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a hopeless task to endeavor to undeceive of the matron's visage, to insist on it that her.

the slow, formal walk is not exercise, that Lessons must be first—before everything. the backboard is not rest, that healthy Well, perhaps not before religion ; but hunger has to be inaugurated-sown, as it certainly before food, exercise, fresh air, were—and is not a genuine product of sleep. The drowsy head must be shaken poor enfeebled soil. up from the pillow at an early hour-long Now, that the girl in her teens has much before papa, or mamma, or any elder folks to learn, and that she has arrived at the in the house are astir ; and the fretful, age for receiving instruction, no one will shivering, starved, and only half-roused think of denying. She ought undoubtschoolgirl set to practise in a room in edly to get rid of a certain amount of which, if it be midwinter, a fire has just ignorance through the direct medium of been lighted, or at other seasons has not schoolroom routine ; but may a word be been lit at all ! In some exceptionally care- here put forth to suggest that it is but a ful households there may be accorded be- very small portion of knowledge which can fore this ordeal a glass of milk--cold and be deliberately, as it were, injected into heavy on the stomach at that hour ; but the young, and that the real, the useful, the good, warm, nourishing breakfast the principal lessons they need, and by which should always precede brain-work which their future lives will be guided, are in the case of every growing girl, is either not to be found under the head of “ Lesdelayed until she has accomplished her sons, my dears” ? hour's study, or not given at all. The A girl ought to be taught to think, to mind is gorged—the body is starved. observe, to reflect ; but if she is given no

And so on throughout the day. The time wherein to exercise these powers, if parent who considers that during the brief every day and every hour is so filled up, so hours of winter sunshine it is as well to portioned out, and so settled for her by curtail the morning tasks to a single hour authority, how is she ever, in homely or so, and postpone the principal tuition phrase, to "feel her feet"

” ?

Her powers to the afternoon, by which time the sky is both of mind and of body are undermined apt to cloud over and raw mists to steal by the constant wear and tear of endless over the face of the land, has, in the eyes tasks. She is enfeebled and incapacitated. of her acquaintances who are educationists Her faculties are warped. Intelligence proper, a very poor idea of developing itself, when driven between the shafts unmental culture. They “wonder at her” ceasingly along one beaten track,

will cease -behind backs. They consider she“ does to gaze with any interest elsewhere. not do her daughters justice." And one

And one Turned loose upon a common full of speaker will narrate how many hours a day flowers and grasses,

the

same becomes her dear girls are closeted with their straightway no better than a wilderness. Fräulein ;' and another will cap

the Holidays bring but a partial benefit in cital with the extra dose administered by the above cases. The body may recuperher Mademoiselle ;" while the pale ate itself, but the mind cannot. What is drawn faces and the round stooping backs the little maid to do? How shall she pass of the unfortunate objects of their tender- the time! She cannot be always at play ; ness, count for nothing as compared with she wearies of doing nothing ; yet she has Adela's proficiency in music, or Ethel's no energy for doing anything. To read fluency in French.

would be purest drudgery : to draw, to The doctor, he knows. He knows the sing, to cultivate a single accomplishment meaning of those listless movements and would all savor of the hated " Lesson” lack-lustre eyes.

But of what avail is his hours. She can fancy nothing-settle to knowledge ? He may gently hint at the nothing. necessity of the chest expanding and the Hard-worked and hard-driven as she has muscles developing ; but he will be met by been throughout her young career, she has the cold rejoinder, “ My daughters have never been taught one thing, and that is abundance of exercise ; they bave a back- to employ herself ; with her it has ever board in the schoolroom : they are not been either “Lessons, my dears," or else great eaters by nature !"

-idleness. It is hard in the teeth of 66 · Lessons, Is there anything to be done ? There my dears,” which is written on every line is this. Curtail the hours during which

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schoolroom rule is all in all. Permit some It may of course be replied to this that intervals of real leisure—not enforcing any- even a little musical ability may be useful thing to be done in these. Leave them to in after life, may cultivate the ear, and be dealt with by their owner herself. teach appreciation, if nothing else. GrantSurely she has a right to own some little ed, but that is not the point. Enough bits of her own life here and there. When musical tuition to acquire these can be not worn out by ceaseless tasks, she will surely gained without hours and hours fill them sensibly enough, if she is a sensi- spent in drumming scales, and rendering ble child ; and if not, she will at least fill and re-rendering difficult passages of them as well as you, her guardian, could pieces”' never destined to delight any do in such a case. Don't take all the

mortal ear.

It makes one's heart ache to go” out of her with endless supervision. see the victim to these going through her She wants to go her own way and follow daily drudgery, and to know how valueless her own bent, at times. Consider that the it is. time will come when she will have to do As for the hideous folly of enacting that this, and why not prepare and train for it shall be gone through fasting, and

at an such a time? You will not always be at hour of the day when Nature is at her lowher elbow ; draw away from it once in a est ebb, requiring a fillip instead of a while, now.

drain, this is a matter which requires And as for that eternal “ practising,” can stronger language and more eloquent deanything be said to check or moderate this nunciation than the present writer dares to In how few cases is there

any

real give. — Chambers's Journal. result; how few are musicians by nature.

pest?

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It is seldom that the reviewer of COD- ter Scott, Bart., is entirely new to us. temptuous," or contemptible,"batches" Meredith we know, and Besant we know; of novels finds himself so puzzled as by a but who is Sir Walter Scott ? A baronetnew sixpenny story, styled The Heart of age throws no light on what we must asMidlothian. The author's name, Sir Wal- sume to be a nom de guerre ; but we con

fess that, unfamiliar as is the author, we * The Heart of Midlothian. By Sir Walter do not care how soon we meet him again. Scott, Bart London : Black. 1891.

His work has, indeed, the fault of youth,

manner.

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inexperience, and a kind of laborious jocu. book sentiment that “ the paths of virtue, larity. The construction of the tale is though seldom those of worldly greatness, chiefly conspicuous in the usually quoted are always those of pleasantness and

There is an almost unintelligible peace. Here we find, and in capital letpreface by one Jedediah Cleishbotham, ters, the didactic heresy, and this is the and much of the conversation is written in more surprising as

" Sir Walter Scott' dialect. The tale is historical, which is has inklings of a more artistic method. usually a kind way of saying that it is Let him shun the paths of the historical tedious ; but we confess that we have read novel ; let him, above all, retrench or with great interest tbe description of the wholly abandon his dialect ; let him make Porteous Riots and that we do not think up his mind not to be humorous out of them unworthy of the author of Micah season, let him carefully plan and conClarke, nor even of Mr. Stevenson him- struct his plot beforehand, and we shall self, whom our author seems, at some dis- look with some confidence to his taking tance, to imitate. The imitation, how- a position not far below that of Mr. Barrie. ever, is not often servile, and people who The style is, unhappily, very lax, the sencan endure dialect will find some pleasure tences meander tardily through boulders in the character of an old belated Cove- of " which's." Mrs. Poyser has obvinanter, Davie Deans. The figure of that ously been a favorite character of our dilatory lover, the Laird of Dumbiedikes, author's, and he has endeavored to copy bas also touches of agrecable, though far some of her pregnant sayings. from subtle, caricature. We are some- tainly the gudeman of St. Leonard's had what puzzled by a personage named Madge some grand news to tell him, for he was Wildfire, who distinctly verges on the sen- as uplifted as a midden-cock' (dunghill sational, but sings some not unmelodious cock) " on pattens.” This is like Mrs. verses, whether original or derived from Poyser's observation that the bird thought tradition. We shall not defy the editor the sun had risen on purpose to hear him of The Author, that fiery journal, by gir- crow. Other examples might he chosen ; ing a précis of the plot of the Heart of but we have no sympathy with the foolMidlothian. Suffice it to say that cir- ish cry of plagiarism. We repeat, not cumstances not unconnected with the unconscious of the energy of our eulogy, Scotch law of concealment of birth enable that this new author has points about him the daughter of the old Puritan, Jeanie which deserve to be studied and improved. Deans, to display singular qualities of mod- He can never be a Howells or a Meredith ; esty, courage, and truthfulness. It is a except when he writes in dialect he is pity that our author should put such un- always intelligible, and his judgment of maidenly and, indeed, unintelligible lan- human affairs appears to lack neither guage in her mouth as " The deil's in the sagacity nor benevolence. Often trite and daidling body ; wha wad bae thonght o' even languid, he rises in description of his daikering out this length ?" The passion, and, though occasionally he labors author himself “ daikers”? out to a length at a jest, we admit that, for a Scot, he is which we end by finding tedious. The not destitute of humor. We look forward tale should have closed with chapter xli. ; to meeting him again in a tale of modern the subsequent fortunes of the characters manners and south of his favorite Tweed. are dreary where they are not melodra- - Saturday Review. matic. The writer ends with the copy

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rose,

“And I saw that the women also held each

my brother's bed when we were children, other's hands." - DREAMS.

and other things as small. I have in it a I HAVE an old brown carved box ; the

Other women also have such boxes lid is broken and tied with a string. In where they keep such trifics, but no one it I keep little squares of paper, with bair has my rose. inside, and a little picture which hung over When my eye is dim, and my heart

sonne,

fail us.

one

I was

grows faipt, and my faith in woman flick- she might have married any one out of ers, and her present is an agony to ine, twenty of them. and her future a despair, the scent of that Then I came.

I do not think I was dead rose, withered for twelve years, prettier ; I do not think I was so pretty comes back to me. I know there will be as she was. I was certainly not as hand. spring ; as surely as the birds know it

But I was vital, and I was new, when they see above the snow two tiny, and she was old—they all forsook her and quivering green leaves. Spring cannot followed me. They worshipped me. It

was to my door that the flowers came ; it There were other flowers in the box was I had twenty horses offered me when once ; a bunch of white acacia flowers, I could only ride one ; it was for me they gathered by the strong hand of a man as waited at street corners ; it was what I we passed down a village street on a sultry said and did that they talked of. Partly afternoon, when it bad rained, and the drops I liked it. I had lived alone all my life ; fell on us from the leaves of the acacia trees. no one ever had told me I was beautiful The flowers were damp; they made mildew and a woman. I believed them. I did marks on the paper I folded them in, Af- not know it was simply a fashion, which ter many years I threw them away. There man had set, and the rest followed is nothing of them left in the box now, unreasoningly. I liked them to ask me to but a faint, strong smell of dried acacia, marry them, and to say, No. I despised that recalls that sultry summer afternoon ; them. The mother heart bad not swelled but the rose is in the box still.

in me yet ; I did not know all men were It is many years ago now; I was a girl my children, as the large woman knows of fifteen, and I went to visit in a small when her beart is grown. I was too small up-country town. It was young in those to be tender.

I liked my power. days, and two days' journey from the like a child with a new whip, which it nearest village ; the population consisted goes about cracking everywhere, not carmainly of men. A few were married, and ing against what. I could not wind it up had their wives and children, but most and put it away. Men were curious creatwere single. There was only one young ures, who liked me, I could never tell why. girl there when I came. She was about Only one thing took from my pleasure ; I seventeen, fair, and rather fully-fleshed ; could not bear that they had deserted her she had large dreamy blue eyes, and wavy for me. I liked her great dreamy blue light hair ; full, rather heavy lips, until eyes, I liked her slow walk and drawl ; she smiled; then her face broke into dim- when I saw ber sitting among men, she ples, and all her white teeth shone. The seemed to me much too good to be among hotel-keeper may have had a daughter, them; I would have given all their comand the farmer in the outskirts had two, pliments if she would once have smiled at

saw them.

She reigned me as she smiled at them, with all her alone. All the men worshipped her. She face breaking into radiance, with her dimwas the only woman they had to think of. ples and flashing teeth. But I knew it They talked of her on the “stoep," at the never could be ; I felt sure she hated me; market, at the hotel ; they watched for that she wished I was dead ; that she her at street corners ; they hated the man wished I had never come to the village. she bowed to or walked with down the She did not know, when we went out ridstreet. They brought flowers to the front ing, and a man who had always ridden door ; they offered her their horses ; they beside her came to ride beside me, that I begged her to marry them when they sent him away ; that once when a man dared. Partly, there was something noble thought to win my favor by ridiculing her and heroic in this devotion of men to the slow drawl before me I turned on him so best woman they knew ; partly there was fiercely that he never dared come before something natural in it, that these men, me again. I knew she knew that at the shut off from the world, should pour at hotel men had made a bet as to which was the feet of one woman the worship that the prettier, she or I, and had asked each otherwise would have been given to man who came in, and that the one who twenty ; and partly, there was something bad staked on me won. I hated them for mean in their envy of one another. If it, but I would not let her see that I cared she had raised her little finger, I suppose, about what she felt toward me.

but we

never

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She and I never spoke to each other. at her breast. She looked like a queen.

If we met in the village street we bowed I said “Good-evening," and turned away and passed on ; when we shook hands we quickly to the glass to arrange my old did so silently, and did not look at each black scarf across my old black dress. other. But I thought she felt my pres- Then I felt a hand touch

iny

hair. ence in a room just as I felt hers.

“ Stand still, ” she said. At last the time for any going came.

I I looked in the glass. She had taken was to leave the next day. Some one I the white rose from her breast, and was knew gave a party in my honor, to which fastening it in my hair. all the village was invited.

" How nice dark hair is ; it sets off Now it was midwinter ; there was noth- flowers so.” She stepped back and looked ing in the gardens but a few dahlias and at it. " It looks much better there !" chrysanthemums, and I suppose that for I turned round and looked at her. two hundred miles round there was not a “You are so beautiful to me,” I said. rose to be bought for love or money. “Y.e-s," she said, slowly ; “ I'm Only in the garden of a friend of mine, in glad.” a sunny corner between the oven and the We stood looking at each other. brick wall, there was a rose-tree growing Then they came in and swept us away. which had on it one bud. It was white. All the evening we did not come near to It had been promised to the girl to wear each other. Only once, as she passed, she at the party:

smiled at me. The evening came ; when I arrived and The next morning I left the town. went to the waiting room, to take off my I never saw her again. mantle, I found the girl already there. Years after I heard she had married and She was dressed in a pure white dress, gone to America ; it may or may not be with her great white arms and shoulders so—but the rose is in the box still.—New showing, her bright hair glittering in the Review. candle-light, and the white rose fastened

THE GARDEN,

BY E. NESBIT.

My garden was lovely to see,

For all things fair,
Sweet flowers and blossoms rare,

I had planted there.
There were pinks and lilies and stocks,
Sweet
gray

and white stocks, and rose and rue,
And clematis white and blue,
And pansies and daisies and phlox.
And the lawn was trim, and the trees were shady,
And all things were ready to greet my lady
On the Life's-love-crowning day

When she should come
To her lover's home,

To give herself to me.
I saw the red of the roses-
The royal roses that bloomed for her sake ;

“ 'They shall lie,” I said, “ where my heart's hopes lie :

They shall droop on her heart and die."
I dreamed in the orchard-closes :

66 'Tis here we will walk in the July days,
When the paths and the lawn are ablaze ;
We will walk here, and look at our life's great bliss,

And thank God for this.”

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