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himself, in all those little courtesies and marks of respect which are usually extended to all respectable members of society, would not long escape his notice, or fail to make him feel unpleasantly.

There had been in the village, during the winter, a continued round of fashionable parties, some for the lively dance, but most of them for social converse, the occasional song, and such other light diversions as are usually introduced on these occasions. To these parties, all, of any thing like fair standing, had, in turn, been invited. Spruce mechanics and their journeymen frequently received their invitations; the pert merchant's clerk was sure to be remembered; even Locke's older pupils were not neglected, and sometimes, indeed, they were sought out and invited before his face. But nobody remembered the poor schoolmaster. Nobody seemed to be aware that he was born with social feelings, or that he had any sort of claim to mingle in society, like other people; and, throughout the whole, he was never complimented with a single invitation.

At first he did not pay any attention to this circumstance; or, if he did, he concluded it arose from some excusable inadvertence. But, being generally apprised of these assemblages, the next day after their occurrence, when he was often asked why he had not attended, the constant repetition of the neglect at length forced itself upon his observation, and caused him more pain than he would have been willing to confess. Let it not be supposed, however, that the unpleasant feelings he thus experienced arose from the disappointment of any particular wish he had to mingle in fashionable society. For, believing with his favorite poet, that

"e'en while Fashion's brightest arts decoy,

The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy,"

he felt conscious that he should have little relish for its friy

olities and amusements. No, it was not this that disquieted him; but it was the inference, the unavoidable inference, which he drew from the circumstance, that caused the pang; awakening reflections as wounding to his sensibilities, as they were discouraging to his prospects, in the path of life he had marked out for himself. And what was this inference? Did it grow out of the narrow jealousy that there was any thing relating to his manners, his person, or his poverty, that had shut him out of society? By no means; for his dress was good, his person what few could boast of, and his manners he had no manners, he never tried to form any, but was wisely content with the unsophisticated demeanor of his childhood, which let his native benevolence, his kind and cheerful disposition, his strong sense and ready perception, shine out undisguised and clearly, and find their way, as they did, to every heart not foolishly shut by the conventional restrictions of modern society; while they imparted to his appearance an ease and dignity that fitted him for every company. No, it was nothing of that kind. It was the low estimation in which, he could not but perceive, the occupation of the common teacher was held by the public; an estimation, which, besides depriving that teacher of half the very influence he is expected to exercise over the minds of the young, virtually ostracises him from society, and leads even parents to place him whom they intrust to form the minds and characters of their own children for life -to place him, unconsciously, we hope upon a level with the servants of their kitchens and the grooms of their stables!

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Such were the difficulties, such the trials, which our schoolmaster was doomed to experience. But is the example, which his case exhibits, a solitary one? Let the public answer; and, if in the negative, let them reflect on the consequences of suffering this state of things to remain for ever.

How well and justly was all this appreciated by the good and charming Cowper:

"Respect, as is but rational and just,

A man deemed worthy of so dear a trust.
Despised by thee, what more can he expect
From youthful folly than the same neglect?
A flat and fatal negative obtains

That instant upon all his future pains:
His lessons tire, his mild rebukes offend,
And all the instructions of thy son's best friend
Are a stream choked, or trickling to no end."

16

CHAPTER X.

"Ah! Envy, how I love thee, never!
Let us wake the spiteful jest
And malignant sneer: how clever
'Tis to mar another's rest!

But this with rage I've often noted.

When they let our shafts alone,
Back they bound all double-bolted,

And, except ourselves, hurt none.'

Malice and Envy, Poetic Dialogue. — PERRIN.

THE author's task now draws to its conclusion; and, from what we fear will have been deemed by many as but the dry and unromantic scenes of a schoolmaster's usually monotonous life, we will turn to others, of a somewhat varied and more exciting character, at once preluding the little denouement of our story, and leading to an unexpected change in the apparent destiny of its hero, which called him from his present limited field of laudable exertion, to one where the same noble objects could be pursued with more extended usefulness.

One evening, while the situation of affairs remained as we last described them, Amsden walked out, after supper, for the purpose of visiting a sick pupil, the daughter of very poor but worthy parents, living in a wretched abode, near the outskirts of the village. On entering the house, he was no less gratified than surprised to find his fair favorite, Mary Maverick, standing by the pillow of the invalid, soothingly ministering to her necessities and comforts. A slight tinge of color overspread her sweetly eloquent countenance, as, invit

ing him to a seat near the sick-bed, she expressed her happiness at seeing him so mindful of the situation of their suffering friend. We said a slight tinge of color-it was so; but not the blush of shame at being found in a hovel, to which, unknown to the proud and fashionable family of which she was a member, she had come to bring some little delicacies of her own preparing for the sick girl. On rising to depart, she proffered still further assistance to the girl's mother, and requested to be sent for when she should be needed as a watcher or otherwise. After witnessing the broken but heartfelt outpourings of gratitude of the poor woman to her kind benefactress, Locke offered to attend the latter to her home; and, the offer being accepted, the couple left the humble abode, and were soon at the door of the princely mansion of the Carters. When Mary left home, Mrs. Carter and her two eldest daughters had gone out with the expectation of spending the evening; and for that reason, probably, she urged her attendant to go in, in a manner which, contrary to his previous determination, he was unable to resist; and he was accordingly ushered into the usual sitting room of the family, where, to the surprise of Miss Maverick, they not only found the supposed absentees, but their self-styled professor, who had found the latter abroad, and, as usual, gallanted them home. Although Mary felt painfully conscious that the circumstances were inauspicious for her friend's introduction to the family, she yet had the firmness to perform her part in the ceremony with composure and dignity. The professor, with a sneering air of mock politeness, bowed very low to our hero, on the announcement of his name. Mrs. Carter returned his salute with a freezing nod; and her daughters just moved their lips, exchanging with each other significant glances, as they were severally introduced. Perceiving at once the character of his reception, Amsden felt at a loss to decide for himself whether

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