Test Bank for Statistics for Management and Economics 9th Edition Gerald

Keller 0538477490 9780538477499

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CHAPTER 2 SECTION 1: GRAPHICAL DESCRIPTIVE TECHNIQUES I

TRUE/FALSE

1. Your age group (1-9; 10-19; 20-29; 30-39; etc.) is an interval variable.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

2. Your gender is a nominal variable.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

3. Your final grade in a course (A, B, C, D, E) is a nominal variable.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

4. Your age is an interval variable.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

5. Interval data may be treated as ordinal or nominal.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

6. Whether or not you are over the age of 21 is a nominal variable.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

 NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

7. The values of quantitative data are categories.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

8. Interval data, such as heights, weights, and incomes, are also referred to as quantitative or numerical
data.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

9. All calculations are permitted on interval data.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

10. Nominal data are also called qualitative or categorical data.

 ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1
NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

11. A variable is some characteristic of a population or sample.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

12. With nominal data, there is one and only one way the possible values can be ordered.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

13. You cannot calculate and interpret differences between numbers assigned to nominal data.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

MULTIPLE CHOICE

14. The classification of student major (accounting, economics, management, marketing, other) is an
example of a(n)
a. nominal random variable.
b. interval random variable.
c. continuous random variable.
d. parameter.
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1
NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

15. The classification of student class designation (freshman, sophomore, junior, senior) is an example of
a(n)
a. nominal random variable.
b. interval random variable.
c. ordinal random variable.
d. a parameter.
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1
NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

16. A researcher wishes to estimate the textbook costs of first-year students at Barry University. To do so,
he recorded the textbook cost of 300 first-year students and found that their average textbook cost was
$195 per semester. The variable of interest to the researcher is
a. textbook cost.
b. class rank.
c. number of students.
d. name of university.
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1
NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

17. All calculations are permitted on what type of data?

a. Interval data
b. Nominal data
 c. Ordinal data
d. All of these choices are true.
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1
NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

18. Values must represent ordered rankings for what type of data?
a. Interval data
b. Nominal data
c. Ordinal data
d. None of these choices.
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1
NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

19. For what type of data are frequencies the only calculations that can be done?
a. Interval data
b. Nominal data
c. Ordinal data
d. None of these choices.
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1
NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

20. For which type of data are the values arbitrary numbers?
a. Interval data
b. Nominal data
c. Ordinal data
d. None of these choices.
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1
NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

COMPLETION

21. The Chief of Police conducted a survey of the officers on his squad. An officer’s shooting score at
target practice is an example of a(n) variable.

ANS:
interval
quantitative
numerical

PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

22. The Dean of Students conducted a survey on campus. The gender of each student is an example of a(n)
variable.

ANS:
nominal
categorical
qualitative
 PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1
NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

23. The Dean of Students conducted a survey on campus. Class rank (Freshman, Sophomore, Junior, and
Senior) is an example of a(n) variable.

ANS: ordinal

PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

24. The final grade received in a Literature course (A, B, C, D, or F) is an example of a(n)
variable.

ANS:
nominal
categorical
qualitative

PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

25. In purchasing a used computer, there are a number of variables to consider. The age of the computer is
an example of a(n) variable.

ANS:
interval
quantitative
numerical

PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

26. In purchasing an automobile, there are a number of variables to consider. The body style of the car
(sedan, coupe, wagon, etc.) is an example of a(n) variable.

ANS:
nominal
categorical
qualitative

PTS: 1 REF: SECTION 2.1

NAT: Analytic; Descriptive Statistics

SHORT ANSWER

27. At the end of a safari, the tour guide asks the vacationers to respond to the questions listed below. For
each question, determine whether the possible responses are interval, nominal, or ordinal.

a. How many safaris have you taken prior to this one?

b. Do you feel that your tour safari lasted sufficiently long (yes/no)?
c. Which of the following features of the accommodations did you find most attractive:
location, facilities, room size, service, or price?
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produced upon him, that for some days there appeared scarcely a
possibility of his recovery. During this time Metazulis wrote to his sister
the following letter.

“Weep with me Lesbia. Our friend has failed, Cratinus, of Platæa

has obtained the prize, Erostratus is dangerously ill. The physicians
bid me hope—I have none. Should he recover from the fever which
now threatens to terminate his life, what a life will be his! If,
contrary to my expectations, he should survive this shock, may our
love to him be redoubled! Let it be our care to smooth his path to
the grave, which, broken hearted as he is, can be but short.
Farewell.”

V.

The medical attendants were not disappointed. A month having elapsed,

Erostratus left the couch of sickness; but another passed by before
Metazulis thought his strength sufficient to warrant his proposing their
return. Erostratus made no opposition. The love he felt for Lesbia, (with
which the ravings of his delirium had acquainted Metazulis,) urged his
return, although he felt that he scarcely dared appear before her. The task
of diverting his mind from the sad recollections which occupied it, was
painful and difficult. Metazulis proposed visiting the curiosities of
nature, and the celebrated works of art, which lay contiguous to their
route. To this Erostratus made no objection, but his eye, ones so
delighted with all that was beautiful and sublime, now gazed upon them
without pleasure. Metazulis left Corinth in the first vessel which
departed, anxious to see his sister, and to bear his friend from Greece,
where every thing conspired to bring to his mind his failures. Far
different were the feelings with which Erostratus had entered Corinth,
and now bade it a final farewell. They reached Ephesus. Metazulis found
none of his domestics awaiting his return; but what was their anxiety,
their horror, upon finding the house closed, and the door-posts marked
with the insignia of death! They hastily opened the door. All is silence
and desolation. Erostratus rushes to the sitting room, where he had parted
from Lesbia. Mctazulis following, arrives to see him fall senseless upon
the couch, whereon reposed the dead body of his sister, at whose head sat
the motionless domestics, murmuring the prayers for the departed.
 VI.

In a month after the ashes of Lesbia had been consigned to the tomb,
those of Metazulis were laid beside them. The wealth of Metazulis was
now the property of Erostratus, but could gold purchase peace for his
anguished soul? Never was he seen to smile, and his solitary hours (and
how few of his hours were not solitary?) were passed in grief and
lamentation. The love of immortality remained inextinguishable in his
breast, and he resolved upon an achievement which should give his name
a place in the page of history; and in the moments of his phrenzy, he
imagined that the name of Lesbia would appear in the record with his,
and that this would be accepted by her shade as an atonement on his part,
for the fate in which her love for him had involved her. In the middle of a
dark and tempestuous night, he applied a torch to that temple, the boast
of Ephesus, the wonder of the world! The Greek historians of after days
asserted that the goddess was in Macedon attending to the birth of
Alexander. Her fane was destroyed and reduced to a mass of blackened
ruin. Erostratus unhesitatingly avowed himself the incendiary, and the
rack could force no reply from him but the cry “I did it for immortality.”
He was condemned to be burnt to death, and expired in the most dreadful
torture, with a smile upon his countenance and the name of Lesbia upon
his lips. The magistrates, lest his desire of an immortal memory should
be gratified, denounced death upon all who should pronounce his name,
that it might be blotted out forever.

* * * * *
* * * * *

About twenty years subsequently, a citizen of Ephesus, and his friend

from Athens, were walking upon the shore of the sea, a few miles from
the former city. There were a number of young Ephesians exercising
themselves in athletic sports upon the sands, at whom they looked for a
while, and then passed on. After a few steps they stopped to examine
something over which the sea was breaking near the shore. A few human
bones blackened and mouldering met their gaze. “Near this spot,” said
the Ephesian, “we burnt Erostratus.” “Who was he?” replied the
Athenian, “I do not remember to have ever heard of him.” The Ephesian
made no reply but hurried his friend on board a small fishing boat, and
put to sea. It was long before the Athenian could obtain an explanation of
this singular conduct from his agitated friend. The Ephesian at length
reminded him of the edict, and avowed that the forbidden name had
escaped his lip, and been overheard by the youths who were near them.
A vessel bound to Greece picked them up. The Ephesian settled in
Attica, never daring to return to his native country. The greater portion of
the incidents recorded above were communicated by him to his friend,
and the tale, corroborated by others, became well known throughout
Greece; but at Ephesus, no one for centuries dared to utter the forbidden
name of Erostratus.

BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

[We have rather accidentally met with these two poems, The Belles of Williamsburg, and
the Sequel to the Belles of Williamsburg, both written and circulated in that place in 1777.
These pieces are believed to have been either composed by two different gentlemen, or to
have been the joint production of both. As we cannot, however, assign to each his due
share, we do not think ourselves at liberty to mention their names—which (although the
authors in question are now no more,) are still distinguished names in Virginia.]

THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

Wilt thou, advent'rous pen, describe

The gay, delightful, silken tribe,
That maddens all our city;
N d d l hil f li h l i
Nor dread, lest while you foolish claim
A near approach to beauty's flame,
Icarus' fate may hit ye.

With singed pinions tumbling down,

The scorn and laughter of the town,
Thou'lt rue thy daring flight;
While every miss with cool contempt,
Affronted by the bold attempt,
Will, tittering, view thy plight.

Ye girls, to you devoted ever,

The object still of our endeavor
Is somehow to amuse you;
And if instead of higher praise,
You only laugh at these rude lays,
We'll willingly excuse you.

Advance then each illustrious maid,

In order bright to our parade,
With beauty's ensigns gay;
And first, two nymphs who rural plains
Forsook, disdaining rustic swains,
And here exert their sway.

Myrtilla's beauties who can paint?

The well turned form, the glowing teint,
May deck a common creature;
But who can make th' expressive soul
With lively sense inform the whole,
And light up every feature.

At church Myrtilla lowly kneels,

No passion but devotion feels,
No smiles her looks environ;
But let her thoughts to pleasure fly,
The basilisk is in her eye
And on her tongue the Syren.

More vivid beauty—fresher bloom,

With teints from nature's richest loom
With teints from nature s richest loom
In Sylvia's features glow;
Would she Myrtilla's arts apply,
And catch the magic of her eye,
She'd rule the world below.

See Laura, sprightly nymph, advance,

Through all the mazes of the dance,
With light fantastic toe;
See laughter sparkle in her eyes—
At her approach new joys arise,
New fires within us glow.

Such sweetness in her look is seen,

Such brilliant elegance of mien,
So jauntie and so airy;
Her image in our fancy reigns,
All night she gallops through our veins,
Like little Mab the fairy.

Aspasia next, with kindred soul,

Disdains the passions that control
Each gentle pleasing art;
Her sportive wit, her frolic lays,
And graceful form attract our praise,
And steal away the heart.

We see in gentle Delia's face,

Expressed by every melting grace,
The sweet complacent mind;
While hovering round her, soft desires,
And hope gay smiling fan their fires,
Each shepherd thinks her kind.

The god of love mistook the maid,

For his own Psyche, and 'tis said
He still remains her slave;
And when the boy directs her eyes
To pierce where every passion lies,
Not age itself can save.
 With pensive look and head reclined,
Sweet emblems of the purest mind,
Lo! where Cordelia sits;
On Dion's image dwells the fair—
Dion the thunderbolt of war,
The prince of modern wits.

Not far removed from her side,

Statira sits in beauty's pride,
And rolls about her eyes;
Thrice happy for the unwary heart,
That affectation blunts the dart
That from her quiver flies.

Whence does that beam of beauty dawn?

What lustre overspreads the lawn?
What suns those rays dispense?
From Artemisia's brow they came,
From Artemisia's eyes the flame
That dazzles every sense.

At length, fatigued with beauty's blaze,

The feeble muse no more essays
Her picture to complete;
The promised charms of younger girls,
When nature the gay scene unfurls,
Some happier bard shall treat.

SEQUEL TO THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.

Ye bards that haunt the tufted shade,

Where murmurs thro' the hallowed glade,
Th H li i i
 The Heliconian spring—
Who bend before Apollo's shrine,
And dance and frolic with the nine,
Or touch the trembling string—

And ye who bask in beauty's blaze,

Enlivening as the orient rays
From fair Aurora's brow,
Or those which from her crescent shine,
When Cynthia with a look benign,
Regards the world below—

Say, why, amidst the vernal throng,

Whose virgin charms inspired your song
With sweet poetic lore,
With eager look th' enraptured swain,
For Isidora's form in vain,
The picture should explore.

Shall sprightly Isidora yield,

To Laura the distinguished field,
Amidst the vernal throng?
Or shall Aspasia's frolic lays
From Leonella snatch the bays,
The tribute of the song?

Like hers I ween the blushing rose,

On Sylvia's polished cheek that glows,
And hers the velvet lip,
To which the cherry yields its hue,
Its plumpness and ambrosial dew
Which even Gods might sip.

What partial eye a charm can find,

In Delia's look, or Delia's mind,
Or Delia's melting grace,
Which cannot in Miranda's mien,
Or winning smile or brow serene,
A rival beauty trace?

Sweet as the balmy breath of spring

Sweet as the balmy breath of spring,
Or odors from the painted wing
Of Zephyr as he flies,
Brunetta's charms might surely claim,
Amidst the votaries of fame,
A title to the prize.

What giddy raptures fill the brain,

When tripping o'er the verdant plain,
Florella joins the throng!
Her look each throbbing pain beguiles,
Beneath her footsteps Nature smiles,
And joins the poet's song.

Here even critic Spleen shall find,

Each beauty that adorns the mind,
Or decks the virgin's brow;
Here Envy with her venomed dart,
Shall find no vulnerable part,
To aim the deadly blow.

Could such perfection nought avail?

Or could the fair Belinda fail
To animate your lays?
For might not such a nymph inspire
With sportive notes the trembling lyre
Attuned to virgin praise?

The sister graces met the maid,

Beneath the myrtle's fragrant shade,
When love the season warms;
Deluded by her graceful mien,
They fancied her the Cyprian queen,
And decked her with their charms.

Say then why thus with heedless flight,

The panegyric muse should slight
A train so blythe and fair,
Or why so soon fatigued, she flies
No longer in her native skies,
But tumbles through the air.
 BRITISH PARLIAMENT IN 1835.

NO. I.

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.1

1
Translated from a number of the Revue des Deux Mondes.

The chambers in which the British Parliament are accustomed to

assemble, have nothing of the theatrical aspect of the halls for political
exhibition built in France for the representations of its representative
government.

Let us enter the chamber of the Commons. Here you see no amphitheatre
for the ladies, no boxes for the Peers, nor for the corps diplomatique. A
narrow gallery, only, is reserved for the reporters, and another, more
spacious, is open to the public. Here are no costly marbles, no statues, no
gilding. It is truly nothing but a chamber—a vast apartment, of greater
length than width, without ornaments of any sort—indeed, perfectly
naked.

Conceive that we are looking from the public gallery.

Directly before us, at the bottom, is a sort of sentry-box, surmounted by

the royal arms. There, in an arm chair covered with green leather, sits the
speaker, in his black robe and greyish mittens, solemnly dressed out in
an immense wig, the wings of which fall to his waist.

At his feet is a narrow table, at which the principal clerk is seated,

supporting on his two hands a large face, smiling impurturbably under a
little perruque that hangs over his head in the form of a horse-shoe.

The benches on which the members sit, are ranged rectilinearly in

different divisions, to the right and left, and in front of the speaker. Every
one places himself in the position that is most agreeable to himself, and
sits, or stands, at his pleasure. Every member wears his hat, except when
addressing the speaker. Every one speaks from the place in which he
finds himself at the moment. It is not to the house, however, but to the
speaker that they must address themselves.

The simple and country-like habits of the house are well suited to the
character of representatives of the people. It proves that the Commons
meet not to take part in a show, but to discharge the business of the
country.

At three o'clock the speaker enters the chamber, preceded by the chief of
the ushers, the mace on his shoulder, and followed by a sergeant-at-arms,
with a sword at his side, and dressed in black after the French fashion.
Arrived at his chair, the speaker first counts the members present. If
there be forty, the session is opened, and the chaplain repeats his prayers,
to which every member listens, standing and uncovered, with his face
towards the back of his bench.

Generally the first hours are consumed in matters of minor importance.

Local and private bills are discussed. The benches begin to be filled
between eight and nine in the evening. The house is rarely full before
midnight. From this period till two in the morning, they discuss great
questions, such as are likely to bring on an important vote.

Such are the English. They distrust, beyond all reason, the frivolity of
their own minds. They consider it always dangerous to embark in grave
affairs, if their dinner has not been stored away to serve as ballast. It is
indispensable that they should meditate and mature their opinions and
their eloquence, while engaged in drinking their wine and grog.

When simple Mr. Brougham (the period of his greatest glory) Lord
Brougham never came to the House of Commons until he had emptied
three bottles of Port. It was at the bottom of his glass that he found
calmness, wisdom, and discretion. But since his elevation to the House
of Lords, his lordship is forced to speak fasting. It is in consequence of
this change that he is now always intoxicated. The sobriety of his
stomach produces the intemperance of his tongue and of his brain.

The invariable prolongation of its sittings late into the night, is the cause
that the House of Commons never assembles on Saturday. Encroachment
on the Sabbath would otherwise be an inevitable legislative sacrilege;
and we must admit, that it would be with but bad grace that the
Parliament alone should violate the Puritanical laws which it so
rigorously maintains, and which prescribe, during the twenty-four hours
of that sacred day, the most absolute and universal idleness.

Two words of personal statistics at present.

The House of Commons contains four hundred and seventy-one

members for England, twenty-nine for Wales, fifty-three for Scotland,
and a hundred and five for Ireland—in all, six hundred and fifty-eight.
On important occasions, very few fail to appear at their posts. Six
hundred and twenty-two voted, at the commencement of this session, on
the election of the present speaker. Mr. Abercromby, elected by the
opposition, obtained a majority of but eight votes over Sir Charles
Manners Sutton, the candidate of the then ministry.

You observe that the chamber is divided into two parts, almost equal in
size. On one side, the ministry and the reformers; on the other, the
conservatives, forming the present opposition.

Each of these grand divisions may perhaps be subdivided. Among the

reformers or whigs, radical reformers, pure radicals, and repealers;2
among the conservatives, the old tories and the demi-conservatives. Such
subdivisions, however, are useless. It is no easy thing to distinguish these
different shades of opinion. Besides, they are every day becoming
gradually less distinct, and will soon present but two parties.
2
The repealers are Irish members advocating the repeal of the union between Ireland and
England.

In the first place, are there any whigs? Are the whigs a party? I answer,
no. There are some great noblemen, some minister-lords, whose
ancestors were whigs, but they themselves are not. To continue the
leaders of a true political party, they have been forced to become
radicals, and to make themselves interpreters and advocates of the
popular wants. What has been the result? The whigs and the radicals are
absorbed, the one in the other. Seeing so many liberal concessions
obtained by England, the Irish Catholics have followed the example of
the liberals; they have put off their extreme demands; they have ceased
to contend for the repeal of the union. Under the orders of O'Connell,
they march behind the ministerial troops, and sustain them so as to
prevent their falling back, come what may.

In the camp of the opposition there is the same fusion. Sir Robert Peel
has dressed all the tories in the uniform of conservatives. Even the little
irresolute batallion of Lord Stanley, has recently, with its chief, assumed
the new livery of the defenders of the church and of the throne. The
tiers-parti has not been more successful on the side of the Manche than
on the Parisian.

The question, then, is simply and plainly raised. It is the great question
that is to be decided between the old society and the new, the same that
was raised in France in 1789; only, if the throne is wise, here the whole
war may be finished on the floors of Parliament.

The field of battle is now before the reader. You have the army of
reformers and that of the conservatives in the presence of each other—
each recognizing but one watchword, but one standard; the first, stronger
and bolder, but having too many leaders, and a rear guard more impatient
to arrive in action than the principal body; the second, more compact,
better disciplined, and more obedient to its only chief.

Great as may be the exasperation on each side, you will rarely ever
observe the belligerent parties, even in their hostilities, depart from their
habits of chivalrous loyalty.

There is a sort of Parliamentary law of nations established in the house.

The opposition never takes advantage of the absence of a minister to

interrogate his colleagues on matters foreign to their own departments.

Nor will a minister ever introduce a bill without notice; the courtesy, in
this respect, is extremely great between the two parties. Challenges are
regularly exchanged; the day and the hour are both fixed. If any member
mentions his inability to attend at the appointed time, the motion is
hurried or delayed to suit his convenience.
If the question should be one of importance, and the decision doubtful,
whatever urgent business may call a member away, he will not desert his
post, unless he is enabled to find among his adversaries some one
equally desirous to absent himself. They make an arrangement then that
both shall stay away, and this double contract is always held sacred.

In their struggles, though often violent, the blows are always generous,
and aimed in front. However, the noise of the interruptions by which
approbation or discontent is expressed, would astonish and terrify a
stranger—above all, one unaccustomed to the discordance of English
pronunciation. The sound is unusual, striking, and the more astonishing,
as at first you are unable to tell whence it proceeds. There are six
hundred men, seated, uttering savage cries of joy or anger, their bodies
all the while remaining immovable, their features preserving their usual
phlegmatic and calm expression. These tumults produce quite a fantastic
effect. Hear! hear! is the cry of satisfaction and encouragement. Listen
to the speaker!—his discourse penetrates and touches the soul of the
question; let us listen to him—hear him. Spoke!—spoke! indicates
impatience, ennui, lassitude. You abuse your privilege—you have said
enough—you have spoken! This reproach is imperative—it is rarely
resisted. Order! order! is the call to order; it is a summons to the speaker
to notice and reprimand the offending member who has passed the
boundaries of propriety—for, to the speaker alone belongs the right to
pronounce judgment on such occasions.

The speaker centres in himself the omnipotence of the chamber of which

he is the representative. His authority is supreme, within as well as
without the walls of the Parliament house. His situation renders him a
personage of very high importance. He has his official palace, he holds
his levees, to which none are admitted unless in court dress. Singular
inconsistency! the very same Commoners who enter booted, spurred,
with their over-coats and their hats on, into their own hall, would find the
doors of their own speaker closed against them, if they should present
themselves without ruffles and dressed à la Française. This rigorous
particularity is unreasonable. Mr. Hume, however, in a recent attack
upon this absurd etiquette, found himself unable to succeed against the
powerful prejudice by which it is upheld. The sound sense of his
objections only passed for radical folly. Thus it is that with the English
the ancient forms of etiquette have deeper root than even their old
abuses. You may be certain that they will have reformed the church, the
aristocracy, and perhaps the crown itself, before the grotesque wigs of
their magistrates. Their entire revolution will have been completed,
while their new liberty will be still distinguished by the manners and
dress of the ancien regime.

In England, the real and undeniable sovereignty is in the House of

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

How much do I prefer to these ceremonious levees of the British speaker,

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

It is much to be regretted that the French do not remove the abuses

themselves, as they do their names and customs. Their system is
different from the English, but it is very doubtful if it be the best. The
latter are always very respectful subjects; they kneel down at the feet of
royalty in supplicating it to take their will for its pleasure. The former
hold themselves erect and firm before their monarch, who leads them by
the nose, suffering them all the while to proclaim themselves at their
ease, the true sovereigns of the kingdom.

Mr. Abercromby, the present speaker, by no means solicited the honor of

the chair which, at the opening of the session, was decreed him by the
first act of the reformers. Constrained to maintain, in the name of the
house, the privileges of that body, he represents that assembly with all
the dignity that his grotesque wig will permit. Happily he has thick grey
eye-brows, which harmonize extremely well with his light-colored
official perruque. In spite of the enormous quantity of hair that
overshadows his person, there is nothing savage in his appearance; on
the contrary, a mild and affable dignity eminently distinguishes him; his
manners are marked by a noble ease; he also speaks well, and his full
and sonorous voice is admirably suited to the station which he occupies
as president of a large and popular assembly.

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

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

At three, prayers being said, the speaker having counted with the end of
his little flat three-cornered hat the members in attendance, and more
than forty being present, the session opened.
There was at first a long discussion of a bill regulating the distribution of
water in the parish of Mary-le-bone; the debate was of but little interest,
though Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer, Mr. Hume, and Sir Francis Burdett
look frequent part in it. My attention was fixed on their persons, if not on
their discourses.

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

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

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

At last the discussion touching the waters of Mary-le-bone draws to a

close. The house having to vote on this unlucky bill, the galleries for the
reporters and the public were cleared. This is the custom of Parliament;
decisions never take place but with closed doors.

When I returned to the gallery, the hall presented quite an altered

appearance. The less piece was finished—the great one was about to
commence. The ranks on the right and left grew thicker every moment—
each member hastened to his post.

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

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

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

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

The first is Viscount Castlereagh, son of the Marquis of Londonderry, a

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

The second, Mr. Edward Lytton Bulwer, the well known author of
Pelham and other novels, is, like his brother, an avowed radical. He is
large, and would, did he not stoop and hold himself in other respects
badly, appear to advantage. His hair is thick, light, and curly. His long
inexpressive countenance, and his large moist and fixed eyes, scarcely
reveal the writer of genius. I suppose it is in some measure the
incontestible success of his writings that has opened to him the doors of
that exclusive society, with which he is very much at home. For the style
of his costume he is indebted to old traditionary fashions. You will rarely
ever meet him but with his bosom open, the skirts of a luxuriant surtout
lined with velvet or silk floating to the wind, with the rest of his dress of
clear brilliant shades, and varnished boots, brandishing some cane
encrusted with a rich head. He would remind you of those parvenus of
bad taste who encumber the avant scenes of the opera at Paris. I do not
deny the really interesting character of some of the novels of Mr. Bulwer,
though they are in other respects so wretchedly written; but it seems to
be that he acted very ridiculously in endeavoring to exaggerate their real
value, at the expense of exhibiting the absurd vanity betrayed in every
page of the sad rhapsodies he has recently published under the title of the
Student. I would however sooner pardon him for this last work, than an
act of his of which I have been informed. A young American called on
him the other day, with letters of introduction. “I am delighted to see
you, sir,” said Mr. Bulwer, “but I will tell you beforehand that it will be
difficult for me often to have that honor; I have already more
acquaintances than my leisure will allow me to cultivate, and, in
conscience, it is to them that I owe the moments at my disposal.” Do you
not discover in this piece of politeness something that even surpasses the
characteristic amiability of the English? The English do not ruin
themselves by hospitality. If a stranger is introduced to them by letters of
introduction, they give him a heavy and long dinner, with a supper for
dessert; then, having stuffed him with roast beef and filled him with Port
and grog, and having spared no pains to cram him, they take their leave
of him; and if the unfortunate individual survives this cheer, their doors
are afterwards closed against his entrance. Sir Walter Scott, who was
perhaps as great a novelist as Mr. Bulwer, did not consider himself
exempt from the common duties of politeness and attention to visitors
who happened to be introduced to him. So far from it, he treated them
with much more hospitality than is the custom in England; it is true,
however, that Sir Walter, though a great novelist, was not a great
fashionable.
There also you may have recognized Doctor Bowring searching about,
running up and down, from one bench to another, shaking the hand of
every member who will allow him to do so. The doctor is well known in
Paris; and as he did not quite waste his time in promenading the streets
of that capital, he soon discovered that charlatanism was one of the most
powerful means of success. He took the most direct route to attain his
end, and proceeded straight to the journals. The French journalists, when
one knows how to deal with them, are complacency itself. In a short time
no one was talked of but Doctor Bowring. The doctor did not take a
single step that was not duly registered; it was Doctor Bowring here, and
Doctor Bowring there, every where the doctor; and the honest public of
the French capital, deafened by these trumpet-tongued praises, took him
for some extraordinary important personage. On this side of the channel
we better understand the puffs of the press, so that every body laughed, I
assure you, when this Doctor Bowring was strutting through France, so
splendidly decked out with the importance which he had purchased from
the newspapers of Paris. He returned to London, but without this
glorious mantle. That had been detained at the custom house as a sort of
prohibited French merchandise. In fine, the doctor remains just what he
was before, that is to say a reformer, anxious to profit by reform, a pale
disciple of the utilitarian school of Lord Brougham; a sort of travelling
clerk of the foreign office, speaking sufficiently well three or four living
languages; a poet, who furnishes some stanzas of ordinary poetry to the
magazines; as for the rest, the very best physician in the world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moreover, studied affectation is also the prevailing characteristic of his

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

In other respects I will acknowledge that his elocution is spirited, easy,

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

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

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

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

An individual in a brown curly wig, and dressed in a blue frock, whose

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

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

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

“Thanks!” murmured O'Connell, mixing himself with the crowd of

members pouring out of the hall; “I will remember this promise for
Ireland.”

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

I am not surprised that desperate conservatives, seeing their tottering

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

O'Connell is unquestionably the best speaker, and the ablest politician in

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

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

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

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

THIRD LECTURE

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

On the Faults of Teachers.

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

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

In the second place, teachers are often enemies to their professional

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

Lastly, teachers are often enemies to the public in so many particulars

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

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

Another sore evil of incalculable extent, in relation to this subject of

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

Another highly pernicious fault, of which multitudes of teachers are

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

Another fault of frequent occurrence among instructers is, to have such

an overweening, extravagant sense of their own dignity, as to be
incessantly on the watch for offences committed against it. Thus even a
single muscular contortion of a pupil's face, whether natural or
accidental, and even if he be but nine or ten years old, will be construed
into a most grievous and flagrant insult, not to be expiated but by some
signal punishment, usually of a corporeal kind, and inflicted in such a
manner as to prove that the operators are rather working off their own
wrath than endeavoring to cure the scholar's defects. By this truly
ridiculous sensitiveness, they are certain so to expose themselves as