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would grant indulgences which on ordinary occasions he would have denied, with a view of encouraging them by signs of his confidence in them; and at times, on discovering cases of vice, he would instead of treating them with contempt or extreme severity, tenderly allow the force of the temptation, and urge it upon them as a proof brought home to their own minds, how surely they must look for help out of themselves.

good, and then, when complaint was made to me, there came fresh persecution on that very account, and divers instances of boys joining in it out of pure cowardice, both physical and moral, when if left to themselves they would have rather shunned it. And the exceedingly small number of boys who can be relied on for active and steady good on these occasions, and the way in which the decent and respectable of ordinary life (Carlyle's 'Shams') are sure on But, independently of particular occasions of these occasions to swim with the stream and intercourse, there was a deep under-current of take part with the evil, makes me strongly feel sympathy which extended to almost all, and exemplified what the Scriptures say about the which from time to time broke through the reserve strait gate and the wide one,-a view of human of his outward manner. In cases where it might nature which, when locking on human life in its have been thought that tenderness would have | full dress of decencies and civilizations, we are been extinguished by indignation, he was some-apt, I imagine, to find it hard to realize. But times so deeply affected in pronouncing sen- here, in the nakedness of boy-nature, one is tence of punishment on offenders, as to be hardly quite able to understand how there could not able to speak. "I felt," he said once of some be found so many as even ten righteous in a great fault of which he had heard in one of the whole city. And how to meet this evil I really Sixth Form-and his eyes filled with tears as he do not know; but to find it thus rife after I have spoke,-"as if it had been one of my own chil- been [so many] years fighting against it, is so dren, and, till I had ascertained that it was re-sickening, that it is very hard not to throw up ally true, I mentioned it to no one, not even to any of the masters." And this feeling began before he could have had any personal knowledge of them. "If he should turn out ill," he said of a young boy of promise to one of the assistant-masters, and his voice trembled with emotion as he spoke, "I think it would break my heart." Nor were any thoughts so bitter to him, as those suggested by the innocent faces of little boys as they first came from home, nor any expressions of his moral indignation deeper, than when he heard of their being tormented or tempted into evil by their compan-acter, displayed consistently whenever he apions. "It is a most touching thing to me," he said once in the hearing of one of his former pupils, on the mention of some new comers, "to receive a new fellow from his father-when I think what an influence there is in this place for evil as well as for good. I do not know anything which affects me more." His pupil, who had, on his own first coming, been impressed chiefly by the severity of his manner, expressed some surprise, adding, that he should have expected this to wear away with the succession of fresh arrivals. "No," he said, "if ever I could receive a new boy from his father without emotion, I should think it was high time to be off."

the cards in despair and upset the table. But then stars of nobleness, which I see amidst the darkness, in the case of the few good, are so cheering that one is inclined to stick to the ship again and have another good try at getting her about."

As, on the one hand, his interest and sympathy with the boys far exceeded any direct manifestation of it toward them, so, on the other hand, the impression which he produced upon them was derived, not so much from any immediate intercourse or conversation with him, as from the general influence of his whole char

peared before them. This influence, with its consequent effects, was gradually on the increase during the whole of his stay. From the earliest period, indeed, the boys were conscious of something unlike what they had been taught to imagine of a schoolmaster, and by many a lasting regard was contracted for him; but it was not till he had been in his post some years that there arose that close bond of union which characterized his relation to his elder pupils; and it was, again, not till later still that this feeling extended itself, more or less, through the mass of the school, so that in the higher forms at least, it became the fashion (so to speak) to think and talk of him with pride and affection.

What he felt thus on ordinary occasions, was heightened of course when anything brought The liveliness and simplicity of his whole bestrongly before him any evil in the school. "Ifhavior must always have divested his earnestthis goes on," he wrote to a former pupil on ness of any appearance of moroseness and afsome such occasion, "it will end either my life fectation. "He calls us fellows," was the asat Rugby, or my life altogether." The follow- tonished expression of the boys when, soon ing extract from a letter to his friend, Sir T. after his first coming, they heard him speak of Pasley, describes this feeling: them by the familiar name in use amongst themselves; and in his later years, they observed with pleasure the unaffected interest with which in the long autumn afternoons, he would often stand in the school-field and watch the issue of their favorite games of football. But his ascendency was, generally speaking, not gained, at least in the first instance, by the effect of his

"Since I began this letter, I have had some of the troubles of school-keeping, and one of those specimens of the evil of boy-nature, which makes me always unwilling to undergo the responsibility of advising any man to send his son to a public school. There has been a system of persecution carried on by the bad against the

outward manner. There was a shortness, at even in the closer and more affectionate symtimes something of an awkwardness, in his ad-pathy of later years."-"I am sure," writes a dress, occasioned partly by his natural shyness, pupil who had no personal communications partly by his dislike of wasting words on trivial with him whilst at school, and but little afteroccasions, which to boys must have been often wards, and who never was in the Sixth Form, repulsive rather than conciliating; something "that I do not exaggerate my feelings when I also of extreme severity in his voice and coun- say, that I felt a love and reverence for him as tenance, beyond what he was himself at all one of quite awful greatness and goodness, for aware of. With the very little boys, indeed, his whom I well remember that I used to think manner partook of that playful kindness and I would gladly lay down my life;" adding, tenderness which always marked his intercourse with reference to the thoughtless companions with children; in examining them in the lower with whom he had associated, "I used to forms, he would sometimes take them on his believe that I too had a work to do for him knee, and go through picture-books of the Bible in the school, and I did for his sake labor to or of English history, covering the text of the raise the tone of the set I lived in, particularly narrative with his hand, and making them ex- as regarded himself." It was in boys implain to him the subject of the several prints. | mediately below the highest form that this But in those above this early age, and yet be- new feeling would usually rise for the first time, low the rank in the school which brought them and awaken a strong wish to know more of into closer contact with him, the sternness of him. Then, as they came into personal conhis character was the first thing that impressed tact with him, their general sense of his ability them. In many, no doubt, this feeling was one became fixed, in the proud belief that they were of mere dread, which, if not subsequently rescholars of a man who would be not less remarkmoved or modified, only served to repel those able to the world than he was to themselves; who felt it to a greater distance from him. But and their increasing consciousness of his own in many also, this was, even in the earlier pe- sincerity of purpose, and of the interest which riod of their stay, mingled with an involuntary he took in them, often awakened, even in and, perhaps, an unconscious respect, inspired the careless and indifferent, an outward respect by the sense of the manliness and straightfor- for goodness, and an animation in their work wardness of his dealings, and still more by the before unknown to them. And when they left sense of the general force of his moral char- school, they felt that they had been in an atmosacter; by the belief (to use the words of differ- phere unlike that of the world about them; some ent pupils) in "his extraordinary knack, for I of those who lamented not having made more can call it nothing else, of showing that his ob- use of his teaching whilst with him, felt that “a ject in punishing or reproving was not his own better thought than ordinary often reminded good or pleasure, but that of the boy,"-"in a them how he first led to it; and in matters of truthfulness—an ei?ɩkpiveɩa—a sort of moral trans- literature almost invariably found that when any parency;" in the fixedness of his purpose, and idea of seeming originality occurred to them, "the searchingness of his practical insight into that its germ was first suggested by some reboys," by a consciousness, almost amounting to mark of Arnold"-that "still to this day, in solemnity, that "when his eye was upon you, reading the Scriptures or other things, they he looked into your inmost heart;" that there could constantly trace back a line of thought was something in his very tone and outward that came originally from him, as from a great aspect, before which anything low, or false, or parent mind.' And when they heard of his cruel, instinctively quailed and cowered. death they then became conscious-often for the first time-of the very large place which he had occupied in their thoughts, if not in their affections.

And the defect of occasional over-hastiness and vehemence of expression, which during the earlier period of his stay involved him in some trouble, did not materially interfere with their general notion of his character. However mistaken it might be in the individual case, it was evident to those who took any thought about it, that that ashy paleness and that awful frown were almost always the expression not of personal resentment, but of deep, ineffable scorn and indignation at the sight of vice and sin: and it was not without its effect to observe that it was a fault, against which he himself was constantly on the watch-and which, in fact, was in later years so nearly subdued, that most of those who had only known him during that time can recall no instance of it during their stay.

But as boys advanced in the school, out of this feeling of fear "grew up a deep admiration, partaking largely of the nature of awe, and this softened into a sort of loyalty, which remained

That youthfulness of temperament which has been before noticed in his relation to boys, was still more important in his relation to young men. All the new influences which so strongly divide the students of the nineteenth century from those of the last, had hardly less interest for himself than for them; and, after the dullness or vexation of business or of controversy, a visit of a few days to Rugby would remind them (to apply a favorite image of his own), "how refreshing it is in the depth of winter, when the ground is covered with snow, and all is dead and lifeless, to walk by the sea-shore, and enjoy the eternal freshness and liveliness of ocean." His very presence seemed to create a new spring of health and vigor within them, and to give to life an interest and an elevation which remained with them long after they had left him again, and dwelt so habitually in their

thoughts, as a living image, that, when death | had taken him away, the bond appeared to be still unbroken, and the sense of separation almost lost in the still deeper sense of a life and an union indestructible.

TOM BROWN'S LAST VISIT TO RUGBY.

IN

THOMAS HUGHES.

N the summer of 1842, Tom Brown stopped once again at the well-known station; and leaving his bag and fishing-rod with a porter, walked slowly and sadly up toward the town. It was now July. He had rushed away from Oxford the moment that term was over, for a fishing ramble in Scotland, with two college friends, and had been for three weeks living on oatcake and mutton-hams in the wildest part of Skye. They had descended one sultry evening on the little Inn at Kyle Rhea ferry, and while Tom and another of the party put their tackle together and began exploring the stream for a seatrout for supper, the third strolled into the house to arrange for their entertainment. Presently he came out, an old newspaper in his hand, and threw himself on the heathery scrub which met the shingle, within easy hail of the fishermen.

"Hullo, Brown! here's something for you,' called out the reading man the next moment. "Why, your old master, Arnold of Rugby, is dead." Tom's hand stopped half-way in his cast, and his line and flies went all tangling round and round his rod; you might have knocked him over with a feather. Neither of his companions took any notice of him, luckily; and with a violent effort he set to work mechanically to disentangle his line. He felt completely carried off his moral and intellectual legs, as if he had lost his standing-point in the invisible world. Besides which, the deep-loving loyalty which he felt for his old leader made the shock intensely painful. It was the first great wrench of his life, the first gap which the angel Death had made in his circle, and he felt numbed, and beaten down, and spiritless.

ming, so that he could not read. "What? What are you looking for?" said his friend, jumping up and looking over his shoulder. "That-about Arnold," said Tom. "Oh, here,' said the other putting his finger on the paragraph. Tom read it over and over again; there could be no mistake of identity, though the account was short enough. Thank you," said he at last, dropping the paper. "I shall go for a walk don't you and Herbert wait supper for me." And away he strode, up over the moor at the back of the house, to be alone, and master his grief, if possible.

His friend looked after him, sympathizing and wondering, and, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, walked over to Herbert. After a short parley they walked together up to the house. "I'm afraid that confounded newspaper has spoiled Brown's fun for this trip.' How odd that he should be so fond of his old master!'' said Herbert.

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The two, however, notwithstanding Tom's prohibition, waited supper for him, and had everything ready when he came back some half-an-hour afterwards. But he could not join in their cheerful talk, and the party was soon silent, notwithstanding the efforts of all three. One thing only had Tom resolved, and that was that he couldn't stay in Scotland any longer; he felt an irresistible longing to get to Rugby, and then home; and soon broke it to the others, who had too much tact to oppose.

By daylight the next morning Tom Brown was marching through Rosshire; and in the evening hit the Caledonian canal, took the next steamer, and traveled as fast as boat and railway could carry him to the Rugby station. As he walked up to the town he felt shy and afraid of being seen, and took the back streets; why, he didn't know, but he followed his instinct. At the school gates he made a dead pause; there was not a soul in the quadrangle-all was lonely, and silent, and sad. So with another effort he strode through the quadrangle, and into the school-house offices.

"

He found the little matron in her room in deep mourning; shook her hand, tried to talk, and Well, well! I believe it was good for him moved nervously about: she was evidently and for many others in like case; who had to thinking of the same subject as he, but he learn by that loss that the soul of man cannot couldn't begin talking. Where shall I find stand or lean upon any human prop, however Thomas?" said he at last, getting desperate. strong, and wise, and good; but that He upon "In the servants' hall, I think, sir. But won't whom alone it can stand and lean will knock you take any refreshment?" said the matron, away all such props in His own wise and mer-looking rather disappointed. "No, thank you,' ciful way, until there is no ground or stay left said he, and strode off again to find the old but Himself, the Rock of Ages, upon whom verger, who was sitting in his little den as of alone a sure foundation for every soul of man is old, puzzling over hieroglyphics. laid.

As he wearily labored at his line, the thought struck him, "It may all be false, a mere newspaper lie," and he strode up to the recumbent smoker. "Let me look at the paper," said he. "Nothing else in it," answered the other, handing it up to him listlessly. "Hullo, Brown! what's the matter, old fellow? ain't you well?" "Where is it?" said Tom, turning over the leaves, his hands trembling, and his eyes swim

He looked up through his spectacles as Tom seized his hand, and wrung it. "Ah! you've heard all about it, sir, I see," said he. Tom nodded, and then sat down on the shoe-board, while the old man told his tale, and wiped his spectacles, and fairly flowed over with quaint, homely, honest sorrow. By the time he had done, Tom felt much better. "Where is he buried, Thomas?" said he at last. "Under the altar in the chapel, sir," answered Thomas.

"You'd like the key, I dare say." "Thank | you, Thomas-yes, I should very much." And the old man fumbled among his bunch of keys, and then got up, as though he would go with him; but after a few steps, stopped short and said, "Perhaps you'd like to go by yourself, sir?" Tom nodded, and the keys were handed to him with an injunction to be sure and lock the door after him, and bring them back before eight o'clock.

made up to him. The rays of the evening sun came solemnly through the painted windows above his head, and fell in gorgeous colors on the opposite wall, and the perfect stillness soothed his spirit by little and little. And he turned to the pulpit, and looked at it, and then leaning forward, with his head on his hands, groaned aloud.

-"If he could only have seen the Doctor again for one five minutes, to have told him all that was in his heart, what he owed him, how he loved and reverenced him, and would, by God's help, follow his steps in life and death, he could have borne it all without a murmur. But that he should have gone away forever without knowing it all, was too much to bear."

He walked quickly through the quadrangle and out into the close. The longing which had been upon him and driven him thus far, like the gad-fly in the Greek legends, giving him no rest in mind or body, seemed all of a sudden not to be satisfied, but to shrivel up and pall. Why should I go on? It's no use," he thought, "But am I sure that he does not know it and threw himself at full length on the turf, and | all?" the thought made him start.-" May he not looked vaguely and listlessly at all the well- even now be near me, in this very chapel? If known objects. he be, am I sorrowing as he would have me sorrow-as I shall wish to have sorrowed when I meet him again?"

There were a few of the town boys playing cricket, their wicket pitched on the best piece in the middle of the big-side ground, a sin equal to sacrilege in the eyes of a captain of the eleven. He was very nearly getting up to go and send them off. "Pshaw! they won't remember me. They've more right there than I," he muttered. | And the thought that his sceptre had departed, and his mark was wearing out, came home to him for the first time, and bitterly enough.

He was lying on the very spot where he had fought, six years ago, his first and last battle. He conjured up the scene till he could almost hear the shouts of the ring, and his chum's whisper in his ear; and, looking across the close to the doctor's private door, half expected to see it open, and the tall figure in cap and gown come striding under the elm trees, towards him.

No, no! that sight could never be seen again. There was no flag flying on the round tower; the school-house windows were all shuttered up; and when the flag went up again, and the shutters came down, it would be to welcome a stranger. All that was left of him whom he had loved and honored, was lying cold and still under the chapel floor. He would go in and see the place once more, and then leave it, once for all. New men and new methods might do for other people; let those who would worship the rising star, he at least would be faithful to the sun which had set. And so he got up, and walked to the chapel door and unlocked it, fancying himself the only mourner in all the broad land, and feeding on his selfish sorrow.

He passed through the vestibule, and then paused for a moment to glance over the empty benches. His heart was still proud and high, and he walked up to the seat which he last occupied as a sixth-form boy, and sat himself down there to colleet his thoughts.

And truth to tell, they needed collecting and setting in order not a little. The memories of eight years were all dancing through his brain, and carrying him about whither they would; while, beneath them all, his heart was throbbing with the dull sense of a loss that could never be

He raised himself up and looked round; and after a minute rose and walked humbly down to the lowest bench, and sat down on the very seat which he had occupied on his first Sunday at Rugby. And then the old memories rushed back again, but softened and subdued, and soothing him as he let himself be carried away by them. And he looked up at the great painted window above the altar, and remembered how, when a little boy, he used to try not to look through it at the elm trees and the rooks, before the painted glass came-and the subscription for the painted glass, and the letter he wrote home for money to give to it. And there, down below, was the very name of the boy who sat on his right hand on that first day, scratched rudely in the oak paneling.

And then came the thought of all his old school-fellows, and form after form of boys, nobler and braver, and purer than he, rose up and seemed to rebuke him. Could he not think of them, and what they had felt and were feeling; they who had honored and loved from the first the man whom he had taken years to know and love? Could he not think of those yet dearer to him who was gone, who bore his name and shared his blood, and were now without a husband or a father?

Then the grief which he began to share with others became gentle and holy, and he rose up once more, and walked up the steps to the altar; and while tears flowed freely down his cheeks, knelt down humbly and hopefully, to lay down there his share of a burden which had proved itself too heavy for him to bear in his own strength.

Here let us leave him-where better could we leave him, than at the altar, before which he had first caught a glimpse of the glory of his birthright, and felt the drawing of the bond which links all living souls together in one brotherhood?-at the grave beneath the altar of him who had opened his eyes to see that glory, and softened his heart till it could feel that bond. School Days at Rugby.

QUERY: DO TEACHERS WORK?

A

ANNIE H. RYDER.

MONG the popular fallacies which are gaining prominence at the present day, is one which very nearly concerns teachers, more especially those engaged in the work of the public schools. We refer to the belief that the teachers' profession is but an easy calling, to which one resorts when all other honorable professions fail, and in which a person genteelly reposes until "something turns up," either the opportunity to practice one of the three professions, or the chance to marry. We regret to say that woman is particularly burdened with the charges of indolence and instability, believed to arise from the teacher's vocation. Alas! we are painfully aware of the weakness of woman's mind, for we know the feebleness of the human mind in general.

It has been publicly and strongly hinted that women slide into this profession that they may have the necessary pin money, until pins can be supplied by another and a greater,even a husband. It is asserted that woman, as a teacher, whiles away her noon tide hours, reading the fashionable and sensational literature of the day. O bliss so fair, when my lady sits in her easy chair and, after a pleasant siesta, reads even Littell till school begins! O bliss more fair, when, in the Golden Age, she has half-an-hour in which to eat her dinner, and is not made to shudder at the grinding sound of dyspepsia!

If one agrees that continued mental labor is more exhaustive than continued manual labor, he must acknowledge that forty-five hours a week, spent in digging in the mines of the brain, is more wearisome than the same amount of work performed by the hands delving among mines of coal, or silver, or gold. It follows that there are few instructors who can teach on until their years are drawing to a close, and that some who fall out of the ranks are not those who go to join the marrying throng, many there are who wear out, who die on the field of action, just as bravely striving as the soldier in battle. We know not a few teachers who daily furnish the world with its best examples of earnest, patient labor.

tion of public instructors who are incompetent, who are lazy.

Those influences which are at work doing the most good are silent influences. Because a teacher's work is not immediately felt, as is the clergyman's in an eloquent sermon, or the surgeon's in a delicate operation, but is steady in its effects, quiet in its workings,--for this reason, we feel, an instructor is not "reckoned smart." We fear that many will not teach, because they themselves do not seem to realize any apparent good, as they say, coming from their instruction. Oftentimes the scholar is not aware of any practical value arising from the teacher's guidance, but when the pupil has attained unto manhood or womanhood, he will look back and fondly recall the saving instruction of his youth. Can we not all bring to mind at least one whose instruc tions we love to regard as a part of the worth of our lives? Happy the person who remembers all his teachers as the silent but sure influences which helped to make his mind and character.

What

Can any one estimate the great work which Roger Ascham did for England, when he became the instructor of Elizabeth? Sparta sent to Athens for aid, in order to be rid of enemies. The seat of culture, the State of intellectual glory sent back, as answer to her rival's petition, an old, lame schoolmaster, one of the genuine pedagogue stamp. could he do for Sparta, the greatest opponent of literature? How could he prevail against the opinions of that State which most truly represented human bravery? This he accomplished; he overcame the prejudice of the Spartans, reanimated their rude vigor by his martial songs, and it was to these war pæans that Sparta's success over her enemies was mainly attributed. From Tyrtæus, centuries before Christ, down to the modern, nineteenth-century schoolmaster, we doubt not that the work of this profession has been as widely influential, as promotive of good, as that of the highest profession in the land.

That there is work,-earnest, hearty labor,. in the teacher's calling, can be proved to the minds of the most doubtful; that there is work nice in detail, finished as finely as the polished steel mirror, can also be shown. Does the thinking world realize that the teacher must If the world at large could realize what the not only acquire facts, peruse systems, think teachers' work is; that they, more than per- of this manner of discipline and that way of sons of any other profession, are one of the promoting morals, but must study for the most powerful formative influences that Amer- whole school, learn the characteristics of each ica has, it would no more complain,-it would class, and even of every individual in that see its own indolence, its own carelessness in class? The physician rarely treats two paallowing men and women to occupy the posi-tients alike; the teacher can seldom prescribe