4_th._--I would add that the true school will magnify nature--will make conspicuous in its programme the natural sciences, will push very far the rudimentary English training, will give the most emphatic and determined attention to composition and conversation, and will watch over the manners of the pupil with a truly parental interest.

I have seen coa.r.s.e, unmannerly boors engaged in teaching girls Latin and Trigonometry. It seems to be thought if they understand the technics of the books, that is enough. Of course they must comprehend what they attempt to teach; but the rare and precious graces in a teacher, are fine manners and conversational powers.

More is learned in an hour's conversation with refined, cultured people upon almost any topic, than can be learned in a day from books, even with the a.s.sistance of an unrefined, mechanical teacher.

I shall be happy to correspond with parents about the schools of New England, which are earnest in regard to physical education.

HEROIC WOMEN.

Without pursuing any special order, I will mention Hypasia, the much calumniated Aspasia, and the Athenian courtezan Leaena, who, when put to the torture to make her betray her friends and accomplices in a political conspiracy, bit out her tongue, and spat it in the face of her tormentor.

In more modern times, as education is placed within the reach of all, these "burning and shining lights" become less conspicuous, set, as they are, amid a galaxy of scarcely less brilliant luminaries. Instances might be cited by the dozen of women who have taken degrees in theology, who have lectured in public, and been celebrated as _savans_ and philosophers.

As for those who have received the dignity of canonization, the Roman calendar alone is capable of keeping any account of them.

Yet amongst them, let us give one word of admiration to that brave Irish Abbess,--Ebba of Coldingham, who, to preserve herself from the brutality of the Danish soldiers, cut off her nose and lips. Her nuns followed her example, and the enraged barbarians burnt them all, together with their convent.

To whom do we owe the preservation of the New Testament but to the heroic girl-martyrs among the first Christians, who, under the Roman persecutors, endured unheard-of tortures, rather than betray the hiding place of the Sacred Writings?

_En pa.s.sant_ I may mention the first woman who used her literary abilities to support her household, was Christine Castel, a French woman by education, though by birth a Venetian. She lived in the reign of the English king Henry IV.

Have you ever heard of Arnande de Rocas? She must have been a brave, high-minded girl! When her native town was taken by the Turks,-- somewhere in the clark sixteenth century, when Turks were not the civilized gentlemen that many of them now are,--she and a number of her young and beautiful companions were placed in a vessel bound for Constantinople,--their destination the Sultan's seraglio. In the dead of night, she gained access to the powder magazine, and blew up the ship, with her innocent companions and their captors.

Now let us come nearer home, and recal the name of Martha Bratton.

She was a woman for any country to be proud of, for she helped, hand and heart, in establishing the freedom of her native country. Her husband was a Colonel in the first army of America, and in his absence she took charge of, and defended the ammunition and supplies. Think of her courage in blowing up the powder, rather than suffer it to fall into the enemy's hands! Think of her n.o.bility avowing the act that no one else might suffer for it. Threats of instant death had no power to make her betray a trust. And she was a womanly woman too, for she saved the life of an English officer, who had rescued her by his intervention, and kept him concealed in her house till he was exchanged.

Grizel Cochrane! It's not a romantic name, but what a romance in her life.

Her father lay a prisoner in the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, condemned to death for high treason. Her grandfather, the Earl of Dundonald; was moving heaven and earth to obtain his son's pardon. But it was known that the warrant for his execution was on its way from London.

Grizel was only eighteen. But she was strong and resolute. She rode on her own fleet horse two days on the road to England, where a trusty friend lent her a suit of man's clothes and a pair of pistols. Thus armed, she attacked the postman, robbed him of the mail bags, and destroyed her father's death warrant. The time thus gained saved his life.

A better Grizel this, I think, than the celebrated Grizel who is so often held up as a model of womanly virtues.

Think of the peasant girl, inspired by spirit voices, throwing aside the timidity of her country breeding, her youth, and her s.e.x, adopting the costume of a soldier, heading the armies of France, leading them to victory, and placing the national crown upon the head of the feeble Dauphin, much more of a girl than herself. Then change the scene, and behold the bigoted and fanatical priests conspiring against her; see her abandoned by her friends; abandoned even by the English whom she had conquered; see her at last led forth to the fatal pile, and her ashes cast into the Seine.

How different, yet how grand, is the gentle Heloise, more remarkable for her faithful affection, than for her learning and talents, choosing rather to be dishonored in the world's estimation, than to injure her craven husband by avowing their marriage.

What Roman or Spartan mother excelled in heroism that Lady Seton, who, while she saw from the beleagured tower the preparations of the brutal English king to put her two sons to death, urged her wavering husband rather to let them die for their country, than to save their lives by ign.o.ble surrender of his great trust. Her sons were murdered, but her husband was not dishonored, and the town was saved.

Who has not heard of the heroic Maid of Saragossa? No matter that she was really the wife of one of the soldiers engaged in defending the city, that she had come upon the ramparts to carry some refreshments to her husband the story is not the less thrilling that it was from _his_ hand that she s.n.a.t.c.hed the burning fuse, and fired the cannon near which he had fallen. Calling on the shrinking soldiers to reload the gun, she avowed her resolution to stand by it, and fire on the French enemy till they were beaten, or she was dead. She turned the tide of battle, and will be remembered as long as the world lasts.

Charlotte Corday! The name alone is enough to conjure up a moving panorama before one's eyes. We see the beautiful, heroic girl, nursing in the depths of her heart the project which, she fondly hopes, will free her country from a hideous tyrant. It is not murder that she contemplates, for she will give her own pure life for that of the savage steeped in every crime. We see her on her journey to Paris, gentle and affable, rousing no suspicion of the terrible errand on which she is bound. We see her when the deed is done, sitting calmly in the outer room, and thoughtfully pa.s.sing her hand across her brow. We see her before her judges, "Serene, and resolute, and still, and calm, and self-possessed." We see her on her way to the guillotine, unconsciously inspiring such a strange and sudden pa.s.sion, as surely never man felt before, and yet a true love, as poor Adam Luz proved by writing her defence, and dying for it and her. We may all join with the royalist lady, who fell on her knees and called her _saint_, when she heard what she had done.

Alas! that it was done in vain! The tyranny that crushed France was hydra-like, and for one head that was struck off, a hundred more appeared.

"The mother of the country." Is not that a name that any queen be proud to gain?

She lived in Saxony three hundred years ago, and is still remembered by the peasantry as _Mother Anna_. What had she done to deserve the t.i.tle? She studied several sciences, and applied her knowledge to promote the good of her people. She multiplied schools, and encouraged education. She incited the people to redeem waste lands, taking a spade in her own honest, busy hands, to encourage the workers when the ground looked particularly unpromising. She fostered trade and manufactures, and when she and her husband travelled about, they took with them supplies of the best seeds for raising fruit, and distributed them among the people. The good soul was a careful housewife, and more than all, a self-sacrificing Christian, teaching more by example than precept.

Amid all this hard work, public and private, she became the mother of fifteen children. I have heard of ladies who complained being fearfully overburdened with two or three.

The end of this n.o.ble woman was worthy of her life. She died of the plague, caught while attending on the sick, like a true Christian and _Mother_.

You may never be called upon to perform such acts of heroism as distinguished many American women during the struggle for independence; but it will be good for you to imbibe, from their contemplation, a touch of the spirit which prompted them. Who would not wish to resemble Mrs. Motte, when her large new house was garrisoned by the English. The American generals, loth to destroy the widow's home, hesitated to expel them by fire. She presented to them the Indian bow with its apparatus for igniting the shingle roof, counting ruin as nothing in the scale against patriotism.

Then, again, the gentlewoman succeeds the patriot as she receives the vanquished foes in her poor termporary home, entertains them hospitably, and, womanlike, endeavors to soothe the mortification of defeat.

Picture to yourselves a group of despairing wretches, clinging all night to a fragment of a wreck, and to the remorseless rock on which it had been dashed. All through the stormy Autumn night they had clung there, amid rain, and wind, and darkness, holding on still, yet without hope; they are miles from the sh.o.r.e, and they know that, as the tide rises, they must be swallowed up, one by one, or all swept off at once by the hungry waves.

Far away, during that terrible night, they had seen a faint, twinkling light. It was from a lighthouse--a sailor who was among the group of miserable creatures, told them it was the Longstone Lighthouse,--a mile away, too far for any one to see them down there on a level with the sea; and even if they were seen, there was no life-boat there, and no person but an old man and woman, with their son and daughter. _They _could never bring a boat to their deliverance.

There were fewer people than he supposed at that time in the lighthouse, for the son was absent,--the only one, it would seem, who might have had the strength and courage to venture to their a.s.sistance. Besides, what chance was there that they would be discovered?

Yet, at that very moment, clear, bright eye, looking through a telescope for signs of the storm's cruel havoc, lights on them, and takes in at once all the perils of their position. It is the eye of a girl of eighteen; she has the courage of a Roman, the compa.s.sion of a Christian. Calling to her father to accompany her, she hastens to their boat. Remonstrance is in vain. She will not listen to her parents, she will not wait a moment; all she thinks of, is those unhappy sufferers, for the returning tide _must_ wash them off. If her father will not go, she will go alone, and, live or die, make the attempt to save them.

Her energy bears down all doubts; the boat is launched,--even the poor wife and mother helping. And, ah! think of _her_, as she sees it leave the rock to which it may never return. Think what _she_ gives to the service of mercy. She must have been a worthy mother of such a daughter. Father and child, each take an oar, and pull, not for their lives, but for the lives of others.

Ah! what a struggle that was, through a mile of angry, tumbling waters, now from the crest of a wave catching a glimpse of thosethey go to rescue, now sunk in a deep hollow that threatens to engulf them. Through all, the little frail boat goes on its errand of mercy. Can we not imagine how the wife and mother watched it through the lighthouse gla.s.s? Let us take our post by her, and try to feel for a moment as she felt. From her lofty post she can mark the progress of the boat. It is slow but sure. When first it sank out of her sight in the trough of a great billow, her heart sank too; but see, rises again, and with it a prayer and thanksgiving ascend from the mother's heart. The daughter rows with a manly strength,--no signs of fatigue. Will they reach the wreck in time? Oh! the boat goes so slowly, though those two devoted ones work so hard. On, on, still on, nearer and nearer. Now comes the moment of greatest danger. Ah! they are too eager to get in,--they will swamp the boat.

No, their very weakness prevents that. The stronger help the more feeble; they are all in now; all safe so far; nine human beings saved so _far_; but can eleven come safe to land? Once more the boat mounts on the creasts of the waves, once more she sinks into the hollows, and nearer, nearer, nearer she creeps on.

Other duties now claim the attention of the anxious watcher. Fires must be kindled, and food must be prepared, or the good work will be left unfinished; and from time to time she runs to the window to watch their progress.

The keel grates upon the beach,--voices are heard; they are all safely housed, and the loved girl comes up smiling, happy in the success of her good deed, and all unconscious that her name is henceforth famous through the world.

England need not envy France her Charlotte Corday, while the name of Grace Darling shines, in letters of gold, upon the pages of her own history.

The renowned Hugh Grotius had a wife who ought to be called the renowned Mary Grotius.

When he was condemned for his political writings, to be imprisoned for life, she accompanied him, though the hard condition was, that she too was to remain a prisoner. After a while she was allowed to go out occasionally. She borrowed books for him, which were carried to and fro, with his linen, in a chest. When long custom had made the guards careless in examining this chest, she packed her husband in it one fine day, and sent him to the wash, staying in the prison herself, and pretending that he was ill in bed.

She was let out too, after some severe treatment.

There was a woman who never performed any grand, heroic action, who lived a quiet, domestic life; did nothing brilliant, wrote no poems, suffered no martyrdom. For thirty-eight years she was a ministering angel to her husband; and he was not an invalid, whose caprices tried her temper, and made her life a lasting trial. On the contrary, his health was good, and his spirits ever equal.

Yet the world is much indebted to that woman. She was to her husband what the cipher is after the figure one. Alone, it is a unit; with the cipher by its side, it becomes ten.

She was the wife of John Flaxman, the Sculptor.

"Down with the Austrian woman," shouted the infuriated mob of Paris, supposing that they saw before them the ill-fated Marie Antoinette.

An officer corrected their mistake, and the lady, just rescued from the most terrible of deaths,--that of being torn to pieces by savages,--said to him, "Why undeceive them? You might have spared them a greater crime."

She was the same, who, when asked her name and rank before the revolutionary tribunal, replied, with dignity, "I am Elizabeth of France, the aunt of your king."

She was compelled to witness the execution of twenty-four of her fellow-prisoners, and then met her own death without a complaint.

Among savage nations what could be more terrific than a volcano? And when, in addition to its natural mysteries, a cunning priesthood has invested it with the attributes of a malignant and revengeful deity, who but an enlightened and civilized person would dare to approach it? It was _tabooed_, and whoever insulted it, would be destroyed by its shower of liquid fire.

It is hard to shake off the prejudices and superst.i.tions of a life- time. Yet Kapiolani, a woman of Hawaii, who had already done much to raise the character of her countrymen, set the heathen priests at defiance, declared the volcano to be the work of a merciful G.o.d, and boldly descended some distance into its crater. There she composedly praised the Lord in the midst of one of His wonderful works. The effect of her faith upon the minds of her countrymen was wonderful.