fore, it cannot be the general aim of education to train daughters for the maternal state, and cultivation for this state cannot be the aim of life.

I would suppose this to be of itself sufficiently plain. O, is this end then such an exalted one, that it was not possible to rise above it in seeking for the destination toward which the education of daughters should look. I contend even that it is a degradation of woman to assign to her this as the highest end of her life. Only once disrobe the excellent essays on this subject of their rhetorical ornaments, separate from them and from yourself all sentimentality, suppose for one moment the exclusion of love from this relation, and then say what it means when we are told that the end of woman is to be a mother! What is all feeling, what are all charms of fancy, all poetical accompaniments, what all elevating and fascinating pictures, if the prosy man cannot also find a kernel for his satisfaction, if he is not able to discover in all, the worthy and the noble? "If we take the whole idea prosaically, what is such a destination else than that woman is doomed to the dark side of life, to serve lust and suffer pain, and even creep upon the earth a groaning sacrifice!

To this you reply, that God himself has said: "I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children: and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee." But consider well that these divine words were spoken after that unhappy fall through which sin came into the world, that they, therefore, do not so much point out the destiny of woman, as they pronounce the penalty which should, from then on, rest upon the weaker race. I know full well, that on such few grounds as those I have thus referred to, you are not yet willing to give up the opinion you have hitherto cherished, that woman can know no higher and sweeter calling than to be a mother, and to educate and train well her children; you, perhaps will silently say, that I have no heart and no mind for what is fortune, and blessedness, and high honor to a mother, and that I, therefore, speak as a blind man does of colors. Is it not so? O yes, and I am rejoiced that you should think so, and that every mother should think so; and it would be denying that I myself had a warm-hearted mother, who had placed her whole happiness in her children, and made it her whole calling to train them right, if I did but for one moment overlook the decided truth and the exalted value which are involved in the acknowledgment and fulfilment of this calling. But this is not the point in hand; to be a mother is the vocation of her, who has become a mother, and is the most worthy end to which she can devote her life; but the privilege

of entering the maternal state, and it remains subject to the divine grace, and can therefore never be a definite expectation, and still less can it furnish so decided an end towards which to direct a daughter's education. We have, therefore, yet found that which is the true end toward which the education of daughters should be directed.

YOUNG AGAIN.

BY GEORGE CANNING HILL.

An old man sits in his high-backed chair
Before an open door,

While the sun of a summer afternoon
Falls hot across the floor,

And the drowsy click of an ancient clock
Has notched the hour of four.

A breeze blows in and a breeze blows out
From the scented Summer air,

And it flutters now on his wrinkled brow,
And now it lifts his hair,

And the leaden lids of his eyes drop down,
And he sleeps in his high-backed chair.

The old man sleeps, and the old man dreams;
His head drops on his breast,

His hands relax their feeble hold,

And fall to his lap in rest:

The old man sleeps, and in sleep he dreams,

And in dreams again is blest.

The years unroll their fearful scroll;

He is a child again;

A mother's tones are in his ear,

And drift across his brain,

He chases gaudy butterfiles

Far down the rolling plain.

He plucks the wild-rose in the woods,
And gathers eglantine,

And holds the golden buttercups
Beneath his sister's chin,
And angles in the meadow brook
With a bent and naked pin;

He loiters down the grassy lane,
And by the brimming pool,
And a sigh escapes his parted lips
As he hears the bell for school,

And he wishes it never were nine o'clock,
And the morning never full.

A mother's hand is pressed on his head,
Her kiss is on his brow-

A Summer breeze blows in at the door,

With the toss of a leafy bough.

And the boy is a white haired man again,
But his eyes are tear filled now.

From the German.

THE LEFT EYE.

A CALMUC TALE.

A RICH old man, who resided at the extremity of the camp, quite apart from the rest, had three daughters, the youngest of whom, named Kookju, was as much distinguished for her beauty as for her extraordinary wisdom.

One morning as he was about driving his cattle for sale to the Chan's market place, he begged his daughters to tell him what presents they wished him to bring them on his return. The two eldest asked him for trinkets, but the handsome and wise Kookju said that she wanted no present, but that she had a request to make which it would be difficult and even dangerous for him to execute. Upon which the father, who loved her more than the two others, swore that he would do her wish, though it was at the price of his life. "If it be so," replied Kookju, "I beg you to do as follows: sell your cattle except the short-tailed ox, and ask no other price for it except the Chan's left eye.' The old man was startled; however, remembering his oath, and confiding in his daughter's wisdom, he resolved to do as she bade him.

After having sold all his cattle, and being asked for the price of the short-tailed ox, he said that he would sell it for nothing else than the Chan's left eye. The report of this singular and daring request soon reached the ear of the Chan's courtiers. At first they admonished him not to use such an offensive speech against the sovereign; but when they found that he persevered in his strange demand, they bound him and carried him as a madman before the Chan. The old man threw himself at the Prince's feet, and confessed that his demand had been made at the request of his daughter, of whose motives he was perfectly ignorant; and the Chan suspecting that some secret must be hidden under this extraordinary request, dismissed the old man, under the condition that he would bring him that daughter who had made it.

Kookju appeared, and the Chan asked:

"Why dost thou instruct thy father to demand my left eye?" "Because I expected, my Prince, that after so strange a request, curiosity would urge thee to send for me."

"And wherefore dost thou desire to see me?"

"I wish to tell thee a truth important to thyself and thy people." "Name it."

"Prince," replied Kookju, "when two persons appear before thee in a cause, the wealthy and the noble generally stand on

thy right hand, while the poor and humble stand on thy left. I have heard in my solitude that thou most frequently favorest the noble and the rich. This is the reason why I persuaded my father to ask for thy Left Eye; it being of no use to thee, since thou never seest the poor and unprotected on the left."

The Chan, incensed and surprised at the daring of this maiden, commanded his court to try her. The court was opened, and the president, who was the eldest Lama, proposed that they should try whether her strange proceeding was the effect of malice or wisdom.

Their first step was to send to Kookju a log of wood, cut even on all sides, ordering her to find out which was the root and which the top. Kookju threw it into the water and soon knew the answer, on seeing the root sinking, while the top rose to the surface.

After this they sent her two snakes, in order to determine which was a male and which was a female. The wise maiden laid them on cotton and on seeing that one coiled herself up in a ring, whilst the other crept away, she judged that the latter was a male and the former a female.

From these trials the court was convinced that Kookju had not offended the Chan from motives of malice, but the inspiration of wisdom granted her from above. But not so the Chan; his vanity was hurt; and he resolved to puzzle her with questions, in order to prove that she was not wise. He therefore ordered her before him, and asked:

"On sending a number of maidens into the wood to gather apples, which of them will bring home most?"

"She," replied Kookju, "who, instead of climbing up the trees, remains below and picks up those which have fallen off from maturity or the shaking of the branches."

The Chan then led her to a fen, and asked her which would be the readiest way to get over; and Kookju said "to cross it would be the farthest, going round nearest." The Chan felt vexed at the readiness and propriety of her replies; and, after having reflected for some time he again inquired:

"Which is the safest means of becoming known to many?" "By assisting many that are unknown.

"Which is the surest means of leading a virtuous life?" "To begin every morning with prayer, and conclude every evening with some good action."

"Who is truly wise?"

"He who does not believe himself so.

"Which are the requisites for a good wife?"

"She should be beautiful as a pea fowl, gentle as a lamb,

prudent as a mouse, just as a faithful mirror, pure as the scales of a fish; she must mourn for her deceased husband like a shecamel, and live in her widowhood like a bird which has lost its wings."

The Chan was astonished at the wisdom of the fair Kookju; yet, enraged at her having reproached him with injustice, he still wished to destroy her.

After a few days he thought he had found the means for attaining his object. He sent for her and asked her to determine the true worth of all his treasures, after which he promised to absolve her from malice in questioning his justice, and to admit that she intended, as a wise woman, merely to warn him.

The maiden consented, yet under the condition that the Chan would promise implicit obedience to her commands for four days. She requested that he would eat no food during that time. On the last day she placed a dish of meet before him, and said, "Confess, O Chan! that all thy treasures are not worth as much as this joint of meat!" The Chan was so struck with the truth of her remark that he confessed the truth of it, acknowledged her as wise, married her to his son, and permitted her constantly to remind him to use his Left Eye.

ROBERT RAIKES.

ROBERT RAIKES was born at Gloucester, in 1735; and was the founder of that noble institution, THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. It originated in the year 1780:-Mr. Raikes went out one morning on business into the suburbs of the city, and was shocked at the wretched appearance of the children in the streets. He asked an old woman if they belonged to that part of the town. She said they did, and if he could see them on Sundays cursing, swearing, playing at chuck, and all that is bad, he would be shocked indeed. Mr. Raikes then thought there could be no harm in trying some plan to stop this awful profanation of the Sabbath, and he took the little word "Try" for his motto. He inquired of the old woman whether there were any well-disposed women in the neighborhood who kept schools for teaching children to read. She told him of four. These he engaged, for a shilling the day, to take as many of the little heathens to teach on the Sunday as he could send. Ånd the women agreed with pleasure. This was the origin of Sunday Schools. Mr. Raikes was called to his reward, April 5th, 1811, at the age of 76. "He rests from his labors, and his works do follow him." In 1786, there were already in different parts of England, not less than 250,000 children under Sabbath school

tuition.