also very common, of making themselves ridiculous by extravagant pretensions. The middle course in this, as in many other things, is best. Let them always state plainly and explicitly, without exaggeration, what they believe they can do—their willingness to make the attempt with persevering fidelity, and the pecuniary compensation expected for their services. If this were always fairly and fully done, there could not be even the shadow of a pretext on the part of any who might then choose to accept their offers, for underrating their labors, and talking or acting as persons who had conferred obligations beyond all requital, by giving much more than they had received, or could be paid. When teachers are treated in this way, it is, in a great measure, their own fault, and it arises chiefly from the causes just stated. To render their intercourse with their employers what it ought to be, and what it certainly might become, there should be not only a feeling of entire reciprocity of benefit as to the money part of their dealings, but a mutuality of respect and esteem well merited on both sides. This kind of regard can never be felt towards teachers who receive such civilities as may be paid to them, like unexpected and unmerited favors; for if they themselves do not appear to hold their own profession in the honor to which it is justly entitled, who else can they expect to rate it any higher?

In the second place, teachers are often enemies to their professional brethren in the jealousy manifested towards each other—in a restless and ill-restrained propensity to depreciate each other's qualifications, and a too frequent co-operation with the slandering part of the community, when they find the children sent to them from other schools ignorant and ill-disposed, to ascribe it all to the defective manner in which they have been taught, rather than to the real and very frequent causes of incapacity, bad temper, or bad early habits. By such practices, many foolishly imagine that they are promoting their own particular interests, when, in fact, they are deeply injuring the general interests of the whole class of teachers, by contributing to impair the public confidence in all schools whatever. For what can more effectually do this with the majority of mankind, than to hear those who set up for their instructers in morals, as well as in general science, continually finding fault with each other, or silently acquiescing in its being done by persons not of their own profession? Such conduct places them in this desperate dilemma; if what each says of every other be false, the public must think them all base calumniators: if it be true, the conclusion is inevitable that they are all incapable; and either alternative would speedily and most deservedly strip the whole of employment.

Lastly, teachers are often enemies to the public in so many particulars that I scarcely know with which to begin; not that I mean to charge them with being intentionally so—for it frequently happens with the best people in the world, that they are among the last to see their own greatest defects. Some of the faults of teachers may be considered as belonging exclusively to themselves, and for which they can find no excuse whatever in the faults of others—such, for example, as the two first enumerated. But those which I have now to expose, are so intimately blended with the faults of their employers, of their children, and of that portion of the world with which they are more immediately connected, that, like the reciprocating action of the various parts of certain mechanical contrivances, these faults must be viewed as causing each other. Thus, the parental fault of blindness to their children's defects, both natural and moral, and their consequent injustice to the instructers who ever blame or punish them, give birth to the equally fatal fault in teachers of carefully avoiding every hint of incapacity, and studiously concealing the ill-conduct of their pupils, because well aware that they probably will not be believed. If compelled to make communications on so perilous and ungrateful a subject, they are so softened and frittered away, as to produce a far less pardonable deception than entire silence, since a sensible parent would ascribe the last to its proper motive, when the glossing and varnishing process might lead them entirely astray. The same knowledge of the self-delusion, and consequent injustice of parents, leads teachers to the frequent commission of another fault, in which they often engage their particular friends as participators. At their public examinations (where they have any) they contrive a sort of Procrustes' bed, which all their pupils are made to fit, but rather by the {478} stretching than by the lopping process. This is usually managed so adroitly, that the public will see numerous goodly advertisements, with many imposing signatures, taking their rounds through all the newspapers, by which it clearly appears that every scholar in the school, however numerous they may be, even to the youngest child, performed to the entire satisfaction and admiration of all who saw or heard them. It is utterly impossible that these examinations, if fairly made, could have any such uniform and favorable result; for the difference of natural capacity alone must inevitably produce a great inequality of performance in the pupils. Every body with five grains of experience, knows that many other causes are constantly operating to increase this inequality. Such reports, therefore, of examinations, fail entirely with the reflecting, well-informed part of the community, to produce any thing but ridicule, disgust, or pity, while the ignorant and inexperienced are most unjustifiably imposed upon. The most deceived of any will generally be the parents who are absent, whose natural partiality for their own children so blinds their judgment, as to make them believe in any eulogium bestowed upon them, however extravagant. Little else is ever accomplished by these truly delusive spectacles, unless it be most injuriously to inflate the vanity of the poor pupils. The desire to be puffed in the newspapers, and talked about in public, is substituted for the love of learning for its own sake, and thereby one of the most important objects of education is greatly obstructed. _This is_, or _ought to be_, to excite in all persons under pupilage an ardent desire to gain knowledge, because they love it for itself, and for the power which it confers of promoting human happiness.

The reciprocal faults just stated in teachers and parents, co-operate, not to promote in any way, but to destroy the great ends of instruction, so far at least as they can contribute to the work of destruction. Let it not be understood, from the foregoing remarks, that I am opposed to public examinations in all schools whatever; although I certainly wish it to be understood that, as generally managed, they are worse than useless. But I do object to them altogether in schools for females—unless, among our other marvellous advances towards perfectibility, we should take it into our heads to make lawyers, doctors, statesmen, and soldiers of our daughters, instead of modest, unassuming, well-informed, home-loving, and virtuous matrons. _Then, indeed_, it will be necessary to give them that kind of early training, continually aided by public examinations at school, which will inure them to the public gaze, and enable them, in due time, to meet the searching eyes of multitudes with unabashed hardihood of countenance; and entirely divested of such a very needless incumbrance as that retiring, timid, indescribable modesty, heretofore deemed one of the most lovely, fascinating, and precious traits of the female character. I will not go so far as to assert that none can possess this trait who have been accustomed to be publicly examined—for I have the happiness to know many from whose hearts neither this ordeal, nor all the other corrupting influences of the world united, have had power to banish those admirable principles and qualities which constitute at once the most endearing ornaments and highest glory of their sex. But I _will say_, that they are exceptions, forcibly illustrating the truth of the general principle, which is, that modesty, or indeed any other good quality, _must_, in the end, be destroyed by causes continually operating to work its destruction.

Another sore evil of incalculable extent, in relation to this subject of education, is the frequent discordance between the precepts and the lessons which must necessarily be taught in all well-regulated schools, and the examples witnessed, the opinions heard, and the habits indulged in at home. This often places conscientious teachers in a most puzzling and painful dilemma, from which many shrink altogether, while others vainly endeavor to compromise the matter in such a manner, as completely to _nullify_ (if I may use a very current phrase) every effort to do good. The dilemma is, that in discharging the duty to the child, the parent, although indirectly, is unavoidably condemned, every time the teachers warn their pupils, as they continually ought to do, against any of the faults and vices most prevalent in society. Desperate, indeed, and almost hopeless, is the task of teaching, when this most deplorable, but very common case occurs. For what is the consequence of imparting virtuous principles and habits to the children, admitting the possibility of it, where none but vicious examples have been seen under the parental roof? Their eyes are inevitably opened to the wretched moral destitution of those to whom, under God, they owe their existence; and they are thus plunged into a state of perpetual suffering, if not actual misery—for the better the children become, the greater will be their distress and affliction at the condition of their parents. What fathers or mothers are there, having either hearts to feel or understandings to discern the awful responsibilities they live under in regard to their children, but must tremble at the bare thought of setting them bad examples, and thus becoming a source of double misery to their own offspring—misery _here_, even if they escape the contagion of these vicious parental practices and habits—and misery _hereafter_, should they be so deeply infected as to prove irreclaimable?

Another highly pernicious fault, of which multitudes of teachers are guilty, is continually to act as if they took upon themselves no other responsibility than that of a mere formal attendance in their schools for the number of hours prescribed, to hear prescribed lessons repeated in a parrot-like manner. Any thought of being accountable for the influence exerted in forming the characters of so many fellow-beings, seems never to enter their minds, although this is beyond all calculation the most important part of the whole process of education.

Another fault of frequent occurrence among instructers is, to have such an overweening, extravagant sense of their own dignity, as to be incessantly on the watch for offences committed against it. Thus even a single muscular contortion of a pupil's face, whether natural or accidental, and even if he be but nine or ten years old, will be construed into a most grievous and flagrant insult, not to be expiated but by some signal punishment, usually of a corporeal kind, and inflicted in such a manner as to prove that the operators are rather working off their own wrath than endeavoring to cure the scholar's defects. By this truly ridiculous sensitiveness, they are certain so to expose themselves as either to become laughing-stocks or objects of scorn and contempt to all their older scholars, or of the most {479} perfect hatred to the younger ones. In all such cases these teachers become real nuisances—for the injuries done by such conduct to the tempers of their pupils, far exceed any possible benefit they can gain at such schools.

There are some faults of teachers which greatly impair, if they do not entirely destroy, a proper subordination among their scholars. One is the want of a dignified manner, equally removed from a proud, haughty, imperious demeanor, and too much familiarity. Another is the excessive fear of offending the parents, and perhaps losing the pupils, by complaint. In every case of the kind, the child, of course, escapes all effectual reproof or adequate correction, especially if the parent be very wealthy, very weak, or extensively connected with what are usually called “_great people_.” Invidious distinctions are thus created in such schools, and the influence of all punishment is lost, even over those upon whom it may be inflicted, sometimes in double or quadruple proportions, to compensate for the omission in the cases of the favored culprits.

Another fault, little, if any less destructive of the influence which teachers should possess over their pupils, is their general carelessness in the all-essential duty of striving to convince their scholars that they are really and deeply interested, both as social beings and as christians, in leading their juvenile minds to the sublimest heights of knowledge and virtue. No instructer who fails to do this, whatever may be his or her other qualifications, can possibly succeed well in the main objects of education. They may, indeed, cram their pupils' heads with words, and even get into them a very showy stock of ideas; but in regard to the great, vital principles of human action, _piety and virtue_, these pupils will be in little better condition, as to true moral worth, than so many automata, having the power of uttering articulate sounds, and repeating what they have been taught, but devoid of all generous, benevolent, and virtuous motives of conduct. The notion constantly present to their minds will be, that they pay their money for a quantum of reluctant service, to a selfish and mercenary being, whose constant study is, to perform no more of such service than barely sufficient to secure the pupils' continuance at school, for the sake of the pecuniary compensation alone. Ought there to be any wonder if the scholars themselves, under such circumstances, contract the same selfishness, the same base love of lucre, which they find often so productive of profit, and which they believe to be the governing principle of their teacher's conduct? Should the general propensity to extravagance in the use of money, so fatally common among young people, or their better feelings imbibed at home, protect them from contracting principles similar to those of such instructers, they are in danger of adopting another opinion equally destructive of the chance of deriving intellectual or moral improvement from any school whatever. This is, a firm belief that the whole class of teachers are destitute of every thing like generous and noble sentiments, and are consequently utterly undeserving of deference, respect, esteem, or affection.

Another thing which greatly impairs the influence of teachers with their pupils, is the very common practice of giving way to their own faults and bad habits in the presence of their scholars. Those who take upon them to instruct others in practical duties, must so act on all occasions as to be able to say, “_Not only do as I tell you, but do as I do_;” for without good examples in teachers, all their precepts go for nothing, or will be obeyed from no other principle but fear.

Another fault much too common among teachers, is, that many will enter into the profession, who are exceedingly deficient in all the requisite qualifications; and whose sole object is to support themselves at other people's expense, while preparing for some other pursuit, to which the business of teaching is made a kind of convenient stepping-stone. For all the mechanic arts—even the most simple—a particular training and appropriate education is deemed essential. But for that most difficult of all arts, next to governing a nation—I mean the art of preparing youth successfully to fulfil all their various duties in life—no peculiar adaptation of talent seems ever to be looked for; no course of study or instruction, specially suited to this all important profession, is scarcely any where systematically pursued, or required. We will not trust even a tinker to mend a hole in a dish or basin, unless we believe that he has been regularly bred to his business; yet we fear not to trust both the souls and bodies of our children—both their temporal and eternal happiness—to persons of whom we often know nothing, but that they profess to teach a few sciences, a foreign language or two, and possibly some ornamental art; as if the mere professing to do these things was necessarily accompanied by the full power and skill to accomplish that infinitely greater object of all education—the forming the hearts, minds, and principles of youth, to the love of knowledge and the practice of virtue! This last all important qualification, without which every other will be unavailing, is so far from being the inseparable concomitant of what is usually called “learning,” that it is rarely ever found in those who have had no practical experience in teaching: not that practice alone will give it, for it seems to be the result of a combination of circumstances and qualities not often uniting in the same person. These are—perfect self-control—great benevolence—much forbearance—a quickness in distinguishing all the various shades and diversities of character in children—sound judgment in selecting the best means of instruction—with unwearied perseverance in applying them. Many an humble mother, who scarcely understands even the meaning of the terms grammar, science, and literature, possesses vastly more of this highly essential art, than thousands of the most erudite scholars; and are as far superior to them for all the most valuable purposes of education, as Sir Isaac Newton was to Swift's ideal clown, whom he represents as ignorantly calling this incomparable philosopher, “one Isaac Newton, a maker of sun dials.” Not that I would undervalue learning in teachers; no, very far from it, for a large portion of it is indispensable. But I mean to assert, that _there is a peculiar art of teaching_, not necessarily connected with, nor the result of, what is usually called learning. It is the art, as I before remarked, of forming the hearts, minds and principles of children, to the love of knowledge and to the practice of virtue, which mere learning can never confer. It is an art, in fact, which must have for its basis strong natural sense and feelings—a heart full of the milk of human kindness—sound, moral, and religious principles—a clear, {480} discriminating judgment, a considerable portion of scholastic learning, and some practical experience. Those alone who possess and love to exercise this art, are capable of imparting “that education which bears upon the machinery of the human mind, which is truly practical—that which breaks up the ‘fallow ground’ of the human heart—that which brings forth the fruits of intelligence and virtue.” In other words, (to borrow the language of an admirable article on popular education, in a late North American Review,) every teacher, when entering upon the discharge of his duties, should be able most conscientiously “to say with himself—‘now, _my_ business is to do what is in my power, to rear up for society intelligent and virtuous men and women: it is not merely to make good arithmeticians or grammarians, good readers or writers, good scholars who shall do themselves and me credit—this, indeed, I have to do; but it is still farther, to make good members of society, good parents and children, good friends and associates; to make the community around me wiser and happier for my living in it: my labor, in fine, must be, to ingraft upon these youthful minds that love of knowledge and virtue, without which, they cannot be happy, nor useful, nor fitted for the greatest duties; and without which, indeed, all their acquisitions will soon drop like untimely blossoms from the tree of life.’”

We bind lads to hatters, shoemakers, and tailors, to learn their trades, lest our miserable bodies and limbs should not receive their due share of decoration—nay, we often make the mere fashion of these decorations an object of the most anxious concern, of the deepest imaginable interest; while the artizans who are to adorn our minds with _their_ appropriate embellishments, are left to pick up their qualifications as they may; frequently too, they are persons without any inclination, or talents, or temper, or principles, to fit them for this all important business; and not unfrequently, with so slender a stock of the requisite knowledge and learning, as to be much more suitable subjects for _receiving_, than for imparting instruction. True it is, that such charlatans and impostors are soon found out; but they contribute greatly to degrade the profession, and do infinite mischief in other respects; for they are free to roam every where, without any testimonials of their fitness, and rarely fail to find some new field for their fatal empiricism.