LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. THE FOUR GUESTS. BY LILY SHORTHOUSE. Freda sat by the bedside, weeping bitterly; for her mother was dying. She had no brother or sister; no father. She had heard her mother say that he had been tempted away from them, by some queen, into a distant country, and had never returned. No wonder that the poor child hid her face in the bed-clothes, sobbing as if her heart would break. "Freda," said her mother, faintly, "listen, dear child: I have something to tell you before I die." Freda rose obediently, and dried her eyes; while the mother summoned her failing strength to speak: “You will be all alone in the cottage, at first, dear child, after I am gone; but guests will soon come to you. Do not open the door to all who come. Do you remember the little old mirror that hangs on the wall beside my spinning-wheel? "I give it to you now, and that will warn you against visitors that should not be admitted. When voices call you from without, look at your mirror: if it remain bright, let them in-God sends them; but if a shadow come over it, bar the door; for they come to tempt you. Will you promise me this, Freda?" The child fell on her knees and gave the promise, while the mother laid her thin hand on the bright curls, and blessed her darling, solemnly. The effort had been too great, and she fell back exhausted on the pillow. Freda thought she was sleeping; but the nurse knew better-the mother was dead. The long dark months of winter passed by slowly, and many pitied the solitary little maiden of the cottage; but still no visitors came, as she sat spinning, with the mirror at her side. Sometimes she felt lonely at her task; but her mother's words would come to her mind again; and, night and morning, she prayed that the good God would send her some friend, to whom she might unbar the door. At last, one bright spring day, a guest came to Freda. A beautiful bird alighted on the window-sill, in the sunshine, and began to sing to her. Freda clapped her hands for joy: the bird was the loveliest that she had ever seen. His head and wings were snow-white; the rest of his feathers were crimson, green, orange, and blue, and shone till it almost dazzled her eyes to look at him. He stretched his white neck towards her, tapping at the pane, and singing all the while : "Freda, Freda-little Freda, Come, and wander in the sun : Freda started up to open the window, but her eye fell on the mirror. It was growing dark, and she dropped into her seat, not daring even to glance at the window, lest she should be tempted to follow the bird, after all. "There are many more girls in the village beside Freda," sang the bird, scornfully, and, spreading his white wings, he flew away. Freda knew nothing of the deadly marsh into which the treacherous bird led those who followed him, and where he left them to perish: she thought only of his beauty, glancing now and then at the window, while tears fell on her thread; but he did not return. And the springdays passed by, leaving her lonely; but she still prayed, morning and night, for God to send her But, one day a guest, and waited patiently. in the bright summer, there came another tap at the window, and a sweet voice called: "Freda, come with me!" There in the sunshine stood a lady, whose loveliness brought tears of joy into Freda's eyes, as she stood, with clasped hands, unable to speak. She knew that this must be a queen; for there was a rich crown on her long bright hair; her white robes were studded with golden clasps, and, far behind her, swept a long train of ermine, with a crimson lining that peeped out here and there. Her ear-rings were of large diamonds, that shone and sparkled at every movement of her graceful head; and the hand with which she beckoned Freda was covered with glittering rings. Beside her stood a chariot, with cushions of crimson velvet, edged with gold, drawn by snow-white horses, that stood prancing and pawing the ground impatiently, as they champed their golden bits. 'Freda, I am waiting," said the lady, again. Those words broke the spell of wonder, and the child, uttering a cry of gladness, sprang forward, with open arms, ready to go anywhere for the sake of the beautiful blue eyes that were Freda's hand looking so kindly on her now. was on the lock before she remembered her promise, and looked back over her shoulder at the mirror. It was black as night, and she flung herself down on the cold floor, for the second time shedding tears of bitter disappointment. The lady waited long without, till the girl had resumed her seat and her spinning; but when no entreaties could prevail, she stepped into her chariot and departed. Freda saw a dark frown settle on the lovely face, and she began to remember dimly her mother's description of the queen, who had come and tempted her father away. She knew that it must be the same, and, that night in her prayers, she thanked God for deliverance from a great danger. It was, indeed, greater than she thought; for the queen often wearied of her favourites, and, in her angry moods, would have the mthrown down in her path, and drive over them as they lay crying for mercy. The summer passed by, and a few brown leaves were beginning to show themselves in the trees as Freda went, on Sabbath-days, to the little church in the forest. She loved those days best of all. The minister had always a kind word and smile for her, and there was no room for loneliness in her heart as she sat in the house of God. One evening, on her return, she heard a voice calling her by name-it was a child's, weak and plaintive, like one in suffering, and Freda ran forward eagerly to give what help she could. At her door lay a boy, apparently dying, his eyes almost closed, and his breath coming in short and broken gasps. She ran to the brook near, for water to sprinkle on his face; and soon, to her delight, he opened his violet-eyes wide, and smiled on her. There was no need to consult the mirror now, it lighted up the cottage as Freda opened the door and assisted her young charge to enter: this was the first visitor God had sent her, and she remembered that the minister had read that day-"Whoso receiveth one of these little ones in my name receiveth me." Morning came, and the boy was well enough to tell his story: he was an orphan, and after the death of his mother he had wandered away from her grave to seek for Jesus, and tell him of his sorrow, going many miles away from his old home, until, weary and foot-sore, he had come to Freda's door, and lay down to die. The tears were in her eyes as he finished his story. 66 "You shall be my brother," she said, holding his hand. You must live with me always." "Perhaps I cannot stay," said the child, gravely. "I may be called into the Golden Land." But he stayed on through the waning summer and the beautiful autumn, and still no voices came from the distant land, and Freda began to hope that Louis would stay with her after all. Poor Freda! It was very hard for her when, one evening, as they were sitting at the cottage-door, a voice from the sunset clouds called: "Louis!" It was the voice of his mother. The child knew it, and he rose up and went away in the sunlight, saying, Good-bye, Freda; I shall wait for you in the Golden Land." And she watched him through her tears as he walked with steady step towards the sunset, until her eyes were so dim that she could not see whether they were white clouds or angels that gathered round him at last and hid him from her sight. She was all alone now, and the days were very dreary as she sat opposite Louis's empty seat, while many a tear fell on the thread that she was spinning. But Freda's loneliness was almost over. Before the dark winter that she feared came, God sent her another guest. There was a great noise in the village-street one day, and, as Freda raised her head, the mirror shone so brightly that she knew there must be a visitor near. She ran to the window to see that the boys were driving before them a poor old man, calling him rude names and throwing stones, while he walked slowly with the aid of a staff, vainly endeavouring to escape from his persecutors. With eager haste she unbarred the door and led the stranger into the cottage, whilst the foremost boys shrunk hack sullenly, but with muttered threats that they would soon return. Freda heard the threat without heeding it, and, closing the door, gave the stranger a seat by the fire; while she busied herself in setting the table for the evening meal. The old man sat still, apparently listening, and occasionally looking towards the window; at length Freda came to the fire, and he spoke: "Child, do you know that you are in great danger from sheltering me?" "God sent you," said Freda, meekly, "and He will keep us, in all dangers." Even as she spoke there was a sound of advancing footsteps and furious voices; nearer and nearer they came, and a crowd soon surrounded the cottage, calling loudly to Freda either to give up her guest or go forth with him. The girl fell on her knees praying. "Child," said the old man, tenderly, "rise up; we must depart." And, as Freda shrank back terrified, he unbarred the door and led her out, still clinging to him with one hand, while in the other she held the precious mirror. "Look at the witch's glass!" cried some of the people, and one tried to snatch it from her hand; but he relinquished his grasp with a curse, for the mirror had burnt him as if it had been red-hot iron. No other hand was laid on them, but the crowd followed, hooting and driving them away with stones and curses. Freda's thin shoes were soon gone as they hurried over the rough ground, and a stone cut her forehead so deeply that the trickling blood almost blinded her. Still the old man led her on till they were far beyond the village, with its rude voices now dying away in the distance, and together they sat down to rest on the trunk of a fallen tree. Sick at heart and sorrowful, the girl hid her face in her hands, and moaned; she did not repent of her kindness, but she wept for the cruelty which had been shown by her neighbours, and because she could now do nothing for the old man, whom she would have tended so well at her cottage. "Come to the Golden Land, Freda," said a voice beside her. They were not the faltering tones of the old man ; and when she looked up, wiping the blood from her face, he was gone. Beside her, in the sunset glory, stood a shining angel, with outstretched hands, waiting to guide her into the Golden Land. "Where is the old man? asked Freda, wonderingly; "let him also go with us." "I was the old man," replied the angel, smiling. "The visitors that God sends are angels in disguise." HOW THE "UPPER CLASSES" ARE EDUCATED. For many years there has been a protest, among English thinkers against the topics of instruction and the methods of their middleclass schools and their great universities. Year by year the dissenters have gained strength; until the outcry for reform has become too loud to be any longer ignored. The desires and grievances of the reformers are ably presented in Mr. Mill's "Inaugural Address," in the series of essays collected by, Dr. Youmans, and finally by Mr. Lowe's late address in Edinburgh. Before quoting from the last, as we intend to do, we will state in a few words the substance of the issue. What passes for Education in England (these thinkers say) is exclusively classical and mathematical. Nothing is taught with any attempt at thoroughness but Latin and Greek, Trigonometry and the Integral Calculus. Such training must be miserably narrow, even if it were successful; as it is, young men do not learn even within these bounds. They leave the universities unable to read the plainest description of Xenophon, the simplest ode of Horace, with ease and enjoyment; and the abstruser mathematics, if they ever understood them, they forget in a twelvemonth. In short, an Oxford graduate finds his previous education utterly useless. It has taught him nothing of the world in which he lives; nothing of society, nothing of nature, nothing of himself, nothing practical, and nothing scientific; while the little he does know he knows so imperfectly that it soon fades from his memory. No doubt this is an overstatement; but after all deductions, enough remains to justify the advocates of change. Without further introduction we proceed to Mr. Lowe's speech. The proper business of education, he says, is "to teach a person everything important to know, and at the same time to discipline his mind." But, as time is limited, it is a question of relative importance: What is it most important that persons should know? As to this, Mr. Lowe lays down four rules :— "The knowledge of things is more important to us than the knowledge of words. To take an easy illustration, it is more important to know where the liver is situated, and what are the principles which affect its healthy action, than to know that it is called jecur in Latin or hepar in Greek. "Where there is a question between true and false, it is more important to know what is true than what is false. It is more important to know the history of England, than the mythologies of Greece and Rome. "Then, as we cannot teach people everything, it is more important to teach them practical things than speculative things. "The present is more important to us than the past. Institutions, communities, kingdoms, and countries with which we are daily brought "He takes his conclusion for granted, and then investigates the conditions on which it depends. Well, that is not a good way of reasoning. The best way of reasoning is to fix upon principles and facts, and see what conclusion they give you, and not to begin with a conclusion and see what principles or facts you may be able to pick up in order to defend it. learn is the estimation of probabilities and sift"Perhaps the most useful lesson a man can ing of evidence. But this is wholly excluded cessary truth. A mathematician is little trained from mathematics, which deal purely with neprobabilities and the possibilities affecting our to take those sensible and practical views of the daily life, upon which, more than upon abstract reasoning, the happiness of mankind depends." language to be only a vehicle of knowledge, He then passes to the classics. He declares and demurs to the study of it as an end; but admits that Latin is of the greatest importance, both in itself and as the key to most modern languages. But the method of teaching it is all wrong. "Learning the language is a joke compared one thing and the language another. I agree with learning the grammar. The grammar is with the German wit, Heine, who said: 'How fortunate the Romans were, that they had not to learn the Latin grammar! because if they had done so they never would have had time to conquer the world. Montaigne 300 years ago saw this, and pointed it out most forcibly, and, by learning the language colloquially without it. But because it is said 'you must discipline a lash, without a tear,' he became able to speak the mind,' therefore a boy is put through tortures of elaborate grammars, which he is forced to learn by heart, and every syllable of which he forgets before he is twenty years of age. There seems to be something like a worship of Inutility in this matter: 'The languages, especially the dead The sciences, especially the abstruse- To be the most remote from common use.' "It is an idea that a thing cannot be good discipline for the mind, unless it be something and make known his wants without becoming that is utterly useless in future life. a laughing-stock to everybody." "What is more beautiful, more refined, what will exercise taste better, than the study of the best modern French prose to be found in M. Prevost-Paradol, Sainte-Beuve, and other French writers? The discipline of the mind is quite as good, and it has this advantage, that when one goes to Paris he will be able to go to an hotel, Note.-Mr. Lowe, it will be seen, has considered education in reference to men only; we have given his ideas on the need of better modes for them, in order to draw attention to the subject of woman's education, for which no public provision was ever made. SLIPS AND CUTTINGS FOR MENTAL CULTURE. Our fathers have left us a rich inheritancethey have left us their experience. It has been accumulating from the creation of the world, and every day adds to this mass of knowledge, The voice of reason speaks to us from the sepulchre of ages, and bids us make their errors our wisdom.-Ibid. R., ever in their actual occurrence it would shock us to behold, leaves what moves our passions and affections with pleasing though tearful sensibility. The stage takes this drama, and, by a living sculpture, clothes this wondrous work of literary genius with flesh and blood; substitutes, for paper and print, men and women, voices for words; for the dull pictures of the imagination, actual scenery; for descriptions of costume, elaborate dresses; nay, it invokes gifted men and yet more gifted women to take these places, and with boundless study, consideration, expense, builds the temple, collects the properties, and arranges the scene which is to convert the written into the acted drama! and is it possible to conceive that human ingenuity can ever invent any other amusement which can equal, much less exceed, this deeply-founded, slowlywrought, and most costly contrivance for the public delight and recreation of human beings? Supposing it to be innocent, I perceive no element wanting to render it theoretically a perfect pleasure. It appeals to the intellect, the imagination, the heart, the senses. It has the charm of poetry and music. It unites the interest of a story with the fascination of a spectacle. It calls by turns on our emotional and on our critical faculties; now inviting us to yield to the illusion, now to admire the skill which deludes us; it adds to the sympathy we feel for the persons represented, that we feel with those who represent them-that we feel for the genius which made them representable; and Shakespeare, Hamlet, and Garrick, all pull at our heart-strings in one delicious moment of admiration and sympathy. Poetry, invention, story, mimetic talent, elocution, personation, spectacle, beauty, passion, architecture, painting, music, society, light-all combine in the theatre to make it the most brilliant, complete, and untiring of public amusements. THE MORALITY OF THE STAGE. The time of the drama may be a thousand years back, the place five thousand miles off; but the costumes and scenery, with learned artistic care, reproduce what history and art have taught them, and we behold what a little exercise of the imagination makes the very action, the persons, country, town and castle the dramatist has summoned us.to see! Can we wonder that an imitation of life itself, in its rarest, most passionate and heart-moving moments and experiences-where the alchemy of genius and art fuses into a few hours the whole conduct and course of a splendid human career-a deep domestic calamity, ambition's bloody way to a throne, love's great sacrifice, jealousy's torturing fears, avarice's pinching and grasping way-Hamlet's thought-palsied melancholy, Lear's frenzied paternal grief, Juliet's innocent passion, Macbeth's remorse-that a pleasure so rich, costly, variously and curiously compounded as this, based upon the deepest, most numerous sensibilities of our nature, should prove universally and permanently attractive? The drama condenses what is most intensely interesting or affecting in real life, or what from the constitution of our nature genius knows might be real life, into a compact, rounded, and finished story; omitting what is commonplace, irrelevant, or simply painful, and by careful adherence to the great rule of art, which never forgets that its end is pleasure, extracting from crime, or vice, or passion, what THE LADIES' PAGE. PARISIAN GIMP TRIMMING, WITH BEADS. MATERIALS.-For Paletots, Jackets, and Dress-trimmings use coarse black silk, tatting-pin No. 3, and a large shuttle; steel or jet beads. For Wash-dresses use white or coloured tatting-cottons, with black or coral beads. Boar's Head crochet cotton, of Messrs. Walter Evans and Co., Derby. The Gimp Edging is adapted for this fashionable style of ornamentation, with the following alterations. Thread the beads on the silk, and fill the shuttle, but do not cut it off, as the silk on the reel is to be used for a straight thread. 1st Oval. Commence a loop, leaving the beads on the silk to the left; work 2 double, then (1 pearl and 2 double, alternately, 7 times) draw close; turn this oval down under the thumb. 1st Scallop. Hold the silk from the reel for a straight thread, and with the shuttle make 2 double stitches, pass down one of the beads on the straight thread, close to the last stitch, and still using the shuttle work 2 double (then a bead as before, and 2 double after it 4 times more). Reverse the work. 2nd Oval.-Commence a loop, work 2 double (1 pearl and 2 double, 3 times); join to the last pearl of the last oval; 2 double, join to the next pearl of the same oval; 2 double, then (1 pearl and 2 double, 7 times) draw close. Reverse the work. 2nd Scallop.-Work as the 1st scallop, but make 7 bead loops instead of 5 beads; when finished, reverse the work, and repeat from 3rd oval in the Gimp Edging, p. 222, April number. Work 2 lengths of the pattern, and then join them together, threading the beads with a sewing-needle and fine silk. The five beads in each oval are also threaded across the centre. CROCHET NIGHT-CLOTHES BAG. MATERIALS.-Thick white and red Boar's Head crochet cotton, of Messrs. Walter Evans and Co, Derby. This bag is worked in common ribbed crochet; the scalloped edges of the work are ornamented with tassels of white and red cotton, This bag is worked all in one piece. Make a foundation-chain of 384 stitches (width of the bag), and work as follows, inserting the needle at the back of every stitch: *11 double on the first 11 foundation-chain, and 2 double divided by 1 chain on the 12th, 11 double on the following 11 chain, 1 loop in each of the 3 following chain-stitches. Cast off the 3 loops on the needle as 1 stitch. Repeat 15 times more from *, so that there are 16 scallops, each formed of 24 stitches. At the end of every row, before turning the work, make 1 chain-stitch, which is always missed in next row, and forms the selvedge. When you have worked 80 rows in this way, backwards and forwards, join the straight sides together, and also the scalloped edges at the bottom, taking care to make the points meet exactly. Now fasten the cotton on again at the top of the bag and work 40 rows more over 8 scallops only, for the flap which is turned down over the bag. Add the above mentioned tassels. |