feeling about the deaths of persons of different
ages. He felt the corpse of a child of two
years old, and asked a woman in the room if
she cried for its death; but, without waiting for
an answer, he added that that was not possible,
for the child was too young to be able to
think much, or therefore to be worth crying
for.

These results are surely wonderful for a
period of eighteen months. This desolate creature
could, in that time, speak, read, think, and
inquire; he was a subject of moral discipline,
and was capable of an energetic industry. His
work at the turning-lathe was excellent, and he
had employments enough to fill up his time
innocently and cheerfully. A cheering thought
and image to all who had heard of him, what
must he have been to his guardian, the
patient M. Hirzel! His family were
proud of him, even to the deaf and dumb
brother, and he lost none of his attachment
to them.*
* This youth is an old acquaintance of mine, and I
presented him with the cigars he smoked he has a
great delight in smoking—for some months, when I
lived at Lausanne. For a long time after I left that
place, he always associated my name with a cigar.
Being there, last October, after an absence of five or
six years, I went to see my old friend. M. Hirzel
could not then, by any means, induce him to associate
me in the right manner with a cigar, though Edward
was painfully anxious to understand. I left some money
for him, to be expended in the old way; and I believe
he has gradually smoked me back into his remembrance.
"C. D."

Even greater progress has been made in
the development of the American girl, Laura
Bridgman, whose case is happily so well
known as not to need to be here detailed at
length. In her case, too, the sense of touch
was the only resource at first; and in her
case, too, there was the advantage (how great
we cannot know) of her having enjoyed sight
and hearing till she was two years old. At the
age of eight, Dr. Howe, who was to her what M.
Hirzel was to Edward Meystre, took her under
his charge in the Blind Asylum, at Boston,
Massachusetts, and taught her as much as
Edward was taught, except that actual speech
was not attempted. Poor child! When
informed that the sounds she made were too
loud and frequent, she asked, "Why, then,
has God given me so much voice?" The
pathetic, unconscious hint was taken, and she
was then permitted for a certain time everyday
to exercise her lungs freely,—making as
much noise as she pleased, in a room where
she could disturb nobody. When alone and
watched without her knowing it, she soliloquises
in the finger speech; and, what appears
still more strange, she uses it in her dreams.
The governess who visits her bedside, can
tell, by watching the motions of the hand,
what she is dreaming about. She writes
freely now, and her mind communicates very
largely with others. Her diary, which she
writes in a clear free hand, without the
guidance of lines, tells how her days pass,—
among books and work,—books in raised
print, and neat sewing or knitting of her
own, and lessons in geography, history, and
algebra, among other things; and about her
walks, her visitors, the letters she receives
and writes, and the news from all parts of
the world that her friends report to her. She
is regular in all her doings, neat in her dress,
always busy in one way or another, exceedingly
inquiring and intelligent, and remarkably
merry. Her turn has come—even hers—
for benefiting a fellow-being. Oliver, a boy
in her own plight was brought to the institution
as she had been, and she assists
materially in his education, and must be an
inestimable companion to him.

There was once seen, we believe in
France, an awful and heart-breaking
spectacle, when, for purposes of philosophical
observation, the inmates of a blind school and
a deaf and dumb asylum were brought together.
At first, they tried to communicate—
the deaf and dumb being permitted to feel
the lips and throats of the blind; but a dreadful
scene ensued. Their strong and scarcely
disciplined passions became furiously excited
by the difficulty of communication, which
each supposed to be the fault of the other,
and they sprang at each other's throats like
wild beasts, and fought so desperately that
there was great difficulty in parting them.
The two classes spoke of each other
afterwards with bitter hatred. How different is
now the scene, when the merely blind pupils
help and serve Laura and Edward, and are
beloved by them; and when Laura, with
flushed cheeks and trembling fingers, labours
to convey some of her knowledge and her
intellectual pleasures to Oliver, and succeeds,
and he is happy in consequence! How are
times changed since the helpless were cast
out to perish!

A TRUE KNIGHT.

THOUGH he lived and died among us
Yet his name may be enrolled
With the knights whose deeds of daring
Ancient chronicles have told.

Still a stripling, he encountered
Poverty, and struggled long,
Gathering force from every effort,
Till he knew his arm was strong.

Then his heart and life he offered
To his radiant mistress, Truth;
Never thought, or dream, or faltering,
Marred the promise of his youth.

And he rode forth to defend her,
And her peerless worth proclaim;
Challenging each recreant doubter
Who aspersed her spotless name.

First upon his path stood Ignorance,
Hideous in his brutal might,
Hard the blows and long the battle
Ere the monster took to flight.