of his profession. He feels that he is giving impulses to the world in the persons of his pupils, though their effect may be seen long after he himself shall be forgotten. Perhaps he may be mentioned after he is dead—the thought makes him grateful—as having assisted in forming the mind of some village Hampden or of the future historian or saviour of his country; but for this he is not anxious. Philosophy and Pedagogy go hand in hand.

There is one view of our subject, too important to be omitted. We refer to the art of teaching, as a distinct profession. Why is it that with our facilities for education, with so much will in all classes to forward the work, that so slow advances are made? It may be traced, we think, to the incompetency of teachers; a fault that can never be avoided, until this employment passes into a profession for life, as other occupations. The teacher must no longer depend upon the old veneration for his station. The clothes' philosophy has stripped him stark naked, as it has the divine, the doctor, and the lawyer. The wig like a wool basket, which the lawyer once wore, as if to impress some imaginary terror upon the vulgar as to the extent of his knowledge-box; the school-master's, somewhat smaller, to avoid action of trespass; the gold-headed cane of the doctor; the learned jargon of terms; the distant grandeur, the awful respect, these once excited, are all gone. The world, thank heaven, sees through the shallow artifice. Children no longer play at puppet-shows, and their parents are improved, too. Good clothes are a mockery, and people will have plenty to eat and drink. The only witches now are made of pith and lead, and descriptions of things answer somewhat to the originals. It is undoubtedly true, that civilization will be most advanced, where there is the greatest division of labor. The more the employments of life are separated into distinct arts, the greater will be the perfection of all. It is a great mistake, then, to overlook the profession of the pedagogue, for without his aid our press, our pulpit, our lyceums, are in vain.

What can be said to induce young men, who might succeed in the more stirring and active duties of life, to embrace this pursuit, and bring it to the point it should occupy in the attention and affections of all, not in the abstract, but in fact, in money, in emolument, in respectability? Do you love the pursuits of learning, but cannot afford to devote your life to them, urged by necessity to make money, why should you rush into professions, where to attain your object, an immediate support, you must make immense sacrifices? All the world will acknowledge that the present pays dearly for the quackery of the past, in law, and medicine, and divinity. A man of ingenuousness would blush, and no doubt often does, at being obliged to keep up a mystery that he would reveal, did it not give him his bread. We are not speaking of law, as Hooker described it, nor of medicine as Abernethy practised it, nor of divinity and religion, as many good men live it; but of the useless forms and processes which a poor man is obliged to pay for, in demanding or defending his legal rights, and the brown bread he takes in pills, under a new name. Why, we ask, if you are a young man, and love literature, do you not become a pedagogue? The employment, rightly pursued, may be made delightful. If you get the mastership of a city school, you will have

from $1500 to $2500 per annum. If you live in the country, and take one of the famous New-York academies, you will have from $600 to $1000 per annum. If a man has his library before hand, he may live happily, and rationally, and refinedly, upon either of these

salaries.

Beside, the pleasures of the pedagogue are simple, and cost little. The air, the sun-light, the shade, the sight of cattle feeding on the green hill-sides-sparkling brooks, and gliding streams-the waving corn-field, the swooping flight of the lark - these are his pleasures, morning and evening. By night he has the stars. He can hold converse with nature, for

But we fear the objections are far greater in another respect. It is said that the pedagogue closes upon himself the door of political distinction. It is true, that pedagogues have rarely filled political office; but we presume they might have done so, if they had wished it, or at least have had the honor of being canvassed in the newspapers, and bespattered with the filth of party warfare. But we suspect the truth is, that the true pedagogue feels rather above such business; and although ready to serve his country with his vote and influence, still he believes he is doing a better service, in his vocation, to liberal and enlightened principles, than would result from the gratification of private ambition.

But a man must feel that he is living for some object, and the business of pedagogy is hardly acknowledged as an ultimate object of this life. It must be so. It must be represented. Its existence, individually, must begin. It must be separated from other business, and be viewed as a distinct profession. And now we feel ready to read and understand the quotation at the beginning of our remarks upon Pedagogy, by

A PEDAGOGUE.

Salem, (Mass.)

Ir will not stay- the robe so pearly white,
That fell in folds o'er nature's bosom bare,
And sparkled in the winter moonbeam's light,
A vesture pure as holy spirits wear-
It will not stay! Look, how from open plain
It melts beneath the glance of April's sun!
Nor can the rock's cool shade the snow detain;
E'en there it will not stay-its task is done:
Why should it linger? Many-tinted flowers,
And the green grass, its place will quickly fill,
And, with new life from sun and kindly showers,
Will deck again the meadow and the hill,
Till we regret to see the earth resume
This snowy mantle for her robe of bloom.

'OH! would that I were but a child again!'
This idle wish burst from me, as I stood
Amid the dark cathedral of a wood,
Catching, with thought, half envious, a wild strain
Of distant laughter, that like music clear,
Rang in a childish cadence on my ear.
The scene, which spread before me, was a feast,
For eye and mind to rest on. Summer gay,
With her full, painted lip and eye's bright play,
Had sported through her sunny region's waste
Of deep-hued flowers, of every tint and dye,
To meet young Autumn, as he came quite nigh,
In coat of many colors; fair birthright

From Nature's parent hand, when forth she sent
That thoughtful child, with wonted tribute lent
To earth's wide confines. Here they met awhile
To bless and greet each other. Summer's smile
Still kindled all the landscape, though its light
Was mellow'd down, but yet o'ershadow'd not
By autumn's serious presence. 'Twas a spot
I deem'd all rife with beauty, nor till now
Had dreamed at any other shrine to bow.

But that fresh burst of laughter! How it stirr'd
Some hidden springs within! I lov'd no more
The wind's deep organ-notes, as o'er and o'er
It play'd its ceaseless anthem; nor yet heard
The haunted leaves' and rivulet's clear fall;
The hum of bees, the song of birds was done;
And when I caught that fine inflection, all
The harps of Nature seem'd quite out of tune.
For human tones had won me; and I mov'd,
With my first impulse guiding me, along
A scarce-definéd wood-path, where a throng

Of vines and perfum'd shrubs, a barrier prov'd.
Till through the tangled web that hung around,
I pressed to where that child made holy ground.

I'll sketch the scene: methinks that it might be
Fit study for the painter. In the shade
Of an oak thicket, where the fitful breeze
Just stirred the crowding branches of the trees,
That closely grew, like sentinels array'd
In crowns of green, there stood a little child,
Searce four years old. Around her, she had piled
A wealth of blossoms, and she seem'd to me

A bright creation, such as one might meet
In faery land. Her small and dimpled feet
Just broke the crystal mirror of a brook

That ran in circles round them; and her look
Spoke an intensity of earnest thought,
That yet with merry images was fraught,

As, with a parted lip and upraised hand,

She seem'd to listen. Soon her white brow flush'd, With wrapt attention, and the breath seem'd hush'd' Within her bosom, as by some slight wand,

Too delicate for vision. But at last

A sudden gladness flitted o'er her face,

And clasping her fair fingers, with new grace,

She yielded to a most mysterious burst

Of unchain'd laughter. Then my heart did thirst

To know what thus could move her, and I passed,

Regardless of its shallow, devious track,

Över the pebbly streamlet, and drew near

Unto the merry urchin. Half in fear,

She took my proffered hand, and tossing back
Her sunny curls, said, pointing to a bush,
'See, yonder bird, it calls me. Every day,
It comes and sits upon that very spray,

And calls me by my name. But listen!-hush!'

Pleas'd with the girl's wild fancy, I look'd up,
And mark'd the tiny songster, as it hung,
Pecking the rain-drops from the acorn's cup,
Then singing on, until the wide woods rang
With the rich music of that minstrel wild,

And the far sweeter laughter of that child.
I left the pretty dreamer; but oft now,

When wearied with the fever of this earth,
Where childhood's pure imaginings find birth
But once, and never more, I love to go,

In mental flight, and conjure up again

That picture of the green-wood. Not in vain,

I trust, may be the prayer that oft I raise

For that young maiden. Would to God some spell
Were mine, to circle all her future days,

And guard the freshness of her being well!

Charleston, (S. C.) May, 1837.

M. E. L.

FRANCIS MITFORD.

PART ONE.

THE Commercial metropolis of Great Britain was the birth-place of our hero, and the agency of several West India plantations conferred wealth and respectability on his family; so that if Mitford was not destined to inherit the honors of a long line of titled ancestors, he possessed all the more solid refinements of aristocracy which wealth can purchase.

These were the palmy days of West India interests, and West India agencies, when the commissions on rum and sugar, (vulgar articles enough, in themselves,) enabled the careful, plodding merchant to maintain his splendid mansion and equipage, in the very vicinity of courtly wealth. These days are now past; the era of philanthropic principles has enabled the British ministers to levy twenty millions on the suffering artisans of Birmingham, Manchester, and Glasgow, to subtract an additional potato from the humble meal of the Irish peasant, and by adding additional sufferings at home, to purchase the desolation of England's insular colonies.

After these premises, it is needless to say, that young Mitford received an education proportioned to his expectations, or rather that he had the opportunity of receiving one. He was visited with the usual applications of the ferule for the neglect of his grammar lessons, dozed over the elementary classics, stuck pins upright in his tutor's seat, for the purpose of witnessing the discomfiture caused by the derangement of the centre of gravity, and by way of rewarding him for his attention; saluted all the pretty maid servants, ay, and even the instructor's daughter, if she came in his way, on the advent of a new year; and, as a matter of course, got flogged, or as it is technically termed, horsed,' for his impertinence.

Oh, England, England! how in thy youthful seminaries do thy rising

generation suffer! How is each lesson moistened by their tears, and each trifling fault expiated by their groans! How must the effect of these mansions of oppression ruin and pervert the mind in after life, destroy every germ of humanity, corrode the temper, and often quell the spirit! How can it excite wonder, if at maturity thy young men find their favorite amusements in the prize-ring, and the cockpit; or if countless thousands witness with delight, the brutal triumph of the Lion Nero over the suffering dogs, who are goaded to attack him.

It is but eking out the early lessons- but filling up the sketch of youthful education. Can any but the least refined impressions be conferred by twenty, thirty, nay, fifty stripes of a 'cat,' often inflicted by a menial, chosen for possessing the accomplishment of a vigorous arm, at the command of a capricious or brutal master, and sometimes for a very venial error? At an English school, he is the best boy, among the boys, who bears his stripes with the most Spartan fortitude, and shows by his after conduct at school, that they have failed to correct him.

How often have I trembled for the minor branches, when I have seen the fond mother directing her spouse's attention to the pompous and specious advertisement, glowing in good set terms, in the 'Herald' or the Times,' Respectable Seminary at Clapham; Excellent Education at Prospect-Hill;' The most refined system of instruction pursued at the establishment in the sweet retirement of Orwood Vale,' Terms only fifty guineas per annum.' Alas! 'respectable seminary,' 'excellent education, refined instruction'much abused terms! From sad experience, you convey to my mind only the disagreeable vision of weak tea and scanty bread and butter; plundered trunks; heavy charges for items never received, and the abundant exercise of the cat-o'-nine-tails.

They manage these things better in France.' There, 'sans recréation,'' pain sec,' 'au caveau,' are the usual scholastic visitations; and for grave errors, expulsion a disgrace seldom incurred, and the effects of which are seldom surmounted. But the 'cat,' never.

In England, with stripes, the youth of the seminaries are in general insolent to their masters, rude in their social intercourse, and annoying, if not destructive, to those who have the misfortune to be their neighbors. In France, without stripes, the pupils are respectful to their instructors, polite in their intercourse with each other, and innocuous, at least, if not agreeable, to their neighbors. Notwithstanding the after thought of Napoleon at St. Helena, I verily believe the French system to be the best, judging from its effects The mass of the people of France, malgré the statistics of Baron' Dupin, and the croaking of English journalists, I pronounce, from observation, to be the most intellectual, and consequently the most cultivated, in Europe: as for the mass of the people of England, I believe they have much to learn before they can, in many particulars, claim equality with their neighbors, whom they affect to despise.

But flogging must be good. It is preserved in the army and navy. Consult the officers of each. They undoubtedly pronounce it so. Consult the members of the Inquisition. Ask them if their mode of sending souls to the other world, by stripes and autos-da-fe, is not the