the topics presented, constant opportunities for conveying useful information and impressive moral instruction, the more valuable, in our opinion, for being incidental. The best feature of the work, however, remains to be noticed; and, as all the excellences of which we have spoken might, perhaps, be found in some one or more English works, we should not have so highly extolled this, were it not for this remaining characteristic. It is, that the book is throughout colloquial,the every-day language of France, and, to those desirous of speaking French, for that reason invaluable. The study of histories, dramatic works and romances, conveys but one style of writing, and that not the one used in conversation. What American employs in daily life the language of our historians or literary writers? Or, to learn to speak our language, who would begin with the writings of Webster, Irving, Ticknor, or Prescott? Yet such has been the practice heretofore, to a great degree, in the books selected for the beginner in the French language.

The notes to the present edition have been prepared with especial reference to the difficulties encountered by beginners in the study of this book, as well as of the French language in general. For the first five chapters they are quite minute, and afterwards are confined to an explanation of those passages only which have been found by experience to present unusual difficulty.

It is also hoped that the notes will throw some light upon French manners and modes of thinking on various subjects. Americans have been too much indebted hitherto to English authors for their opinion of the French people; and it is believed that a perusal of this little work will tend to correct some erroneous impressions which have resulted from viewing them too exclusively through such a medium.

October, 1854.

SARGENT'S SERIES OF READERS.

F. S. W.

The standard Series of School Readers, edited by Epes Sargent, and published by Phillips, Sampson & Co., Boston, an advertisement of which will be found in our present number, are meeting with extraordinary success. The two highest of the series, "The Standard Fifth, or First Class Standard Reader" and "The Standard Fourth Reader " are having a rapid sale, and are receiving the highest commendations from competent judges. They are distinguished by the amount of labor bestowed on the introductory part, the system of references, and the high but simple character of the reading exercises. Their novelty, freshness, and good taste are procuring for this Series an unwonted degree of attention.

Read before the Barnstable County Teachers' Convention, held at Provincetown, Mass., Thursday' Dec. 29, 1851, and Published by request of the Association.

BY JOHN ROSS DIX, M. D.,

Author of "Pen and Ink Sketches," &c., &c.

WHERE Ignorance is bliss, the Poet cries,
Or rather sings, "'t were folly to be wise;
But Poetry, though polished, graceful, smooth,
Not always gives the utterance of Truth:
A humble rhymer-one whose modest name
Has never filled the swelling trump of Fame,
Tells us,-in words we can't but understand,
That "Learning 's better far than house or land;"
For these departed, we may yet retain

The wealth of mind-the mintage of the brain;
Wealth-Treasures that bear interest in old age;
The Scholar's food-the young mind's heritage!

You, who will listen to my rhymes to-night,
May vainly hope for some poetic flight!
No Poet I,-the "faculty divine"

Has never been, and never will be mine;
And could I, in harmonious numbers sing,

Such would not now, perhaps, be quite the thing:
Among such learned and scholastic folk,

Should he descant who ne'er felt learning's yoke?

For my part, having fear of Critic rod
(So many Schoolmasters "being abroad,")
Before my eyes, I shall, with memory's scrawl,
But draw some Schoolday pictures on the wall,
Content if, when your minds these outlines strike,
Any should say " the picture 's something like ;"
But, if my vagrant pen, or errant Muse,
Should wander now and then-the fault excuse,
E'en though while theorizing, I may fail
To "point a moral, or adorn a tale."

Small need, in times like ours, that we should show
What mighty benefits from Knowledge flow;
And, judging from the light which gilds to-day,
The Darkness realize that's passed away!
Yet, for a moment, with reverted glance, -
We would survey the realm of Ignorance,
For they who 've felt the gloom of rayless night,
Can most enjoy the full meridian light!

Not with Pope's Indian, who with bookless mind,
"Saw God in clouds, and heard him in the wind ;"-
Not with the Magi on the banks of Nile,
Who wrote their records with the pointed style,
Who rode not upon rails, nor sailed through air,
Would we the scholars of this age compare ;-
Why should we, with pedantic toil, go back
So very far on History's twilight track,
Since for our purpose 't is enough to show
The change 'twixt now and fifty years ago

?

In every city, hamlet, village, place,
You'll find-if you will only seek the trace-
That personage,-half real, and half myth,
Rejoicing in the name of Jones, or Smith,
Or, the perhaps as scarce cognomen-Brown,
The oldest 'habitant in all the town;
When you have found such venerable sage,
With memory green beneath the snows of age,
Seat you beside, and humor him awhile,

Till o'er his wrinkled visage steals a smile;

Then, though his voice may have a quavering tone,
How pleasantly he'll talk of seasons gone!
Long years of toil and trial may have passed,
Leaving his frame all but a wreck at last!
"Twixt Youth and Age, though decades intervene,
His memory bridges the great gulf between:

What happened a short week ago, in vain
He tries to recollect-but years of pain
Obliterate not the chronicles of Truth
Graved on the enduring tablets of his Youth.

Just now, in Fancy's eye the Patriarch see,
With a great-grandchild leaning on his knee,
Or gazing up with mild and wondering look
Into his face, as in some ancient book;
Or, with its little rosy fingers playing

Among the white locks o'er his shoulders straying,
Hear how he talks about the ancient times,

When in the town were heard no Sabbath chimes;
When e'en a daily Stage was quite unknown;

When Time's swift flight was but by hour-glass shown;
When from the School-house came no accents shrill;
When no Town-house was seen on High Pole hill;
When to the Harbor no Propeller came,

Urged on with breath of steam, and heart of flame;
When no new Bank displayed its golden sign,
No crisp Bank Bills were seen engraved in line,
For his sole Bank was that of Newfoundland,
And only specie would he take in hand;-
Of these and many another ancient scene,
The old inhabitant will talk and dream!

His grandchild reads unto him from that page
Which is the guide of youth-the hope of age!
"Ah, Sir!" he says, with melancholy look,
"But for this child, the Bible were a book
For ever sealed-sealed in my age's need;-
In my young days I was not taught to read;"
And as tears blot the volume on his knees,

He thinks the "good old times" were not so good as these.

He paints most truly, faithfully, who draws

From life;—who, heedless of the crowd's applause,
Sketches from Nature with a vigorous touch,
Nor adds a shade too deep, a line too much!
He wins most hearts, perhaps, who for his theme
Takes no heroic deed-no classic dream;
But, scorning inspiration from the Muses,
From paths of daily life his subjects chooses;
For human hearts sure sympathies will show
With every phase of natural weal or woe;
And the long glories of majestic Rome"
Will not attract us like scenes nearer home.

Then, for a moment, let us strive to show
The Dame School of some forty years ago.

Well we remember that far spot, where first
The earliest beams of knowledge on us burst;
We mean SCHOOL-Knowledge-but not there began
The Education of the future man!

There is a School, one earlier, dearer far

Than any in Life's after-period are,

Where Earth's first teacher bends the child above,
And claims as fee, a kiss or smile of love;
Where the dim dawning of the infant sense
Is fostered into bright intelligence;

Where are no blackboards, pencils, slates or books;
Where every lesson is conveyed by looks;
Where child and teacher seldom disagree;
And the dear School-room is the Mother's knee.

Home Education! In life's mid-day hour Which of us, looking back, can doubt its power? And who can tell with how much influence fraught Were the home-lessons that his mother taught? What his life's color owes unto the dye With which his mind was tinged in infancy? So Cowper learned from his lov'd mother's lips The truths which cheered him in his noon's eclipse; So Doddridge, by the fireside, from Dutch tiles, Learned Scripture History, urged by mother's smiles.

I think 't is Hannah More who somewhere sings
"That trifles make the sum of human things;
Trite the remark, but true. Of countless grains
The earth is made-its mountains, and its plains.
By slow degrees the coral bed at length
Rises from Ocean's depths in bulk and strength,
While the Pacific's waters idly sweep
Above the invisible workmen of the deep!
What now so insignificant appears,
Will, in the course of slow revolving years,
Rise, solid and compact, above the wave,

O'er which, lashed into surge, the Deep may rave;
And on whose reef some gallant vessel driven,
May lie with yawning seams and timbers riven;
Or, by the Ocean-currents wafted there,
Soil may collect; and as in gardens fair,
Upon that coral reef bright flowers may smile,
And Earth rejoice in one more fruitful isle!