The above brief statement of the influences at work in even the average elementary school shows how powerful an agency it is in making moral conduct automatic. But it is not the highest function of the school to make of its pupils moral autom. atons. It must strengthen their instinct to obey the feeling of "ought" when a strong desire opposes.

Life in the school is full of these struggles between desire and the conscience. The atmosphere of a good average school stimulates the conscience to repress the desire. The process by which the ordinary school virtues become habitual is the process by which tendencies, stronger or weaker, are established to prefer the way of conscience to that of desire in every relation.

The very nature of the school is such that intelligence, morality, and loyalty are encouraged continually, and immorality and corruption are as continually discouraged. This is always so except where the inefficiency and blindness of the teacher prevent him from seeing what the real purpose of the school is, and when he devotes his energies to doing something foreign to this purpose. Often when the end sought is a high per cent at stated examinations, without much regard to the inculcation of the virtues above enumerated, it is possible for the school to become a nursery of "immorality and corruption. Whenever the teacher has a low and unworthy end in view the school partakes of the character of this purpose.

Suppose, for example, that the administration of a school makes the chief end of the teaching in a second grade a knowledge of phonics and diacritical marks, (see an editorial in July PUBLICSCHOOL JOURNAL), and that when the

teacher dies, or gets married and retires from the school, the eulogy pronounced by the authorities says nothing of the influence of this teacher in inculcating the different virtues referred to above, but extols her for the results she secured from her little children in diacritical markings and phonic analysis. Such a school might be open to the condemnation of our Rev. Bishop and rhetorical professor. One can see little of moral up-lift or intellectual growth in schools of that sort.

That there are schools of this sort and of other sorts pursuing still more unworthy ends, we all know. But they give no ground for the sweeping condemnation made by the prelate and supported by the professor. And it is by no means certain even in these poor schools, where such unworthy ends are set by the board, that the pupils who come through the eighth grade will not make "intelligent, moral, and loyal citizens." They certainly have done so in years gone by.

Perhaps it may be necessary to state, in conclusion, that the reference to the address of Professor Small before the Herbartian Society in Milwaukee, in this article, is limited to his remark that Superintendent Lane's assertion that children who completed the elementary course of instruction in the public schools would grow up intelligent, moral, and loyal citizens, was "demagogic buncombe, fit for consumption only in a fool's paradise." If this statement meant any. thing beyond an ill-natured, personal fling at Superintendent Lane-in which case it would be beneath notice-it was intended to reaffirm the charge of Archbishop Hennessey that the public schools. are nurseries of corruption and immorality.

"The evil that men do lives after them; the good is often interred with their bones." These are the words that the great poet puts into the mouth of the crafty Antony. They contain a half-truth; and, for a crafty man, a half-truth is often better than a whole lie. Both the good and the evil that men do lives after them. When some great work is performed, it is often, perhaps always, true that the influences that have shaped it had their source far back, in lives whose earthly course was long since finished. Every man of ability and virtue sets in motion influences that go on long after he has passed away. I am asked to speak to you to-day of such a man.

Nicholas Tillinghast was a New Englander by birth, educated in the Military Academy at West Point. After gradu ating, he served as an officer in the army on our western frontier, for several years. He then taught for a time at West Point. In 1840, he was instructing in a high school in Boston; and he was called from this position to become the first principal of the State Normal School at Bridgewater, Massachusetts. He filled that place for thirteen years, when failing health compelled him to resign.

In person, he was slight, and not above the medium height; but he had the dig. nity and bearing of a soldier in all his movements. His countenance was grave and somewhat stern. In manner, though affable, he was reserved and apparently. somewhat cold. He was not fluent in speech; he never could have made an orator; and he rarely attempted public speaking in any form.

In character, he was every inch a man; clear in intellect, truthful in word and

act, honest to a scrupulous degree, not only in business transactions, but in word and thought; and firm as a rock in the right as God gave him to see the right.

The story of the founding of state normal schools on this continent is probably familiar to you all. The "experiment, for it was confessedly an experiment, was tried in Massachusetts. A gentleman offered the state $10,000 on condition that the state would grant an equal sum. This was done, and three schools were established a little more than a half-century ago. The first began in 1839, with one man for a faculty and three girls for students. The school at Bridgewater was the third to go into operation. For several years, it occupied rented and inconvenient quarters; it was almost without apparatus of any kind; much of the time, Mr. Tillinghast alone gave instruction; the course of study was very meager, and many of the pupils were poorly fitted even for the meager course. But the experiment succeeded, and the schools were continued after the experiment had been tried. In 1846, the school was housed in a modest wooden structure that cost about six thousand dollars. This was the first normal school building on this continent; and it is said that Horace Mann was almost beside himself with joy at its completion.

Five years later, I became a pupil within its walls, and formed the acquaintance of Mr. Tillinghast. He was then in feeble health and never recovered, although he continued at the head of the school more than two years longer. His common name among the students was "Father" Tillinghast; and to us the name seemed very appropriate on

ac

But

count of his fatherly demeanor. when he died, three years later, he was not then as old as President Cook is.

What was the secret of this man's power over his pupils? For he had power not only while they were under his control, but, in many cases at least, transforming power over their subsequent lives. I am sure that hundreds of his pupils have asked themselves this question. To my mind this power was due, not so much to what he said or did, as to the inan himself. As I read him and his behavior in the school-room, let me tell you some of the qualities that he seemed to me to have, and that made him a good schoolmaster.

He was always friendly. There was no effusion in his friendliness, no honeyed words, no loud profession. But we felt that in him we had a true and sympathizing friend.

He was in downright earnest about his work; it was evident to all that the man was putting all there was in him, into the training of those young men and women, and with the thought that he was preparing them to train the children of the state.

He was truthful, open and honest, in all he said or did. We should as soon have suspected the angel Gabriel of a trick or scheme, as Father Tillinghast.

He was exact in his methods of work, and in all his words. I have said that he was not fluent of speech; but I have never known a man who could say as much in so few words. And, if necessary, the words, though never unkind, had a cutting, and a staying quality.

I have said that he was exact. He was also exacting. No slip-shod, half-prepared work could stand his testing. He re

quired genuine thoroughness, of himself and of others.

He was pre-eminently a conscientious man; and he put his conscience into every thing he did. He never said this, or anything like it to his pupils; but we felt it in our inmost souls.

He was self-sacrificing. Not "what is nominated in the bond," but what is needed what can I do to help-seemed to be the rule of his conduct. We esteem this to be one of the most essential qualifications of a good teacher. He had the good sense, however, to help by helping to self-help when it was possible.

Nicholas Tillinghast's body has rested for more than forty years on the gentle slope where we laid it. His grave is

more than a thousand miles from us. Most of you, I presume, have never heard his name till to-day. Why should I talk about him here and now?

There is a very good reason. Ira Moore, who did more than any one else to shape the inner character of this school during the first four years of its life, was one of his pupils. So was Richard Edwards, president for more than thirteen years. So was Thomas Metcalf, teacher here for thirty-two years. So was Albert Stetson, teacher here for twenty-five years. So was the writer who was actively connected with the teaching in this institution for thirty-two years. More than one hundred years of teaching service have been put into this school by pupils of Nicholas Tillinghast. And, four at at least of the five men just named were not only his pupils, but more or less his assistant teachers. Nicholas Tillinghast lives to-day, and he will live in years to come, in the Illinois State Normal University.

I have not tried to give the interruptions made throughout this conversation by Emily. I will say now, once for all, that she clapped her hands with fre quency and enthusiasm and made some other demonstrations, but was, each time, checked by our mother with as much severity as was possible to her.

well

Mr. Webster was a peddler of the old kind. He made regular visits to our little town, once or twice a year, which were to the children, second in importance only to those of Kriss Kringle himself. And the older people, too, who had known him half their lives, enjoyed his coming, which was a breath from the outer world-for he really traveled widely -and, under one pretext and another they indulged themselves in his company. His big Newfoundland dog was trained and in his curious high wagonlike no other wagon I have ever seen-he carried everything, we used to think, and I remember yet that the list included fine laces and baker's bread. This last was considered by us a marvellous delicacy--probably on account of its rarity. He was a particular friend of Mary Ellen, who had an irrepressible genius for getting on intimate terms with people. was dreaded by us now because he knew we lived on the other side of the "lines," and also because he knew our politics and we did not know his. So we were forbidden to see or talk to him. It did really seem something of a hardship.

"Did Coalis know you and shake hands with you, and did Mr. Webster have any baker's bread?" Emily asked wistfully.

However, anxiety about the peddler was soon overshadowed by more immediate fears. Our room was on the first floor having a window and a half glass door opening on the wide porch that extended across the front of the house. On this porch the speakers of the evening stood while the audience occupied all the standing room in the yard and street and neighborhood. Sleep was impossible

even to tired children.

The meeting was, as the picket had told us, for the purpose of recruiting the southern army, and, very naturally, the sentiments expressed were not calculated to increase our sense of security, considering that we were almost traitors in the camp. Then, too, our families were-like most families in Kentucky-sadly divided on war issues, and I have often thought since that the words those two silent women listened to that night must have carried to their minds a tragic meaning.

Mother sat beside Emily and me in the darkness, and spoke to us now and then as we turned and drowsed and turned again. Aunt Biddy, on her pallet close by, gave vent occasionally to low moans, and we all strained our ears to hear what we could not have shut out if we would.

It was over at last. The speakers retired to their rooms; the music ceased; the crowd dispersed. It had indeed been a grand rally, a great renewal of hope and courage, if these had ever waned. Hundreds of names had been added to the army rolls-names of brave men who attested their sincerity and devotion with their lives.

But there were those who staid yet, who, over-wrought by excitement and irresponsible from drink, lingered to applaud past success and exult in anticipated victory. They sometimes essayed speechmaking amid the good-natured jeers of their companions, and sometimes blended wild songs in strange medley. Once a pistol shot rang out followed by cries and groans and oaths and boisterous laughter while our hearts stood still.

My mother left us then and made her way to the lounge across the window. "Mary Ellen, are you afraid, honey?" "No," came in Mary Ellen's calm voice, "I am not afraid. I would like my bed moved out, though, because I believe that man with the pistol is right under this window, and I don't like to be so close to a drunken man-he might shoot again."

Gradually the revellers, worn out or overcome by drink, grew quiet, and as dawn was breaking Emily and I fell asleep.

While we were being dressed in the morning (not having made any complaint about being wakened early, for the children of that day were patient and brave, as the children of this day would be if the necessity existed), Aleck came to the door and asked Mary Ellen, who opened it, to tell "Mistis" he wanted to speak with her. When Mrs. Ames came in again there was a strange little smile on her lips.

"Aleck says one of the mules died last night."

"What next!" said my mother, and paused only a moment in curling Emily's hair, but her face and voice showed her consternation. Aunt Biddy, sitting on the floor beside her, hugging her knees moaned:

"Lawd, whut gwine become o' us?" "The mule was well last night," Mrs. Ames added, significantly. She and

mamma exchanged a look which Emily caught.

"What made him die, then?" she asked, quickly.

"Why, he was killed, I suppose, so as to stop us," said Mary Ellen, as if of a matter of course. "Bab, the patteroll could have stopped us."

The loss of the mule was a serious matter, for horses and mules had been in such demand for the armies that there were now few to be had. The fear of being unable to replace the animal, of making themselves conspicuous in trying to do so, and above all, the possibility that some one suspected them already and had taken this means to detain them, were the new troubles that bore heavily on mother and her friend.

"Les all go together in the rockaway," Emily said, beginning to count us. "Aleck can go back home and Mr. Goodin can stay here-he's no 'count any how, and"-lowering her voice, "not very smart either, cause Aunt Biddy said so!" Sh!" Mother wrinkled her smooth brow into the semblance of a frown.

"Now, Miss Katie," said Aunt Biddy, roused by indignation, "you done heard all I said 'bout dat ole white man-"

"Never mind, Aunt Biddy, never mind."

"Emily de beatinest chile fur 'peating things!" she grumbled, settling her chin between her knees with some difficulty, while Emily watched the performance interestedly.

Aunt Biddy cried and begged not to be left at the hotel when she heard mamma and Mrs. Ames planning to go in quest of a horse, but she finally consented to bear Mary Ellen company, lamenting all the while, the unhappy fate that had brought us on this journey. After breakfast we started out in the rockaway. Mamma had the names of two or three friends of Uncle Jim whom he had recommended her to call on in case of trouble,