him must proceed from himself; he must be his own tempter; from all external damage he is effectually secured.

6

With respect to the external arrangements of the academy, the writer is desirous of adopting, with improvements, those proposed by Milton in his letter on education to master Samuel Hartlib. With him he is disposed to hold that, in the course of instruction, poetry, as being less subtile and fine, but more simple, sensuous, and passionate,' should have precedence of logic; not, of course, the mere prosody of a verse,' as he terms it, but that sublime art which, in Aristotle's poetics, in Horace, and the Italian commentaries of Castlevetro, Tasso, Mazzoni, and others, teaches what the laws are of a true epic poem, what of a dramatic, what of a lyric, what decorum is, which is the grand master-piece to observe. This would make them,' concludes Milton, soon perceive what despicable creatures our common rhimers and play-writers be, and show them what religious, what glorious, and magnificent use might be made of poetry, both in divine and human things.'

"This passage is quoted, becaused it is desirable to impress on the reader the great expediency, almost amounting to a necessity, that exists, for the basis of a worthy education being, in some sense, a poetical one; that is, poetical in the true meaning of the word, poetical as implying an active exhibition of the moral laws of our being. Seek not so much to teach pupils to write poems, as to enable them to become poets in their conduct-doers of the word, rather than hearers or repeaters of it-embodied images, indeed, and incarnations of conscience, as the legislator and the law of morals included and involved in one being. This is an idea which the reader must be content with having simply enounced; space now requiring that the scope of the remaining argument should be contracted. The practical poet is an Avatar yet to be witnessed-the veritable doer (oinTs) who shall not be ashamed to walk the earth in the same singing robes' of which he is proud when soaring in the high region of his fancies.'

6

"The character of man may be said to have been made for him, though not (as in the Owenite doctrine) by circumstance, but absolutely previous to its operation, whether as action or reaction. The generic personality, according to the sages of old, precedes the specific individuality which the senses apprehend; and all bodily manifestation is but an out-growth of pre-figured faculties and powers, genially produced. The utmost art, or skill, or virtue, to which the individual can attain, is only a developement of this primitive capacity, and the more he is limited in the practice and perfectionating of either, the less of the real and true original character is seen. No man knows of what attainment or magnanimity he is actually capable until he has made proof, by utmost trial, of what he is, and can be, or do. Every man of any worth has almost audible suggestions within him of powers yet unexerted, abilities yet unexercised, which, if he had but opportunity for exhibiting, would raise him in his own estimation and that of the world. Let the normal pupil see justice done to himself, in his important relation with that essential character of which his accidental is but a meagre type, capable of indefinite improvement; and when he becomes an educator, he shall find that he will receive all the respect

and reward that can be desired by one who honestly wishes for no more than his due.

"The exponent of character is conduct; over this the normal pupil should himself keep diligent watch and ward. The dictates of reason, not the proclivities of sense, should be first heard, believed in, and obeyed; for every carnal indulgence is a limitation of the higher powers, as well as a degradation. Every sensual pleasure is of finite duration, whereas, rational delights are incapable of excess, the organs for such being calculated for endless gratification. Study these, and so absorbent will be their attraction, that time will be wanting for the lower joys; nay, it will be needful to husband time by distribution and arrangement, in order to secure the desirable compass of knowledge, and to arrive at that point of mental discipline where, according to the bard of , Paradise Lost,' those poets which are counted most hard, will be most facile and pleasant-Orpheus, Hesiod, Theocritus, Aratus, Nicander, Oppian, Dionysius; and, in Latin, Lucretius, Manilius, and the rural part of Virgil.'

"I refer to Milton's epistle again and again, because I desire strongly, ardently, enthusiastically, and irresistibly to recommend his entire plan, with such additions as modern literature suggests, and some of which I have pointed out as containing the proper method of a normal school. Neither would I considerately omit those gymnastic exercises in which, as he tells us, ' Englishmen wont to excel; nor that 'profit and delight' to be found in recreating and composing their travailed spirits with the solemn and divine harmonies of music heard or learned; either whilst the skilful organist plies his grave and fancied descant in lofty fugues, or the whole symphony, with artful and unimaginable touches, adorn and grace the well-studied chords of some choice composer-sometimes the lute or soft organ stop waiting on elegant voices, either to religious, martial, or civil ditties; which, if wise men and prophets be not extremely out, have a great power over dispositions and manners, to smooth and make them gentle from rustic harshness and distempered passions.' These recreations, on the authority of our great religious poet, I would carefully include among the arrangements of a normal school."

The reader, it is apprehended, now sees enough of the outline of the plan; for the methods of culture, particularly that which relates to the advantages of Conversation, together with the bearing which the entire proposition will have on the character of the educator, and the estimation in which he should be held, the writer must refer to the original essay itself. In conclusion, he is desirous of re-impressing the fact on his readers, that he hereby invites communications on the subject from all genuine lovers of true education whatsoever. A few hundred pounds will enable him to initiate the practical operations required, and he hopes that among the wealthy, the intelligent, and the generous, there may be a sufficient number sufficiently warmed to the proposal, to contribute the required funds. In particular, the author desires the aid of the Central Society of Education itself, in the prosecution of a design so eminently national, and, in all respects, so agreeable with the objects for which its members associate.

354

IONA.

A TALE FOUNDED ON FACTS, BY E. L.

PART II.

AND well did he redeem his pledge. No pains were spared by this indefatigable friend to discover the fugitives; but all his endeavours were unavailing. A deep mystery still hung around their fate, and the solitary Thurôt only reaped from the exertions of friendship, the certainty that no communications whatever had been made to the Ursuline convent up to that time, by the lost member of the sisterhood; whom the Church had failed to trace farther than the village, where the priest himself suspected he had united her to a common sailor. These particulars Reginald obtained on Colonel Beaumont's first visit to him in Switzerland.

A few months after, Thurôt had become a regular Genevese pastor, in which settled employment he remained for above two years, during which time he saw Colonel Beaumont as often as the latter could so arrange his duties as to permit his enjoyment of so great a privilege as he felt Thurôt's society to be. The latter, purified by sufferings, and lifted by circumstances out of all worldly interests, appeared to grow in heavenly grace and usefulness from day to day. Although he had joined the Calvinistic Church (whose doctrines he loved and felt to be true), he never became impregnated with any bitterness of spirit, but spoke from a broken heart home to the spirit of the contrite ones, and with so sweet a dignity as even to overawe the careless and the scoffer.

At length the great crisis of Europe came on. The astonishing and mysterious despot who had so long governed the continent, playing with its kingdoms at his will, and bowing all things to his mighty mind, save mightier Britain, having fairly raised the spirit of that nation, was about to fall beneath her power; and Belgium had, in 1815, become the theatre of a war big with the interest of mankind, when Thurôt, very early in the spring, was sent to supply the place of the Dutch chaplain of a small Protestant church, near the town of Liege, who being a man of peace, and unwilling to witness the probable effects attending the vicinity of hostile armies, had asked permission to retire to his own country with his family. Thurôt having but his personal safety to consider, cheerfully volunteered to maintain the post of danger for his friend; and, accompanied by Monsieur Mellerai, a young minister who had been his pupil, Reginald set out, with some of his former spirit, to his new scene of labour. While here he had several letters from Colonel Beaumont, whose regiment was moving about with the army of occupation; and at last, early in June, having left his young friend in care of his little flock, Thurôt repaired to Brussels at his friend's earnest request, as he was surprised at the dejected and unusual style of the colonel's last letters; they implored Thurôt to come, if possible, and share with him the trials and honours of his last campaign; and assured Reginald that his presentiments of

speedy death pressed so strongly of late upon his mind, as to produce the clearest convictions that he should ere long die in battle, and never again see his country, his wife, or children. At the same time that his hopes for this world had appeared to set for ever, those for eternity seemed to shed a parting ray over the mind of the Christian soldier, and he seemed only to wish for Reginald's society as a further light to cheer him on the way to endless glory. Always manly, and free from every species of cant, there seemed a natural though holy boldness in the glance of the mental eye, as it seemed to fix and anticipate in the full rush of manly power and strength, the hour of nature's dissolution.

The reasons wherewith he enforced his request were all-powerful with Reginald. One of the surgeons of the regiment had been killed; another wounded; so that Reginald's medical skill would be of the greatest use, and the opportunities for the healing of soul and body were joyfully embraced by his pious and benevolent heart.

On arriving at Brussels, he was struck with the change of his friend's countenance. A look of more than mortal calmness sat on his noble brow; the former brilliant animation and command had given place to a holier, purer flame, while his upward glance incessantly sought the heaven it longed for.

"My friend," said the gallant soldier, "I could not die as brave men do, until I had seen you; bound you to free my parting spirit from its only remaining bonds, and once again to hear for the last time, what reached my heart from the same lips for the first time— even the words of peace. Breathe, then, into my ear, friend of my soul, amidst the horrors of a bloody death."

Reginald looked on his friend with the eyes of pitying love; he had suffered too much from the excitement of feeling himself, not to shudder at the thought of his only friend becoming the victim of it; and he knew that the dispassionate glance that met his eye, sought to veil deeper and more dangerous feelings than the troubled and changeful aspect of the ordinary enthusiast.

"Why dwell on such gloomy anticipations," replied he, " beloved friend? the Lord will be the shield and the buckler in the day of battle for the husband, father and friend; he has work for you to do in 'the days of peace,' my gallant friend, as well as against the armies of his and your foes.'

"Thurôt," murmured he, "it is vain to spread the wing of hope beneath such a sky as this; the day of my flight beyond it is decreed; the event will prove it so. I am more than content if only I shall find you accessible to my requests."

All this was pronounced so naturally, yet so awfully, that Thurôt could only conclude that his friend had had some dream of a warning nature; and as he was no scoffer at such intimations, and that he perceived the even tenor of his friend's mind in all other things to keep its way, he listened with deep interest to his requests, and solemnly promised to fulfil his wishes. The first was that, if possible, Reginald should be with him at the parting hour, which he said, he had reason to think, would be on the field of battle; that Thurôt should carry to

Ireland the packet he should find in his breast, and give it to his wife, after having buried him on the spot where he should fall; and, finally, that he should undertake to finish the education of his only son, now about seventeen years of age, and not leave him until he should come of age.

This conversation ended, a mountain of care seemed to have been taken from Beaumont's heart; he was again the soul of animation, while a chastened joy seemed to overspread and illuminate his features. On that dreadful night, when the sound of the alarm of war hushed revelry in the halls of mirth at Brussels, and when many a gallant soldier sprang, clad in the robes of pleasure and from her very lap, into a bloody grave, our two friends were seated together, conversing on high and holy subjects, when the courier, " fiery hot with haste," rushed into the colonel's room, with orders for immediate midnight march—not a moment for delay-thought must now become action; and never did Thurôt admire his friend more, now that he could look with delight on the brightness of his Christian armour; not a nerve shook; not a tone of his full voice failed as he became the soul of command and energy to every officer and soldier beneath him.

"Did you expect this?" said Reginald, in surprise.

"Have I not peculiarly been called to watch?" was the calm reply, but accompanied with such a look of meaning as Reginald felt must imply much.

The rest is a tale of three days' horrors and fightings, such as the pen sickens to detail, even though closed by the splendid miseries of the battle of Waterloo. On the third day, Reginald stood, towards the close of evening, within the walls of the château Hougoumont. This vantage-ground had been taken and retaken several times in the course of the day, and at last Colonel Beaumont's regiment had finally taken possession of it; and, within its shelter, Thurôt had been, for many hours, engaged in his useful labours amongst the wounded-the conflict immediately around had ceased-the rout of the French army had become universal; and on the first moment that, in common humanity, he could leave his avocations, Reginald rushed out to meet and congratulate his friend, whom he had last seen charging in person a body of cuirassiers. He thought he had never seen him look so well-so animated, as he gallantly bore down, strong in his unprotected valour, against these steel-clad warriors. A vague feeling of alarm crept over him, as, advancing, he saw several of the colonel's men looking anxiously around, and others scouring the country in various directions. On inquiring he found they sought their commander, and as he really lived in their hearts, the anxiety depicted in their countenances soon spread itself over that of Thurôt, as, hastily returning for his horse, he resolved on pursuing the search himself. As he proceeded along what had been the garden of the château, to the shed where the animal stood, he passed a heap of slain, and thought he heard a groan issue from the heap. To cast aside many still warm though lifeless bodies, was but the work of a few moments; with a feeling of instinctive horror, Reginald examined each, until his ear was struck by the sound of his own name, feebly pronounced by that voice now the dearest