observe the rules of the establishment; and
their self-respect is re-instated in every
possible way. During the periods of recreation
no surveillance is exercised; indeed, from the
nature of the premises, which consist of
several houses in a densely crowded
neighbourhood, it would be impossible to set up
anything like bounds. Nevertheless they are
not found to consort with their old
companions—they are placed above them, and
consider they have made a step upward in
life. Mr. Bowyer tells us, that the appeal to
their self-respect is his strong-hold over
them all, and that he frequently entrusts
boys who have been in the Institution for
some time, with rather large sums of money
to pay bills, &c.; that by so doing he had
never once been made to suffer, never met
with a breach of trust. To our anxious
inquiry, How do you dispose of your inmates,
when you have reformed them? he
replied, "Most of them emigrate. Connected
with the Institution there is a fund to enable
us to send them out. All we have sent out
have done well. Others again are draughted
into the army and navy, and we have received
excellent characters of them from their officers.
Some, who are good workmen, have
obtained situations in this immediate
neighbourhood. There is a disposition to employ
them, and a character from us is a sufficient
recommendation. Each inmate remains two
years, by which time his good habits have
taken root. Every boy who enters, has to
undergo a fortnight's separation from his
companions, and a bread and water diet.
This is a test of his sincerity; and is not
introduced until some weeks after he has
joined; because, it is thought, when he has
once enjoyed for a time the benefits of the
Institution, his solitude is more likely to be
profitable. If he wishes to work in his
solitude, he is allowed to have his tools."

The expression of the boys' faces we found
to be, with few exceptions, good. Mr. Bowyer
tells us, that the improvement which becomes
visible in that respect is so great, that after
the lapse of a few weeks he can sometimes
scarcely recognise a new-comer for the same
lad who entered. The exceptions remarked by
us proved to be all of them new-comers, and we
were assured that they would alter their
expression in the course of a short time. Much
of the success that has attended the working
of this institution is undoubtedly owing to the
present influence of the manager over the
inmates. He has evidently a liking for his
work. Another advantage is, the simplicity
and directness of the effect; there is no waste
of power; no cumbrous machinery stands
between the programme and the performance;
there is no philanthropic routine to be
set in motion; what has to be done, can
always be done at once. The expenses of the
Institution are incurred only for things of the
strictest necessity. Nothing is wasted upon
appearances: consequently great good has
been effected with comparatively little money.
Mr. Bowyer, who is founder of the Institution,
was not a rich man when he undertook the
work. His income was decidedly limited,
and his time much occupied by his employment;
but he was interested in the ragged
schools; many boys came to him, and said, if
they had a refuge and the chance of doing
better, they would thankfully leave their
evil courses. Then, at his own expense,
he engaged rooms and began with eight boys,
giving them at all events a home. Friends
have since gathered round the good
Samaritan; a list of noble patrons gives to his
enterprise the prestige of their names; the value
of his work is recognised by a free-hearted
and free-handed public; and there is now
every reason to believe that it will go on,
increase, and prosper.

               HOLIDAY QUARTERS.

I HAVE stolen away from care-haunted
London (which has always seemed to me the
abiding-place of turmoil and weariness, with
ungentle thoughts), and I am living in a little
brick box on the pleasant heights of Richmond
Hill.

I rise with the birds and the cows of a
morning. I see the sheep wake one by one
as I ramble forth with my pipe and thoughts.
None but they and I are up, with the exception
of a young man and his wife who keep
a small shop in the neighbourhood, and who
seem to be always healthfully wrestling with
a coy but cheerful fortune. I love these
mornings. They are so sunny and joyous.
The three geraniums which blossom on my
window-sill seem to be dancing always to the
soft music of the breeze. The birds make
quite a playground of the quiet road, and
when disturbed whirr off to the old paling
opposite, and trill out (as I fancy) a comic
song of derision to the silly old bookworm,
who shuts himself up with the feathers of
that waddling bird the goose (their common
butt); and a few such rags (metamorphosed
a little) as they use to build the commonest
part of their nests.

My landlord is a carpenter by trade. He is a
short dapper brisk little man, who is fond of
going about in a cap and shirt-sleeves.
According to the usual mysterious dispensation
of Providence, he has, of course a long wife.
I am bound to say she is a very long wife:
but a decent, thrifty pains-taking body as
needs be. She keeps her little house in as
trim and well-scrubbed a condition as her
little husband. If I might venture to make
the remark, I would suggest that the house
is a little too clean; and if the purport of
some subdued remonstrances from the
carpenter have reached my ears correctly, I
might almost believe that if he were allowed
to be dirtier he would be happier. I have
an impression that he is often positively
hunted down and harried by a piece of yellow