books, surmounted by his flute-for he loved music; another with manuscripts; the third with flowers and herbs, decayed and fresh; and the fourth with fragments of stones, which he had gathered with satchel and hammer among the neighboring hills, as specimens of mineralogy. The walls were decorated with several engraved Scripture pieces, a half-dozen likenesses of little deceased pupils, drawn by some expert hand in the village, a portrait of himself with an exceedingly benignant expression, painted in water-colors by the pastor's oldest daughter at one of her visits home during the vacation of her boarding-school, and, finally, a neatly written and framed list of rules, for the regu- | lation of his time and habits, which were enforced by several quotations from and marginal references to Solomon's proverbs, and showed him to be a remarkably methodical man, for they specified his hours of going to bed, rising, devotion, meals, exercise, school duties, &c., &c., the whole signed in large and manful letters with his name-Tobias Goodenough.

Tobias Goodenough had what phrenologists call the bump of adhesiveness; once comfortably settled in this retired village, nothing could attract him away. Years passed, and he continued as firm in his attachment to it as the old oak, which overshadowed his little school-house, stood rooted to the spot where it had grown. He was unquestionably an intelligent, if not a learned man; and the more sensible villagers, by a little acquaintance, perceived that his oddities, or weaknesses if such they might be called, were on the surface, while beneath them was a depth of sound knowledge and golden worth. He was more than esteemed, he was loved; the children treated him as a father, and their parents, though they sometimes smiled at his peculiarities, especially his incessant quotation of Solomon's proverbs, considered him a man of rare excellences. Twenty years had he taught the village school, when I became acquainted with him. During this time many of his scholars had grown up and passed on to the stage of the active world. Some four or five were doctors, some three or four lawyers, still more were clergymen, and several were successful merchants; the only lawyer in the village, a very important man on the spot, had been among his first scholars. These facts were the pride of the teacher, and in

the good-natured weakness of his advancing age, led to a pardonable vanity, for he considered the renown of the school permanently and widely established. It had evidently become in the good old man's simple mind an essential item in the world's welfare, if not in its history. Often would he enumerate the names of young men successful in professions or other business, who had once occupied its benches; and whenever he took leave of a scholar, who was about to try the fortunes of life, he would conclude his feeling, though formal address, by recommending him never to forget the wise instructions of his reading lessons, (which were chiefly in the Book of Proverbs,) and to remember and maintain, by his good conduct, the fair fame of the school which had nurtured him, and which must suffer by any gross delinquency in his conduct. Indeed, the pure reputation of the school became the darling thought of the kind-hearted teacher, and the only time in which he was known to speak with irritation was in a conversation with the deacon, when a dispute arose on the question which had done most for the good of the village and the world, the meeting-house or the schoolhouse; he was soon appeased, however, with the conviction that he had triumphantly vanquished the deacon in argument. He never disputed this point with the pastor, for besides a profound reverence for his office, he entertained a warm affection for the man; he had been his organist for nearly twenty years, and now that they were both in the sere and yellow leaf of life, they seemed nearer and dearer than brothers. Old Tobias Goodenough! Many a young man, once his scholar, but now wandering over the land, exclaims, "God bless him," as he thinks of his pleasant childhood days, and smiles, and then perhaps drops a tear at the recollection of the odd but good old man.

Old Tobias Goodenough continued in charge of the village school, even when the infirmities of age had quite unfitted him for the task; so absorbed had he become in its welfare, so habituated to the little school-house, which had grown old and decayed under his care, that he seemed hardly to suspect he must, some time or other, give it up to another, and cease to sway its ferule scepter. Yet so infirm had he become, that on stormy days (which made up a large proportion of the winter)

he could not go out to it, and many of the good people of the village began to whisper, though very respectfully, about a younger teacher, to whisper, I say, for so extraordinary a revolution did it seem to the villagers, that they could scarcely muster courage to propose it, though they felt its necessity, and it was affecting to see how every one who caught the whisper heard it with a fallen countenance, and shook his head significantly, until more thoroughly convinced the change was inevitable.

At last the school-committee were instructed to converse with the veteran teacher on the subject, and get him to retire. One of their number was appointed to perform the duty; but he reported at their next meeting that he had failed to do it that, when he called to see the aged man, he welcomed him so cordially, and ran on in the conversation so enthusiastically about the school, the "fair fame" which it had won, and his plans for its future prosperity, that no man who had a heart within him could have mentioned the subject, and he really feared it would kill the old man.

'Squire Hardy, a man who never had soul enough to understand old Tobias, hereupon rose up in the committee, and said he "hoped they would not be so chicken-hearted as to shrink from their solemnly responsible duties,—that the welfare of the village and posterity demanded of them firmness and energy, and, as for himself, he would not sacrifice the public interest for any man, even if he had to sacrifice his own in removing that man."

As none of the rest of the committee were found willing to communicate with the venerable teacher on the subject, 'Squire Hardy offered to do it himself, and manifestly felt the nobleness of true courage in assuming this "solemnly responsible duty!" On the next stormy day, when Tobias could not go to the school, the 'squire visited him, and bluntly made known the object of his visit. The grayhaired teacher looked at him with utter astonishment, and stood dumb before him for several minutes. "Give up the school! -give up the school!" at last he exclaimed, as the tears sprung from his eyes; "Give up the school! Go sir, then, and cut down the old oak, whose branches have always shaded it, and whose roots hold its foundation-stones. Give up the school! Alas! has it come to this?"

The 'squire advanced arguments, and insisted that it must be done. The old man, too much affected to discuss the point, requested him to call the next morning, and shut himself up in his room the whole of that day, declining his dinner, and seeing no one. Toward evening, however, he came down stairs, with a cheerful countenance, requested tea, and, rubbing his hands, said: "It is all right; it is all right; I ought to have expected it; but I forgot I was growing old. Just think, my old friend," addressing his aged hostess, as she poured out his tea, "just think how everything has changed since I came into your house; all my scholars of that time are dead or grown up; all the old people, except you, the deacon, and a few others, are sleeping in the churchyard, around the grave of our dear old pastor; why, my friend, we are out of our day, and yet I have been so much with the children, God provide for them! that I have forgotten that I was old, and have scarcely noticed that my head had grown gray. Give up the school! Give up the school! What a thought!" and a tear stood in his eye, but he hastily wiped it away, and said, "It is all right, my dear friend, it is all right; we can't expect to live forever; for, as Solomon says, 'There is a time to be born, and a time to die;' the school needs a younger teacher. I see the necessity, and shall be content and thankful to God that I have so long been allowed to occupy so useful a place."

Tobias Goodenough retired from the office of teacher, but his young successor soon admired so much the peculiarities of the old man, as to allow him a controlling direction of the school whenever he visited it.

A generous-hearted gentleman, who had been one of his earliest scholars, happened to revisit his friends in the village soon after, and proposed to raise, by subscription, a small fund for the retired teacher. Everybody seemed anxious to give toward it, and the letters, in behalf of it, which were sent to former scholars who had settled and prospered in various parts of the country, brought back answers containing generous sums. For the fund thus raised the good old man was overwhelmed with gratitude, and made to the gentlemen who brought him the news and the securities, a formal speech full half an hour in length, on the history and results of the

school, and his determination, while he yet lived in the village, to anxiously guard its fair fame. "And yet, gentlemen," he concluded, pathetically, "I can be of but little more service, for that time has come to me which Solomon predicted, 'When the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinders is low, and he shall rise up at the voice of the bird, | and all the daughters of music shall be brought low; also, when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and the almond-tree shall flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden."" The listeners would have smiled with their old school recollections of King Solomon, but a tear passed down the veteran's cheek, and they wept.

About a year after his retirement, I visited the village, and found that, though Tobias Goodenough was old and somewhat infirm, yet, owing to his temperate life and tranquil habits, he still had the prospect of some happy years. I loved the aged teacher, and, having three children old enough for simple studies, I proposed to him to remove to New-York, and reside with me as family tutor, not so much, however, for the instruction of my children, as for the comfort of my old friend, and the pleasure I expected from his company, for I confess a weak sort of fondness for original characters. As the fund settled on the venerable man was small, and he wished not to be dependent upon his friends, but to earn his living, he accepted the proposal, but it was hard for him to tear himself away from the village. We spent the afternoon preceding our departure in visiting old familiar places. As the evening lowered, we went into the church-yard. "Here they are," said the teacher, pointing to the graves; "here they are my old friends,-nearly all who welcomed me when I first came to the village. And there," pointing to the small graves, "there are some of my little ones. God took them from the school to heaven; but it was all right-all right-I shall see them soon, soon." We passed into the church, and the hoary-headed teacher took his seat at the organ for the last time; tune after tune rolled from the glorious instrument, waking all the memories of the good old man. The sun had set, and still he played; the twilight passed, and still the grand melody rolled through the dark church; I spoke to him and hallooed in his

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ear, but still he played on, and stopped not till I grasped his arm, and drew him away, when he returned in silence. The next day we were on the way to New-York.

The dear old man continued with us some four years. His daily life consisted of lessons to my children, uniform calls on two aged and congenial friends, and, when the weather allowed, a walk to the Battery, where his benign aspect, as well as his large nose, usually attracted the friendly glance of promenaders, especially of children, for whom he always had a pleasant word. He declined rapidly the last two years, but lost nothing of his serene and benevolent temper. An increasing but complaisant love of conversation, a growing but amiable vanity respecting his old school and the success of several of his pupils who were resident in the city, and a rather repetitious narration of his well-used anecdotes, were among the pleasant symptoms of his decay-his really enviable euthanasy. At last he took to his bed, suffering little, but conversing away in his old good-hearted style, and detailing his anecdotes down to the last day. That day was not a sad one in his chamber. He took his leave of us with several of Solomon's best counsels. "I shall soon be among my dear little ones," he remarked, with a tremulous voice, recalling, doubtless, our last look at the small graves in the village burial-ground. His last words were a quotation from Solomon : "The dust shall return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return to God who gave it." Peace to thy manes, and God bless thy memory, Tobias Goodenough.

LIFE WITHOUT LOVE. - We sometimes meet with men who seem to think that any indulgence in an affectionate feeling is a weakness. They will return from a journey, and greet their families with a distant dignity, and move among their children with the cold and lofty splendor of an iceberg, surrounded by its broken fragments. There is hardly a more unnatural sight on earth than one of those families without a heart. A father had better extinguish a boy's eyes than take away his heart. Who that has experienced the joys of friendship, and values sympathy and affection, would not rather lose all that is beautiful in nature's scenery than be robbed of the treasures of his heart? Cherish, then, your heart's affections.