than the deaf boy or man, girl or woman.
The trial to temper and self-respect is as great
as well can be, and it should be timely
prepared for.

The first requisite is thorough confidence
between the parents (the mother especially)
and the child. The mother should steady
his little mind, and enter into his feelings,
good or bad, and win him to confide to her
all his peculiar experience. Then she will
know how to give him the knowledge that he
cannot get for himself. She will patiently
and privately teach him whatever will best
obviate any needless peculiarity. She will
correct his pronunciation—accustom him to
regulate his voice—take pains to find out
what way of speaking best suits his ear, so as
to make him hear with the least noise and
disturbance. She will find that he hears
worse instead of better when people shout, or
make faces; and better in proportion as
people speak rationally, however much they
may have to raise their voices; and her
example will regulate other people's ways
with him. She will take care that his nerves,
always in such cases quite sensitive enough,
are not heedlessly pained, and that his life,
always irksome enough, is made as cheerful
as good sense, courage, and family affection
can make it.

Above all, it is her business to warn
him in time against moroseness, the unreasonableness,
and the suspicious temper that will
inevitably poison his life if this timely care
be not taken. She will help him against
them. When she sees the suspicion spring
up, she will root it out by instant explanation,
and lead him after a time to see how, in
suspecting, he always turns out to be wrong.
It is not only possible but easy, when there
is good sense, courage, and love in the parent,
to turn the selfish and chafing temper into
one of love, trust, and repose. It is impossible
to compensate for such an imperfection; but
its evils and pains may be reduced to
something much less than is supposed by careless
observers, or by those who stand too near,
and love and grieve too much to rouse their
own faculties to their proper duty. It is a
painful truth, but it ought to be spoken—that
the family treatment of personal infirmity in
any member is usually bad. Between the
inexperience and small power of reflection in
some,—the lack of good sense in others—
false tenderness here, and hardness, through
reluctance to face the truth, there— the sufferer
has too often but a poor chance. Among the
whole order of these sufferers, none, after the
idiotic or deficient, is so sure of failure, and
misery if left to himself, as the deaf child.
The blind, the lame, the deformed, have much
to go through; but their intellectual development
and moral growth and satisfaction do
not depend, as in the case of the deaf,
precisely upon that part of them which is
defective.

Perhaps we may, on a future occasion, go
further into the proof of this point, in
considering those cases, as we have that of the
deaf.

DEADLY LIVELY.

THERE are many ways of spending a pleasant
holiday in Paris. Perhaps no city on the
face of the earth offers so many ways. There
are the barrières, where for a few sous, the
excursionist may sip his little glass of
something nice, and enjoy his quadrille; there
are the cafés chantants, where more or less
exquisite singing is accompanied by very
vigorous violins, and where ladies in hat
and feathers of the most formidable
description beg you to contribute some sous to
the money-box. There are the Tuileries
and Luxembourg Gardens, the Musée, the
Louvre, and reading-rooms, where Dumas,
and Sue, and Sand may be enjoyed for ten
centimes. All these attractions present
themselves to the mind of the Parisian
holiday maker. Then there is Versailles—
not to mention St. Germains, and St. Cloud.
Then the open-air concerts, and dancing-dogs,
and Fantoccini, and Ombres Chinoises, and
Polichinelli, of the Champs Elysées, are tempting.
But all these are sports or pastimes
adapted to the afternoon or evening, or
confined to summer weather. Therefore, for early
morning holiday amusement, the Parisian has
no great variety of attractions. He cannot then
play at dominoes or piquet; even billiards before
noon are wearisome. Thus, to dispose of
the morning, and at the same time to indulge
that intense respect which the French feel for
the dead—excursionists, in hundreds and
thousands, flock every Sunday to the great
metropolitan cemeteries. Once at least in each
week for the first year the near relation of
a deceased is expected to visit the new grave,
to decorate it, and pray for the soul that is
gone. This custom is one that even the
sternest philosopher, looking upon death from
a material and physiological point of view,
cannot wholly contemplate without some
sympathy—without seeing in it some wholesome
feeling, some affecting tenderness.

Yet, let a stranger take the omnibus (if he
can find room in it) at the Louvre which runs
to the Barrière Blanche—note by the way the
many fellow-passengers in mourning who will
present themselves; and, arrived at his
destination, let said stranger turn to the
left, and follow the crowd on the way to the
great cemetery of Montmartre, and he shall
see curious sights—odd incidents of mingled
grief and festivity—that will puzzle him. The
scene, taken as a whole, is a very gay one.
Here are hundreds of children romping;
stalls devoted to the sale of sweetmeats;
restaurants offering a formidable list of plâts at
wonderfully low prices; and beer and spirit
shops, which appear to come in for their fair
share of public patronage. But, turning from
the festive part of the scene, and directing his