onner his old name and his world and to save him
truly all the days of my lifes end.

The second answer is:

My dooty tords my nabers to love him as thyself
and to do to all men as I wed thou shalt do and to me
to love onner and suke my farther and mother to onner
and to bay the queen and all that are pet in a forty
under her to smit myself to all my gooness, teaches
sportial pastures and marsters to oughten mysilf lordly
and every to all my betters to hut nobody by would
nor deed to be trew in jest in all my deelins to beer
no malis nor ated in your arts to kep my ands from
pecken and steal my turn from evil speak and lawing
and slanders not to civet nor desar othermans goods
but to lern laber trewly to git my own leaving and to
do my dooty in that state if life and to each it his
please God to call men.

We cite these answers, because they exhibit
a kind of instruction not infrequent in
schools for all classes of society; and
depending partly upon the natural tendency of
the teacher to routine, but much more upon
ignorance of the manner in which the faculties
of the mind can be got at and called into
play, and of the necessity that exists for
special training in the case of some individuals.
We do not believe in great stupidity
as a common natural gift. Doubtless, it
sometimes is so; but, as seen among grown-up
people, it is often artificial. The bad teacher
complains of the pupil. There is a well-
known instance of a girl who, at fifteen, was
thought so stupid, that her father despairingly
abandoned the attempt to educate her.
This girl was Elizabeth Carter, who lived to
be, perhaps, the most learned woman that
England has ever produced. In boys' schools
it is usual to urge that a system must be
framed for the majority, and that study of
individual character is impossible; but girls'
schools are commonly smaller, and the pupils
are far more easily subjected to direct personal
influences. Their minds might be separately
studied by their teacher with
very little difficulty; if she only knew the
importance of the work, and how to set about it;
if she could withdraw her mind from teaching,
and could try to realise what is meant
by education.

The training of the feelings is a most
important point in the management of girls,
especially when much exposed, as they often
are, to the subtle emotional influence of
music. But most teachers are content to
repress by discipline the external signs of
temper and other passions, and then think
that they have done enough. Human feelings,
however, are highly elastic, and will be
sure to re-assert their power when such
pressure is removed, and when the events of life
call them into activity. This is seldom the
case during the first few years after leaving
school, often the sunniest period of a girl's
existence. But, when this period is past, how
many homes are embittered by fretfulness or
jealousy—how many illnesses aggravated by
peevishness or discontent, for want of knowing
how to commence the difficult task of
self-control. As this is assuredly one of the
first duties of life, so its inculcation should
be made the first duty of the schoolmistress;
not by wordy lessons, but by gentle precepts
—by apt and timely illustration, and by
constant example. To supply these, some
knowledge of the mind's mechanism is
required; but, where knowledge is wanting, its
place can only be supplied by the delicate
tact of the maternal instinct.

And if Miss Thompson inquires, as she
possibly may do, what all this has to do with
health, we shall be prepared to answer her.
There is nothing so conducive to health as
equanimity; and, in a life chequered by
the ordinary amount of cares and trials,
equanimity can be secured only by habitual
control (not suppression) of the feelings, and
by habitual and intelligent application of the
mind to worthy and dignified pursuits. To
procure such habits should be the aim and
end of education; any desired kind of learning
will be sure to follow in their train; and
the power to execute correctly Listz's wildest
sonata, or to repeat backwards all the questions
and answers in Miss Mangnall's book,
is not to be put in comparison with them.

We have confined our observations to
schools for girls; not because we think those
for boys are perfect, but because girls suffer
most from injurious influences such as we
have endeavoured to describe.

SALOME AND I.
IN SIX CHAPTERS. CHAPTER THE THIRD.

THE burthened years rolled slowly on,
bringing change to all. My grandmother
died when I was fourteen years old, just
when my time as a scholar in Chalmy's
Hospital was over.

Firmly clutched in her grasp, after death,
I found a small key, attached to a black ribbon
round her neck. Gently, but firmly, I
possessed myself of it. I knew, without
being told, that it was the key of the small
oak-box, which had stood concealed under
the bed ever since I was a child, but whose
contents I had never been permitted to
examine. I felt that there, if anywhere, lay
concealed the dark secret of my early life,
the solution of that dread mystery whose
baleful shadow had darkened our household
ever since I could remember at all. I opened
it with a trembling hand. It contained
nothing but a bundle of yellow, mouldy letters,
and two or three old newspapers. It was
growing dark, so I lighted a candle, and sat
down by the side of the corpse to read the
letters. They were the records of a love
that had burnt its little hour, and died long
ago. My mother's heart lay revealed before
me in all its womanly purity and boundless
wealth of affection.

The letters were divided into two series,
those before marriage, and those after