The examination of this school commenced on Monday the 13th of September, and closed on Wednesday afternoon. During the three days of the examination, a morning and an afternoon session were held, and we can truly say (having been present during nearly the whole time,) that the students were rigidly examined. We have always been pleased with the entire honesty that has characterised the examinations of this school ever since its opening. There is no attempt at display, and no desire to screen the pupil from the consequences of his idleness. Every one is left to stand or fall according to his merits, and the teachers do not consider it necessary for their own reputation to make every one appear well. And the beneficial effects of this course are most apparent all feel the necessity of application, since they have nothing but disgrace to expect if they are negligent.

At the same time, the student's claim to a diploma is not made to depend at all on his final examination. A regular account is kept of the recitations and progress of each student during each day of the term; hence the Faculty know well enough who are doing well or ill, and who deserve a certificate as suitable persons to instruct the young. Nevertheless these rigorous examinations are profitable-they are a stimulus to the

pupils, and they also afford the public an opportunity of knowing just what the character of the school is.

From our connection with the Normal School, it might very naturally be expected that our judg ment of the examinations would not be wholly impartial; we prefer therefore to give the opin ion of intelligent gentlemen who attended the examination, rather than our own. We addressed a number of persons upon this subject, and from all we received but one answer-" we are much pleased-the school is doing a great work, and we cherish a strong assurance that the pupils who are trained here will do much for the benefit of the young."

The whole course of study pursued in the school was made the subject of examination.

On Thursday morning, the Experimental school for children was examined, and the pupils acquitted themselves most honorably.

The closing exercises took place in the chapel of the school on Thursday afternoon. A large and respectable audience attended. The exercises were opened with prayer, after which the following poem, composed by Miss Sarah A. Sherman, of Saratoga county, a member of the graduating class, was read by the Principal.

The bright Song Spirit hath a fairy voice; A sweet and witching voice, that o'er the heart, A thrill of gladness brings. Oft times 'tis low, And sweet, like distant music in the sky; And then 'tis glad, and gay as are the songs Of birds in early spring; anon, it hath A sad, sublime, and solemn tone, that stirs The soul's deep mysteries. Then let us seek, O'er earth, the haunted spot of its abode.

Its voice, perchance, is in the lily's cup, When evening zephyrs pass along, to which Ephemera may list in rapturous joy,

Though our gross ears perceive it not. It breathes

Within the pearly sea-shell's plaintive tone,

The tone that minds us of the crystal wave
That rocked its early slumbers in the deep.

When gentle winds go dancing by, they sweep The harp-strings of the mountain pine, and thence, A breath of saddened music bring. Its voice, Beside the streamlet's mossy bank is heard, As gleaming, like a silvery thread, it glides, O'er shining pebbles towards the dark, deep sea. 'Tis heard in dashings of the wild cascade, Whose airy echoes from the hills reply.

When e'er the ebon cloud with blackness veils The sunny sky, and threatning thunders speak, And forth the dread and fiery tempest comes, Methinks, there's music in his stately march.

But leave we now, above the hills, the storm,
And wing our way to some far rocky cliff,
Whose frowning front, the ocean wave, o'erlooks;
Entranced, subdued, and awed, we listen here,
While o'er our spirit steals the moving hymn
From out the deep. Beside the ocean's roar
Let other song be mute! no other sound,
Save angel's harp, hath power, like this, the soul
To move; 'tis nearest like the voice of Him,
Who said: (6 Let there be light."

The spirit pure

Endowed with song, in holiest anthems high, Speaks forth, in nature's voice, and from its home

In heaven came, creation's dawn to bless,

When high above the new created earth,
"The morning stars, together sang." These sounds,
The heart. enwrap, with strange and magic spell;
How oft a breath of nature's harmony,
Bright visions of the past awakes! The friends
Of childhood's happy morn, beside us stand,
The merry laugh, the gleeful shout so gay,
Come ringing on the air; the green old tree,
'Neath which we played, is here; and at its foot,
The babbling brook goes gaily tripping by :-
Sweet memories! they lightly lie, in joy,
Upon the weary heart like rainbow hues,
Of glory on the summer cloud-unlike
Those melting hues, they fade not soon away.
The sweet Song Spirit has in human hearts
A home, and wakes a joy ful strain for hours
Of festal mirth.

On fancy's airy wing,

We haste us back, and list such scene of song,

In dim, and distant ages of the past;

With this, there steals a touch of old romance,

That in some vast baronial castle lived

Its day. The dusky towers in majesty,
Arise upon the mountain side perchance,
On yon steep jutting crag, o'erlooking far

The woody dell, where down in phrenzy wild,
The foaming torrent leaps, from rock to rock.
The massive walls and frowning battlements
Do seem to bid defiance to the touch

Of time. The heavy tread of warrior fee:
Comes echoing o'er the stony floor; their helms
And spears, and shields, their glittering armor too,
And "dancing plumes" make up a dazzling scene;
They enter now the lofty banquet hall,
And "lordly knights, and ladies fair," sit down
In royal state, to grace the festal board.
But what were all this pomp of power and pride,
Without the white-haired bard, with harp and song,
To tell how proud the Highland thistle waved,
O'er fields of valor won. And when his lay
Had fired their souls for fight, he'd turn and sing
Of ladies' bower, and rocky glen, where wild
The rose and harebell bloomed; of heath-clad moors,
And haunted streams, where elves and fairies dwelt.
But now, far other sound would greet us here,
For minstrel's lay, is heard, the owlet's scream;
For bugle's blast, the raven's cry; for voice of
Mirth, the wind through mouldering arches sweeps.
And as it plays among the dark festoons

Of creeping ivy, seems to sigh, and say,

The glad Song Spirit hath forever flown
The spot, save that, upon the fitful breeze,
An echo of the past is left.

It brings,

To fancy oft, fair scenes of distant lands.
When e'er from soft guitar it comes, it breathes
The wild romance of Spanish chivalry.
Her dark eyed Donnas, and her courtly knights,
Her mountain passes, and embosomed vales,
How sweet discourse, in those enchanting notes!
The harp's light silvery tone, of classic Greece,
Wakes thought; her fields of valor, and her haunts
Of fame, Parnassus' height, and Tempe's vale,
Apollo's harp, and Orpheus' magic lyre.
It minds us too, of glorious Italy;
Her crystal founts, and "music haunted"
Her golden sunsets, and her moonlit bays.

groves,

About the heart, the bright Song Spirit binds
A mystic chain of memories past;-else why,
When years were fled, and sunny youth no more,-
Did lonely exile of St. Mary come,

But in fond hope, once more, to catch the sound,
"Of those sweet evening bells?" If warrior bands,
From Switzer vales, of their own mountain land
Hear song,-in scenes of distant homes,-how lost,-
Entranced, and wrapt, their spell-bound spirits are!

Let him, whose heart hath fount of song, rejoice!
'Twill cheer his soul, when all without is drear ;-
When storms, abroad, are gathering fast, and skies
Are dark and chill, then let the cheerful song
From hearts around the home-fireside, arise.-
"Twill bring the azure smile of heaven, the earth
To bless; and doubly blest that home where dwells
The love of song.

To scenes of grief it brings,
A soft and touching melody, that gilds,
Like rising star, the gloom of sorrow's night.
A scene, like this, I do remember well;
'Twas in the humble cottage of the poor,
Where dwelt the widow and her orphan ones.
Of each fond heart, the loved, and cherished there,

Was little Mary, youngest of them all.
There was such beauty in her shining curls,
Such beaming gladness in her deep blue eye,
And in her voice, such soft and joyous tone,
That seemed like carol of a happy bird.
And when her white-haired grandsire watched her step,
Her fairy, bounding step, a smile, almost

Of youth return'd, his wither'd face to bless.
When, e'er the widow's heart, o'er daily toil
Grew sad, and mourn'd her hapless lot, at sight
Of Mary's smile, her eye would light with hope,
And she would say, "How blest a thing it is
To toil for those we love!" But ah, to her,
An hour of darker sorrow still, there came.
The darling of the wood-side cot was laid
Upon the bed of death;-awhile she slept,
And much they fear'd them, 'twas the sleep from which
There comes no waking here. On that sweet face,
To look, the loved were gathered round; 'twas pale,
Save where the hectic's fatal seal was set.

The old man, tot'ring, leaned upon his staff,
And tears coursed silent down his furrowed cheek.

A pale, sad child crept to its mother's side, And in her bosom hid his face, and wept, As if his heart were withering 'neath the blow. His sister had his sole companion been; His hardier brothers, 'neath the cottage roof, Cared not with him the weary hours to share, But Mary would not leave him thus aloneAnd now, the poor child felt, if she were gone, The light of life, to him, were ever set. His full heart pour'd, in broken words, its woe:

Oh, mother! must dear Mary die?
Who then to us will bring
The early violets from the wood?-
Sweet violets of the spring.

And who will feed the white dove, then,
Or listen to its cry?

Or sing our little cottage-song?-
Oh! must our sister die?

And who will bring, at evening hour,
The Bible from its place?-

It always made my heart so glad
To look on Mary's face.

Oh let me with my sister go-
With her, oh, let me die;

And then, how happy would I be,
With Mary in the sky!

Just then, the petted dove flew in, and lit
Upon the pillow of the dying one,
As if, on shining wings he'd come to bear
Her spirit home A ling'ring sun-beam stole.
Across its snowy breast, and stooped to kiss
The sufferer's brow, with damps of death o'erspread.
She said-as from a troubled dream she woke,
With feeble voice-"Dear mother, sing the song
I love so well." But ah! the mother's voice,
In depths of deepest woe, was silent-lost!
"Then, mother dear, once more I'll sing for thee,
For soon I shall go home. I see e'en now,
The angels waiting for me there." Her eye
With more than mortal brightness lighted up-
A look that's not of earth, her features wore;
Her voice, all trembling with the icy chill
Of death, broke forth and sung her favorite hymn,
Which now,
like seraph tones of heaven seemed.
That song, in soft Æolian strains, went up-
Upon the stilly air of that low room,

And all was hushed, and every heart was calm.
The spirit of the child in that sweet song

Had passed away! 'Twas here, in holiest mood,
The pure Song-Spirit dwelt.

But now, to song

In Nature's works, and castles old, and lands
Afar-in classic haunts, and happy homes,
And humble cot, farewell. A scene of song
There is to Normal hearts, that's thousand times
More dear. When scatter'd far, we are, and wide,
Will not our spirits wander back at morn,
When fresh the dew lies on the rose, and list
Again the MORNING SONG? Oh! would the hours-
The winged hours would speed them back, and bring
Those bright, those joyous, happy days, that we
Again might live them o'er. But oh, they're past!
They're past-and we shall hear the morning song

No more. But if those sweet vibrations still

Go waving on o'er earth and air, it is

A glorious thought, that songs have risen here,
To swell for aye, the lofty harmonies

That rise from all the universe so vast,

To Him whose throne the circling heavens are.
When we have come at morning hour, with heart
Oppressed, and sad, and reason scarce could tell,
Have we not blest the song of praise, whose strains
Above the sordid cares of earth, have borne
The sinking spirit far? And with that strain
Of melody, a voice arose—one voice—
What Normal heart will e'er forget? 'Tis his
Who leads the morning song, and lifts the voice
Of prayer. May all the blessings he so oft
Of heaven has earnestly besought for us,
With more, with THOUSANDS more, forever rest
Upon his head. Nor let us e'er forget

The voice of him who reads the sacred page,
Who much of harmony in numbers finds,
Whose favorite song is-" Music of the Spheres."
When others joined in tuneful song at morn,
One hapless voice there was, in during chains
Of silence bound, though in the heart were strings
Vibrating to the touch of harmony;

But oh! 'twas soundless, voiceless, tuneless there!

Why comest thou not-oh, thou Spirit of Song? I've sought for thee oft-and I've watched for thee long; How oft have I sought thee at vesper's soft hour, When twilight was stealing o'er forest and bow'r

I've sought thee abroad on the silvery tide,
Where onward so stilly the blue waters glide;
When moonlight was beaming like gems on the wave,
And shadows were sleeping by hill-side and cave;
I've sought thee at morn, when the lark gaily sings,
And mounts toward heaven on high soaring wings;
Again do I seek thee-oh, come to me now,
And gladness shall visit my eye and my brow,—
My heart is still waiting-oh, list to my prayer,
And
pour forth the song that is lingering there!

But hark! sweet music floats upon the air!-
No spirit, save the one of Song, hath voice
Like that 'tis coming near-its gorgeous wing
I see all bright with azure hues and gold !—
Beside me now in shining garb it stands!

It speaks-I'll bow myself to its control:

To Him who sits enthroned in light,
Thy prayer for song is known;
Beyond the burning stars of night

With message thence, I've flown.

He bids thy tuneless voice remain
In silence hush'd, and still-
Nor ask, on earth, for song again;-
It is his sovereign will.

He bids thee wait, in humble trust,―
Ere long shall song be thine,
When dust returneth unto dust-

A song that's all divine.

Live then in hope-ere long from me Shall voice of song be givenFarewell, oh child of earth, to theeKnow-all can sing in heaven!

It is enough-I will content me now,

Though strange, mysterious thoughts there are, that nought

But song can tell. When vivid, burning words,

Too poor, and vain, and powerless are, to speak

The pure and high emotions of the soul,
Let others pour them forth in song--but mine,
In joy, I'll treasure deep within my heart,
And keep them for the Songs of Heaven!

Ours be the holy mission,
To banish superstition,
Beyond fair Freedom's land.
Come, happy throng, &c.

Bold Duty's helmet clasping,
And Truth's broad weapon grasping,
We come, arrayed in might:
Heaven points the way before us,
Hope waves her banner o'er us,
And leads us to the fight.

Come, happy throng, &c.

The valedictory address, by Lemuel M. Wiles, of Wyoming county, was then delivered. We have been politely furnished with a copy of his address, which we subjoin.

FELLOW STUDENTS :-Conscious that every heart beats in unison with my own, I stand before you upon an occa sion, which no doubt fills every bosom with interest, and around which cluster many momentary reflections of the past. You have now reached the end of a long and laborious term of your school, in which you have been studiously preparing yourselves to enter upon one of the most laudable of vocations; a vocation which is to aid in forming the character, and which is to affect, in a great degree, the destiny of that glorious country we are proud to call our own.

Man's philosophic mind while standing here,
Looks from the heights where Etna's flames appear;
And jarring 'neath his almost palsied feet,

He feels Old Vulcan's thundering hammer beat;
And from his furnace sees its flames disgorge,
As blown by Cyclops, from his molten forge.
Then, diving 'mid her elemental shout,
He brings earth's hidden mysteries without.
He only speaks, and at his stern command,
The blacken'd sea grows clear,-behold him stand,
Its mystery to sound; by knowledge, vast,
With fossil'd stones, the deeds of ages past
He reasons out,-and turns to human sight,
A page of Nature's book, once shut in night.
Then, in his laws profound, invention lies,
In wide mechanics lost while thither plies
The puffing steed, with cloud-envelop'd train:
Or, at his will, high bounding o'er the main,
The smoking mariner, though stripped of sail,
Outflies the convass'd sea-bird, in the gale.
And in his grasp, he binds the forked fire,
And turns its course along the "magic wire."

Behold him tear the scroll of heaven aside,
And pin it there with stars,-triumphantly to ride
On wings of thought, while suns themselves reveal
To guide his flight; and seizing planets, wheel
Them round obedient to his laws,-with reed
To measure off their size, and mark their speed;
And note when shadows sweep in ebon cones,
And darken those that cross their circling zones:
Until his eye-glass in the distance spies
Unnumbered spheres, from "dust of stars" arise!

Is this the extended scope of man-by that invisible power of his mind, to grasp the laws which govern a universe-to soar to the mighty-to dive into the profound: by its comprehensive range to sweep away the mysteries of nature, and stand spectator of its unbounded scenery? Yet I saw him once a heedless youth; who in the sprightliness of boyish vigor, bounded with the spaniel over the plain; who in the distant meadow "culled the daisy or chased the butterfly." I saw him as light-heartedly he swung his satchel over his arm, and merrily singing the song of the school-boy, pursued with a lightsome step the path which led to where a rustic school-house stood. And when the tiresome hours of school had passed, how loud was that boisterous shout, that merry laugh, which told that his daily task was done. But when I saw him again, his eye was raised in fixed attention upon the lofty radi.

ance of truth; and though the path which led the way was toilsome and intricate, he trod its course with enthusiastic diligence. No dazzling meteor of fiction lured his fixed, his unaltered gaze. Though adversities and discouragements fettered his progress-though poverty and disease frowned upon him as if to check his devotion, his aim was still aloft! And soon he stood in all the majestic glories of intellectual triumph; and as he proclaimed the sublime truths of nature, the song of the mountain muse and the twanging horn of eloquence heralded his fame, and celestial choristers struck anew their harps, as he bent in humble adoration to Nature's God! "unlim

Such is man, and such his intellectual power; ited in space, infinite in duration; no place too remote for its grasp, no heavens too exalted for its reach." Yet one chilling blast of error in the dawn of its being, might stint its growth forever! Now, turning your eyes over the length and breadth of our prosperous country, behold what myriads of dawning minds await the plastic touch of the educator-minds as impressible as the clay in the potter's hand!-while the impressions received are ineffaceable as the everlasting hills-minds which take their hues as readily from the reflected rays of surrounding example, as from the pure light of heavenly truth-hues that will not bleach by the chill of death-that will not fade beneath the pall, but must remain unobliterated and undimmed throughout all time and all eternity! Now, whom shall we find to guide them? Where the shepherds of these youthful flocks? They are here! And to-mor row's dawn will find them wending over a thousand rural hills.

As lovers of our country, you cannot, fellow teachers, enter upon your duties with a zeal too ardent and steadfast. A nation like ours, whose power and prosperity have won the applause of a world, has the more to defend; and in that defence she calls loudly upon her teachers. She is bringing into requisition every means in her power to push forward a noble enterprise. The classic hall has sent you here, the "dingy workshop" is not without representation, and the plow has not failed to delegate its Cincinnati here to bind on the helmet of wisdom-to gird on the weapon of truth, and to prepare to stand patriots and philan thropists upon our arrayed fields of intellectual and moral training. When we look upon all this-upon that power thus placed in our hands, and upon that influence we can exert, is not the sight enough to stiffen our sinews, and summon up our blood into action? Let, then, our instructions, embracing as they do, “solid science, deep knowledge of Nature, enlightened moral sentiment," be imparted with a holy zeal, and illustrated by a pure example, and we shall rear a monument to our nation's greatness, which the chances and changes of time can never despoil.

To prepare yourselves for that responsible station which you are soon to assume, these bleached countenances plainly indicate, has cost you the most diligent application, untiring zeal, unremitting effort. And now, fellow classmates, we are to go forth with those who have gone before us, partners in the same toil, arm in arm with our duty. And as we go, we shall have to encounter many of the severer struggles and adversities incident to a teacher's life. "Our pathway," as a quaint but shrewd writer has said, "will at times be darkened by the clouds of doubt above, and impeded by the ruts of discouragement below." But let us remember, that life in all its conditions is not without its toils-its adversities. Although our profession is laborious, we are not to go unrewarded. If we perform well our part, we shall have the reward of the philanthropist-the consciousness of having exerted a great, a lasting good; a good which will grow in timewhich will develope itself in eternity.

The mo

The occasion which has brought us together this day, is one, which is to us, of a thoughtful character. narch of the varied year has flapped his wings upon the last morn of another Normal Season. Its sun has reached—has passed the zenith; and as he sits in shadow at the day's decline, will draw the curtain of a closed scene-a