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child with dark eyes, dark skin, black hair, stolid expression, thoughtful brow, she will not set to the study of books as the work of life, for now books may kill while physical exercise may save, but will never be carried, voluntarily, to injury. The nervous child with fair skin, light hair, blue eyes, quick but feeble movement, timid glance, yet perhaps unbounded ambition, she will spirit gently; will balance between physical and mental labour; will apportion to it excess of neither, and will never urge unduly to any effort. The lymphatic child, large of body, pale, with grey or blue eyes, brown hair, shambling step, watery lip and slow determination, she will rouse to action both physical and mental, with the full assurance that neither effort will do anything but good.
Beyond the study of the temperaments and the special dangers connected with them, she should devote her mind to the consideration of what the learned D'Espiné has designated the mental contagions. She should study emotional contagion with special care, and on one emotion, that of fear, she should keep an ever watchful observation, because she will discover it to be the most common and disastrous of all contagions. She will never excite it for a moment by story of superstition or dread. She will never suggest it. To tell a fainting or feeble person, 'you look weak, you look pale,' is, as she will learn, to add weakness to weakness, pallor to pallor, and ashes to ashes. She will lift up, disperse moral contagions wherever they are found; isolate the susceptible to them, as far as is possible, from the centres of them; and through the windows of the mind let nothing pass but the sunshine of mirth and strength and beauty.
Finally, in physical psychological training there would stand out for her contemplation, and for action founded upon it, one more subject, that marvel of the marvellous in living phenomena, heredity of type and action, extending to health, and extending, alas! to disease in its deepest foundations. A little aid from books of learned men of the learned man of this branch of knowledge, especially: you know I can only mean Darwin-would help the scholar much; but the aid she will soon he led to find in the yet higher authority of nature will help her most. She will see the progressions from good to good, and even, though fortunately with decreasing ratio, from evil to evil. She will see the conquest of death as a natural conquest over evil, and being now in the groove of nature, she will detect how she may availingly help nature. One effort here as a sanitarian will call forth all her powers. She will stand to resist with her full persuasive might that process which I have elsewhere called the intermarriage of disease. She will tell her sisters what that terrible process means. She will tell them that the union of diseased heredities in marriage means the continuance of the heredity as certainly as that two and two make four; that madness, consumption, cancer, scrofula, yes, and certain of the contagious diseases too, may be perpetuated from the altar; and that the first responsibilities of parents towards the
offspring they expect, ought to be, not how to provide for wealth and position, over which they have no control, but for that preliminary healthy parentage which is the foundation of health, and without which position and wealth are shadowy legacies indeed. Delicate ground, it may be said. I admit the fact. But in a world in which those who study the living and the dead most carefully rarely see a man or woman hereditarily free from disease, even this ground must be entered upon by the enlightened scholar. I touch on it here for the best of all reasons, that the subject it includes, affecting deeply the human heart in its sympathies and affections, is one on which the influence of woman, the arbitress of the natures that are to be, is all potent for good or for evil.
To know the first principles of animal physics and life; to learn the house and its perfect management; to learn the simpler problems relating to the fatal diseases; to ordain the training of the young; to grasp the elements of the three psycho-physical problems,-the human temperaments, the moral contagions with their preventions, and the heredities of disease with their preventions, these, in all respect and earnestness, I set forth as the heads of the educational programme for our modern woman in her sphere of life and duty. Let these studies be hers, and once more may be applied to her the promise of that wisest of men with whose words I opened this discourse: She shall rejoice in time to come. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.' And,-sun and sum of all hopes, ambitions, happiness! Her children shall rise up and call her blessed.'
FROM THE FRENCH OF PAUL DÉROULède.
THE air is keen, the line is long,
The quick advance rings clear and strong, The Zouave column chaunts the prayer: The solemn wood that crowns the hill Looks down and listens, silent, stillAnd Prussians wait us there.
Our Bugle is a battle-bird,
That din of many a flight has heard
Midst shot, and smoke, and fire, and flame,
He flits and wheels with cheerful call,
Brave bird no foe can tame!
Another order! hark the tone!
Where foes too long have lain.
We charge at double, shout, and climb
Ah! now the Prussian sniders speak:
A rush, a pause-our Bugle struck!
Gives never in to aught but death.
The Bugle breathes its passion-breath.
And though with breath the red blood glows, Yet blast on blast the Bugle blows;
His hand clenched round with iron will;
He puts off death some paces yet,
The brave old Bugle leads us still.
Ah! there upon the turf at last
Rings shrill from blood-stained lips that press
And now, upon his elbow leant,
On ground where all his blood has run.
J. D. HOPPUS.
AN ENGLISH RURAL WALK.
The friendly smiling English landscape-is there anything in the world like it?' VANITY FAIR.
S every kind of scenery has not only its own features but likewise its own peculiar expression, so I should say that the predominant expression of English rural scenery, apart from its wilder and more romantic aspects, such as are presented by Devonshire, Derbyshire, or the North, is what I may be allowed to call, perhaps, the domestic picturesque. It always seems to speak of home and home pleasures and home comforts: surrounded by the quiet beauty of coppice, hedgerow and cornfield, brook and meadow, of which the moral effect is greater even than the pictorial. Great changes, however, have taken place in the heart of rustic England within the last thirty or even the last twenty years. Agricultural improvements, combined with agricultural discontent, have robbed it of many of its charms. But enough remain to make it a pleasant recreation to commit some of them to paper, notwithstanding the jar to old associations which the contrast with the past inflicts.
Thirty years ago, I think, the face of the country could not have materially differed from what it was in the days of Mr. Poyser. Twenty years ago the change had begun, but it had not proceeded very far; and there are places even now where it is barely if at all visible. But, generally speaking, one finds the luxuriance of the old landscape severely chastised by the spirit of utility and the necessity of making as much as possible out of every inch of ground which the farmer has under cultivation. The first beautiful object in an English landscape to suffer by the hand of progress was the oldfashioned hedgerow. Let us take the train from town and, getting out at any little village station, some forty or fifty miles away, strike into the first tempting-looking footpath which offers itself, and we are nearly sure to have a charming walk; but we shall be able to see for ourselves that much has disappeared which in the Saturnian age of country life would have enhanced its charms. Old footpaths are to me always peculiarly suggestive; and I never see one from the window of a railway carriage without longing to explore it. There it goes crinkling along through the standing corn, then at right angles by the wood side, and out again at the corner into a newly mown meadow, where we see in imagination the old-fashioned foot-bridge over the brook, consisting of a single plank with the branch of a willow-tree bent down to serve as a rail; beyond this we picture to ourselves a slight ascent on the other side of which nestles some snug old village with its half-dozen farms, its grey church tower, and its ivy-covered parsonage, the temptation sometimes to get out at the first opportunity, and make our way back to this particular stile, is