Chapter XVIII: A Proposal (1)

Pamela Graydon had been Pamela Trevithick for three years, when one day in late summer Sylvia, still Sylvia Graydon, was entertaining a visitor in her London drawing-room.

It was Lord Glengall, a shade greyer, a shade leaner, but looking well nevertheless, and brown with southern suns.

"And so," he said, "we shall travel back to Ireland together."

"It will be a delightful and unexpected pleasure to have your company."

"You are glad to return, Sylvia?"

"Glad! It is no word for it. I am hungry for the velvety wind that blows across the mountains. I am so tired of these glaring streets, of parties, and dinners and luncheons, and functions of all kinds."

Lord Glengall laughed.

"To tell you the truth, I am amazed and amused to find your father in the midst of it all."

"Papa! Oh, papa is the veriest Piccadilly lounger. He has returned to it all as freshly as if he had never left it. He discovered troops of old friends--without a misgiving--as soon as ever he came in for the title."

"He doesn't pine for Carrickmoyle?"

"Now and again. When the desire becomes very strong, he and I slip away to Euston some evening, forgetting all our engagements, and, for a few days, our new circumstances, at Carrickmoyle, where Bridget cooks our chops and makes us potato-cakes just as of old."

"I am glad to hear Bridget is still to the fore."

"She is not a day older."

"She never carried out her threat of marrying my gardener?"

"Mr. Grady is still a widdy-man, as they used to say in the dear country."

"But to return to your father. The _magnum opus_ has become an accomplished fact. You see, I haven't been so far out of the world as not to have heard that."

"Yes. It has been a great success. He is as much in request at learned societies and conversaziones as he is in fashionable drawing-rooms. To think of the years he vegetated at Carrickmoyle!"

"Happy years, Sylvia."

"I could hardly hope for happier."

"He will be in soon, Sylvia?"

"About half-past five," consulting a little watch fastened to her gown. "You can endure my company till then."

"I shall try to. But am I not keeping you from afternoon calls or something? I saw a carriage at the door as I came in."

"I have sent it away. I was rejoiced to do it. Papa will be simply wild with delight at your falling from the clouds like this."

"He hasn't forgotten me, then?"

"How should he? The only drawback about Carrickmoyle has been that we could see from it the cold chimneys of Glengall."

"Ah! we shall warm them," said Lord Glengall, beaming at her. "We shall have fine jinks if only you and your father will spend six months of the year at Carrickmoyle. I am no Londoner, and never shall be. But I shall be able to endure six months of solitude if I know I am going to have you for the remainder of the year."

"You will not long be left solitary. You cheated the country the last time by disappearing again before it had had time to rejoice over you. Your return will flutter the dovecotes for thirty miles around."

"You are very kind, Sylvia," said Lord Glengall simply. "But you have not told me half the news," he went on. "How is Molly?"

"Flourishing. Mick has got his company. He wouldn't leave the service on any consideration, and I think he was right. They are as much in love with each other as ever; and they have a beautiful boy."

"Ah! that is right. Molly deserved to be happy."

"She did, and so did Mick. Mick is a dear old fellow."

"And Pam, Sylvia?"

There was no consciousness in his voice.

"Pam, too, is a success. She has been a beauty for three seasons, strange to say."

"And it is a happy marriage?"

"Perfectly happy. They are ideally well suited."

"I am glad of that. How does Pam get on with her mother-in-law?"

"Fairly well, I believe. Lady Jane keeps herself to herself, which is lucky for Pam. I never took to that lady. But she is devoted to the heir. She wouldn't strike you, somehow, as a grandmotherly person, but it is so."

"There is an heir?"

"Yes; he is two years old, and he has a baby sister of seven months."

"Ah! how you young people have been making history since I left. I shall not know this new world of your making."

"You find me changed?"

"Lovelier, Sylvia."

"It is nice to have you say that."

"Still greedy for conquest, even though it is only an old fogey?"

"Ah!"--with more intensity than he thought the occasion demanded--"you never can be that!"

"You are always kind, little girl. When I look into your eyes, I fancy it is the old Sylvia I am talking to, and not a fine lady."

"It is the old Sylvia."

"The Sylvia I knew would never have worn this"--touching a fold of her dress.

"She would, if she could. It is only a Paris tea-gown. She was happier in the prints at sixpence a yard from Guirk's shop in Lettergort."

"Happier, Sylvia? What have you been doing with yourself since?"

"Growing old and faded with trying to occupy several houses at once and doing a great many things I detest."

She laughed at him from where she sat in her youth and beauty, and he laughed in answer.

"Where are the lads who used to be in love with you?"

"All married, except Algy St. Quintin; but he has long given up asking me. We are good comrades."

"No more than that, Sylvia?"

"No more than that. I wouldn't lose sight of him for anything. He is just the same imp of mischief, as Bridget used to call him. His coolness is phenomenal, and his impudence so deliciously incongruous with his cherubic boy's face."

"There is no one else, Sylvia?"

"There is no one else."

"Ah! you are so hard-hearted, child. Or is it that you will stay with your father?"

"Not altogether that. I've seen no one here I would marry."

"Yet you have met all sorts and conditions of men."

"All sorts and conditions, but not the right one."

"The right one will come."

"He might come--he may have come, and not have found me the right woman."

She looked at him an instant; then she suddenly blushed hotly, and her eyes fell and rested on the jewelled fingers in her lap. So full was her attitude of yielding and submission that it might well make the heart of a lover leap.

A sudden, bewildering idea came to the man before her. For an instant he was dazed with the shock of it. Then he stood up and paced the room in great agitation.

"Sylvia," he said at last, pausing before her where she still sat, a lovely image of submission, "Pamela was right when she did not marry me."

"She was right because she did not love you."

"How could she love me? I might have been her father."

"That is no reason. Love does not take count of such things."

"Ah, Sylvia! What has love to do with grey hairs?"

"If there is love, they are better than gold."

"Sylvia, do you know what madness you are putting into my head?"

"I cannot know unless you tell me."

Sylvia's eyes were raised to his with a flash of the old audacity.

"Perhaps I dare not tell you."

"Ah, do!"

"If I were a young man and you would do it, you might turn this work-a-day earth to Paradise for me."

"And why not now?"

"Ah! child, you do not know what you are saying. What could you, a beauty and an heiress, see in me?"

"I am glad I am beautiful to you. But why should that and the other things stand between me and my happiness?"

"Your happiness, Sylvia?"

"Ah, yes! You wouldn't see it, but I always thought there was no one in the world like you. You chose Pam before me, and even then I accepted your will, but I loved you still."

"I chose Pam because she was unhappy, because there seemed no other way. It did not break my heart to give her up, though it was a blow. It does not hurt me now to hear of her as Lady Trevithick. But I dare not risk the same thing with you."

"Why?"

"Because it would be so easy to forget my years, and love you with a young man's ardour, and more than a young man's faith."

"Then why not love me?"

"Ah! Sylvia, it is your kindness, your compassion. I could not endure to be thrown over now, even though I am well on in my forties."

"I shall not throw you over. Look at me, and you will see."

He looked at her, and made a step towards her.

"Then you will make the world over again for me?"

"And you for me?"

"Ah, Sylvia!"

"Yes. How hard it was to persuade you. There will be lots of people who will want to marry you once it is known you have come back. You might have liked someone better than me. And I have waited for three years."

"You fairy princess, what do you mean by condescending to a mortal's grey hairs?"

"We shall be so happy, you and I and papa. We shall lead the country life, though he'll have to come to London now and again for his serious 'frivolities.' And I shall make you care for me. Now you do not care for me nearly so much as I do for you."

"You bewilder me, Sylvia."

"Ah! yes, you will care for me. I shall not let you cheat me."

"You talk as if my youth were not flown, you lovely child."

"It is not flown. You do not mean to say you used up your youth during those hard years that lined your face and sowed grey hairs in your head? Ah! no, you were saving it up for me."

"It is _too_ incredible!"

"Take time, then, to think, good gentleman," said Sylvia, with laughter dancing bewitchingly about her mouth; but her eyes were tender.

"If I take time, all this will take wings like a dream and fly away."

"Then keep it," said Sylvia.

"My life--what remains of it--will be devoted to you."

"It is time you should say that. You have been going after false fires, while I have been true all the time."

"You to me, Sylvia!"

"I to you. But if I had not almost asked you, you would have left me to single blessedness. Ah! there is papa's ring. He will be glad."

"He will think it folly, Sylvia."

"Ah! no, he won't. Dear, wise papa, he was always anxious for you to marry one of his daughters."

TIRED.

On the weary waves of the world
To and fro
This tired life of mine has been whirled!
In the flow
And ebb of every dangerous tide
My thoughts have drifted far and wide,
As on a bleak and bare hill-side
Drifts the snow.

I sought for rest afar, afar,
But found it not;
I dreamed sweet dreams, if such things are
Sweet which we wot
Are false. I woke again to know
The weight of an unceasing woe,
And journeyed onward, bending low
To a hard lot.

At length to my weary soul I said,
"Soul of mite,
The empty restless life thou hast led,
In shade and shine,
In winter's cold and angry beat,
In summer's languid parching heat--
Poor soul!" I said, "It is not meet
Such fate be thine.

"There is a rest, oh! my tired soul,
Far away,
We soon may reach that happy goal
Beyond to-day.
Far, far beyond those darkening skies
There is a Land which Rest supplies--
Peace, endless peace, that never dies.
Come away!"

H. BROOKE DAVIES.

LIGHT THROUGH DULL PANES.

_A VISIT TO THE EARLSWOOD ASYLUM._

(_Illustrated from Photographs by Cassell and Co., Ltd._)

[_This is the first of a special series of illustrated articles
on representative philanthropic institutions. Each article will
describe the scope and work of the institution concerned, and
will in addition contain detailed information as to the methods
of admission, with special reference to the "voting" system._]

The young Queen Victoria had been ten years on the throne of England. In this decade the wheel of philanthropy seemed to turn with increased impetus. It had been set in motion before the dawn of the nineteenth century, for then asylums for the blind, the deaf and dumb, and lunatic had been established. Now various institutions and schemes of benevolence were springing into existence in aid of other classes of sufferers. There was still something wanting, a lady maintained to Dr. Andrew Reed--a powerful friend of the afflicted and needy; she asked him to help the feeble-minded. He demurred; he doubted whether there were sufficient cases to call for a special institute. If she could find six in six days, he promised to take up the matter. Six days produced twenty eligible from their poverty and infirmity, and the well-known philanthropist kept his word. The National Asylum for Idiots was inaugurated at the Mansion House in October, 1847, and was established at Highgate in January, 1848. Since then it has received upwards of 3,000 cases, and the institution now at Earlswood has served as a model for others in different parts of Europe and our colonies.

The need of such asylums encircles the world; for wherever humanity has spread children may be born with inherent infirmity, or the "heart ache and a thousand natural shocks which flesh is heir to" may cloud the brightest intelligence. The poor and sick in mind must ever appeal for help to the rich and strong and capable. The mysterious "something wanting" in intellect is a grievous calamity, even when good friends and wealth can procure all possible compensations. In a family where the necessities of life depend on the power to work, it reduces existence to a miserable burden. It was especially for the poor that the National Asylum was established. The pleasant building standing on the breezy uplands above Redhill can accommodate nearly 700 patients; and twice a year, on the last Thursday in the months of April and October, needy cases, from five years old and upwards, are elected on the foundation by the votes of subscribers. There are generally from 130 to 150 applicants, though funds only allow the admission of about one-fifth of the number. Presentations for life may be secured, but it is a happiness to know that the term of five years, which is the rule in election, is sometimes sufficient to teach a boy a trade, or a girl to make herself useful in housework, needlework, or a laundry. Patients entered for five years may be re-elected. Lately one of them wrote to his friends, "It will be soon time to get me in again for another five years. I hope that it will be all right; I like Earlswood."

Why should a boy able to write and to take thought for his own affairs be in an asylum for imbeciles? A visit to Earlswood would be the most effectual answer to the question. It is hard to know where idiocy begins and ends. There are skilled workmen in the printers', tailors', carpenters', and other departments, who, to a casual observer, betray nothing wanting.

Many of their exhibits, as well as specimens of the girls' and women's needlework, were sold at the Arts and Crafts Exhibition at Lancaster in 1897, where a section was open to institutions for imbeciles, and seventeen prizes were awarded to Earlswood. But there are other patients whose limited intelligence renders them oblivious of their own infirmity or their own names; between the two extremes there is every degree of feebleness of mind. Those who consciously suffer least are likely to call out the greatest compassion. It is natural to turn away and try to forget the sight of a human creature going on all-fours, or of great helpless babies, without the charm or sweetness of infancy, sitting up with bibs on, waiting for the meal for which they cannot ask.

"It must be sad and painful to a visitor," the matron said, "to have a passing glance at the worst cases, but to live amongst them, as she had done for eleven years, was full of interest. Nearly all were capable of some improvement."

A home where everything is done to promote their health and happiness is, for the weak-minded, a new world. To be taken from conditions of continual disadvantage, and placed under the charge of guardians whose first duty is to work and watch for the awakening of soul and mind, brings hope and comfort into their life. A poor constitution is often added to the disadvantages of the imbecile; and in families where their friends cannot constantly protect them they are often exposed to teasing, and driven into fits of fury, ending in chronic bad temper, by the mischief or malice of their companions.

"No one is allowed to tease them here," a nurse remarked, in speaking of the patients' affection and their general disposition to get on well together. They are classified, so that they meet companions on equal terms. The lowest have not the spirit or independence to defy lawful authority; to the highest but refractory, degradation to a class below is the most salutary punishment that can be inflicted. They soon try by their conduct to rise to their former level. Anyone in charge giving a patient a blow would be liable to criminal prosecution. The vicious or dangerous cases are not admitted, and the authorities do not encourage the re-election of those who give absolutely no promise of improvement. The vacancies ought to be filled by candidates to whom care and treatment will be of use. In the great busy world outside Earlswood are muscular limbs dwindling or growing stiff for want of exercise, and hands framed for skill which are only filled with mischief by the active spirit against whom Dr. Watts left an immortal warning. They need not remain idle, for special training can supply much that Nature has denied.

It requires a great deal of patience to teach this class of pupils a useful calling, as more than one instructor remarked when the doctor conducted a visitor through the various workshops. Some are unwilling to learn; in Earlswood, as in all communities, each variety of disposition is represented, as well as every degree of lack of ability.

"You can't make me work, you know, doctor," one patient maintained, "for I am only an imbecile."

Happily, in this little world which, in spite of its limitations, manufactures and supplies for itself most of the necessaries of life, all are not ready to make capital out of their infirmity. The master-carpenter lamented the loss of a former diligent pupil, who had been worth one pound a week to the institution, and he showed with pride the doors and panels of another, who he said might now earn his own living anywhere. This clever young carpenter had been at Earlswood for three years, and in the workshop for two. He bore a high character, and was so attached to the asylum that, when he was at home for a summer holiday, he came back for a day. Yet before his admission his relations had been unable to manage him.

The master-tailor called one of his "best boys" to show the waistcoat he was making. A good-looking middle-aged man descended with alacrity from the table--where, in the time-honoured custom of his trade, he worked in an attitude calculated to cause persons of other callings violent cramp in the legs--and shook hands all round with great warmth and friendliness. Directly he had displayed a piece of work, in which his instructor took pardonable pride, he returned with renewed diligence to his needle and thread. This man's interest in tailoring is so keen that when he, in his turn, does duty in the kitchen, he returns to his cloth and his favourite attitude for every available moment. Seated together with the first-class workmen are others, smiling over their attempts to learn stitching or to make button-holes. They may possibly never get beyond samplers, but time will show.

In the shoemakers' shop similar degrees of skill and industry were manifest. One man held in his hand a finished boot that he had made from the beginning, whilst others could only be trusted to black and polish. So it was with the rest of the twenty-five trades and callings in which last year 198 men and boys were employed, each according to his several ability. Perhaps the highest attainments are seen in the printing department--the only one that undertakes outside work. Besides the necessary printing for Earlswood and the London office, 232 private orders were sent out last year, and a profit was made of £150. On the occasion of my visit, a young compositor was not quite ready to show his proof to the doctor, who inquired what he was doing. He had just set up the programme for a patients' party, and had made it conclude with "Musicle Chairs"; he wanted to correct the spelling before it was inspected.

One elderly man, deaf, with an impediment in his speech and afflicted in mind, had his own workshop. All around him were evidences of his artistic skill. He looked tenderly at his own drawings, but the objects of his special admiration were the various magnifiers and reflectors he had designed and made to help him in fine carving. H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, who is interested in Earlswood, has lately presented him with some elephant tusks. It was a pleasure to this artist to display the lightness of an ivory landscape brooch. A piece of tortoise-shell at the back, with a judicious arrangement of the golden and dark blotches, made it a transparency. When held up on one side to the light, it was a sunny scene; whilst on the other it was dark, with a full moon.

In spite of gentle manners and artistic skill, this man would probably be unable to live or turn his talents to account outside an asylum. He belongs to a class who for practical purposes never outgrow mental childhood. Years roll by. Time brings them grey hairs and other signs of his flight, but never carries them beyond the need of fatherly care. Many with far less intelligence seem to realise this.

It is pathetic to hear in some wards the cry of "Mother!" and see a smile of fancied recognition when a stranger appears. One middle-aged woman who called out "Mamma, mamma!" had some information, cheerful but incoherent, to impart. Then the name of "George" suddenly arrested her flow of trivialities, and her face puckered into a grotesque expression of distress. She raised her hand and pointed upward, saying, "George up there." The sorrowful remembrance was, however, transient; the next instant she was all smiles. The eddy on the surface of her smooth life soon caught the sunshine, but its presence was sufficient to call out fresh compassion for the poor souls whose wits may have been lost under a weight of trouble heavier than they could bear.

The sad pages in the life-history of some of the most helpless are, however, blotted out of their memory, or only dimly recalled by a fragmentary remark. The sound of laughter in the recreation-room, sitting-rooms, and playground is almost constant. If it shows the vacant mind, it also bespeaks content. Pleasure and enjoyment are circumscribed, but so also is the capacity for suffering in mind and body. The patients have almost as little temptation to anxious thought for the morrow as the ravens or lilies.

In a narrow sphere a trifling event assumes great dimensions, and the day may be easily filled with pleasures. The delight with which one middle-aged patient said that she was going to have a new dress had all the innocent glee of childhood. A lad who called out "Tick, tick!" at the sight of the doctor was immediately made happy by being allowed to listen to his watch.

Various little treats are planned as rewards for good conduct. In the winter, those who do well are invited once a week to join in games in the recreation-room. Yet the Head Governess is of opinion that the little ones are never happier than when they are at lessons. According to their ability, they go through the course usually adopted in elementary schools, and have the same physical exercises. The elder girls are employed in housework or in the laundry. Many, no doubt, enjoy the new experience of being usefully employed, and industry and willingness are rewarded by an afternoon walk to the town, a small amount of pocket-money, and a reward at the New Year.

The sense of right and wrong, and of responsibility, develops with exercise. Of the many letters received last year at Earlswood from the patients or their relations acknowledging the good results of training, the Resident Physician looked upon one from a man discharged five years ago as the most satisfactory. But for a course of treatment the writer would probably have remained all his life as a burden on his relations. He is now earning ten shillings a week in a grocery business. After making this satisfactory announcement, he continues: "I belong to a Bible-class. I am also in a club, so, if I am ill, my mother gets ten shillings and sixpence per week, and my doctor's bill paid." With inquiries after old friends, special love to two, this patient remains a "loving friend." How many men with all their faculties do more? And how many others fall below his standard of duty and gratitude! In days of old, one out of ten to whom the same miracle of mercy brought new life and health returned to the great Healer and gave glory to God, and he belonged to a class from whom least might have been expected. A good proportion of the strangers to many privileges, as the feeble-minded must ever remain, often live as examples of doing their best. A man is accepted according to that he hath.

The highest and the only certain principle of good conduct is kept before all who enter the asylum. Twice a day they meet for prayers, and before and after meals grace, sung in the great hall to the accompaniment of a fine organ, fills the corridors with music, in which many of the patients delight. The resident Religious Instructor last year found a note slipped into his hand, addressed, "Mr. Small, from me." A patient wrote:

"DEAR SIR, I wish to ask you, in a nice kind way or other, to have two of my hymns on the 5th of February, which is Saturday. Please have them in the evening--Nos. 500 and 532--and you may quite expect a nice pocket-book from me.--Your friend, PERCY."

It is not unusual for boys to ask that their birthdays may be celebrated by singing their favourite hymns.

Their teacher finds that lessons on the life and miracles of our Lord always have a charm for the patients. Even those unable to read or intelligently follow the prayers can enjoy Sunday; then they receive pictures illustrating Bible incidents, and can, at least, hear the hymns at the evening service, which in summer is held under the trees. Methods of teaching must be adapted to the varied capacity, but the lesson of the compassion of our Lord for every infirmity is common to the 600 patients whom Earlswood now shelters, whilst 130 are waiting for admission.

One class may enter by payment, which varies according to the circumstances and requirements. The lowest payment is sixty-five guineas a year, and it includes entire maintenance and clothing for twelve months. There are no vacations, unless the friends desire it. Private patients do not mix with those on the foundation either at meals or in the recreation-room. Some have their own sitting-rooms and special attendants.

Another class of patients may enter by part-payment. They are elected from a list of candidates whose friends fill a position that would preclude their gaining free admission, but who are unable to make the ordinary payment. The minimum sum of fifteen guineas is required annually so long as the child remains in the asylum.

A large number of subscribers' votes, 700 at least, are required to place a candidate for ordinary election on the foundation. Before canvassing, a form must be obtained from the office, 36, King William Street, London Bridge, E.C., in order to see if the case is deemed eligible by the Board, whether for free or part-payment election. For the well-being of the community in general, rules cannot be broken. Great disappointment and trouble are sometimes occasioned by an attempt to canvass before ascertaining that a candidate will be approved by the Board. The receipt of parish relief at any time disqualifies a candidate. Certain regulations, the result of experience, have been made regarding receiving and maintaining the large family whom the authorities have taken under their care, and Earlswood is subject to the inspection of the Commissioners in Lunacy.

During fifty years the supporters of this institution have, in a very literal sense, obeyed the injunction to "comfort the feeble-minded." In spite of limp limbs and slouching gait, the weakest among the imbecile bear the image of their Creator. Can it be doubted that they are as precious to Him as the conies who, though "but a feeble folk," find, under His providence, a refuge in the stony rocks? In their helplessness and dependence, the afflicted in mind find a place in the heart and affection of their guardians; and who can tell how many have learnt, through them, to hide themselves with all their infirmities in the Rock of Ages?

D. L. WOOLMER.

By Lina Orman Cooper, Author of "Our Home Rulers," Etc.

"There is many an arrow in my quiver, full of speech to the wise, but for the many they need interpreters."

So wrote Pindar long, long ago; and I, having gathered many arrows of help and knowledge from the quiver of books around me, would fain pass them on. In this paper I string these barbs to the bow of motherhood, and trust they may pierce to the joints of the harness.

Perhaps there is no subject absorbing more attention at the present time than that of motherhood and heredity. Never has the cult of maternity been better formulated--never has the practice of it been more carefully studied. "In these days of pressure," writes Lyttleton, "it is a mother's first duty to her children to secure for them a full seven years of passive life." "The best and first service a mother can do her children," says another writer, "is to maintain the standard of her own life at its highest--

"'Allure to brighter worlds, and _lead the way_.'"

"It is a mother's first duty to provide for each newborn soul an environment which will foster its highest development," says another. "To praise is a part of a mother's first work in the world on behalf of her children," adds a fourth. "I consider it to be the first and most important part of the education of childhood to lead them early to think" is Froebel's opinion.

The importance of a mother's influence during the first few years of existence is repeated in Lord Macaulay's well-known aphorism, "Give me the first seven years of a child's life, and let who will take the rest"; and by Froebel, when he says, "The most important period of human education is before the child is seven years old."

We mothers, who are God's special servants--His instruments, as it were, for the particular purpose of carrying out His will for the wee individuals confided to us--are apt to think too little about those first years of a child's life. Our children, from two to five, are often left to self-education. Very little scientific care is expended on them. Yet beauty of body and soul would not be so seldom met with, or so transient as it is apt to be with us, if we truly educated persons took our children in hand from their _babyhood_, instead of leaving them to the most ignorant class of the community.

"It is usual to speak of the Greeks," writes Peabody in his "Primary School," "as if they were of exceptional organisation. Their organisation was only exceptional because it was more carefully treated in _infancy_ than ours is apt to be."

"The laws which govern the growth of the human mind are as definite and as general in their application as those which apply to the material universe," and we know the basis of all development is a _good foundation_. This must be laid in early youth, both as regards the body and as regards the mind. "It is so fatally easy to do mischief" in those first seven years. The limbs of a sapling are not more easily bent than the budding desires of the infant. "The soul instinctively expects love" from the first, and only a mother's exclusively cherishing tenderness ought to be the rule in a nursery. "The true educational instinct is but the mother's instinct and method clearly understood in all its bearings and carried out intelligently."

This last word opens out a wonderful vista. "Parents should make the care of their children an object to study physiology and psychology," says Peabody; and thus we find education is always mutual. According to Goethe, "the child teaches the parent what the parents omit to teach him"; and, as Plato adds, "man cannot propose (or woman either) a higher or loftier object for his study than education and all that pertains thereto."

Before leaving this branch of the subject, it is well for all mothers clearly to understand the difference between education and instruction. The former (training of the heart) belongs exclusively to the parent. The latter (training of the intellect) to the governess. As Renan puts it, "Instruction is given in the school. Education takes place in the father's house; the masters are the mothers and sisters."

Well for us if we remember that education is always going on, whether we will it or not. Our life, our morals, are affecting our children for weal or woe, whether we realise or shirk the fact. "Every human life is lifted or lowered by the home it is born into." That magic and omnipotent gift of a mother's influence "is an hourly, unconscious, emanating force" exercised on those around. "We always know when we are instructing. We do not always know when we are educating." The realisation of this amazing power is enough to stagger the bravest heart. "A mother has to be convinced that the great function of motherhood is not only to guard her child, to exhort him, to train him, but to live her life in the presence of that child as a pattern of what the child should aspire to become."

A mother's influence should certainly be at its strongest during the early years of life. It "depends on what she is, and only in a subordinate way on what she does." Therefore, she can carry altruism too far. A mother is of as much value in the sight of God as is her child, and "the path in which she has to walk is plainly that of self-sanctification for the sake of" that child. This implies seasons for culture, rest, prayer, and the preservation of her body in health. To quote Miss Mason on this point, "Health is a duty, and any trifling with health, either vicious or careless, is really in the nature of suicide, because life is held in trust from a supreme Authority."

Will the years be wasted if we spend them mastering the science of education in our nurseries? Nay! even our personal charms will be amplified by the most entrancing study in the world. "The perfect loveliness of a woman's countenance can only consist in that majestic peace which is founded in memory of happy and useful years full of sweet records" (Ruskin). Verily we shall have our reward.

_Words by_ JAMES MONTGOMERY.
_Music by_ GORDON SAUNDERS, Mus.D. Oxon.

1. According to Thy gracious Word, In meek humility
This will I do, my dying Lord--I will remember Thee.

2. When to the cross I turn mine eyes, And rest on Calvary,
O Lamb of God, my sacrifice, I must remember Thee.

Amen
]

A FAIRY PARABLE.

By Howard Angus Kennedy.

Once upon a time there were ten little Red Indians, and they lived in a school-house built of logs on the banks of the River Saskatchewan; and, if you cannot pronounce the river's name, just try till you can. The reason they lived in a school-house was that their fathers had gone hunting in the woods, and their mothers were dead, so the wigwams were very lonely; but the children were as happy as they could be, and enjoyed their schooling as much as any white children enjoy their holidays. The teacher was a sweet white lady from down beyond, who mothered them all so well that they never even thought of being bad. At least, only two of them did; and they never got beyond thinking about it, as long as the teacher was with them.

Down at the bottom of the river, in a deep, deep hole, there lived a wicked wizard; and one morning very early he was prowling along by the shore, with just the tip of his nose above water, sniff-sniff-sniffing for the scent of anyone good to eat. Now it happened that that morning the teacher had got up very early, and was sitting on a stone by the riverside, trying to think of new story-lessons to tell the children; and the wizard put up his long snaky arm out of the water and caught her by the neck and dragged her down to his cave. Then he tied her hands and feet, and waited for her to drown; but drown she would not. So he thought she must have a Testament in her pocket to act as a charm. The Testament was really in her heart, which was a great deal better. So when he saw she would not drown, he was a little frightened, and offered to let her go if she would give him one of the children instead.

"You wicked wizard," said she, "not one of them shall you have!"

"We shall see about that," said the wizard; and out he went, leaving the teacher tied fast at the bottom of the hole.

Now, when the children came down, they were very much surprised to find no teacher; but they took their morning dip in the river, as she had taught them to do. Just as they were coming out to dry themselves, a great grey fish put his head out of the water and said--"Children, the wizard that lives in the hole has caught your teacher, and he's coming to catch you."

The children jumped out of the water in a great fright. "What shall we do? What _shall_ we do?" they all began to cry.

"Put on your clothes," said the fish, after he had gone down for a moment to breathe.

That was soon done, for they had very few clothes to put on.

"Now get on our backs," said the great grey fish, who had come up this time with nine others as like him as could be. Then the ten fishes humped up their great grey backs, just keeping their heads under water to breathe with and their tails to swim with; and the ten children got on, and the fishes carried them across the big river in a twinkling.

"Now, children," said the chief of the fishes, "strike into the wood as straight as you can go till you come to the old brown bear, and he'll tell you the way to Fruity Hollow, where you'll get your dinner; but don't speak to the grizzly bear, for he's the wizard's son. Then go on till you come to the old grey wolf, and she'll tell you the way to the otters' cave; but don't say a word to the red wolf with the squint, for she's the wizard's daughter."

The fish was quite out of breath when he got to the end of this speech, and disappeared in a hurry.

Then the ten little Indians marched off into the woods, Indian file; and they all kept close together, one behind the other, except the two little boys that sometimes wished they did not have to do what they ought; and they dawdled behind. Pretty soon the children got to where the poplars end and the pinewoods begin, and there they saw the grizzly bear sitting on his haunches beside the path, with his arms folded smugly across his chest and his cruel face trying to smile.

"Welcome, little darlings!" the grizzly bear said, in a voice as sweet as honey. "Would you like me to take you to Fruity Hollow?"

The children shut their mouths tightly, and went straight on, and the grizzly gritted his teeth in disappointment; but when the two bad little Indians came straggling along he sat up again and put on his smirkiest smile and said--

"You poor little dears! What a shame it was for the others to leave you behind! How hungry you must be! Would you like me to show you the way to Fruity Hollow?"

"That I should, indeed!" said one of the boys. And the grizzly bear sprang upon him, and caught him up, and hugged him till the breath was nearly out of his body, and strode off with him; and the other boy ran on as fast as he could to catch up his companions.

Meanwhile the eight little Indians marched steadily on till they came to the old brown bear; and he was so fast asleep they could only wake him by pulling his fur, but they took care to pull it respectfully.

"All right," said the old brown bear in a mumbly voice, "I know what you want. First turning on the right, over the big tree that blew down last winter." Then he went to sleep again before they could say "Thank you, sir."

When they came to a big tree lying with its roots in the air, but with its needles still green, they scrambled over it and followed a winding path down into a narrow valley just full of wild raspberry- and gooseberry- and currant-bushes, and they picked and ate and picked and ate till they could eat no more. Then they made baskets of big leaves and twigs, and filled them with berries for supper, and climbed back over the big tree and trudged along up the path.

Soon afterwards they came upon the squinting red wolf, straddling right across the track.

"Here we are, you sweet little redskins," said she, with a grin two feet long. "The otters have asked me to show you the way to their cave."

The little redskins turned almost white with fear, but they shut their mouths tightly and pushed right on, and the wicked red wolf had to jump out of the way in a hurry, for she did not dare to touch children who remembered and obeyed. Presently the dawdler came up, very hungry and tired--for the brown bear had been much too fast asleep to tell him about Fruity Hollow--and burst out at once, without thinking, "Please can you tell me the way to the otters' cave?" Then the red wolf leapt upon him, and knocked him down, and picked him up by the back of his clothes and carried him off at a trot through the scratching brambles.

Just where the pinewoods end and the poplars begin again, the eight little Indians came upon the old grey wolf, curled up with her nose on her tail; and she put up her head for the children to scratch her neck. "Across the meadow and round the slough," she said when she had been scratched enough; "and down the stony creek."

So when they got to the edge of the wood they struck right across the meadow, wading knee-deep in the long rich grass; and then they found a path leading through another patch of poplar wood to a wide green slough--or "sloo," as they call it in Canada--half-lake and half-swamp; and they trod lightly round the narrow edge till they found the place where the water oozed out into the creek. Down the creek they went, with the stream purring beside their feet like a kitten in the sun, and the mosquitoes humming over their heads, and the silly loose-leaved poplars rustling all around them, wind or no wind.

"Listen!" said the biggest little Indian. And through all the purring and humming and rustling came the long low swishing sound of a big river. Then the eight little pairs of feet climbed out of the creek-bed, and crossed a corner of land till they stood almost on the edge of the river's earthen-cut bank.

There was a bustling and a scurrying under foot, and then a row of furry brown little heads popped up from the edge of the bank. "Come in!" barked all the otters in chorus; and, scrambling down the bank, the children followed the otters into their cave. There was plenty of room, though the door was rather small, and a big bed of prairie hay was spread on the floor.

"We've been expecting you, you see," said the mother otter, when the eight little Indians were squatting on their hunkers and eating berries. "The fishes told us to look out for you about this time."

"Have you made friends with the fishes, then?" asked the biggest boy.

"No, we're not exactly friends, only allies. We hate the wizard more than we hate each other, so we've joined to fight him. But I wish it was all over, so that we could go fishing again. Gophers are dreadfully dry food, and they do burrow in such dusty holes."

After supper the eight little Indians lay down in a row, and all the little otters spread themselves out into a big fur counterpane to keep the children warm. But the big otters sharpened their teeth as soon as it was dark, and swam down and down and down, with fiery eyes, till they came into the River Saskatchewan; and then they swam up and up and up till they came near the wizard's pit; and there they climbed out and hid just under the edge of the bank.

Presently they felt a heavy silent somebody tramping over the grass from the wood, and they knew that the grizzly bear was coming, and one of them slipped down to the water's edge to tell the great grey fishes, who were lying just inside the river.

"Well," said the greatest of the fishes, "what do you want us to do?" For he knew that the otters must take the lead when fighting had to be done.

"You must pretend to be the wizard," said the otter, "and tell the grizzly to come into the river up to his waist. We can fight much better in the water, you know."

So the fish put up his head, and called out, imitating the wizard's voice as well as he could, "Is that you, my son?"

"Of course it's me," grumbled the bear; "and a precious hard run I've had with this little wretch. I'd a good mind to stop on the way and eat him myself."

"Never mind, my dear," said the sham wizard. "I'll pay you well. Just bring him in, will you? The water won't come above your middle."

The grizzly grumbled something about the water being cold, and he thought his father might as well have come ashore; but he waded in, all the same, and the otters dived and swam after him. And when the water was up to his middle the fishes swam in between his legs and nibbled his toes, and hit him hard on the legs with their great tails, and toppled him right over; but still he held on to the boy with one arm, while he clawed savagely at the fishes with the other. Then the otters sprang at his shoulders, and bit right through the fur and the flesh, so that he dropped the boy in the water; and the fishes and otters kept up such a splashing and a jumping and a biting that the bear could not see a foot in front of him, and the boy dashed back to the shore and huddled shivering under the bank.

"Help, help, help!" yelled the grizzly. "They've stolen the boy! They're cutting off my toes! They're tearing off my ears! They're flaying me alive!"

Then the wizard awoke, and leapt out of his hole, and came flying to the rescue, raking the water and the air with his long snaky arms, and screeching horribly. But before he got to where the grizzly was rolling over and over in a whirlpool of mad otters and fishes and foam, he heard the voice of his daughter, the red wolf, who had just arrived and was calling out (as well as she could with a little Indian's clothes in her mouth) to ask what was the matter.

"If I've lost one, I'll make sure of the other," the wizard thought; and he seized the boy from his daughter's mouth and plunged down into the pit, leaving his grizzly son to look after himself.

"We must save the boy!" cried the head otter.

"He's not worth saving," said the fishes; "haven't we done enough for one night?"

The otters did not condescend to answer, but swam hotly after the wizard, and the fishes followed without another word, leaving the grizzly to hobble ashore and lick his wounds.

None of the otters had ever dared to descend the wizard's pit before, and none of the fishes had ever ventured within a hundred feet of its mouth; but now the otters' blood was up, and they dived like a flash, and caught up the wizard before he got to the bottom, and fastened on his heels, and dug their teeth into his calves. The wizard flung himself round and gripped an otter in each hand; but they gnawed his wrists till their teeth met in the sinews, and the rest of the otters swarmed round his neck and cut his head right off.

"The boy is drowned, all the same," said the head fish, who swam bravely down into the pit when he heard the otters' scream of victory.

"Not a bit of it," said the head otter; "it's only his badness that's drowned; the boy will be righter than ever if you hurry ashore with him."

So the fishes pushed him up to the air and rolled him ashore; though it was rather difficult, as he had not the sense to hold on, and they had no arms to hold him by.

Meanwhile the otters had gone down to the very bottom of the pit, and bitten through the teacher's cords; and she kissed their wet foreheads and left her dark prison, and the rising sun flung her a rosy welcome as she stepped out on to dry ground. The squinting wolf shut her eyes and howled, and fled into the wood with her tail between her legs.

The eight little Indians were having a fine romp with the little otters when the big otters came back, tired and wounded, but proud with glorious news. As soon as the story was told, the head otter said--"Now, children, it's time to go home, and the fishes are waiting. No going through the woods this time!"

As he spoke, the fishes humped up their great grey backs, and the children took their seats, and the procession never stopped till it came to the little school-house, where the best of all teachers stood smiling welcomes at the door and two shamefaced little Indians pretended to be very busy at their sums inside.

Then there was a great hugging and kissing and laughing and crying for joy, while the little otters turned flying somersaults over the desks and played catch on the grass outside, and the fishes looked on through their water-window, till the children were tired of play and begged for lessons to begin.

TEMPERANCE NOTES AND NEWS.

By a Leading Temperance Advocate.

A MODEL TOWN.