The grandson of Rear Admiral Charles Stewart has established his right to leadership in Ireland by his courage, his energy, his ability, and, above all, by his patience and moderation. A greater Irishman than he once said that “the only Liberty that is valuable is a liberty connected with order.” This truth Parnell has kept steadily in view. To temper the hot blood and restrain the fiery zeal of the Irish people, and at the same time to retain their confidence, to command their devotion, and wisely direct their struggle for justice—this has indeed been a delicate and difficult task. But Parnell has been equal to it. His sobriety, his self-command, his clearness and soundness of judgment, have been conspicuously illustrated at every stage of the contest he has waged, and these qualities have been supplemented by ardent public spirit, and a courage and constancy no danger could daunt, no disaster could turn from its purpose.
Many years ago the greatest of Irish orators, Daniel O’Connell, in a speech in Exeter Hall, London, said: “Americans, I send my voice careering like the thunder-storm across the Atlantic, to tell South Carolina that God’s thunderbolts are hot, and to remind the negro that the dawn of his redemption is drawing near.”
In the same spirit, with equal earnestness, and, let us hope, with something of O’Connell’s prophetic vision, let this meeting send across the Atlantic its greeting to Charles Stewart Parnell, and to all those who, with him, are striving to secure justice, good government, and a fair chance in the battle of life for the Irish people.
THE SCHOOL TEACHER.
Address before the State Teachers’ Association, held at Topeka, December 28th, 1885.
Mr. Chairman, and Ladies and Gentlemen: During my school days I frequently heard, and occasionally took part in, animated debates as to the relative influence and usefulness of the pen or the sword, the lawyer, the doctor, or the minister. I do not remember that the labor of the teacher was ever discussed in these eager, if somewhat callow, controversies. Yet, if any thoughtful, intelligent man were asked to pass judgment upon the comparative value of human activities, I am sure he would make answer that the public educator leads all the rest.
I do not say this, teachers of Kansas, because I am in your presence. Nor do I say it in any spirit of flattery. I am speaking of the duties, responsibilities and opportunities of your profession, rather than of the individuals who are engaged in teaching. For, I regret to say, I have known teachers who were no better qualified to guide, instruct and inspire the boys and girls in their charge than a painted Indian is fitted to illustrate the virtues and graces of true Christian life and character. But the incompetency or unworthiness of individual teachers does not detract in the least degree from the statement I make, that there is no occupation so important in the economy of the State, no profession so far-reaching and universal in its influence on society, as that of the public educator.
Some one has said that there is nothing on this earth so pure and plastic as a human soul and mind fresh from the hands of its Creator. Guileless, questioning, impressionable, its bright young eyes looking fearlessly into the unfathomable future, the child comes to the teacher to be armed and trained for the hard, stern duties of this busy, care-burdened, practical world. How shall it be developed to true manhood and womanhood? How shall the ideals of its fresh, unconscious childhood be conformed to the real in humanity without making the child either a pert, superficial prig, a carping, sneering, skeptical pedant, or a visionary, incapable theorist? These are the questions to which the teacher must make reply.
I do not assume that I can aid you in solving these problems. I wish only to present to you, as clearly and as earnestly as possible, the grave responsibilities you have assumed. The wisest and greatest men in all ages and countries have exalted the profession of the teacher. “Public education,” said Napoleon, “should be the first object of government.” Burke declared that “education is the chief defense of nations.” Edward Everett affirmed that “education is a better safeguard of liberty than a standing army.” Horace Mann said that “school-houses are the republican line of fortifications.” Emerson defined education as “the arming of the man.” These declarations are self-evident truths. No intelligent persons will dispute them. And you, teachers of Kansas, realizing the importance of your responsibilities, as I have no doubt you do, ought to realize also the necessity of fitting yourselves for the work you have undertaken.
In the charming stories of that great master of English fiction, Charles Dickens, there are sketches of schools, scholars and teachers that every public educator might read with profit. I am confident we have no Yorkshire schools and schoolmasters in Kansas—schools in which every young affection, every kindly sympathy, every hopeful aspiration, was flogged and starved to death. I hope, too, that we have no schools like that in which poor little Paul Dombey was crammed to an untimely grave—schools in which the studies “went round like a mighty wheel, and the young gentlemen were stretched upon it.” But I fear that mechanical schoolmasters of the Bradley Headstone class, and schools like that of David Copperfield, with its unwholesome smells, its dirty floors and its ink-stained walls, are not wholly unknown in this country. Let us hope they are very few, and growing fewer as the years go on. Kansas people take just pride in saying that the best building in every town, village or neighborhood in the State is the school-house, and it is pleasant to believe that the young life within them all is as sweet, as happy and as healthful as the flowers, the birds, and the air of our prairies. In the “Old Curiosity Shop” there is a picture, homely but delightful, of a school whose influences would run like a golden thread through the life of every child brought within their scope. You remember it, I am sure—the picture of the simple-hearted, kindly old teacher, whose thoughts went wandering across the fields to the bedside of the scholar he loved; the patient, faithful old master whose rollicking boys were one and all the children of his heart and hopes; the shrewd and sympathetic old man who, when the forbidden shouts and laughter of his pupils on the playground jarred upon his mournful thoughts, said: “It’s natural, thank Heaven, and I’m very glad they didn’t mind me.”