Four hundred years ago a horde of fierce and
barbarous barons were busy in England,
painting the white rose red.  Having happily
weakened the feudal aristocracy and the
despotic monarchy by their exterminating
feuds, the smaller proprietors and the
industrious orders were enabled, in these highly
favoured British islands, to grow up in
independence and liberty, and to flourish in wealth
and intelligence.  A hundred years ago,
in seventeen hundred and fifty-seven, a
company of traders had received a grant of about
five thousand square miles of territory upon
the coast of Malabar and Coromandel, and
now, in eighteen hundred and fifty-seven,
their empire consists of about six hundred
thousand square miles of territory. Only three
or four centuries ago the loveliest flowers in
the British islands were the symbols of the
wretched feuds of the rival pretenders; and
in June, eighteen hundred and fifty-seven,
one of the most magnificent products of the
vegetable world is the symbol of a struggle
between Budhism and Christianity.  Other
and coarser elements, no doubt, abound in the
strife; the ambition of princes, the intrigues
of rival nations; but, under atrocities and
mutinies, the student of races and religions
can scarcely fail to discern the signs of a
revolt of the lotus against the cross.

ELEANOR CLARE'S JOURNAL FOR
TEN YEARS.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.  CHAPTER THE SECOND.

STOCKBRIDGE, August the fourth.—This is
the first chance I have got since I came to
Stockbridge, of writing a word in my journal
—and now it is on the sly.  I came four days
ago, and seem to have been in a whirl and
confusion ever since; I am only just
beginning to settle down.

At first it seemed as if I never should
settle.  Everything was so strange.  There
was only one girl here when I arrived (Miss
Alice they call her, and she is the half-
boarder); but a great many have come in
yesterday and to-day—twenty-three in all.
From what I have seen, there is not one
whom I feel inclined to like much, but I can
tell with certainty one person I do not like,
and that is Miss Alice— I cannot bear her.
She helped the English teacher, Miss
Smallwood (a gaunt, very disagreeable-looking
woman) to unpack my boxes, make
inventories of my clothes, and put them in the
drawers as if she were a servant; and when
it was time to dress for dinner (we dine at
four) she came and asked me if I could do
my own hair ? When I told her I could, she
said, "That's a blessing! " and went away.

She is apparently there to serve everybody
—girls, teachers, and mistresses.  Some of
the girls seem great friends with her, but
most of them are afraid of her.  She is not
cross or ill-natured, but she is so satirical she
makes me cringe.  If she only looks at me, I
begin to dread that the next moment she
will, as it were, spit out a sharp, stinging
phrase at me, and make everybody laugh.
It is her way. I was talking to Emily Clay
about her, and asking whether she were not
a disagreeable person; Emily said she was
very odious to those she disliked, but by one
or two there was nobody so much loved.  It
seems strange how anybody can love her.
She does not look very formidable; she is
middle-sized and dark-complexioned, with a
quantity of beautiful hair, and very bright
eyes; Emily calls her pretty, but I do not.
Miss Thoroton does not like her, and is very
harsh to her, and she even dares to retort
and defend herself.  Miss Smallwood and
she are at daggers drawn, and are engaged
in little wordy fights ever so many times
a-day; the girls seem to think it fun.  I
should not like to be Miss Alice for
anything, but I shall take care not to offend her.

August the ninth.—This is my first Sunday
at school, and this evening we have some
rest in the garden, where I am writing upon
my knee with a pencil Emily Clay has lent
me.  On week-days we have scarcely time
to breathe between each lesson.  We get up
at six, and must be in the school-room at
seven.  Then lessons till eight, prayers, and
breakfast.  After that, ten minutes out here,
and in again to work until twelve.  Then
dry bread and toast-and-water for luncheon,
and half-an-hour's recreation.  Lessons again
till two: then a walk up Stockbridge-lane,
or by the river-side. Back to dinner at four:
a quarter of an hour's rest to save our
complexions, then to lessons again till half-past
seven, tea at eight, prayers after, and to bed
at nine; very thankful am I to get to bed too, I
am so weary of the incessant hum and work.

Miss Thoroton is a very fashionable-looking
lady, but she drops her h's occasionally: she
addresses us, collectively and individually,
upon the conduct of gentlewomen, and cites
to us as shining examples for our imitation,
certain stars of surpassing brilliance, who
formerly illumined the horizon of Stockbridge,
but who have since gone in their
glory to other spheres. There is one—
Maggie Dickson, whom I never will forgive!
Her grace, her elegance, her patience, her
laborious industry, her talent, her doing her
steps up-stairs, her perfect propriety of
manner, and her French accent are a continual
reproach to me.  I believe all the girls hate
her sublime and inimitable virtues.  Whatever
we do ill, Maggie Dickson would scorn
to have done: whatever we do well, Maggie
Dickson would have done a hundred times
better!  All the genius and goodness seem
to have been absorbed by past generations of
school-girls, while we are left lamentably
deficient.  I ventured to say so to Miss Alice,
and she with her smile replied, " O!  we
shall be past generations, next half or next
year, and shall become shining lights in our
turn!  When Maggie Dickson was here, Miss