Upon the whole, if I find truth in a character, I pass lightly over all

other deficiencies. And even some forms of falsehood do not discourage

me. A child that is managed by strategem will almost inevitably become

artful; but a generous, confiding treatment, in which his honor is

trusted, will probably bring him back to candor and simplicity. I love

to teach children to look upon and understand the virtues of others, to

excite their enthusiasm for fearless truth, self-sacrifice, and

long-suffering patience and kindness. All the experience of my life is

worked up into little stories. When I say "once I knew, &c.," I always

chain attention. I love to tell of one child I knew when very young, who

would never let another child communicate any secret, as children take

such pleasure in doing, without saying in answer to the question, "Will

you never tell?" "Nobody but my mother." This was her invariable answer,

and her sturdiness through all manner of ridicule made a great

impression upon me. We were inseparable companions, and I remember

nothing that bound me to her so strongly as this uprightness. I adopted

the same measure by her advice, and we doubtless escaped much evil in

that way. She went by the name of "_Nobody But_," but she had true moral

courage, and I used to resent, in her behalf, this nickname. My loyalty

to her generally saved me from even the temptation of being asked. This

and other small heroes and heroines are important mythological

personages in my school.

I have one scholar who was brought to me from a very large school where

no child could receive individual attention, and no subject of interest

was either studied or talked about. Certain outward actions brought

certain rewards or punishments. The principles of self-government and

conscience were never addressed. His mind, of fine natural powers,

would have been starved all that time if he had not had intellectual

culture at home. When he came into my school-room I could see that every

association with such scenes was wearisome and disgusting. Before the

study-bell was rung, he would pour into my ear the whole history of his

life, his excursions among the mountains, the stories told him by his

travelled uncles, his knowledge of animals, birds, flowers, and all in a

childlike spirit of confidence in my interest and sympathy, which he

caught from the other children. But when the school-hour came, a

lassitude pervaded all his faculties, and even a spirit of opposition

seemed to take possession of him. It was not the signal for many

pleasant things to happen, as with the rest, but for some stupid effort

to be made. The memory of many thousand spelling lessons, including

countless words to which no idea was attached in his mind, and of dull

readings of the same uninteresting sentences from the beginning to the

end of the year, and the adding, subtracting, and dividing of

inexpressive numbers, came thronging thick upon him. I learned the facts

from outside testimony, first suspecting them from their effects. It

needed only to look at him to see them written in his expressive face.

As soon as I saw clearly how it was, I determined that my school-room

should for a time be as much like the wild woods as I could make it,

consistently with due decorum; that he should enjoy the sweets of

liberty in certain ways, while at the same time I would endeavor gently

to substitute for his previous associations with study, something more

living. I soon saw that he evidently thought he was to do pretty much as

he pleased. I did not always check him when he walked to the window

without any apparent object but to enjoy the prospect in the street,

though I sometimes expressed surprise that he should do it when I had

given him a lesson to learn. He saw no black marks expressive of the

youthful sins of looking up from his book, or treading on the toes of

his neighbors, though after a while I gave him a little table by

himself, because he had not self-control enough to refrain from such

interference with others. I once remarked to him that he was like those

people whom society put into the State-prison, because he violated

social duties. Only those could enjoy freedom who did not interfere with

others' rights and comforts. The taste for liberty soon spread into

other things. He did not like to study anything that required an effort,

and showed a great feeling of discouragement whenever anything new was

required of him. He always said "can't," and often added in a half

whisper, "won't." I did not yield to this, but insisted upon having my

requisitions answered, partly because obedience must be the cardinal

virtue in school, and partly because I knew such despondency would never

be conquered unless by a sense of power to conquer difficulties. Much

time and labor it cost me and him to establish my authority in this

respect, and to induce him to begin to study a hard lesson. After I had

gained these points, however, I gradually set aside those things to

which he had the most aversion, and which had no interest but one

borrowed from a sense of duty, and thought it best to let him choose

more for himself. I could have done this earlier if the aversion to

certain mental efforts had not been accompanied with wilful resistance

to my wishes, and a want of consideration for my duties. Many of the

vile tricks of school-boys, both in school and in play-hours, annoyed me

and his companions.

At last the reaction began to take place. He became interested in Latin

fables and natural history, and when I began to administer less

interesting things in small doses, he would bring his book to me saying,

"I can't tell how to get this lesson," instead of "I shall never get

this, and I am not going to try." When I found he could adopt a

suggestion from me as to the best way to conquer a difficulty, I could

send him into another room to pronounce French phrases aloud, without

the interruption of other recitations. I had no possible penalties for

the recurrence of fits of idleness, and when he interrupted others, I

only expressed my surprise and regret that he should be so childish and

selfish, and occasionally sent him home because he was utterly

disagreeable. These faults seemed to be the result of a morbid activity

where healthful manifestations had been arbitrarily checked, and not an

evil disposition; for he really loved little children, and was

communicating and confiding to me before and after school, quite

courteous and polite to me as Miss P----, but wholly in opposition to

the school-dame. I always took pains to appeal to him for his

traveller's stories when they came in appropriately to the geography

lesson, or could illustrate in any way what was read. School began

gradually to afford him the same sort of pleasure he received from

reading with his mother, which was always agreeable, and had stored his

mind with pleasant knowledge. In morals as well as in lessons I did the

same thing. I called upon him to help me take care of the little

children when we walked, because I saw he could do this with ease and

pleasure. As soon as any other relation took the place of the school

relation, all things went on agreeably. He knew that I respected his

word, and that his story had due weight in the scale when I asked for

various testimony in regard to any subject of difference.

My object was, as you will perceive, to leave him to feel the natural

consequences of doing wrong, instead of fearing any arbitrary

punishment; being confident that the natural sequence of things (that

is, God's arrangements) would enlighten the mind as no mere penalty or

mere precept could do. I often feel that I can see the prominent points

in a case like this, where a mother may not, owing to her position.

Neither do mothers know the faults of the school-room. I give

information of these, as they tell me the faults of the nursery.

Children that cry much in nurseries, seldom cry at all in a school-room,

where a pleasing variety occupies the time, and a seed-grain of

self-control is planted; and temptations arise in the school-room,

where peculiar efforts and sacrifices are called for, that do not assail

the child at home. The mother of this boy could hardly be made to

believe that in school-hours neither his intellect nor his conscience

acted, because she knew they did at other times. It was as if a spell

bound him there. In his previous school-life there had been little but

spelling-lessons, and what is called discipline, which consists, as far

as I can understand, (and I have inquired very particularly of those who

advocate the system,) of teaching as many uninteresting words as can be

crowded into the memory, especial care being taken to keep out of the

way all ideas. It was in such a conversation that the view was advanced

to which I have before alluded, that the less interest, the more

discipline of study. The advocate of such a plan thought everything that

was studied in youth was forgotten, be it what it might, therefore

training (alias misery and waste of time) was alone useful or desirable.

He instanced his own experience as a proof of this, and where it was

gently insinuated that perhaps if those forgotten geography lessons,

Latin lessons, etc., had had any interest of their own, such as

associations with interesting people, or the amusement of a story, they

might have kept their place in his mind, he rejected the idea entirely,

showing, as the Puritans did when they persecuted the Quakers for doing

the very thing they had done, the evils of a bad education. I even

ventured a little story, (that being a lively kind of argument I like to

use,) of a little girl in my school, who, when I was endeavoring to make

her hear the thunder-music and see the rainbow-tinted spray of Niagara

Falls, exclaimed, "Why, I never knew before that Niagara Falls was made

of water!"--but I found he could not be taught "out of the mouth of

babes and sucklings."

I could have told him, if I had not been discouraged, of a dear little

boy of my acquaintance, seven years old, whom his mother wished to send

to my school, but his more ambitious father chose to put him into the

Latin Grammar-School, (the very one of which this gentleman was usher

when I talked with him.) His mother begged me to let him come to me

privately to learn with me the terrible Latin Grammar-lesson of three

pages, which was to be his first lesson in the school, and the language.

So little Georgie and I had a secret session every day for a long time,

in which we got the lesson together--I would hear him say it, and he

would hear me, and I endeavored to extract some hidden meaning from it

for him, but although I saved him from many a feruling, his hatred of

school became so intense, from the impossibility he found of ever

succeeding without penalty and suffering, that he actually broke down in

spirits and health, and was at last taken away and sent to a military

school to save his life. His mother and I knew why he failed, for he was

of delicate organization, easily frightened, and his sensibility, which

was keen and might have opened to him the beauties of the universe, was

poisoned and embittered by unjust severity and the fearful drill of that

model school. Some of my boys who have gone there after having learned

to use their faculties, have succeeded well, and found no difficulties;

but poor little George was taken from what I call a spelling-school, and

put into that tread-mill, as it proved to him. I attribute a subsequent

unhappy career to this mistake in his education, but I hope something

will yet evoke his originally lovely nature.[K]

When one hears such views as these, and many others of similar import

that I could recount, one almost despairs of ever seeing a whole man.

The fact that there is a grain of truth in such heaps of falsehood, only

increases the difficulty, because that grain of truth prevents the

recognition of that mass of error. My observation and experience are

that, not till things are intelligently learned do they begin to

fertilize the mind, or are they even sure to stay in it, and scarcely a

fine intellect will give you any other record of itself than that the

date of its improvement began at that era when either self-education or

the wise teacher showed it the thread of relation that runs through all

things. Not till at least one human fact has exemplified some spiritual

law, does the intellect work intelligently, or begin to arrange its

stores. Do we not know some minds that are mere encyclopedias, which

imagination has never penetrated with its Ithuriel spear? If such have

moral sense in any fair proportion, they are liable to become hopelessly

miserable in this world of shadows because they can see nothing but the

shadows.

I once knew a mother who was a beautiful type to me of the spirit that

should actuate the guardians of the young. She looked upon a soul with

such awe that it was not easy for her to impose her authority upon her

children, for might there not be something in their natures superior to

her own? The possibility of this made her cautious in her requisitions,

lest she should nip some beautiful bud of promise in them. I knew her

when they were all young, and I saw that it was not want of decision,

but the fear of doing harm that often arrested her action. The children

were not always serene and happy, and sometimes not obedient, for they

had strong wills, and what is called a great deal of character. How

could there but be strong individuality in such a family? There was no

fixed pattern by which they were all to be measured. But they reverenced

her as she did them, for she lived and acted simply and genuinely, and

encompassed them round about with her tenderness, practising daily those

virtues of devotion and self-denial which are demanded of the mother of

a large family, and never turning a deaf ear to the wants of those less

favored with earthly happiness than herself. She treated her children

with the respect one human being owes to another, irrespective of age.

Yet she did not commit the error we sometimes see of reasoning out every

point of duty with children, thus teaching them to quibble and catch at

words. She could check that while she showed respect for their reasons.

She had that true humility which makes its possessors question every

step of the way in the path of duty, while they have a trusting faith

that there is something within them to answer to its calls.

She died suddenly, and then her influence, which many might have

doubted, appeared in a wonderful and beautiful manner. Circumstances

were such that no one was able to take the proper care of the family for

a month or two in the absence of the father. The eldest children, two

boys, one fourteen, the other eleven, immediately took the place of

their mother as a matter of course, assumed the personal care which they

had seen their mother take every day, of six little brothers and

sisters, arranging everything as their mother had done, even in such

minutiæ as placing the clothes in the proper drawers, and washing and

dressing the younger children, which the mother had never left to

servants, although the home was well supplied with them. In a quiet and

unostentatious manner a large establishment had been managed by a

superior mind so skilfully, that these boys found no difficulty in

keeping everything in train till their father's return. They had been

inspired by their mother with a sense of order, propriety, and

responsibility, for it was a peculiarity in her that she rather acted

than inculcated principles, and through their great and tender

affection, which had been her happiness in life, her characteristics

flowed naturally and without a break into their lives. Such a mother

should every teacher be, especially of young children.

You need not tell me that mothers and teachers must be wise as well as

tender, courageous as well as reverential. I know it well. I can tell

you of a young mother who risked an essential injury to her child

(humanly speaking, for we cannot injure the _essence_ of another) by

allowing him to quibble upon subjects of right and wrong, and accepting

his excuses when he could found them upon any inadvertence of hers. His

mental motions were more rapid than hers, and a morbid tenderness of

conscience made her hesitate to lay injunctions upon him, lest she might

err in judgment. A natural tendency to subtlety and stratagem was thus

fostered in him, and as he had not much imagination, there was danger

that he would become actually deceitful. He led an innocent life

compared with many boys of his age, for he was kept very much out of

harm's way, but I soon perceived the pleasure he experienced from a

successful trick of fun, and that his great command over his nerves

tempted him to play many such, which he could do with a grave face. I

never saw one that was not in itself innocent fun, and if they had been

practised as some children practise them, who will betray their agency

the next moment from mere artlessness, I should only have battled the

point with him as I do with others who play in school in study hours,

(or rather half hours.) But I saw that this was likely to become a

deeper evil, connected as it was with his habit of excusing himself,

finding flaws in my directions, and quibbling upon words. It was too

serious a matter for penalties of my device, designed as reminders, nor

was I willing to enter the lists with him and vanquish him by my

superior sagacity, for this would be only sharpening his tools.

I took a good opportunity one day to call what he did _mean_, and to

tell him that I thought he was growing cunning, which I was very sorry

for, as that led to deception of all sorts. It was very funny to pull

another boy's hair, and then look grave as if he knew nothing about it,

which I had often seen him do, but I could not laugh at fun, when it was

at the expense of truthfulness, though I enjoyed a good joke as well as

any one. It was wrong, too, for him to play when I was looking the other

way, because it was cheating me and setting a bad example to the other

scholars. I liked to be able to trust people's honor, and when I gave a

direction, and then went to the other side of the room to attend to

others, in the confidence that my wishes would be conscientiously

regarded, I was disappointed and grieved to find that I was cheated. I

did not like to be obliged to watch people. I could not respect any one

I must watch, and I would not watch him. If he would do wrong and teach

others to do so, he must sit entirely by himself. As to himself, no one

else could cure him of his faults. If he was willing to grow deceitful,

no one could help it; but if he had no honor, every one must defend

himself against him, and he could command no respect from any one, nor

have any of his own, which I thought more precious than that of others.

What was a person good for who could not have self-respect? It was a

pleasant thing to make other people laugh, but if he could allow another

to bear the blame of it, and not speak up to say he was the offender, I

could not trust him even when he did speak. I added, that I had long

observed these tricks of his, and had been sure they would at last lead

to meanness, and here was an instance of it just as I had expected. I

also reminded him of an occasion when I saw him take an unfair advantage

in play for the mere pleasure of winning a little game, thus giving up

his honor for the enjoyment of a moment. I hoped he would remember these

instances and the danger to which he was exposing himself. I would not

dare to punish such faults, for I might be suspicious of him when he did

not deserve it, as I could not always read his mind or be sure of his

sincerity. The punishment must be the one God had appointed for such

faults--and that was, a loss of integrity itself, the most dreadful of

all punishments.

The child loved me and thought a great deal of my opinion. He did not

wish the tears in his eyes to fall, and he swallowed them till his face

flushed. I had spoken before all the school, as it was a public offence

not to be passed over; for nothing is more attractive to children than

the wittiness of practical jokes, as I knew one child to confess when

asked which boys he liked best in a certain story, "Oh the bad boys,"

said he, "I like the wittiness of them."

I afterwards took every opportunity to put this little fellow upon his

honor, and often said, so that he might hear it, that if any one wished

to be fair and honorable, they had better not indulge in what seemed

very innocent fun when concealment was necessary, for fear of learning

to deceive. I often appealed to him for testimony, because I knew he had

accuracy of observation, and dwelt particularly on such occasions upon

my wish that he should tell me all his own part in a transaction, very

carefully, both good and bad, for the sake of helping me to do justice,

and urged him not to be cowardly, or keep back anything for fear of

being blamed. Blame, I once told him, was one of our best friends. The

fear of it sometimes kept us from doing wrong even when we had no better

reason, and when we had done wrong, it showed us to ourselves, just as

we were, and waked conscience up to its duty. Only cowards were afraid

to tell the truth against themselves. Yet I checked him whenever he

_told tales_ of others; which is a thing I always carefully discriminate

from telling the truth when asked. I checked him also because one of his

bad habits was to excuse himself, and the temptation that assailed him

was to throw the blame on others.

In every way I could think of, I thus tried to show him how his

particular tendencies would lead him into falsehood, which I _assumed_

to be the greatest of faults.

After three years' continuance in my school, I assure you there was not

a child in it that I would more readily trust, and though he always

annoyed me with his playfulness, it ceased to be tricky. I had frequent

occasions to notice his candor and to refer to his improvement. I never

spoke to him again before the school upon the subject of his mean fault,

but I kept it fresh in his own mind, and long after, when I reproved

another child for symptoms of the same fault, I remarked that one of my

scholars had once given me the same cause to fear for his integrity, but

he had watched himself, and I was glad to say he had resisted temptation

and grown honorable and trustworthy. I saw that he knew who I meant, but

the others had forgotten who it could be. I did not gratify their

curiosity, of course.

I do not know that this boy is above temptation, but I have had many

proofs of his power to resist it; occasions that brought him no glory,

some of which I have recognized by such a remark as "how respectable

honesty is," or "how I like to see moral courage that fears nothing but

doing wrong." Sometimes I took no visible notice, for we need not always

praise well-doing. It is often both unnecessary and unwise, for where

goodness is not wholly spontaneous, it may be vitiated by love of

approbation. It is only _perfect_ goodness, or such measure of that as

mortals may attain, that can always bear praise and grow only more

fervent for it.

Sometimes I leave one scholar to keep school while I go into another

room to hear a lesson, and then I require an account of their

stewardship. I am always careful to select one whom all will concur in

respecting and of whom they will feel no jealousy when they are

censured. I once left this boy in charge, but after a short time he came

and requested to be released, because he felt as if it was like

tale-bearing to tell of his companions, and he did not feel sure that

they would be willing. I saw by this that he meant to be faithful;

indeed, it was not till after I had full confidence in him that I

ventured on so important a step. I presume he did not feel as if I could

say, as I had said of some others, "You know ---- would not find fault

with you if he could help it, or if his conscience did not require it of

him." There is no point that must be managed with such delicacy as this

of discriminating between truth and falsehood. Children live so long in

their ideal worlds, and are so much talked to in symbols, that when they

begin to deal more with realities they must often be reminded to be

accurate. I would lead them gently out of the creations of their

imaginations when this time comes, constantly reminding them that they

must tell things just as they are; and when they embellish their

statements, I go over them quietly, re-stating for them, and leaving out

all the marvellous additions. Little children will often quote their

absent mothers' authority, when it is impossible that the circumstances

can have been anticipated. I always reply to this very decidedly, "Oh!

no; mother did not say so. She does not know anything about it; you must

not tell me so; that is saying what is not true, which is very wrong."

If they persist, I say, "Very well; I will write a little note to mother

when you go home, and tell her I am afraid her little child has said

what is not true, shall I?" This will generally bring out a confession.

I do not punish on such occasions, for there is no surer way of

producing falsehood than by inspiring fear, but I try to produce a

little agony in the conscience and make a child very unhappy for the

moment. This suffering can be referred to afterwards, in private, and

the danger pointed out of growing wicked, which I find the greatest

instrument of awakening the inward monitor.

Some people object to allegories and fairy stories for children, but I

am never afraid of them if they are true to nature, truly imaginative,

or if the impossible is occasionally caught a glimpse of. A fairy that

comes out of a flower, is an imaginary being that will never disturb the

dreams or deceive the intellect of a child. I always call such stories

poetry, and sometimes ask what they teach. If a teaching use cannot be

made of them, they are not written conscientiously and are not good food

for the young. A child of well cultivated imagination will be likely to

be more rather than less truthful than others. But I do not like ogres.

I once had a scholar, a child of eleven years, that had never known the

care of parents. She was a southern child, whose parents died in her

infancy, and she was sent from one boarding-school to another, where she

was made the tool of unscrupulous girls to obtain their ends against

authority. She told untruths _always_, even upon the most trivial

matters, as if she feared being circumvented, or giving any handle to

others by whom she might be blamed. She was so subtle, that it was

almost impossible to obtain a fact from her, although she lived in the

family. Her relations had wholly neglected all personal care of her,

and I found she knew nothing whatever about them. I learned that her

parents were two very lovely young people, both of whom died early of

consumption, and she had an uncle who was a bachelor and a very wealthy

planter. He had been very fond of his sister, and meant to take home

this child and make her his heiress as soon as she was old enough. She

had the precocity of constitution and temperament common to the

southerners, but had no interest in life at all except for present

gratification. It was difficult to interest her in anything, and I

determined to try the experiment of describing her parents and her

uncle, and telling her of her future prospects. I saw when I was talking

to her that she was much moved, but she did not wish me to know it.

During the several months she had been under my care, I had never seen

her off her guard, and she did not mean to be now. She said, "yes, I

know," several times, but in her emotion she had forgotten that she had

told me several times when I had asked her, that she had no relations.

As I went on speaking of the lovely character of her mother, who died at

her birth, I saw the color flash and her lips quiver, but she would

express no interest in the matter in words, and I took no notice of her

natural emotions. But when I went on to speak of the uncle and his

beautiful home, his love for his sister, and for her, whom he had never

seen since her babyhood, and of his wish that she should preside over

his home when old enough, she fairly burst into tears; and when I drew

her into my arms she put her head on my bosom and gave way to violent

sobbing. But still she was cautious in speaking, and I did not convict

her of having concealed the truth. She was naturally very timid, and I

had divined the cause of her phase of falsehood. She had been treated

very cruelly, and was afraid of human beings. After a while she proposed

to write to her uncle and tell him what she was studying; but although I

doubt not life had a new interest to her, I could not tell what was the

characteristic of her interest, owing to her great reserve. It might

have been sordid, for she was very selfish; but she was soon removed,

and I had no opportunity of seeing her for many years. I then found her

still in the family of her guardian, to one of whose sons she was

engaged, but I was told there was no love, only speculation, at the

foundation of the young man's views, and the seeds of consumption,

inherited from her mother, had begun to ripen in her. She was

brilliantly beautiful, and showed a great deal of feeling on seeing me,

but died very soon after. The only evidence I ever had of the existence

of the moral sentiment in her wronged soul, was her fondness for another

child in my family, who was the soul of truth and love, and who had

divine patience with this her little tormentor, whom she watched over

and remonstrated with like a little mother. This companion, of just her

own age, had had a very remarkable moral training, consecrated forever

by the sufferings for conscience' sake of a very dear and gifted mother,

whose persecutions were known to her child, and no one could know her,

not even the most hardened or obtuse, without being affected by her. She

was a little Christ among other children, and so regarded by them, and I

always hoped that the poor little waif had through her a glimpse of the

Heaven into which she seemed to have no passport. At the time, I

rejoiced for my little angel, when her heart was relieved of such a

charge, for certain natural graces as well as the condition of moral

benightment of the little stranger had taken very deep hold of her; but

I think a reform might have been effected with such an aid. The martyr's

child lived long enough to fulfil her promise, and grew happy enough to

blossom out into some buds of lovely promise, intellectual as well as

moral, and then she went too, but could be no more an angel the other

side of the veil than she was on this. How slight the barrier sometimes

seems to be, yet how impervious! Was it the _divine love_ in you which

made you do that? was her mother's form of reproof, always _remembered_.

Is there any danger of inspiring a child with too great self-reliance,

by directing it to the immutable law of God in its own breast as a guide

of conduct? It has been wisely said that we know of the moral nature of

God only what the moral sentiment teaches us, and that the visible world

and revelation only confirm what this sentiment gives primarily. We know

that the sentiment of reverence may be directed to objects unworthy the

homage of the soul. In the fluctuations of human opinion there may be a

higher or lower view of God's nature. He may be looked upon as all

justice without mercy, or as mercy without justice, or as a union of

both, according to the enlightenment of the intellect, but we can

cultivate in every child a reverence for God's voice in conscience, an

allegiance to God as goodness itself, or as a Father, ready to forgive

us when we repent, and to help our efforts. The human being may by turns

worship God as a Father, as a power, or as law; and salvation, or the

redemption of the soul from evil, does not depend upon the form of

belief, but upon the allegiance to that something higher which is a law

to it. I do not say that it is not important what the form is, for we

know that there is all the difference in the world between the savage's

worship of his fetish, and the Christian's of his God, but the savage

may be more loyal to the small glimmer of truth represented by his

fetish, than many a so-called Christian is to his more advanced

conception of Deity. Therefore it is loyalty of soul which is to be

cultivated, and that is done through conscience.

I know no higher motive to be given to a child or to a man, than that

the more he obeys the voice of conscience, the more tender it becomes;

and the more he cultivates his intellect the greater will be its

expansion; and no fear that either can entertain is so salutary as the

fear of losing the delicacy of the conscience, or the power of

increasing insight. Offer no secondary motives, but as high a view as

we can give of the primal one, not judging for our fellow-man, or even

child, what it is ready to receive, for either may be capable of

receiving more than we can give.

This does not interfere with bringing the consequences of wrong-doing

into immediate view, which is in fact all that we do when we punish

judiciously. If a child is selfish he is thrust aside by those who have

the power to do it. This is a direct natural consequence, quite as much

so as that the selfishness grows by indulgence, but weak children in a

school or in a family must not venture to thrust aside an offender. I

must therefore come to their assistance.

I have one child in my school who has so little power of self-control,

that I am obliged to be very peremptory with him every day. It would not

be sufficient for me to say, "You trouble others so that they do not

like to have you sit near them," and wait for that truth to influence

him. I must put him in a seat by himself, and show him that he is not to

approach others now, and that he must make an immediate effort to gain a

better social position. If anything comes into his head, he seems

utterly incapable of refraining from the utterance of it, even in the

midst of a recitation, or be it ever so irrelevant to the matter in

hand. He wishes to tell anecdotes of which he is reminded by something

read or recited. If I tell him he must not take up the time, he is so

earnest to go on, that often I cannot stop him without walking him out

of the room. Then I tell him that since he has no power of self-control,

he must stay there till I call him; or I allow him to return on

condition that he does not open his mouth even to read or to recite. I

impose this privation to teach him self-control, the want of which will

make him annoying to every one. He pours forth many sensible remarks and

more good feelings, but the law of adaptation seems wanting. He has

sensibility and conscience, and a general desire to do right. If not

approved, he is afflicted; if he does not succeed in his undertakings,

he cries with grief, cries aloud often, though a huge boy of nine years

old,--a little giant in form and strength. He generally seems to tell

the truth, though he is weak, and yields easily to the temptation of

gaining his ends. But if he cannot remember easily, he lashes himself

into hysterics. He has quick perceptive powers, but little power of

reasoning. My aim is to show him the connection between his faults and

his sufferings; to let the latter be felt to be the whip that scourges

his faults--not himself; for there is no fair proportion between the

constant punishment he brings upon himself and his wilful wrong-doing. I

am afraid he will always be a trial to his friends. He is one of my

least hopeful cases, because not well gifted. I am afraid there is a

germ somewhere that the sun has not yet shone upon--that some tile that

is now weighing down his brain must be lifted before mortal man can help

him. You remember the story of Descartes, who was an idiot till his

skull was cracked, when suddenly the brain expanded, and the fissure

never closing, he became a great man. Perhaps my obtuse boy will get

some friendly blow, mental or physical, that will let in the light. His

mother turned him out into the street to amuse himself, because she

could not manage him. If she had not, perhaps I should already have

turned him back upon her hands, for he really is the greatest trouble I

have. My hope for him is that maturity and experience will teach him

what others cannot. This is often the case.

Another little fellow appears to have no natural perception of the

rights of others. He does not understand the sentiment of obedience, as

many lively children do. If I keep my eye fixed upon him, he does not do

the things I positively forbid him to do, but he is the very prince of

mischief, and I am obliged to watch him narrowly lest he turn inkstands

upside down, and go to such like extremes. In some cases I merely follow

my instincts, and this is such an one. I feel as if I were to put

principle into this child because I have it myself, much as the

magnetist imposes his will upon his patient by exercising it forcibly.

I find myself looking at him much more than I talk to him, not always

reprovingly, never stealthily, but steadily and gravely. I do not like

to govern, but I am not afraid of children, as some people are. My

nerves can bear their crying, if they do not cry with pain, and they

soon learn that they gain nothing from me by it. They do not put me out

of temper, or exhaust my patience, or my perseverance; but the

determined will, the ever-springing gayety, the wild spirits that tire

most people, are a constant source of pleasure and exhilaration to me.

It seems to me so unnatural that childhood should be naughty, that if

they are obstinate I am very apt to think it the fault of some still

more obstinate grown person, who has turned a stout heart into a wilful

one by unwise opposition; and I love to set myself to disarming the

stubborn will, leaving it only resolute. If they are false, I feel as if

their faith had been broken, or their fears excited, and I love to show

them the beauty of truth, or inspire them with moral courage. If they

are passionate, I love to calm them down, and give them the pleasure of

tranquillity, and the joys of self-conquest,--not "breaking their

spirits," but sympathizing with their ardor while I check its excesses;

for enthusiasm is a boon of which I would not deprive humanity. If they

are phlegmatic, commonly called stupid, I love to find some subject or

object of interest that will startle them into animation; if timid and

easily discouraged, I can give them the pleasures of success by offering

only practicable tasks; if self-conceited, I can point out to them the

kingdoms of knowledge yet to be conquered. I often quote the words of

Linnæus, who once said it would take him all his life to learn

thoroughly what was under his own hand, and what was this compared with

the universe!

I believe I enjoy the youngest of my tribe most, before they know evil

or are accustomed to hear of it with composure; when the wanton killing

of a bird, or even of a spider, excites their weeping indignation; when

the creations of their own fancies are as real to them as the things

before their bodily eyes; and they do not question if the bird in the

story speaks, or the stars sing. One may then imagine that they may be

among the few who love to the end with unbroken faith, who never lose

their primitive innocence, but grow as the tree grows, whose leaves,

when the early frost nips them, turn to scales to protect their sister

growths, adding to the final perfection of the whole, not arresting its

beautiful and symmetrical progress, neither withering in the bud, nor

throwing out gnarled branches to the light and heat that would fain warm

and smile upon them. I would not pin these little inheritors of the

earth to one seat, or always check the wild burst of delight, or the

ringing laugh. I even like to have the older children hear it

occasionally, and recognize it with a smile as I do, for they have

already begun to _remember_ happiness, alas! as if it had already begun

its flight. They have laughed when it was not sympathized with, been

reproved for loving fun, and deprived of innocent sports because they

were not convenient to others. I like to keep up their sympathies with

the spontaneous activity and pure imaginations of these babes. It is out

of order for a little child that catches my eye to run across the room

to say, "Oh, may I come and see 'oo 'ittle while?" but I cannot but nod

assent, and he will come and scramble into my lap, where he is no sooner

fairly settled and hugged than he will scramble down again and go back

to his slate or his window. If he nestles up into his sister's chair,

while she is studying, I put my finger on my lips, but let her put her

arm round him and keep him till he is tired. This little sunbeam begins

to wish to draw on the slate, and the little sister of seven years takes

the greatest interest in what he does, as if expecting some angelic

exploit of the pencil.

But though I wish to have self-government in my scholars instead of my

own, dear Anna, do not for a moment mistake me. I consider obedience an

essential ingredient of order, and order I regard as "heaven's first

law." Indeed I have sent away one scholar of whom I have spoken a

little way back, because I could not command his obedience; and my

authority must not be questioned, although I do not obtrude it. No human

being can be good or happy who cannot obey; and those parents do the

best thing for their children, who successfully cultivate the sentiment.

For, if it is the _sentiment_, it will acknowledge all lawful authority.

When it is merely a practice gained through fear, there is generally no

sentiment in it. The child who will not eat the bit of cake offered in

its mother's absence, because she has refused to let him have it

before,--and I have known many such,--is truly the obedient child.

Children not only respect most but love best those whom they cheerfully

obey. A child that obeys a judicious and affectionate mother, or

teacher, will often, in the midst of its opposition and wilfulness,

acknowledge that the power which rules him is a beneficent power. If I

did not think that a pretty good child would feel that I was in the

right very soon after a conflict of wills, I should suspect myself of

having given some evidence of love of power or want of good temper. I

would not restrain an expression of honest indignation, or strong

disapprobation, if the offence deserved it; but any impatience of

temper, or any personal feeling, except that of sorrow, is a crime in

this relation. It may not be in a mother's or teacher's power to be

always wise, judicious, or intellectually ready for an occasion; but the

virtue of patience is lawfully demanded of them at the tribunal of

conscience always. Corporal punishment I have nothing to do with, for

though I know it is necessary in some extreme cases, I prefer that

parents should exercise that function. No person that has a less vital

interest in a child than a parent, should inflict it; and though as a

principle of government I consider it brutalizing, there are instances

in which I have felt it to be a _holy_ act, and in which I have known

the child to respect it, and to feel hurt for its parent rather than for

itself. But my own influence, to be secure and useful, must be wholly

moral and intellectual. I often tell children that I must inform their

parents when I find them impervious to any influence of mine; and when,

as has sometimes been the case, they have begged me not to do it,

because they should be whipped, I have said that "perhaps that was the

very best possible thing that could be done, and if a parent thought it

necessary to whip his child, it must be because he truly loved him, and

thought it right to do what must be to himself a painful thing: such a

reason must not deter me from doing my duty. I should not act according

to my conscience if I concealed anything from parents, for they are the

guardians God has appointed over children, and I should do wrong to

prevent them from knowing everything that I knew, that would help them

make their children good."

I cannot provide for those exceptional cases illustrated to me by a

little new scholar I once had, who was very refractory. I said to him,

"don't you wish to be good, Lewis?" "No," he cried out in a distressed

voice. He was only six years old, but this seemed to be a new case, so I

put my arm affectionately round him and said, "What does it mean to be

good, Lewis?" He raised his tearful eyes to me and gasped out "ter be

whipped!" I never saw a look of greater infantile woe; but I soon taught

him that that was not what I meant by "being good."

I know one mother who has a family of excitable children, which she

treats wholly on hygienic principles. If they are out of temper, she

administers nauseous doses of medicine, and such has been her power over

their consciences that she can make them grateful to God for such

blessings as ipecacuanha and epsom salts, even when she is holding the

spoon to their mouths. This is a fact within my knowledge; and it was

the first thing I knew that set my thoughts upon the track, which has

led me to a firm conviction that half the ills of temper and perversity

may be traced to physical causes; for her instinct proved to be a

correct one. Her children were honorable and affectionate, but

irritable, and this was owing to an unhappy inheritance of physical

structure, incompatible with serenity till counteracted by judicious

treatment. One of those wise physicians, who sometimes adorn the

profession, was her aid and counsellor. "Her children rise up and call

her blessed," and bless her too.

LETTER VI.

DEAR ANNA,--I have just heard that you think of changing your original

plan, and becoming a governess. At the risk of being impertinent, I must

give you the warning of experience against this course. I know the voice

of experience is not an unerring one, because circumstances differ

almost infinitely, but I think the relation of governess an unnatural

one, and also that the disadvantages of home education, given

exclusively, far overbalance its advantages. Mark me, I say given

exclusively, for I think the early education should always be domestic.

I would have every mother set apart from all the other duties of life to

attend to her children, and be qualified to give them the rudiments of

not only moral but intellectual training. I know only one mother who has

done this absolutely and with all the requisite surroundings, though I

know many who would be glad to do it. Perhaps I should say I know only

one father who has made it possible. Doubtless there are some fathers

who would be glad to have it done, with whom the mothers are not ready

to coöperate. I could branch off here, and tell all I think about

parents not having the right views of their parental duties, but that

would take me still farther back, to the subject of being married on the

right principles, which I have been led to reflect much upon, as I have

circulated through the families of my friends, particularly of those who

have from time to time put their children into my charge. I speak it

with diffidence, but I see many families in which the children are

regarded in the light of annoyances rather than of blessings;

consequently they are penned up in nurseries, put to bed by servants,

fed by them, washed and dressed by them, excused by them, falsely

entertained by them, in fact educated by them, until they are old enough

to be quiet inmates of the parlor, when they are allowed to be present

to listen to conversations about the last new fashion, or comments upon

the party of last night and that of the night to come. I have known the

mothers of children under my care, to promise a sick child she would not

go out in the evening, in order to quiet her querulous complaints of her

nurse or attendant, and then to break the promise as soon as the child

fell asleep, confiding in its mother's sincerity. This is an extreme

case, but it is not so rare for mothers to send their children to bed

under the care of servants, instead of leaving the pleasant fireside to

make the most of that gracious hour when the heart of the child is most

likely to unfold to the tender parent, and to utter its repentant

confession or fervent little prayer.

But this is wandering a little from the point. I begin to think I

indulge in too many digressions; but my vocation leads me into such

observations and reflections.

I know there is much to be said on both sides of this question. I should

give you the sum of my opinion, if I should say that after the age has

arrived at which children are ordinarily sent to school, an alternation

of the home and the school education is the best mode. Here experience

raises her voice again; for the best educations I have known, all other

things being equal, have been in two families where this has been done.

In one of these, the watchful eye of the mother saw the very moment in

which the home influence was becoming too exclusive and oppressive, and

also when the school influence became scattering to the mind from too

much companionship, or when ambition took the place of love of knowledge

and excellence. The school intercourse was occasionally broken in upon

by months of home life, when the mother devoted herself as companion in

study and recreation, and kept alive her daughters' sympathy with her

in her domestic duties. I have often seen the mere school-life kill out

this sympathy with mothers and younger members of the family, and

foreign influences quite counteract the parental ones.

My own favorite mode of education would be to send children to school

after they have been well trained in imagination and self control at

home, at the age when the social feeling seeks variety, and can receive

least injury from indiscriminate contact; and when arrived at the age

when too much companionship becomes dangerous, to call the girls back to

the home influences, and let them there pursue, with judicious

assistance, or even a chosen companion, the studies best adapted to the

peculiarities of character, the mother ever keeping herself the chosen

confidant, and making herself a willing sacrifice, instead of allowing

the social tendencies of her daughters to expend themselves on frivolous

or unworthy companions. Mothers are too apt to indulge their own ease,

and allow their children to frequent, alone, scenes of amusement over

which parents should always preside. I have known marriage relations to

be formed and cemented by daughters so neglected, before parents knew

even the fact of acquaintanceship.

I know how difficult is such practice as I would recommend, in our

present state of society; but one can hardly help following out one's

imaginings of perfect circumstances, and fancying all the good that

might accrue in such millenniums. It was very sensibly remarked to me a

little while since, by one to whom I was speaking of my ideal of

education for girls, that we can rarely begin and go on with them

according to any one system; for they are brought to us in all stages of

development, most frequently, alas, without any. You will please always

to understand me as if everything went on right from the beginning.

To return to your present plans. I think I must have learnt this

rambling habit which so often leads my pen off the track, when roving

the woods and fields in my extreme youth, now resting by the side of the

arrowy river of my favorite valley, where the "sweet waters meet," or

floating with you down the placid Charles at the winds' and the tides'

sweet will.

I anticipate what you will tell me of the advantages under which you

enter upon the career of a governess. I expect a glowing description of

your new life, because I know how you love and admire those friends; but

that will make no difference in my views. I too have a friend with whom

I agree upon the subject of education; a mother whose experience and

wisdom have aided me much, and whose spirit has presided over my

school-room as a sort of tutelary genius, into whose family I should be

willing to go and give all the aid I could furnish for the furtherance

of her plans, (her own book-knowledge not being equal to mine,) if she

constituted the whole influence in her own family. There would be a

perfect coöperation between us two, the intercourse of years having

prepared the way for it. But her husband is not as wise as she is, and I

would not therefore venture. Yours may be a peculiar case of sympathy

with both parents, but let us look upon it in a general way.

We will suppose a good family, and that the parents are conscientious,

and have a general confidence in the judgment and acquirements of the

governess. But if the mother is a person of decided views, and fixed in

her own opinions, and the father also, you might immediately find

insuperable difficulties. You would not like to exert any influence

opposed to the parental, however injudicious you might deem that to be.

You would not like to take sides with either parent. They might, by

amicable discussion, modify each other's views, so as to do just right

by their children; while the influence of another, thrown into either

scale, would produce dissatisfaction. In your school-room, on the

contrary, you can be perfectly independent of either, and without

standing in the attitude of opposition, or running the risk of

encroaching upon the rights of a parent, you can know just as much and

just as little as you please of the difference of views; and having your

scholar in a new scene, and subjected to different influences, you may

be able fully to carry out your own views, without exciting the jealousy

of parents. This is the only way to avoid such collisions as I dread,

and which seem to me almost inevitable in such a union as that of parent

and teacher in the same family. As an independent teacher, your opinions

may be expressed with the utmost freedom; for I would have no tampering

with truth. But few mothers are humble or wise enough to be willing to

be criticised at home when it comes to the point. Then in my opinion

such an inmate spoils a family, which should be a sacred circle where

none intrude. I myself have had the whole care of children in a family,

moral and intellectual, but no one but the parents ought to have had it.

It set up an authority that was more respected than that of the parent.

I have also, in another instance, had the sympathy and confidence of one

parent, and the jealous watchfulness of the other, who would not listen

to the suggestions of a third person. I have also seen children who knew

more of truth than their parents, and who knew that I knew it; and I

would never again put myself in that position. I have seen the wounded

vanity of otherwise good mothers baffle the best intentions and wisest

action on the part of a governess; and even sadder cases, where

conscience itself must have been sacrificed to keep the peace. No

individual should ever step between parents and children, and point out

the errors of the former. Principles alone should do this; nothing less

sacred should intervene. In my school-room, I can dwell upon principles

forever, and apply them to the cases in hand as closely and as skilfully

as I please, and keep clear of personalities, if I find them baneful. If

one is in the family, this seems to me scarcely possible. Often when I

speak of a wrong action, be it the wanton killing of a bird, or the

indulgence of an evil passion, children say to me, "My father does that

sometimes," and even add, "I wish he would not." This moral judgment is

inevitable; it must come sooner or later, and the sooner the child

defines the line by his own observations and reflections the better, but

it must often pass without comment. I should be sorry to be obliged to

be silent upon any point of right and wrong, because there are sinners

at my elbow. In a school-room, which is a separate world within the

great world,--connected with it, yet severed from it,--principles may

reign triumphant. In a family, persons prevail more or less, and this is

one of my chief reasons for objecting to an exclusively private

education. Special modes of thought and standards of action are imposed

by example and habit; and where there is no variety of views presented

for comparison, minds cannot easily expand, still less choose the best

of several good ways. I have seen the victims of private education

perpetuate family faults, and in later life left standing alone in the

world, knowing little of its interests, and having no sympathy from

without. I have seen morbid sensibility thus nourished into insanity

itself.

But you must tell me the result of your experiment. It dashes my hopes

of any brilliant discoveries. I much question whether, under the most

favorable circumstances, you will find yourself able to satisfy yourself

and others too. Those friends who love you so much will perhaps be

unwilling to make demands upon you; and this will make you anxious to do

all you can imagine them to desire. This is the worst of all

slaveries--to be in a situation where one is not sure of all that is

demanded, and where delicacy forbids the free expression of wishes. In

most cases, too great requisitions are made upon the time and thoughts

of a governess. There should be a rigid arrangement in regard to hours

and services, leaving the time which is not employed in instruction

wholly free, independent, and solitary, if desired. For a time you will

be willing to give all your waking hours to your employment, and feel

that you cannot do enough to serve a friend; but real teaching is an

immense tax upon the mind and the health; and you have duties to

yourself, the neglect of which will at last unfit you for the proper

fulfilment of the very engagement you have entered into. Your own

qualities of character may clash with those of the family, and you

cannot be supposed to have the touchstone to their peculiarities, that

members of the same family have,--an innate and fibrous knowledge, as it

were, of the springs of each other's action, and the associations that

govern these springs. I have never seen a more painful tyranny exercised

than that over a governess in one instance; not a palpable tyranny that

could be rebelled against and openly thrown off, but a total ignorance

of another's wants and rights, that made the whole life a bondage. The

lady who presides believes sincerely that she offers a happy home and

easy duties to one whose whole time and thoughts are taxed in such a

manner that she cannot feel at liberty to dispose of an hour, although

many are actually left unoccupied by accident. This is an extraordinary

instance of selfishness, I acknowledge, but it generally taints the

relation, more or less. I have but one counsel to give to such

sufferers. Sacrifice everything but independence, but preserve that

inviolate; for without it one can neither be truthful nor capable of

improvement. We never should allow ourselves to be in a responsible

situation where we cannot express our opinions for fear of giving

offence. There is enough of that servile fear in our common intercourse

with our fellow-beings. Let us keep ourselves out of temptation while

our daily prayer is that God may not lead us into it.

I am prepared for a theoretic refutation of all my positions, but shall

probably be very self-opinionated till you have lived through this

experience, as I have done.

Yours, affectionately, M.

LETTER VII.

MY DEAR ANNA,--I am somewhat reconciled to your being in a less

independent situation than I wished for you, by learning that you are,

after all, in a school-room of your own, surrounded by children educated

thus far under various influences. The range of ages in your little

company appears to me rather too unequal; but I have such confidence in

your resources, that I will not forebode failure. I only hope you will

not be distracted by too various calls. In my own experience, I was

obliged to relinquish older and more advanced pupils in favor of younger

ones, because I found the proper attention to the two classes

incompatible, and in my own case my heart was with the little ones. You

are better fitted to cope with older children, because your force of

will is superior to mine.

I rejoice in your lovely surroundings. I once kept school near a

gurgling brook, whose banks were ornamented with wild flowers, and the

room was always redolent of perfumes, and garlanded with clematis and

other flowers in their season. Not only children's heads, but mine, were

wreathed with them; and many a lesson was given and learned under the

trees, and on the grassy turf, golden with buttercups and dandelions.

But now a few feet of sky, and a glimpse of verdant back-yards from one

window, is all I can boast of when housed. I am blessed with the

proximity of Boston Common, through which I daily wander with my little

flock, and many of my children have country summers to remember,--vacations

at least. Cities are unnatural places for the young. All childhood

should be passed in the country, and in afterlife its memories can be

pitted against the evils the grownup must bear in pursuit of certain

social privileges.

I feel modest about describing my lessons, now you actually have your

classes before you, and are sounding certain depths to meet the

occasion. I wonder if you will begin with creation, as a friend I could

name told me she did, when first meeting face to face a little

disciple, her first pupil.

I am glad you do not begin with a large school. In many schools that I

have visited, I have seen that the teachers were overpowered by numbers.

This is apt to necessitate--no, not necessitate, for that cannot be

necessary which is wrong,--but it is apt to introduce the motive of

emulation, as a part of the machinery. Emulation is a passion--I call it

an evil propensity, so strongly implanted in the natural constitution of

man, that it needs no fostering. It should be checked and restrained

like any appetite, so that its only function may be the desire to

emulate noble deeds, but never to be degraded into competition for

praise or honors. One of the mothers of my children thinks it is a very

useful ally to induce children to study hard spelling-lessons; but I

assure her it cannot be made to play into my spelling-lessons, which are

natural growths out of reading-lessons. No, I banish that evil spirit

from my dominions, and endeavor to teach my scholars to have a deep

interest in "each other's" progress instead of wishing to rise upon the

ruin of others. I have a device which answers all the purpose of a

healthful stimulus, and insures some of the lawful rewards of industry.

In my present school, where the children are all under twelve, I made

one class in arithmetic, including all who could count their fingers and

thumbs, and, arranging them in the order of ages, began with the

youngest, asking the questions in Colburn's first lessons in arithmetic,

and saying that I should take the first section and let each one go

through with it before I went farther. When the youngest missed a

question, I marked the number of it with her name, and began at the

beginning with the next in order. Some of them soon missed, others went

straight through without a mistake. I simply said to the first one who

did this, "You may return to your seat and occupy yourself quietly in

any way you please every day at this hour until this lesson is over."

The lesson was to continue half an hour.

Those who did not go straight through, remained and took another turn

after each had tried.

I had seen the pleasing effect of this mode of hearing a recitation

practised upon older scholars, and knew that its charms would gradually

unfold to these little ones.

The first section was accomplished by all that first day. But I

gradually took longer and longer portions; and soon the pleasure of

getting through, and having the disposal of little times thus gained,

was very animating. I liked the effect much better than that I heard

described by a distinguished German mathematician, who told me that his

father, who was a soldier, had a triangle of wood made, very sharp at

the edges, on which he obliged him to _kneel_ while he studied his

arithmetic lessons. The effect was very stimulating to his mathematical

faculties, and though he hated his father at the time (a consequence I

thought more of than he appeared to), he attributed to it a remarkable

power, second only to Sir Isaac Newton's (who could think a train of

mathematical thoughts consecutively for twenty minutes), of thinking his

mathematical thoughts consecutively _fifteen_ minutes.

My little people were so delighted with their leisure, thus gained, that

they voluntarily studied their lessons beforehand (which I did not

require), and soon I was obliged to set off the older portion into a

separate class, who went on with the mental arithmetic very rapidly,

while the younger ones, who recited on the same plan, and enjoyed

themselves in the same way, were more deliberate. I followed the same

plan with "Fowle's Geographical Questions on the Maps," which is a very

nice book for children's use. It makes them very thoroughly acquainted

with maps. My favorite geography lessons (and the favorite lessons of my

scholars too), are oral; and I now have a course of lectures delivered

on a certain day in the week by the children, which would amuse you, I

am sure. I put my work-table on one end of the long writing-table, and

my little lecturers stand behind i: in turn, sometimes with a written

lecture, sometimes with only a wand to point at maps or pictures,--and

give their little lectures. One little fellow of eight would talk all

the afternoon over a map if I would let him, telling stories of

countries which he has heard of from me or others. Another is very fond

of natural history, and her little lectures are about insects, and

birds, &c. Indeed, these are their chief topics,--geography and animal

life.

In arithmetic I also have many other exercises, such as arranging beans

in certain numerical forms; and on the black-board I teach numeration in

a simple way. I use Shaw's box of arithmetical blocks to teach the

philosophy of carrying tens, and I think it admirable. I also have

Holbrook's frame of balls. All these devices help to make processes

clear. I find a very great difference in children in regard to

arithmetic. I have had one scholar who never could go (she died at

fifteen) beyond a certain section in "Colburn's Mental Arithmetic." She

reached that after repeated trials; for when I found her grounded at any

special point, I always turned back and let her review, and in that way

she would gain a little at every repeated trial. This child found

geometry easier than numbers, and mastered "Grund's Plane Geometry." She

could also write out a reminiscence of Dr. Channing's sermons, or

remember anything interesting in history, natural history, or anything

of an ethical character. I also had one gifted little scholar who could

not learn to spell accurately; but she drew with great power and

beauty,--with "an eye that no teaching could give," as was said of her

by a fine artist. These discrepancies in talent are very curious.

Phrenological philosophy alone explains them.[L]

Having thus disposed of geography and arithmetic, in the last of which I

doubt not your mathematical faculty will strike out something new, you

will expect me to describe my modes of teaching language, as you know

that to be my personal hobby. I think I might have other hobbies if I

knew more. But I do think the teaching of language covers a great deal

of ground, bringing into play, as it certainly does, so many faculties.

The first thing to be aimed at in language is, that it shall be clearly

understood. It is not necessary to go out of one's own language to teach

etymology. I take such words as _funny_, _kindly_, _sweetly_, and ask

from what words those are derived.

"What does funny mean?" The answer will be, "Full of fun," or "Something

that has fun in it." "What is kindly?" "Full of kindness." "What does

agreeable mean?" "Something we like," said a little boy one day in

answer to this question.

"Does every one like the same things?" said I.

"No."

"Then something may be agreeable to you that is not agreeable, to me."

"Yes."

"Can you think now what the word agreeable is made from?"

He could not think.

"A thing agrees with something in me that does not agree with something

in you, perhaps. I do not like the perfume of a narcissus. It does not

_agree_ with my sense of smell, but it agrees with some people's sense

of smell."

He was pleased with this, and saw that _agree_ was the word.

"From what is _lively_ made?" I asked.

He hesitated.

"What does it mean?" said I.

"Oh, _lively_, why it means _very_ lively!"

"Can a table be lively?"

"No, it must be something that is alive. Oh, I know now--_alive_ is the

word."

"What is alive made from?"

"Living," he answered.

"All these words are made from the name of something."

This brought him to the word _life_, and then he sprung up and clapped

his hands and whirled round.

I do not always check these natural gymnastics.

Such lessons as these I am teased for continually. Those who have

studied I can carry still farther in derivation. I sometimes reverse the

process and ask for all the words that are made from _life_, _action_,

&c.

Often when I give the children their slates to amuse themselves a little

while, they bring me lists of words made on this principle of analysis;

and I assure you that when I read to them, I am never allowed to pass by

a word that is not understood. Several times when I have deliberately

pronounced a very long word that I expected to be questioned upon, it

has brought half a dozen of my little audience to their feet.

I was very fond, when a child, of listening to lessons upon figures of

speech, given in my mother's school; and was quite expert in hunting up

metaphors, tropes, hyperboles, and personifications. So I impart the

same pleasure. The spiritual applications of words is pleasantly educed

out of their sensuous qualities, also. "The sweet apple," and "the sweet

child," are equally significant; and it is well to trace back words thus

figuratively used to their original meaning in the sensuous world, for

they are felt to be more significant when thus verified. It leads to

sound thinking. There are so many poetical expressions in common

parlance, that it is very easy to put children upon this track.

I have lately set up a little class in thinking, preliminary to giving

some idea of the construction of sentences. I do not attempt to teach

grammar technically to such little people as mine; but I contrive to

induct it into them by certain devices, not wholly original, for they

are recorded in the "Record of a School." Allow me to repeat the

drilling with which I began.

I called them around me one day to have a _new lesson_, which is always

joyfully acceded to by these little lovers of new things, and nothing

pleases them better than to be set to thinking.

I asked them if they knew what their five senses were.

Not one had ever heard those words used together, apparently.

I enumerated; sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste.

Several individuals jumped up, whirled round, and sat down again.--

I then asked each in turn to name some object, and tell me by which of

their senses they could perceive it; and by how many?

This they did readily again and again. They could see, and smell, and

touch, and taste a rose, but they could not _hear_ it. So of other

things.

I then said, "I have a thought; do you know what it is?"

"No."

"Cannot you see, or hear, or smell, or touch, or taste my thought?"

"No."

"Now each one of you think of some object, but do not speak till I ask

you for your thought."

"Can you see your thought?"

Some answered "No," others "Yes."

I asked each in turn for their thoughts. They were a bird, a house, a

horse, &c., all visible objects.

I said, "All these things can be seen when they are before you; but can

you see the thought?"

Some answered "Yes" to this, which I found meant that they could see the

image of the thing in the mind; others said "No."

"Can you see your thinking?"

"No."

"Can you not send your thoughts out into the country, where you have

sometimes taken a ride?"

"Yes."

"Can you see, smell, hear, taste, or touch your mind?"

"No."

"But is not mind a real thing? Have not you a mind that you think with?"

"Yes."

"There are some real things, then, beside those we can see, hear, smell,

taste, and touch?"

"Yes."

"What other things beside your mind?"

No one answered.

"Have you any love?"

This brought many to their feet, with a shouted "Yes."

"Any happiness?"

"Yes."

"Goodness?"

"Yes."

"Naughtiness?"

"Yes."

"Is truth in the mind, or outside of it where we can see it?"

"In the mind."

I then took Mrs. Barbauld's hymns, in the first of which occur the words

_reason_, _kindness_, _heart_, _life_, beside the names of many objects

of the senses, and made two columns on the black-board, in which I put

down respectively, as they were mentioned, all the names of objects,

both of the senses and of the mind. To the latter list I added the words

_God_ and _soul_, by the direction of the children, upon asking them if

they could think of any more such words.

I then made the same discrimination between actions of the body and

actions of the mind, which they followed very well, sometimes

confounding the two, as older philosophers do.

I endeavored to give them the idea that things which they see, hear,

&c., exist both in the mind and out of it. This I could do by asking

them if the person who made the first chair did not think of it first.

Was it not in his mind before he could make it? So everything in the

world existed in God's mind before he made it.

I then asked, "Which column of words gives the names of real things?"

They all said the objects of the senses were the real things.

"Can they not be broken up, or burnt, or worn out?"

"Yes."

"Can the soul, or love, or goodness, or happiness, be broken, or burnt

up, or worn out?"

"No."

"Which are the things that last forever, then,--these objects of your

senses, or these objects of your mind?"

"The objects of the mind."

"Does your goodness always last?"

"No."

"Where does it go to when you are not good?"

Nobody knew.

"Can you have it again when you wish to?"

"Yes."

"Who do you think keeps it for you?"

"God."

"That is what we mean when we pray to God to help us to be good."

All seemed to understand this.

"Then we find," I said, "that the real things that last forever are in

the mind?"

"Yes."

"Do our bodies last forever?"

"No."

"Do we live forever?"

"Yes."

"Yes, our souls are the real things."

This was enough for one lesson. Another day I asked about the qualities

of things, and added a column for such words as green, white, pretty,

&c. These are the main classes, and I shall go on by degrees to words

expressive of relations, and to words that are substituted for the names

of persons and things which are pronouns. The children are very fond of

making lists of words of this sort, and often bring them to me, divided

off into their respective columns.

I have put the whole school, except the babes, into this class; and of

those who know how to read well I have made a Latin class. For this I

use the interlined translation of "Æsop's Fables," which Mr. G---- T----

first imported into this country. I began with a line of a fable

committed to memory, with the English words beneath them. It is not only

good for spelling to begin Latin early, but it gives precision to

thinking, if used aright. After learning one fable, by degrees, I let

the children vocabularize the words by putting the names of things into

one column, the names of actions into another, as in the analysis of

English; and this has given them quite a vocabulary of Latin, from which

we often make lessons in derivation. Putting the nouns into a column

soon showed the modifications of termination, and then I explained the

difference between that language and ours in that respect, and showed

them how few small words were used in Latin. They have also studied the

indicative mode of the verb _amo_, and have learned to substitute other

verbs in the various tenses. But I confine them at present chiefly to

committing to memory the fables.

Dr. Follen thinks it well to teach German very early also, which gives

the Teutonic element to our language; but I have not done this in my

present school, because the difficulty of the German letter is such a

puzzle to little brains.

French I only teach them colloquially as yet; for the sight of French

words confuses spelling very much with little children. It is well to

exercise their organs in pronouncing the words; and all my children can

say many things in French. By and by I shall show them the words, if

they stay with me till they are ready for them. All these exercises of

mind, if not made fatiguing by too long continuance at one time, are

perennially interesting to children. The new life and vigor a little

hard thinking imparts to them makes one almost a convert to a theory

lately set forth by one of our contemporaries, that the scholar and

thinker should be the longest lived man. I believe it will be found

true, if the brain be healthily, not morbidly worked. I love to see the

eye fixed in thought for a moment, even in a very young child: but I

would have in the next moment a jump or a run, or a laugh; and these

generally alternate with thinking, if nature is left free. I am jealous

of one moment's weariness at this age. I speak particularly now of very

young children, who are only too willing to think, not of the wilful,

playful rogues whom it is hard to fix one moment, because they would

have no work, but all play. There is a great difference, however, in

children of all ages, and I would be careful of them all. Force and

vigor are so essential to health of mind, as well as of body, that I

would secure those first to every child.

I once had a very bright boy of four in my school, who had a very

remarkable memory. He would learn a verse of poetry by my repeating it

once, and learned to read with marvellous rapidity. It was almost

alarming; but I took care not to stimulate him in any way. He was

suddenly seized with a violent influenza, and did not return to school

for two months. When he returned, he had not only forgotten all he had

learned, but never showed the same aptitude again. In a year afterwards

he had not caught up with those first few months. This taught me never

to urge a child to exertion while suffering from a cold; and my

attention having thus been directed to the point, I have often observed

how that malady dulls the action of the faculties.

I have one dear little scholar now, only too willing to exert her mind;

and if I see that anything seems difficult to her earnest spirit, I

advise her at once to put it aside; for the tearful eyes tell me

plainly that there is no need of urgency on my part, and that the danger

is in too great persistence of the will for duty's sake. If it is

necessary to explain the matter to others, I do not hesitate to say that

that little scholar studies too hard for her health, and I do not wish

her to be fatigued. It is necessary for her peace of mind to say as much

as this, and the others only see more clearly what I wish them to see,

that I measure them by the effort they make, not by the results they

achieve. The same persistence of will and earnestness of spirit

sometimes produces a violent shock of feeling in this child, if she is

arrested in any of her purposes, even of play; but a gentle steadiness

on my part soon brings the repentant little head on my bosom.

I often wish I knew how much moral and mental effort I ought to require

of children, to keep the soul in full play and never encroach upon

nature, which adjusts the balances so happily in her own way, when not

constrained. I have to fall back upon my instincts for this, as the

mother undoubtedly does. This adjustment has been very happily and

wisely made in the case of Laura Bridgeman, one proof of which is, that

an obstacle in her path is only met as a joyful occasion for some new

effort. If she finds a stumbling-block in her way, instead of falling

over it, or being discouraged by it, she dances round it, and apparently

hails it as a new proof of the power within her to conquer all things.

If her thread gets tangled when she is sewing, she laughs and adjusts

it. Giant Despair would in vain tempt her, but would try again to hang

himself, as when, in olden time, Truth and Holiness together escaped

from his clutches. Principles, when known to her, seem to be imperative;

and cut off as she is from the deceptive senses, she recognizes only the

power within herself, which laughs at the defiance of insolent brute

matter. It was the plan of her education that she should not be told of

God's existence till she gave indication of some idea of Him; but in

some way or other she became possessed of that name for the existence of

absolute power and goodness (we do not know yet how far that embodiment

of the idea was intuitive); and she already refers all things to His

agency. One suggestion pointing towards that idea would necessarily

fructify in such a mind as hers, and immediately she would have a name

for the law within her which she obeys so wonderfully in conscience, and

exemplifies so remarkably in her intellectual operations. She answers to

me the question which I have heard asked, "Whence do the intuitions of

the mind come?"

But I must go back to my little family once more. These children are

quite expert printers, and have followed their fancies very much as to

what they printed; as, favorite stories or scraps of poetry, for I did

not wish the process to become tedious. One day I let each dictate to me

a short story, which I wrote down as they dictated; and while they were

full of delight I proposed that they should write stories themselves,

instead of copying them. This they subsequently varied with writing what

they could remember of my readings to them; so now I am overwhelmed with

compositions of all sorts, and often very good ones. I have always

thought it well for children to write a good deal, and I have never

found any difficulty in making them like to do it. When I read or tell

them anything I wish them to write, I often put leading words on the

black-board, to suggest the order of the story, or the description; or,

to spell difficult words. One child writes funny stories, and laughs

herself as she writes; another gives descriptions of natural scenery, in

the midst of which her characters find themselves. One writes about

wolves and other horrors. I have a variety of pictures hanging on the

walls, and I sometimes propose that they should write stories about

them. These writings are all printed with lead pencil, or on the slate,

because the mechanical difficulty of writing script with the pen makes

it tedious to children.

I shall look impatiently for your account of your proceedings. I believe

I have told you the principal things I endeavor to teach, but it is

impossible to describe all the occasions on which one can minister to

the inquiring minds of children. I suppose many persons would think I

give too much time to playing and singing, but I do not often invite

people into my school, for my ideas of order are different from the

ordinary one of sitting still and not speaking. I am perfectly content

as long as the lifting of my finger or the tinkling of my little bell

will reduce my subjects to order.

I forgot to mention that one day in the week we resolve ourselves into a

sculptor's studio. I seat the children around one of the long tables and

let them model in clay. They make miniature vases, and even faces, and

who knows but what some genius may be developed?[M] Paper cutting is

also one of my arts. It teaches forms as well as drawing, and some of

these children cut very decent birds and other animals. Sometimes I draw

for them to cut, and I have shown them the properties of a circle by

cutting one and dividing it up into angles, acute and obtuse, and

teaching them to put them together again. I was much pleased myself when

I first understood the relation of angles to a circle, and find that

other children also enjoy it. I let them play with the Chinese puzzle

also, which exercises their inventive faculties.[N]

If all teachers loved to play with children as well as I do, I think

they would discover what I think I have; that children need

superintendence in their plays to defend them against each other. The

only danger is, that the older person may lead too much, and not

sufficiently follow the leading of the children. When children do work

at anything, they should be taught to do it accurately and well; but a

concentrated effort should be very short. I hope everything, as I told

you, from your discoveries in this charming science, of which I am never

tired, I am never weary of talking about my little flock, and all the

little flocks I have from time to time presided over. The last always

seems to me the most interesting; especially the younger ones. A new

little being just waking up to a consciousness of the world environing

it, is a new study to me always, one of which I never tire, as I am very

apt to do of older people. When you have taught a few years, we will

compare notes again.

Very affectionately yours,

M.

FOOTNOTES:

[I] All these difficulties with which I wrestled so many years in my

character of _champion of childhood_, are entirely solved and done away

with by the more recently introduced method,--introduced by authority of

a distinguished philologist, of teaching the Italian alphabet, and

always calling _c_ and _g_ hard, as the old Romans are supposed to have

done. This mode is made practicable in the "First Nursery Reading-Book,"

and the last edition of the "Primer of Reading and Drawing." Abundant

experience shows that reading taught in this way leaves nothing to be

unlearned in English, and teaches an analysis of words into letters

which contributes very much to the ease of the subsequent study of

European languages, to which the sounds of the letters of the Italian

alphabet apply almost without an exception. Experience upon this subject

has given me confidence in the general rule of _never_ teaching

exceptions to anything until the rule is well understood and mastered.

[J] The work referred to, by Peter Schmid, of Berlin, was subsequently

translated, and published in the 6th vol. of the _Common-School

Journal_, and afterwards in a pamphlet called the _Common-School Drawing

Master_. It is largely used in the public schools of Germany, and formed

a new era in Germany, in the teaching of Perspective Drawing, as truly

as _Colburn's First Lessons_ formed a new era in the teaching of Mental

Arithmetic here.

[K] Since writing the above he has died untimely.

[L] Since these letters were written, the St. William's school

established in Edinburgh by George Combe, Esq., and in which that

distinguished man taught personally during the latter years of his life,

has proved conclusively that the Phrenological philosophy is a fine

basis for education. The principle there practised is, to cultivate

assiduously those faculties which were found naturally deficient in the

pupils; thus aiming to make whole men out of what otherwise would have

been but fragments of men.

[M] One of these children subsequently evinced much talent for the

plastic art, which she traced back to this opportunity. She always kept

it up, and gave fair promise of accomplishing something in this

department of art.

[N] Several years after these letters were written, the Rev. Thomas Hill

issued a series of cards containing geometrical figures composed of

triangles of different sizes. They were very useful in aiding the

development of the mathematical faculty in a private family, and might

be used with advantage in the present Kindergarten-schools, whose

success forever settles the question of the manner in which young

children should be taught. The above letters exemplify the blind

gropings of a true child-lover after that which has now been so

beautifully developed by observation and genius united.

SONGS.

I. Lord's Prayer.

[Illustration: Lord's Prayer Music]

Our Father, who in heaven art,

Thy name be hallowed;

Thy will as 'tis in heaven be done,

Let thy dear kingdom come;

Give us this day our daily bread,

Our trespasses forgive,

As we forgive the trespasses

Of those who injure us.

Deliver us from doing wrong;

O, lead us from temptation's snare;

For thine the kingdom and the power,

And glory evermore.

II. The Fishes.

[Illustration: The Fishes music]

Happy the fishes now appear,

Sporting in water bright and clear;

Now swimming, now diving, above, below;

Now they are straight, and now they all bow.

III. Brotherly Love.

[Illustration: Brotherly Love music]

1.

How delightful 'tis to see

Little children who agree;

Who from every thing abstain,

That will give each other pain;

O, how lovely 'tis to see

Little children who agree.

2.

Angry words they never speak,

Promises they never break;

Unkind looks they never show;

Love sits smiling on each brow.

O, how lovely, &c.

3.

They are one in heart and mind;

Courteous, pitiful, and kind;

Willing others to forgive,

And make happy all who live.

4.

When at home, at school, at play,

They are cheerful, blithe, and gay;

Always trying to increase

Human pleasure, social peace.

5.

If we for each other care,

All each other's burdens bear,

Soon the human race will be

Like one happy family.

O, how lovely, &c.

IV. AT THE BEGINNING AND CLOSE OF PLAY, IS SUNG:

[Illustration: At the beginning and close of play music]

Front to back we march away,

Let us all go out to play.

Front to back we march away,

Now we all have done our play.

V. The Pigeon House.

[Illustration: The Pigeon House music]

We open the pigeon house again,

And set all the happy flutt'rers free;

They fly o'er the fields and grassy plain,

Delighted with joyous liberty;

And when they return from their merry flight,

We shut up the house and bid 'em good night.

VI. The Cuckoo.

[Illustration: The Cuckoo music]

Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo;

The cuckoo calls the children, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo,

Let us all call him to us, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo;

Yes, yes, the cuckoo is alone to-day, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo;

Yes, yes, he wants to join our merry play, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo;

You have not been calling your friends in vain,

We now can play all together again, cuckoo, cuckoo,

Dear little child, cuckoo, cuckoo, dear child.

VII. The Peasant.

[Illustration: The Peasant music]

1. Would you know how does the peasant,

Would you know how does the peasant,

Would you know how does the peasant,

Sow his barley and wheat?

Look, 'tis so, so does the peasant,

Look, 'tis so, so does the peasant,

Look, 'tis so, so does the peasant,

Sow his barley and wheat. La la la la la la la

la la la la la la la la la la la la la la

la la la la la la la la la.

2 Would you know how does the peasant

Reap his barley and wheat?

Look, 'tis so, so does the peasant

Reap his barley and wheat. La, la, la, &c.

3 Would you know how does the peasant

Thrash his barley and wheat?

Look, 'tis so, so does the peasant

Thrash his barley and wheat. La, la, la, &c.

4 Would you know how does the peasant

Sift his barley and wheat?

Look, 'tis so, so does the peasant

Sift his barley and wheat. La, la, la, &c.

5 Would you know how rests the peasant

When his labor is done?

Look, 'tis so, so rests the peasant

When his labor is done. La, la, la, &c.

6 Would you know how plays the peasant,

When his labor is done?

Look, 'tis so, so plays the peasant,

When his labor is done. La, la, la, &c.

VIII. The Sawyer.

[Illustration: The Sawyer music]

Let us now begin our sawing;

Forwards, backwards, pushing, drawing,

Sawing, sawing wood in two;

Little pieces, bigger pieces,

See saw, see saw, see saw, see!

Let us now leave off our sawing,

Rest awhile in pretty playing,

Playing, playing, playing so;

Playing, playing, playing, playing,

Till 'tis time to saw again.

IX. The Cooper.

[Illustration: The Cooper music]

I am a cooper, and barrels I bind;

And on my brow perspiration I find;

But happy and merry I always am found,

While with my big hammer I pace all around, around, around,

around, round, round, round.

X. The Wheel-barrow.

[Illustration: The Wheel-barrow music]

Come, take your barrow, neighbor John,

The clock strikes six, we must be gone;

The birds are singing in the bower,

The bees are busy on the flower;

Come, take your barrow, let us go,

And call upon our neighbor Joe;

We've much to do, and time flies on,

Make haste, make haste, we must be gone.

XI. The Clappers.

[Illustration: The Clappers music]

The clappers in the cornmill move gently up and down,

The water gives them motion;

What heavy sounds,

Clip, clap, clip clap, clip clap, clip clap, clip clap.

XII. & XIII. Windmill and Water-wheel.

[Illustration: Windmill and Water-wheel music]

See the windmill, how she goes,

While the wind so briskly blows;

Always turning freely round,

Never idle is she found.

or, XIII.

See the WATER-WHEEL, how she goes,

While the water freely flows, &c.

XIV. The Pendulum.

[Illustration: The Pendulum music]

See it run, see it run,

See the clock's straight pendulum

Move its long arm here and there,

Not across, not in the square;

Stroke by stroke, both there and back,

Always tic, and always tac, tic, tac, tic, tac, tic,

tac, tic, tac,

Clock be steady, not unruly,

Pray the right time tell me truly

For eating, for sleeping, for work and play,

O tell me the proper time ev'ry day.

If my life in order be,

Health and peace will dwell with me.

Little arm go there and back,

Always tic and always tac, tic, tac, tac.

XV. The Rovers.

[Illustration: The Rovers music]

We like to go a-roving,

From place to place a-moving,

For wandering is such sweet employ,

It fills our hearts with quiet joy.

Wander, we'll wander,

We hear the warblers singing,

The air with music ringing;

We hear the sheep cry bah!

We hear the sweet bees humming,

We see the large flies coming,

See, see, they fly away!

Wander, we'll wander,

Wander, we'll wander,

The flocks move on so stately,

The fields are dressed so neatly,

All flowers smell so sweetly;

Come, wander, we'll wander, wander, we'll wander.

XVI. The Weathercock.

[Illustration: The Weathercock music]

Like the weathercock I'm going,

When the stormy wind is blowing;

While to East and West I'm turning,

I the compass points am learning.

XVII. The Bees.

[Illustration: The Bees music]

The bees are flying and humming,

Why are they all coming?

Honey they do seek,

Honey they do seek.

Hum hum hum hum hum hum hum hum,

Hum hum hum hum hum hum hum hum.

Take care, beware, the drone is there;

Take care, beware, the drone is there.

XVIII. The Ring.

[Illustration: The Ring music]

Equal treading, equal stepping,

We dance and sing all in a ring;

All round we dance and sing.

La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la,

la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la.

XIX. The Hares.

[Illustration: The Hares music]

Hare in the hollow,

sitting still;

Poor hare, are you ill,

that you cannot jump and spring,

jump and spring, jump and spring.

2.

Hare now be careful,

Sit quite still,

The hunter is near;

Dogs are running down the hill,

Sit quite still, sit quite still.

3.

Hare now be cheerful,

Jump and spring;

All danger is past.

Hare now spring, jump and spring,

Jump and spring, jump and spring.

XX. The Little Master of Gymnastics.

[Illustration: The Little Master of Gymnastics music]

Look at little Albert,

He's happy and glad;

Look at little Albert,

what he has just made.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Text uses both Co-operate and coöperate.

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

In the text Froebel does not have a ligature, in the footnotes the

ligature is present. This was retained but will only be present in the

utf-8 and HTML versions.

Page 25, "fal" changed to "fa" (fifth, fa-la-do)

Page 78, pronunciation table "oh" changed to "[)o]h" to match rest of usage.

Page 86, two of the proofreaders caught amidst the mind-numbing word

lists that "put" should not belong in the pattern of drunk, trunk, hunt,

blunt... and should either go a few words before with cut, gut, hut, jut

or be changed to "punt." The transcriber has chosen to change it to

"punt."

Page 88, "ex-except" changed to "except" (preceded by vowels, except)

Page 88, in the list for W, "owner" occurred twice. Once after "growth"

and once after "lower." The second instance was removed.

Page 165, "wont" changed to "won't" (a half whisper, "won't.")