sincerity; or, on the other, to condemn the yet immature mind to a labour to which it is unequal-to cram it with dates till it fancies that it knows history, and with insulated facts, till it thinks that it has learnt a science.

The temptation, in treating of a subject so attractive as the present, to wander without rule or compass through the fair fields laid open to our view, and to be led away by the music of those sweet sounds whose echoes are even yet floating in our ears, is so great, that it requires no little resolution to resist it. Still, however, there are certain rules to be observed-there is an end to be accomplished a purpose to be answered; and therefore passing, for the present at least, by these allurements, we gird up our loins, and betake ourselves to our appointed task.

The mind of man, no less than his body, is of gradual development. Weak, feeble, and helpless at his outset, it requires nourishment at another's hands, it cannot yet go forth to search on its own behalf, but must depend on another for its support. The quality of the food and treatment it then receives may, as in the case of the body, determine, or, at least, influence its character through life. It may render it for ever a sickly puny thing, devoid of life and energy; it may rouse it to premature exertions which end in deformity or death; or it may also train every power to its proper use, develop it in its full strength and beauty, and fill up, as far as in it lies, the measure of that TEλɛιórns after which the wise and good have at all times aspired.

The nourishment, then, administered to the mind at this the very dawn of its existence must be suited to its strength; it must be fed with milk before it can receive strong meat; it is yet all too weak to bear the deductions of reason or the discoveries of science, and must be led on gently and tenderly in its course, instead of being pushed on with rash and inconsiderate haste. Far better is it to let it disport itself for a while in the flowery fields, than to force its yet trembling footsteps to scale the rugged precipice.

It is never a safe or judicious plan to act against the dictates of nature, or to form artificial systems to supersede her efforts. Sooner or later she will either triumph, or avenge herself. Look, for example, at the child of over-anxious parents-educated on some philosophical theory-protected from every thing that can be supposed to injure it-trained in calisthenic exercises-taken out at a certain fixed hour for its daily airing-its very food weighed out according to a rigid dietary system; and then compare the pale

and sickly object thus produced with the free mountain child, who has known no restraint, been bound down by no system but that of nature, who has roamed freely abroad, caring not for rain or sunshine, braving alike the heat of a summer's noon and the storms of winter; and who, not in spite of this apparent negligence, but in consequence of it, has grown up hardy and robust, glowing with the bloom of health, and rejoicing in his strength. But there is another object even yet more pitiable than the abortive production of an artificial system, and that object is the child who has been forced to premature and unnatural exertions. No class among the manifold forms of misery which the present state of the country offers to our notice, presents so deplorable a scene of abject wretchedness, as the unhappy children, who, at an age when they can scarce totter to and fro, are condemned to labour in our factories to supply the demands of an overgrown population, and a ruinous manufacturing system. Stunted in their growth-enfeebled in every limb-confined in a heated and pestilential atmospheredefrauded of their childish sports, and knowing nothing of those joys which children ought to know-it is no matter for wonder that they drop into an early grave, or that, if they survive, they live a life of misery, and, degraded alike in their animal and their spiritual nature, become at once the least useful, and the most dangerous portion of the people.

Such are the effects of thwarting nature in the education of the body; such the light which she holds forth to guide us. Let us see whether we have not an equally certain rule in the education of the mind. Observe a child at the age when its faculties first begin to develop themselves, when the dawn of intellect has just begun to pour forth its light; and watch attentively what are the qualities most prominently displayed.

Attend then to the readiness, the eagerness with which the imagination grasps the first opportunity for exercising itself. Trace the delight, the intense interest on every feature of the infant face, when he hears from his nurse's lips the first tale of wonder and enchantment. Compared with this all other enjoyments lose their zest; the childish game is abandoned; the picture-book is closed; even the constant prattle of his lips ceases for a while, as he warms with the recital of the deeds of some brave warrior, or thinks of the kindness of some gentle fairy, or commiserates the unhappy wanderings of the orphan children, whose lifeless bodies received their funeral rites from that household bird-always a favourite with

children--the Robin Redbreast. Take the same child, and repeat the experiment with some of those books of useful knowledgethose compilations of facts, and names, and dates, and places, which bid fair at the present day to occupy the whole province of nursery literature.* See the distaste with which he regards it—the little interest it excites in him; the reluctance with which he submits to have it crammed into his memory; the want of anything like good-will with which he betakes himself to his daily task. Watch, moreover, the effects of a year or two of this artificial system, whether on a child of naturally good abilities, or on one more than usually deficient. In the former case, you will have a boy aping the airs of a man-puffed up with a conceited estimation of his own superficial knowledge; intruding his opinions when they are not called for; pert, tiresome, and disagreeable. In the latter, whatever latent spark of genius there might once have been, will be extinguished by the mass of matter which has been forced upon it in greater quantities than its strength could bear.

Seeing, then, that it is the obvious intention of nature that the imaginative faculties should be developed before those of reason and memory, it is no light matter whether we, in our teaching, shall follow her guidance, or proceed on a path diametrically opposed to it; whether we shall allow the plant to grow as the spontaneous energy of nature directs it, guiding that energy without thwarting it; or whether we shall cut off a branch in one place, engraft something foreign to its nature in another, and endeavour to produce, by our own devices,

"Some faultless monster which the world ne'er saw."

An objection has been brought against both legendary and fabulous instruction, by theorists like Rousseau, who have left the guidance both of nature and experience to follow a self-invented system of their own, which scarcely deserves attention but from its absurdity. We are gravely told, that to represent birds and beasts and insects as holding a friendly converse with each other, or with man; and to tell of fairies, enchanters, elves, and other creations of mythic lore,—is fixing falsehood in the minds of children, instead of truth; that they are likely to grow up in the

* We have of late seen with pleasure some examples of a revival of better taste: such, for instance, are the Agathos and Rocky Island of Archdeacon Wilberforce, Mrs. Austen's translation of the delightful "Story without an End," and its almost more delightful continuation, "The Child and the Hermit."

belief that sheep and oxen are in the habit of talking to each other over the events of the day; and that the denizens of Fairy Land are people to be met with in ordinary life. The fallacy of this objection, which is so obvious as scarcely to need refuting, evidently lies in the omission of the fact, that the slightest possible experience is sufficient to show that the mode of instruction is a fiction, while the instruction itself is imparted to the mind, and there abides.

Let it not, however, be supposed that we are advocates for administering to the imagination that unhealthy food which can only tend to produce in it a morbid, and often painful, excess. It is one thing to cultivate a plant, another to let it grow wild and unrestrained; one thing to train it to its full development, another to force it into rank luxuriance. Happily, there is not much in that legendary lore which forms, or rather once did form, our standard nursery literature to call for this caution; - the evils against which we have to guard are to be found rather in those tales of ghosts and goblins, and all the horrors of a vulgar superstition, which have sprung up because the former have been neglected.

There are, we repeat, but few of these dangers to be found in the legends which are endeared to us by all the associations which take so strong a hold upon an infant's mind, while there is much to rouse and foster those kindly feelings of love and sympathy which, in the morning of life, are so fresh in their purity, so sweet in their unselfishness. What child has not wept over the cruelty inflicted by men of stern and savage heart upon those innocent little ones who wandered through the pathless woods till they died in each other's arms of weariness and hunger? Who has not reserved from his next meal some store of crumbs for those kind and gentle birds who, with duteous piety, covered their lifeless bodies from the sight of day? Who has not sympathized with the patient meekness of the suffering Cinderella, and rejoiced at her long-delayed, but at last triumphant, glory? Did time allow us, we could go on with a long catalogue of examples of suffering innocence, and of virtue-afflicted, but at last victorious; and of deeds of courage and of piety. We could tell of the valour of the giant-slayer, and the industry of Whittington, and the gentleness and affection of the white cat, and the enduring constancy of the golden ram, and of many more whose names are familiar to the ears, and whose deeds are associated with the earliest recollections of us all.

But there is another topic connected with the early development of the imaginative faculties, which we would touch on briefly and reverentially, ere we close. It is not solely because it is in accordance with the course of nature, nor even because it cherishes the kindly feelings of the heart, that we would wish that the imagination should, in the very dawn of life, be thus cultivated and developed. At first, it is true, no other purpose than this may seem to have been answered; but, as the mind advances to maturity, the imagination will seek for purer and better food; it will crave for the strong meat which belongeth unto full age. Trained and nourished in its youth to a healthy and a vigorous strength, it will be able to enter into those higher and more noble thoughts which are given to those only "whose fancy heaven-ward soars ;" to see clearly the things of spiritual existence; to realize to itself the truth, that—

"Millions of living spirits walk the earth,

To us unseen ;-"

and, as it feels itself surrounded by those bright and glorious beings, to think (in the words of him who, under the guise of a tale of Faërie, wrote the noblest allegory in our language,)—

"How oft do they their silver bowers leave

To come to succour us that succour want!

How oft do they, with golden pinions, cleave
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,

Against foul fiends to aid us militant!"*

To the imagination thus perfected and ennobled, no object in nature will be without its hidden and mysterious meaning. It will find sermons in stones and in the running brooks. In the lustre of the ocean-gem, and the fragrance of sweet flowers; in the many-twinkling smile of the expanse of waters, and in the rays of the stars of heaven,—it will discover some peculiar charm unknown to others. The winds and the waters will pour into its ear their voices of sweet melody. Even during the labour and heat of the day, it will soar above the things of earth; and, when the senses of the world are steeped in the forgetfulness of slumber, it will feel a still and solemn joy-will see visions of unearthly beauty, and hear

"Celestial voices in the midnight airs."

* Spenser, F. Q. Book ii. canto viii. 2.

E. H. P.