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 CHAPTER 10:
Cost Functions

10.1 The opportunity cost of producing a bicycle refers to the

a. out-of-pocket payments made to produce the bicycle.

b. value of the goods that were given up to produce the bicycle.

c. bicycle's retail price.

d. marginal cost of the last bicycle produced.

ANSWER: b

10.2 A firm's economic profits are given by

a. total revenue minus total accounting cost.

b. the owner's opportunity cost.

c. total revenue minus total economic cost.

d. total revenue minus the cost of capital.

ANSWER: c

10.3 In order to minimize the cost of a particular level of output, a firm should produce where

a. labor input equals capital input.

v
b. the RTS (of L for K) = .
w

© 2012 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly
accessible website, in whole or in part.
 Chapter 10: Cost Functions 39

w
c. the RTS (of L for K) =
v

v
d. the MRS = .
w

ANSWER: c

10.4 The firm's expansion path records

a. profit-maximizing output choices for every possible price.

b. cost-minimizing input choices for all possible output levels for when input rental
rates expand along with production.

c. cost-minimizing input choices for all possible output levels for a fixed set of input
prices.

d. cost-minimizing input choices for profit-maximizing output levels.

ANSWER: c

10.5 The expansion path for a homothetic production function

a. is a straight line through the origin with a slope greater than one if w > v.

b. is a straight line through the origin with a slope less than one if w < v .

c. is a straight line through the origin though its slope cannot be determined by w
and v alone.

d. has a positive slope but is not necessarily a straight line.

ANSWER: c

10.6. A firm whose production function displays increasing returns to scale will have a total
cost curve that is

a. a straight line through the origin.

b. a curve with a positive and continually decreasing slope.

© 2012 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly
accessible website, in whole or in part.
40 Chapter 10: Cost Functions

c. a curve with a positive and continually increasing slope.

d. a curve with a negative and continually decreasing slope.

ANSWER: b

10.7 A linear total cost curve which passes through the origin implies that

a. average cost is constant and marginal cost is variable.

b. average cost is variable and marginal cost is constant.

c. average and marginal costs are constant and equal.

d. need more information to answer question.

ANSWER: c

10.8 As long as marginal cost is below average cost, average cost will be

a. falling.

b. rising.

c. constant.

d. changing in a direction that cannot be determined without more information.

ANSWER: a

10.9 As long as marginal cost is less than average variable cost,

a. both average total costs and average variable costs will be falling.

b. average total costs will be falling but average costs may be rising or falling.

c. average fixed costs are rising.

d. average total costs are falling but average fixed costs may be rising.

ANSWER: a

© 2012 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly
accessible website, in whole or in part.
 Chapter 10: Cost Functions 41

10.10 The average fixed cost curve always has a negative slope because

a. marginal costs are below average fixed costs.

b. average variable costs exceed marginal costs.

c. total fixed costs always decrease.

d. total fixed costs do not change as output increases.

ANSWER: d

10.11 The shape of a firm's long-run average cost curve is determined by

a. the degree to which each input encounters diminishing marginal productivity.

b. the underlying nature of the firm's production function when all inputs are able to
be varied.

c. how much the firm decides to produce.

d. the way in which the firm's expansion path reacts to changes in the rental rate on
capital.

ANSWER: b

10.12 For a constant returns to scale production function

a. marginal costs are constant but the average cost curve has a U-shape.

b. both average and marginal costs are constant.

c. marginal cost has a U-shape; average costs are constant.

d. both average and marginal cost curves are U-shaped.

ANSWER: b

10.13 For any given output level, a firm's long-run costs

a. are always greater than or equal to its short-run costs.

© 2012 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly
accessible website, in whole or in part.
42 Chapter 10: Cost Functions

b. are usually greater than or equal to its short-run costs except in the case of
diminishing returns to scale.

c. are always less than or equal to its short-run costs.

d. are usually less than or equal to its short-run costs except in the case of
diminishing returns to scale.

ANSWER: c

10.14 An increase in the wage rate will have a greater effect on average costs

a. the larger the proportion labor costs are of total costs and the easier it is to
substitute capital for labor.

b. the larger the proportion labor costs are of total costs and the harder it is to
substitute capital for labor.

c. the greater is the diminishing marginal product of labor.

d. the greater are returns to scale.

ANSWER: b

10.15 Technical progress will

a. shift a firm's production function and its related cost curves.

b. not affect the production function, but may shift cost curves.

c. shift a firm's production function and alter its marginal revenue curve.

d. shift a firm's production function and cause more capital (and less labor) to be
hired.

ANSWER: a

10.16 The Cobb-Douglas production function q = k .5 l .75 yields the cost function C =
(where B is a constant).

a. Bq v1 2 w3 4 .

© 2012 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly
accessible website, in whole or in part.
 Chapter 10: Cost Functions 43

5/4
b. Bq v1 2 w3 4 .

4/5
c. Bq v1/2 w3/4 .

4/5
d. Bq v 2/5 w3/5 .

ANSWER: d

.8
10.17 For the cost function C = q v .4 w.6 consider the following statements:

I. The function exhibits decreasing average cost.

II. The function is homogeneous of degree 1 in v and w.
III. The elasticity of marginal cost with respect to v exceeds the elasticity with respect
to w.

a. None is true.

b. All are true.

c. Only I is true.

d. Only I and II are true.

ANSWER: d

10.18 For the cost function C = 100 + .3q,

a. marginal cost is constant.

b. average cost is U-shaped.

c. fixed costs diminish with q.

d. all of the above are true.

ANSWER: a

10.19 The input demand functions that can be derived from cost functions are referred to as
“contingent” demand functions because the functions:

© 2012 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly
accessible website, in whole or in part.
44 Chapter 10: Cost Functions

a. assume input costs are constant.

b. express input demand as a function of output.

c. depend on the assumption of profit maximization.

d. assume constant returns to scale in production.

ANSWER: b

10.20 The cost function C = q (v1 2 + w1 2) 2 arises from

a. a Cobb-Douglas production function.

b. a CES production function.

c. a fixed proportions production function.

d. a Translog production function.

ANSWER: b

© 2012 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly
accessible website, in whole or in part.
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the same time, we must sincerely and earnestly desire to liberate,
and send back to their own country, as soon as we can.

A VIRGINIAN.

The Western Monthly Magazine concurs with us in our opinions of Vathek. The editor
says, "Vathek is the production of a sensual and perverted mind. The events are
extravagant, the sentiments pernicious, and the moral bad. It has nothing to
recommend it but ease of style and copiousness of language."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.

"I'll make thee famous with my pen,

And glorious with my sword."

It is said, and truly said, that "Truth is often more incredible than
fiction." It is natural too, that we should take a deeper interest in the
fortunes of creatures of flesh and blood, who have actually lived and
suffered, than in the imaginary sorrows of beings that are
themselves but figments of the writer's brain.

Why then do we so rarely meet with any narrative of facts which

engages our feelings so deeply as a well wrought fiction? May it not
be that in all histories of a romantic character there is, from the very
nature of the thing, a degree of mystery which we cannot penetrate;
and that the innumerable little incidents, which adorn the pages of a
romance, and so aptly illustrate the characters of the parties, are
hidden by the veil of domestic privacy? It might be allowable to
supply these; but the attempt to do so, is always offensive to the
reader. We are disgusted at seeing truth alloyed by fiction, and the
fiction always betrays itself. Let a characteristic chit-chat be detailed,
and we find ourselves wondering who it was that took notes of the
conversation. We read the scene between Ravenswood and Miss
Ashton at the haunted fountain, and never ask, whether she rose
from her grave, or he emerged from the Kelpie's flow, to describe it
to the writer. But such a narrative concerning real persons, would
inevitably disgust us; and no writer of any tact would ever attempt
it. None above the grade of Parson Weems ever did. There is no
wilder romance than his life of Marion. But who reads it? We feel
that it profanes the truth of history with fiction, and we throw it
away with disgust. Yet it comes nearer to Schiller's masterpiece,
"The Robbers," than any thing else. Is it less interesting because the
prompting impulse of the hero is virtuous, not criminal? No; but
there is just truth enough to keep us always mindful of the
falsehood.

The great art, and the great charm of Walter Scott, is that he never
describes his characters. He brings us into their society, and makes
us know them. But how shall I make known the persons of whom I
wish to speak? I can say that HE was generous and brave, sincere,
and kind, and true, and that SHE was fair and gentle, and pure and
tender. These are but words, and have been repeated till they have
lost their meaning. I can say that both loved; but how can I show
the passion flashing in the eye, and glowing in the cheek—and how
can I give it breath in their own burning words? I heard them not.
None heard them. I can say that the hand of destiny was upon
them, and tore them asunder, to meet no more. I can even use the
words of one whose strains he loved, to tell
 "That neither ever found another
To free the hollow heart from paining;"

but how can I develope the mysterious means by which this destiny
was accomplished? How could I speak, but in their own words,
uttered only to the midnight solitude, the deep yearnings of their
hearts—and the noble enthusiasm which made it the task of his life
to render glorious the name of him she had honored with her love?
Could these details be given truly, what a romance of real life would
they form! Let the reader judge from the following lines found
among his papers, when the damps of the grave had at last cooled
the fever of his brain.

'Tis sweet, when night is hushed in deep repose;

And hides the Minstrel's form from every eye;
To breathe the thoughts that speech can ne'er disclose,
In all the eloquence of harmony.

The mellow strain pervades the silent air,

And mingles with the sleeper's blissful dream:
The Lover hears the song of maiden fair;
The humble saint, an Angel's holy hymn.

Then sweet to know that she, for whom alone,

Pours the wild stream of plaintive melody,
Recalls the voice of Love in every tone;
Approves its truth, and owns its purity.

Borne on the breeze that cools her glowing cheek,

But fans the ardor of her fevered breast;
Lifts the loose lock that floats upon her neck,
Sports round her couch, and hovers o'er her rest:

Borne on that breeze, it greets her listening ear

With tales of raptured bliss and tender wo;
And tells of Joy and Grief, of Hope, Despair,
 And all that love, and Love alone can know.

Her fair companions hear the soothing sound,

But mute to them the voice that speaks to her;
Burns the warm blush, unmarked of all around,
And darkling falls, unseen, the silent tear.

But not unseen of all; for to his eye,

By Fancy's magic light she stands revealed;
Her bosom struggling with the half-breathed sigh,
By the strong pressure of her hand repelled.

The Tear that in the moon-beam sparkles bright;

The pensive look; the outstretched neck of snow;
The Blush, contending with the silver light,
Whose cold pale gleam would quench its fervid glow;

He sees and hears it all. The music's stream

Extends a viewless chord of sympathy,
Thought answers thought; and, lost in Fancy's dream,
Each breast responsive swells with sigh for sigh.

Then O how sweet! warmed by the sacred flame,

Of mutual—true,—but fruitless—hopeless love,
To run the high career of deathless fame,
And mid the world's admiring gaze to move

Reckless of all but her. By midnight lamp,

To turn, with heedful eye, the learned page;
To shake the Senate, or to rule the Camp;
To brave the tempest's blast, or battle's rage!

What is the thought that prompts his studious zeal?

That mans his breast in danger's fearful path?
That nerves his arm to grasp the gory steel,
Despising toil and hardship, wounds and death?
It is that she the impassioned strain will love,
That gives her charms in deathless verse to shine;
Her favoring smile his steadfast faith approve;
Her raptured tears bedew each glowing line.

It is that she will cherish the renown

Of noble deeds achieved her name to grace;
And prize the heart that beat for her alone,
In glory's triumph, and in death's embrace.

'Tis that a grateful nation's loud acclaim

May pour his praises on her favoring ear;
'Tis that the twilight splendor of his name
The widowed darkness of her heart may cheer.

O! ever lovely, loving and beloved;

Constant in absence; constant in despair!
By time unwearied, by caprice unmoved;
Thy lover's faith and fame thine only care!

Tho' known to none but thee thy minstrel's name,

Or who the fair that caused his tender pain;
All undistinguished by the voice of fame,
The bard who sung; the maid that waked the strain.

Yet may'st thou catch the unconscious sympathy

Of some soft nymph, who, from her lover's tongue,
Hears, with averted look and blush and sigh,
Her heart's fond secret in this artless song.

But were I skilled to weave the immortal verse,

Which after ages with applause would read;
Thy praise in fitting accents I'd rehearse,
And with unfading bay would crown thy head.
Then should my Laura's charms survive the tomb,
In strains like that the fairy bulbul sings,
When all unseen he wakes the midnight gloom,
Hovering o'er beauty's grave on viewless wings.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT FROM A LADY'S ALBUM.

And must I stain this virgin leaf,

So fair, so pure, and so like thee!
It grieves me—but it is thy will;
And that is always law to me.

'Tis said that those who feel the most

Can best describe love's potent spell—
That what the heart most deeply feels,
The tongue most eloquently tells.

Alas! it is an erring rule—

It is not true! it is not true!
Strong Passion's voice was ever low;
And lower yet as Passion grew.

When fiercest winds o'er ocean sweep,

The sea is quell'd—no billows roll
Their foaming crests upon the deep.
Thus Passion treads the very soul
Low in the dust, and bids it weep
 In silent anguish—and 'tis still
As the aw'd slave who bows before a despot's will.

Then think not I can tell my love

In well-set phrase, with fitting smiles;
He loves not—Oh! believe it true—
Who knows and practices such wiles.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE PRAYER.

Oh! mother, whither do they lead

This wretched form, this drooping frame?
What means the white rose in my hair?
These jewels sure are not a dream.
Of wither'd leaves 'twere better far
The bridal chaplet had been wove—
Oh! mother, lead me back again;
I cannot love—I cannot love!

Look not for love—it is in vain!

Within this heart no more it dwells:
Unclasp the volume if thou wilt,
And ponder on the truth it tells.
Ah! dearest mother, do not seek
To warm to life a thing that dies,
Nor re-illume the flame, when once
The shrine, in hopeless ruin lies.
 Not to the altar, mother—no,
I cannot kneel and speak that vow—
Oh! let me rend these hated gems,
And tear the white rose from my brow.
Nay, let the dark grave be my couch,
Of cypress leaves my bridal wreath,
And I will wed,—yes, gladly wed,
And clasp my welcome bridegroom, Death!
OCTAVIAN.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SELECTIONS FROM MY PORT FOLIO.

MY OWN OPINION—A la Shakspeare.

There are, who say she is not beautiful.

"Her forehead's not well turned," cries one. "The nose
Too large"—"Her mouth ill-chiselled," says a third.
With these, I claim no fellowship.
For me, ('tis an odd taste, I know, and now-a-days,
When people feel by rule, such taste is thought
Exceedingly romantic—yet 'tis true,)
I look not with this mathematic eye
On woman's face; I carry not about
The compass, and the square—and when I'm asked,
"Is that face fine?" draw forth my instruments,
And coolly calculate the length of chin,
Th' expanse of forehead, and the distance take
Twixt eye and nose, and then, twixt nose and mouth,
And if, exactly correspondent, it
Should not prove just so much, two and three-eighths,
Or, one four-fifths, disgusted, turn away,
And vow "'tis vile! there is no beauty in't!"
Out, on this mechanic disposition!
Look you! That man was born a carpenter.
He hath no heart—he hath no soul in him,
Who thus insults the "human face divine,"
And tests its beauty with a vile inch-rule,
As he would test the beauty of a box,
A chess-board, or a writing-desk! Oh no!
It is not in the feature's symmetry
(For choose of earth the most symmetric face,
Phidias shall carve as perfect—out of stone,)
That the deep beauty lies! Give me the face
That's warm—that lives—that breathes—made radiant
By an informing spirit from within!
Give me the face that varies with the thought,
That answers to the heart! and seems, the while,
With such a separate consciousness endued,
That, as we gaze, we can almost believe
It is itself a heart—and, of itself,
Doth feel and palpitate!

And such is her's!

One need but look on, to converse with her!
Why I, without a thought of weariness,
Have sat, and gazed on her for hours! and oft,
As I have listened to her voice, and marked
The beautiful flash of her fine dark eye,
And the eloquent beaming of her face,
And the tremulous glow that, when she spoke,
Pervaded her whole being,—I have dreamed
 A spirit held communion with me then,
And could have knelt to worship!
P. H.

Augusta, Georgia.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.—NO. 4.

BY A VIRGINIAN.

Albany, N. Y. July 27th, 1834.

It is a Southern opinion, that the large factories which have grown

up in the North, within the last seventeen years, are of a very
demoralizing tendency: that so many persons—such persons too—
cannot be housed together, and allowed the free intercourse
unavoidable where the restraint is not for crime, without a large
result of licentiousness and vice. I have long thought thus: and must
confess I entered New England with a sort of wish (arising from my
hostility to the protective system,) to have the opinion confirmed. In
some places, I heard and saw confirmation strong: but in most—and
those the chief seats of manufactures—my inquiries resulted directly
otherwise. The laborers there, it seems, are as moral as any other
class of the population. The females watch each other's deportment
with the most jealous vigilance: a slip is at once exposed, and
punished by expulsion; even a slight indiscretion is sure to draw
down remonstrance, and if that fails, complaint to the ruling power.
The boys and girls are allowed a reasonable part of the year to
attend the common-schools; and are encouraged at all seasons to
frequent Sunday schools. Lectures, occasional or in courses, are
delivered, of which the operatives are eager hearers: and social
Libraries, with habits of reading, sometimes produce among them
strengthened and well stored minds. Wherever these good effects
appear, be it observed, the proprietors and superintendents
(generally men of fortune, as well as intelligence) have taken the
greatest possible care to produce them. And where the unfavorable
appearances occurred, there seemed to have been a corresponding
neglect on the part of owners and agent.

The natural course of these establishments, then, seems to be down

the stream of vice. Great exertions may enable them to resist, nay to
surmount and ascend the current; but so soon as those efforts
cease, that instant the downward tendency prevails.1 While the
manufacturing system is young—while high protecting duties enable
employers to give high wages—while a desire to conciliate favor to
the system keeps both owners and operatives upon their best
behavior—the favorable moral condition I have described may
continue. But the oarsman cannot forever row up the stream;
weariness, or confidence, or incaution, will, some day, relax his arm.
In process of time, these promiscuous assemblages of hundreds and
thousands will vindicate the justness of the reasoning, which argues
the danger of contamination (a sort of spontaneous combustion)
from so close a contact:2 will shew themselves rank hot beds of vice;
and make the lover of good morals grieve, that so many souls
should ever have been seduced from the healthful air of field, and
forest, and rustic fireside, to sicken and die in a tainted, unnatural
atmosphere.
1 Non aliter quam qui adverso vix flumine lembum
Remigiis subigit; si brachia forté remisit,
Atque illum in præceps prono rapit alveus amni.

2 In Godwin's Inquirer, are some very just and forcible observations on the corrupting
effect upon youth, of too close and numerous an association with each other. He
 applies it to large boarding schools. The enlightened President of a Rhode Island
University, on similar grounds (as he told me), does all that he can to discourage
students from boarding and lodging in College. Observation and experience had
shewn him the danger of spontaneous combustion, from the too near approach of
human passions and weaknesses. The same principle applies to the case of Factory
hands: only, here, are superadded, elements which incalculably enhance the danger.

I mentioned Lectures, and social Libraries.—These, and similar

institutions for diffusing knowledge among the multitude, are among
the chief glories of New England. In all the cities, and many of the
larger and middling towns (towns in the English sense,) there are
Lyceums, Young Men's Societies, Library Societies, or associations
under some such name, for mental exercise and improvement. A
collection of books is a usual, and a philosophical apparatus an
occasional appendage. Connectedly with these institutions, or
sometimes, independently of them, Lectures on every variety of
subjects that can instruct or profit mankind, are delivered by public
spirited men—professional and unprofessional—sometimes, by
farmers and mechanics themselves. They are gratuitous; and in a
style plain enough to be understood by all classes of society, who
flock to hear them. For these occasions, the first abilities of the
country have now and then been put in requisition. Story, Everett,
and Webster—alike with the village teacher and mechanic; have
contributed their quota of MIND, towards the holy cause of Popular
Instruction. A valuable lecture from each of these; from Mr. Everett
indeed, two Lectures—are in Vol. 1 of the "American Library of
useful knowledge." The name of this work at once suggests that a
similar one, published by Mr. Brougham and his generous associates
in Great Britain, in fortnightly pamphlets, at a rate so cheap as to be
within every laborer's reach; unfolding, in a familiar style, the useful
parts of scientific and historical knowledge. To his share in this work,
Brougham, you remember, having his hands already filled with
pressing employments, was obliged to devote "hours stolen from
needful rest." How magnanimous the spirit, which could prompt that
"hardest lesson that humility can teach—a voluntary descent from
the dignity of science,"3 to explain the simple rudiments of
knowledge to unlettered minds! the spirit, which could make genius
and power drudge in the lowliest walks of learning, to open and
smooth them for the ingress of intellectual "babes and sucklings!"
When will the great of Virginia deign this magnanimous descent?
When will our Leigh, our Tazewell, our Barbour, our Rives, our
Johnson, our Stanard, our Robertson—a generous spirit, from whose
devotion to democracy, something might be expected towards fitting
his countrymen for self government—when will they, and the host of
talents besides that Virginia possesses, be found striving in this
noble race of usefulness with Brougham, Jeffrey, McIntosh, Webster
and Everett? That trumpet-call of the North American Review five
years ago, which might have roused apathy itself to energetic effort
in the cause of Popular Education, and which—whether it betokened
only, or strengthened, the beneficent operation of the spirit that has
so long been diffusing through the North the blessed light of MIND—
doubtless met a response in every Northern bosom; that trumpet-
call, in Virginia, fell upon senseless ears. You indeed, I remember,
echoed it; but trumpet-call and echo both, sounded in ears deaf
save to the miserable wranglings of party, about the more miserable
pretensions of opposing candidates: and, at this day, our people,
and their leaders, are in a slumber as profound on this subject, as if
we had no Literary Fund—no Primary Schools—no youth to educate
—no country to save from the certain fate of popular ignorance.
3 Dr. Johnson.

It is bed time, and I must forbear saying more at present. Yet I have
not done with New England: there remain several topics, which I
incline to touch. So you shall hear from me at my next stopping
place.

West Point, N. Y., July 28.

On board the Steam-boat this morning, I met —— —— and his
family; who, without my knowing it, were in Albany all of yesterday.
They have landed here too; and we expect to descend the river
together to New York city, to-morrow. He has given me a very
gratifying account of the Temperance reformation in this state. It
seems to be triumphant, beyond all experience in Virginia, or even in
New England. The means have been, perfectly organized action—
great diligence of exertion—and the use of the PRESS. The
organization consists in a regular and intimate concert, of township
societies with county societies, and of these with the State society.
This powerful machinery has been aided by the active zeal, and
generosity, of individuals, who have profusely lavished time, and toil,
and money, to advance the goodly work. And by a judicious use of a
great modern improvement of the Press, a monthly paper (the
Temperance Recorder) is published, at the price of seventeen cents
per annum: a copy of which, or of some other Temperance
newspaper, it is believed, is received by almost every family in the
state. Measures are taking to convey light thus to, absolutely, every
family. Cannot something like this be done in Virginia? In
Massachusetts, I perceived with regret, a strong disposition to
invoke Legislative action in support of the Temperance Society: to
get the making and vending of ardent spirits prohibited by Law. In
New York, they disarm opposition of so plausible a pretext for
hostility, by fixedly determining to ask—to accept—no such aid; but
to rely exclusively upon reasoning, the exhibition of facts, and the
influence of example—means, which have already achieved, what
were seven years ago deemed chimæras, and which will doubtless
be fully adequate to the consummation of this great work.—But I am
digressing from my design, of dwelling a little longer on some
features of New England.

Manual Labor Schools (on the Fellenberg plan) have not multiplied
there, or grown in esteem, as might have been expected from the
forwardness of the people in adopting every valuable improvement;
and particularly, from the congeniality of this one with their own
long-cherished custom, of blending labor with study. Possibly, this
very custom may, in their eyes, make the improvement unnecessary:
since their youth already substantially enjoy its advantages. To study
in winter—to work in summer—has, time out of mind, been the
routine of New England education: differing from the Fellenberg
method only in having the alternations half-yearly, instead of half-
daily.—Franklin, the Trumbulls, Sherman, Dwight, Pickering, Webster,
Burges, and all the illustrious self-made men, who have rendered
that otherwise unkindly soil so verdant with laurels, were nurtured
strictly in the discipline of manual labor schools: and perhaps the
new method would be quite needless, were not the progress of
wealth, luxury, indolence and pride, now rapidly swelling the
numbers of those who, urged by no necessity, and relying upon no
exertions of their own for distinction, would never feel the salutary
influence of labor, if not sent to schools where it is taught; and were
not the same progress multiplying those also, who never could
procure instruction, except by the opportunity which this method
affords them, of purchasing it by their labor. Perhaps too, the
Common Schools (in which poor and rich are equally entitled to
learn) may tend still more to render the new plan useless; as to the
branches of knowledge taught in them.

Infant Schools appear to have sunk a good deal in esteem, among

intelligent people in New England. At Hartford, a lady, whose name
(were it seemly to publish a lady's name) would give commanding
weight to the opinion, told me that they were found hurtful both to
body and mind: To body (and this the physicians confirmed) by
overexciting, and thus injuring, the brain and the nervous system: to
mind, by inducing the habit of learning parrot-like, by rote—by
sound merely—without exercise of the thinking power. It seems
agreed, that some features of the infant school system may
advantageously be transferred to ordinary schools: for instance, the
use of tangible and visible symbols and illustrations. And infant
schools themselves are certainly well enough, for those children who
would otherwise have to be left alone, or untended, while their
parents are abroad or at work. But for young children, where the
sternest necessity does not forbid, there is nothing comparable to
domestic education; no care, no skill, no authority, like those of a
mother—or of a father. And how few parents there are, who, by
methodical husbandry of time, and reasonable exertion of intellect,
might not find both leisure and ability to train the minds and form
the habits of their offspring, for at least the first nine years of life!

The Common-school system, as a system, is certainly admirable. But

some minutiæ of its administration may be censured. Teachers are
often tasked with too many pupils. I saw a young woman of twenty,
toiling in the sway of fifty-two noisy urchins, with twenty of whom I
am quite sure my hands would have been over-full: and it was said
to be no unusual case. Then, Webster's spelling book is in frequent
use. There are half a dozen better ones. And the barbarous usage,
of making a child go on to spell in five or six syllables, before he is
allowed the refreshment of reading—instead of teaching him to read
as soon as he can spell in three letters, and then carrying on the two
processes together, to their mutual acceleration—is still kept up, as
in our old-field schools.—A usage about as worthy of this
enlightened age, as the old rule, of whipping a boy for miscalling a
word, or for not crossing a t. I was glad to see Warren Colburn's
books—his Intellectual Arithmetic particularly—in pretty general use.
His merit is, not so much that he has smoothed the road to that
child-perplexing branch of knowledge (though in that respect he has
entitled himself to every child's gratitude), as that he has rendered
the study an improving exercise to the mind—a strengthener and
quickener of the reasoning faculty; and has disclosed the rationalia
of many processes of calculation, as mysterious before to the young
mind as so many feats of jugglery. A pervading fault in the
management of the common-schools, is a false economy; shewn, in
choosing teachers less by their proper qualifications, than by their
cheapness. In Connecticut, more especially, this wretched mistake
seems to prevail; as a curious fact, told me in Providence, strikingly
illustrates. Of the many who go forth from the University there, and
from several good Academies in the state of Rhode Island, to find
employment as teachers in the adjoining states, few or none, it was
said, found it in Connecticut: owing to the niggardly wages paid
there. The man for their money, is he who asks the least.

Wide discretion, as to the classification of the Common-schools, and

as to the extent of the studies in them, is given to the Towns. In
some, the people, or their commissioners appointed to superintend
the schools, are content with a single grade or tier, in which are
taught merely the necessary sorts of knowledge, from Arithmetic
downwards. Others classify them, into 1st. primary schools, where
only spelling, reading, and writing, are taught: 2nd. secondary
schools, for the rudiments of Arithmetic, Geography, English
Grammar, and further progress in reading and writing: 3rd.
Apprentices' schools, where the above branches are further taught,
with the addition of some History, Book-keeping, and Geometry: 4th.
High schools, for Algebra, Geometry, use of the Globes, Latin, (and
sometimes Greek) with perhaps the elements of Natural Philosophy.
The classification sometimes stops at the third, sometimes at the
second, tier. There are but few towns, in which it is carried to the
fourth. Worcester is one of these: Boston, and Salem, are the only
others that I heard of. In the first and second grades, boys and girls
are schooled together: in the higher grades, male and female
schools, are separate.

Latin and Mathematics are coming to be considered as a regular part

of female education, throughout the North. But I have not
ascertained satisfactorily, whether it is a mere smattering that is
taught, or so thorough a course as may solidly improve the memory,
taste, judgment and reasoning powers. In relation to women even
more emphatically than to men, (it seems generally agreed) these
studies are less to be prized, for any specific pieces of knowledge
they furnish, than for the activity, strength, acuteness and polish,
they give to the various powers of the understanding. The Yankees
are too shrewd, and too habitually observant of practical utility, not
to perceive this truth, and act accordingly.
The voyage hither from Albany abounds with captivating spectacles.
For the first fifty miles, these consisted chiefly of waving hills,
interspersed with modest but handsome country seats half-veiled by
trees;—and of villages and landings, where, at intervals of four or
five miles, our immense floating Hotel would halt to take in and land
passengers—if halt it could be called, when her motion was not
actually suspended, but only slackened, while by her boat, she
rapidly communicated with the shore. The Catskill Mountains were in
sight; and we were nearly entering the Highlands, so celebrated in
the journal of every tourist, from Dolph Heyliger downwards, for
their almost matchless combination of beauty and sublimity; when
the lean "orderer of all things," for reasons best known to himself
and his employers, contrived to coop us all under hatches at dinner.
A slender appetite, and a surmise that there would be something
worth seeing, carried me on deck before the rest were half done
eating; when mountains, hemming in the majestic Hudson to a
width of not more than five or six hundred yards, broke at once
upon my view. They rise, from the water's very edge, within twenty
or thirty degrees of the perpendicular, to a height of fourteen or
fifteen hundred feet; their sides and summits undulating with various
prominences and depressions, occupied by dark brown rocks,
intermingled with scanty shadings of evergreens, stunted bushes,
and shrubs. After sailing three or four miles between these awful
embankments, we reach West Point. Here are quite too many
pleasing objects, for enumeration; a skilful book-wright could make a
volume of them. 'Kosciusko's Garden' is a romantic sinus, or recess,
in the precipice which forms the eastern face, (upon the river) of the
table land called West Point. Hither, it is said, that hero used daily to
retire for meditation and repose; and a shelf in the rock is shewn, as
the couch where he often reclined. Nay, within a few inches of
where his head probably used to lie, an indentation in the rock is
pointed out, said to have been made by a cannon ball, fired at him
from a British man of war that lay in the river: but this story "wants
confirmation." You descend by a flight of stone steps to the
"Garden," which is only ten or fifteen feet above the river. It is
furnished with wooden seats; and with a neat fountain of whitish
marble, in which bubbles up a bold vein of water.

On the north-eastern angle of the "Point," around which the river

somewhat abruptly sweeps, is a handsome monument, erected by
the Cadets some years ago, to the same hero. It is a plain marble
column, about fifteen or eighteen feet high; with no inscription save
the single word "KOSCIUSKO." This simple memorial is, in moral
sublimity, scarcely inferior to that conception, one of the noblest of
its kind in the whole compass of poetry—

"We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory."

There are few names which can justly be relied upon, thus to speak
the epitaphs of those who bore them. Among those few, doubtless,
is the name of KOSCIUSKO. History, and the halo thrown around that
name by Campbell, will ensure it a place among the "household
words" of Poland and America, and of every people who shall speak
the language or breathe the spirit of either.

"Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,

And Freedom shrieked, as KOSCIUSKO fell!"

To be mentioned thus, and so deservedly—is to be embalmed in

Light, and set conspicuously on high in the Temple of Fame.

A similar inscription is upon the tomb of Spurzheim, in the cemetery

of Mount Auburn, near Boston. To me, this seems to be taking too
high a ground for him: though you, who are a phrenologist
confirmed, may not think so. Possibly, you are right. Contemporary
celebrity is no measure of posthumous fame. PARADISE LOST was
almost unknown till near half a century after its author's death: and
he was contemptuously designated as "One Milton," by a man then
conspicuous, but whose very name (Whitelocke) it has at this
moment actually cost me an effort to recollect. So, possibly,
Spurzheim's renown may freshen with time; and a discerning
posterity, honoring him above Napoleon, and even above Kosciusko,
may apply the just saying of a great—that is a voluminous—poet:

"The warrior's name,

Though pealed and chimed on all the tongues of Fame,
With far less rapture fills the generous mind,
Than his, who fashions and improves mankind."

Good night.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

CITY OF MEXICO—CHAPOLTEPEC.

May 25, 1825.—This morning we made our entree into the city of
Mexico. Passing through the little villages of Istapalapa and
Mexicalsingo, we rode for several miles over a paved causeway—
calzada—lined with the schinus,1 aspins, and a species of willow very
much resembling the lombardy poplar—in sight of the numerous
towers and domes which rise above the scarcely visible flat-roofed
houses of the city. The approach to it, but for this and other fine
avenues, would be perfectly tame, as its situation is a level, whose
elevation above the plain which surrounds it is quite imperceptible.
From the gate—garita—we turned into the Paseo de las Vigas, a
beautiful promenade on the bank of the canal, which leads from
Chalco, through the eastern portion of the city, into the lake of
Tescuco. We were here joined by the few American residents of
Mexico, and accompanied by them, soon entered its streets, which
in the suburbs are exceedingly filthy, but as we advanced, they were
clean, well paved, but not wide, with good yet narrow sidewalks of
broad flags of porphyry. My first feeling was disappointment—not so
much with the city, as with the crowds of wretched ill-dressed
people, of beggars, and poor half-naked Indians, bending under
heavy burdens. There are no carts or drays for the transportation of
goods, which are carried upon the backs of these poor creatures,
who are enabled to carry a load of three hundred pounds, by means
of a leather band or strap, the cargador leaning forward at an angle
of about 45°, the burden resting on the back, supported by this
strap. With so heavy a load they travel great distances, moving in a
brisk walk or trot.
1 The Schinus or Arbol de Peru is a beautiful tree, somewhat resembling a willow; it is
odorous, and bears in bunches a small red berry, which is almost as pungent as black
pepper, as a substitute for which it is used by the poorer people.

The houses of Mexico, some of which are very spacious and

magnificent, are constructed generally of a light volcanic production
called tetzontli, in some instances cut smooth and square, but more
frequently rough, when the walls are plastered with lime and
painted. The handsomest are built of light gray porphyry. They are
mostly of two stories, some of three, with axoteas or flat roofs. They
have all open squares. A gate, large enough for carriages to pass
through, leads from the street into the patio, or court yard. The
basement upon the street is occupied commonly as a store or shop,
and in the rear are the stables. Across the patio, fronting the gate, is
the staircase, which leads to the corridors, or interior porticoes,
which surround the area, and are ornamented with flowers. From
the corridors, the doors open into the various rooms, which
communicate with each other around the whole area, in instances
where the house is so large as to occupy the four sides. It is an airy
style of building, the windows being large, level with the brick floor,
opening like double doors, and is well adapted to the delightful
climate of Mexico. The most serious evil is the want of privacy to the
chambers. Each window has its balcony.

The streets of Mexico run nearly from north to south, and from east
to west, crossing at right angles. The greatest longitudinal length is
about two miles—the latitudinal about a mile and three quarters;2
but as the figure of the city is unequal, these lengths are far from
uniform. In either direction the view is terminated by the mountains
which bound the plain of Mexico. In the central and most frequented
parts of the city, the streets are well paved and are kept clean; but
apart from these, they are amazingly dirty—the drains passing
through the centre being open, offensive both to the sight and to
the smell.
2 This measure does not mean the distance of the opposite garitas or custom-house
gates from each other, which is considerably greater—but comprises the compactly
built part of the city, not comprehending the scattered houses in the outskirts.

The Plaza Mayor is the principal open square in the centre of the
city. On the northern side of it is the cathedral; the government
house, formerly the vice regal palace, occupies its eastern side; on
the southern and western sides are the Cabildo, (town-hall,) and
colonnades or portales, within which are the principal stores, and
where varieties of goods and trinkets, lottery tickets and shilling
pamphlets, are sold. In the southeastern portion of this square stood
the magnificent equestrian statue of Charles IV, raised on a fine
pedestal, and surrounded by a handsome iron railing. It has been
removed lately to the patio or court of the university, where it
remains to be admired for its admirable workmanship in bronze,
although it is seen to disadvantage in a compass too confined for it.
In the southwestern part of this plaza stands a collection of stores, a
sort of bazaar, called the Parian, which disfigures it extremely; but as
the city derives a large revenue from the rent, there is little prospect
of the levelling system being extended to this little town of shops.
The cathedral is a splendid edifice, with a front of three hundred and
fifty feet, upon the plaza. It stands upon the same spot which the
famous Aztec Temple of Huitzilopochtli occupied. The eastern part of
the front, built of red tetzontli, is a curious gothic, bearing a more
antique appearance than the other portion, which last, indeed, is the
front to the body of the edifice. This is built of gray porphyry,
ornamented with pilasters and statues, and surmounted by two
handsome towers. The interior is very rich and magnificent; the
dome is lofty and supported by large stone columns. The grandeur
of the whole is diminished greatly by the choir, which occupies a
large portion of the nave, and is connected with the chief altar by a
railing of bronze, surmounted by silver figures supporting branches
for candles. A superb chandelier of silver is suspended nearly under
the great dome in front of the grand altar, which is richly
ornamented with gold and silver. The tout ensemble has an imposing
effect; and at night, when illuminated, with the music of a full choir,
instrumental and vocal, the impressions it makes are irresistibly
strong. The depth of the whole edifice is about four hundred and
fifty feet.3
3 The entire length of the interior of the cathedral is 373 feet—its width 179 feet.
Those in the journal are the external dimensions. The structure was begun in 1573,
and cost $1,752,000. It was dedicated in 1667. The grand altar bears a later date,
and was dedicated in 1743.

In the southwestern corner of the cathedral, inlaid in the exterior

wall, is the celebrated calendar stone of the ancient Mexicans. It is a
huge mass of gray porphyry, having a circular face seven feet in
diameter, on which the figures that represent the months are
sculptured in relief. In the centre is a head, from the mouth of which
water seems to flow—surrounded by two circles, a large and a small
one—the latter divided into twenty parts, with hieroglyphics which
designate the twenty months of eighteen days each, into which the
Mexican year was divided. The remainder of the face is ornamented
with figures in relief.
The Palace, filling the eastern side of the Plaza, occupies a square of
six hundred and sixty feet by six hundred, within which space are
comprised the residence of the president, the offices of the different
departments of the government, the senate chamber and that of the
deputies, the mint, prison, botanic garden, and the barracks of a
regiment of infantry. On this spot Cortes fixed his residence after the
capture of the city; but he exchanged it subsequently for the site of
Montezuma's palace, on which now stands the Casa de Estado, the
family mansion of the conqueror. This classic ground is to the west
of the cathedral, fronting it; and the space, believed to have
embraced the residence of the Mexican kings, is a square of about
six hundred feet. On the northern side of this square passes the
street running west, Calle de Tacuba, by which Cortes retreated on
the memorable noche triste (unfortunate night) when he was driven
from Tenochtitlan, or Tenictitan, as Cortes writes the name of the
ancient city.

The botanic garden occupies an inner patio, or court of the palace,

and is altogether unworthy of the celebrity which it has obtained in
foreign countries. It is confined and crowded. Collections of seeds
sold by the superintendent at high prices, have, to the great chagrin
of foreigners, been found invariably to comprise the most ordinary
plants, when the most rare and valuable were promised to the
purchasers. An additional garden has been laid out recently at
Chapoltepec. There are two tall trees of the Manitas, in the botanic
garden—all, with the exception of one at Toluca, that are said to be
growing in the republic. The Professor of Botany, Don Vicente
Cervantes, informed me that it is a common tree in Guatemala. The
flower is exceedingly beautiful, of a bright scarlet color; its supposed
resemblance to a hand, gives the name to the trees, Arbol de las
Manitas—but it is far more like a bird's claws.

* * * * *

Less than a league from the city to the west, is the porphyritic rock
of Chapoltepec,4 which rises one hundred and sixty feet above the
plain. On its summit is a palace or castle built by the Viceroy Galvez,
but never finished. Towards the city it bears the appearance of a
fortress, and the work is so constructed as to withstand a siege. The
founder, no doubt, had it in view in its construction, as the resort of
the Viceroy in case of insurrection among the people, of which there
had been several instances. The view of the city and plain of Mexico
from this spot, is remarkably beautiful. Baron Humboldt, whose
enthusiasm sometimes led him to extravagance, thus eloquently
describes it:5 "Nothing can be more rich and varied than the picture
which the valley presents, when, on a fine summer's morning, the
heaven being cloudless and of that deep blue which is peculiar to
the dry and rarified air of high mountains, we ascend one of the
towers of the Cathedral of Mexico, or the hill of Chapoltepec. A
beautiful vegetation surrounds this hill. The ancient trunks of
cypress, of more than fifteen or sixteen metres6 in circumference,
divested of foliage, rise above those of the schinus, which, in figure,
resemble the weeping willows of the east. In the depth of this
solitude, from the top of the porphyritic rock of Chapoltepec, the eye
overlooks a vast plain with well cultivated fields, which extend even
to the foot of the colossal mountains, covered with perpetual ice.
The city seems washed by the waters of the lake of Tescuco, whose
basin, surrounded by villages and hamlets, reminds one of the most
beautiful lakes of the mountains of Switzerland. Long avenues of
elms and poplars lead on all sides to the capital. Two aqueducts,
constructed upon lofty arches, cross the plain, and present an aspect
both agreeable and interesting. To the north is seen the magnificent
convent of Our Lady of Guadalupe, with the mountains of Tepexacac
behind it, among ravines which furnish shelter to dates and tufted
yuccas. To the south, the whole country between San Angel,
Tacubaya, and San Agustin de las Cuevas, appears an immense
garden of oranges, peaches, apples, cherries, and other European
fruit trees. The beautiful cultivation is contrasted with the savage
aspect of the bald mountains which enclose the valley, and among
which are distinguished the famous volcanoes of Puebla, the
Popocatepetl, and Iztaccihuatl. The first forms an enormous cone,
whose crater, constantly inflamed, throwing out smoke and ashes,
opens in the midst of eternal snows."
4 Chapoltepec signifies the mountain of grasshoppers; from Chapolin, a grasshopper,
and tepetl, mountain.

5 Vol. 2, Book 3, c. 8.

6 About fifty English feet.

A less enthusiastic spectator would subtract many of its beauties

from this glowing description, and still could not fail to admire—to
admire much and long, the prospect from Chapoltepec. He would
see a fine city, with its sixty domes and twice as many towers, but
the lake of Tescuco is too distant and indistinct to seem to wash it
with its waters—and he would look in vain for the villages and
hamlets that surround it. The fruit trees of Tacubaya, San Angel and
Agustin exist, but unfortunately are not seen. These villages are
situated on the southwestern border of the plain, and abound in
orchards, but these are shut from view by high stone walls. With like
disappointment he would look towards the smoking volcano of
Puebla; the Popocatepetl does indeed smoke, but the smoke is
indiscernible except from the mouth of the crater itself—nor has it
been known to throw out ashes since 1665, when it continued to
discharge for four days. In other respects the preceding description
is not too highly wrought.

* * * * *

About a mile from Chapoltepec is situated the little village of

Tacubaya, celebrated for its mills, but chiefly for the palace and
garden of the Archbishop of Mexico. From this palace, which stands
upon a commanding point above the village, the view is as
extensive, and perhaps even more beautiful than that from
Chapoltepec, inasmuch as this last is comprehended in it. The
garden is laid out prettily, and contains some fine plants and fruits,
but is very much neglected. A large orchard of olive trees adjoins it,
which yield plentifully; but the olives, which may not be so well
cured, are not as good as those imported from Spain. The cultivation
of olive trees was forbidden under the Spanish government, lest it
might interfere with the monopoly of the mother country, which
exported in 1803, olives to the value of thirty thousand dollars.7
7 Humboldt, vol. 4, p. 374-564.

In two subjoined articles, extracted from the "American Annals of Education," a very
useful periodical, published in Boston,—are the same which are referred to by an
intelligent correspondent in the last number of the "Messenger." (See page 205.)
They are well worth the reader's attention.

HEINROTH ON THE EDUCATION OF INFANCY.

(Translated from the German.)

We have often put the question to parents, at what period of infancy

moral discipline should begin, and we have heard various ages
assigned, from six months to a year. But in watching the
management of early infancy, in observing one child incessantly fed
and dandled, and yet incessantly fretful, in seeing another burst into
distressing outcries, if its wants were not gratified at the instant, in
remarking how another would submit, with comparative quiet, to be
laid down when it desired to move, and suppress its cries when its
gratification was delayed,—above all, in seeing how the infant of
poverty, or of savage life, submits to be left unnoticed and
unattended, while its mother toils the livelong day for a subsistence,