of friendship. cient."

If I disavow all communion in religion, that is suffi

She went into Miss Beauford's room as she passed, to apologise for leaving her.

66

Lady Fitzgerald wishes me to accompany her home; but I will not go, if you dislike being left by yourself, aunt."

66

No, I never feel lonely," said Miss Beauford; "but I think it would be proper to wait for your uncle's permission, before you accept an invitation from a heretic family."

“Oh! I have determined not to give up my mother's relations; they cannot move my faith."

She bade her aunt a hasty adieu, and in a few moments was in the carriage.

A sense of delicious liberty gave her spirits their old buoyancy, as she drove rapidly along the beach with Lady Fitzgerald and Cecilia. They arrived at Ballyrowan after a delightful drive of two hours. Dora had never been further than the lodge, and she was charmed with the beauty of the place. It was of a style very different from Carlington, and possessed none of its gloom. That part of the lawn which surrounded the house was laid out in flower gardens, and all the arrangements within and around presented a combination of comfort and taste. A small party of friends had accompanied the family from town; and the conversation at the dinner table was marked, not only by cultivation, but also by a liberality of sentiment to which Dora had hitherto been a stranger. Sir Eustace spoke little: he seemed rather to draw out the sentiments of others than to express his own; but, in all he said, there was a force and interest that gave zest to every subject on which he touched. His remarks were peculiarly suggestive, and opened to Dora more than one train of ideas, which she treasured in her mind as matter of future reflection. The evening was spent in music; and, as it passed swiftly on, she waited not to inquire why she seemed to breathe a purer atmosphere; or where was the spell which had so long bound her spirit, the power of which she had hardly been conscious of, till she felt relief from its grasp. It was not till she retired to her room, that she remembered these few bright days would quickly pass, and she must return to her dreary solitude and uniform routine; but she concluded her nightly orisons, threw herself upon her bed, and in sleep forgot the pressure of that thought.

CHAP. VII.

When she opened her eyes, the morning sun shone brightly around her; she banished the cloud on her heart, resolved to enjoy to-day, whatever might await her on the morrow. She spent part of the forenoon alone with her aunt. Lady Fitzgerald expressed much surprise when she heard of the solitude in which her life was spent.

"You formed acquintances on your birth-night with most of the neighbouring families. There are not, indeed, many resident proprietors, but enough to form a very agreeable society; why have you not cultivated them?"

"My uncle does not wish me to visit at present,"

"I know you must reverence your uncle as your guide in religious matters, my child; but, with regard to your mode of spending your time, surely you are at liberty to do as you please?"

"I have, indeed, a right to choose for myself," replied Dora; "but we may sometimes be required to give up our rights in struggling to bring the will into subjection."

"Yes," said Lady Fitzgerald, "the will must bow to the principles of right, but not to the arbitrary rule of an individual.”

"I do not bow to the command of an individual, but to the Church; but will you tell me now, dear aunt, what you promised of your early history?"

Had Dora been conversing with one of her own faith, she would gladly have continued the subject, for the balance between free-will and obedience was the subject of many deep and painful thoughts; but she was afraid to pursue the controversy with a heretic. Her aunt observed this, and urged it no farther; but immediately complied with her request, by relating her history.

"You have often heard, I daresay," she said, "descriptions of your mother's paternal home. It was a wild, lonely castle, on the northern coast, far distant from hence. My mother died in giving me birth. My father was naturally of a stern and unsociable temper, and rendered more so by the loss of her gentle companionship. He was secluded almost entirely from society, and the early years of my life were spent with no other companionship than that of a French Protestant lady, who had been selected as my instructress. Her religion, I have no doubt, would have prevented her being chosen for such an office, had not her excelling accomplishments overcome this difficulty; and, relying upon her promise never to interfere with my faith, my father intrusted me to her care. To this promise she strictly adhered; but I soon discovered that her religion was different from my own; and, with the restlessness of a mind thirsting for knowledge, and shut out from every other source of information, I was persevering in my inquiries, while her guarded answers only increased my inquisitiveness. Nor was I satisfied with searching into the nature of the Protestant faith alone. I also began to investigate my own, and reject whatever did not commend itself to reason. I have described to you a progress of mind that occupied years. The result was, that, at the age of eighteen, I declared myself a Protestant. My avowal was followed by a sentence of banishment from my father's house. Then, Dora, came the first trial of my life. It was a desolate thing to be cast off by kindred and friends; and, within the last few years, new ties had been formed, which it almost broke my heart to tear asunder. My father had married again, and in my young stepmother I had found a friend. Your mother was then a lovely child of three years old, whom I loved as my own. But the wrench must be made, and I strove to bear it. I could not yield my mind again to the enslaving superstition from which it had escaped."

She paused for a moment, while a glow of enthusiasm covered her still lovely features. Dora involuntarily relinquished the hand she held, and turned her large dark eyes upon her with a look of pain and reproach. Forgive me, my child," said Lady Fitzgerald. "Oh! that our opinions on this important subject were less widely severed."

66

"May the Holy Virgin enlighten you, and bring you back to the arms of the Church," said Dora, raising her eyes to heaven with a look of fervent supplication. "Go on, dear aunt, I long to hear more.”

"The blow could not be delayed," continued Lady Fitzgerald; "nor did I wish that it should. Once resolved, I did not seek to linger in the home from which I was an outcast. On the morning of my departure, my father refused to see me. One long agonised embrace from my kind young mother-one fervent kiss on my baby's cheek-and I bade adieu to my home for ever. I strained my eyes to catch the last glimpse of its old towers, but the rocks and trees soon hid them from my sight. Madame Baneli met me in Dublin. She had been dismissed on the discovery of my change. Though she had never attempted to influence me, I knew she rejoiced in my decision; and her affection in part consoled me for all I had lost. She accompanied me to England, for my own country had become distasteful to me. I resided at Brighton for some time, under her protection. I there first met Sir Louis Fitzgerald, at the house of a mutual friend. Our intimacy had made some progress before I knew the faith he professed; and when I did learn that he was a member of the Romish Church, my first impulse was to break it off, not from any idea of sin, but because I believed the intolerance that had driven me from my home was universal in the Romish Church; but I was mistaken. Sir Louis was mild and liberal in his views; and, when I urged the difference of our religion as a reason for rejecting the offer of his hand, he allowed me such entire freedom in following the dictates of my conscience, and placed in such attractive colours before me the happiness of mutual toleration, that my scruples were soon overcome; and, unconscious of either error or danger in the step, I became his wife. He was invariably kind; and I enjoyed with him as much happiness as could be wished for under our circumstances, for our hearts were separated on the vital point of religion. There we had no intercourse. My children, too, were educated in different faiths, according to the marriage contract. Madame Baneli resided with us for two years. At the end of that time, she died in my arms, gratefully blessing my husband's kindness, which had provided so happy an asylum for her closing life. Released from the promise that before had restrained her, and for which she greatly blamed herself, she fully and freely conversed with me on all subjects of religious belief, and often expressed her fear that I had changed my creed more from conviction of errors in the Church I had left, than from a wellgrounded faith in the tenets I had adopted. This fear she expressed more earnestly on her deathbed, and implored me to study carefully the Holy Scriptures, nor be satisfied until my faith rested on the declarations of inspired truth alone. When days of trouble and sorrow came upon me," continued Lady Fitzgerald, after a short pause, "I found the value of her advice, and followed her directions. In doing so, I became acquainted with the true source of her peace. I sought and found Him who is the Saviour of every penitent sinner. Since the time He first revealed himself to me, He has been my support in sorrow, my guide in difficulty, and He will be my strength in death. But now, my child, we must return. I fear we have been already too long absent."

"I have much yet to hear from you, dear aunt," said Dora, as they entered the house; "much of my mother's history, and many questions I wish to ask you, if you will allow me, about yourself."

She looked up with an earnest expression, half fearful she was asking too much, but one glance at her aunt's countenance reassured her. It expressed both confidence and affection; but it spoke, too, so much of sad and mingled feeling, that it deepened the interest already awakened in Dora's heart. They entered the saloon together. Dora was almost surprised at the quickness with which Lady Fitzgerald vanished every trace of emotion, and at once appeared to those around her the calm disengaged woman of the world. It was a lesson she, too, must learn ere long.

EDUCATION, WHAT IS IT?

THE term education, derived from two Latin words-e, "out of," and ducere, "to lead or draw"-indicates a drawing out. Education is, therefore, a process. It is a series of acts; a lengthened chain of influences tending to draw out the human faculties. Now, to lead is a gentle act. We do not drive what we lead, but gently conduct it along. We lead the child which is just beginning to tread firmly on the earth. We lead the blind. We lead the sick and the infirm. Goodness and pity actuate those who lead. Leaders, too, are wiser and stronger than those who are led. Hence education is the act of a superior mind. It is high culture mildly and genially operating on low culture, or on the rude and untutored.

If to educate is to draw out, it is not only a gradual, continued, and gentle, but also an attractive operation. We draw a child to our knees by kind words and bright smiles. We draw our friends around us by benign dispositions and good deeds. The churlish do not draw, but repel. Men stand at a distance from the cold. Eloquence is attractive. Amusements are attractive. Accordingly, education is an attractive process. It comprises that which draws children to the educator, and that which draws out their powers in a pleasing as well as an effectual manner. Again, education, as a drawing out, implies materials. What are the materials out of which the educator has to draw his results? The materials are a human being, a child. Hence the materials are all that a child is, not a part of a child. It is, in consequence, with all the faculties that an educator has to do. The extent of his operation is determined by the qualities on which he has to operate. What are those qualities? They are physical, intellectual, moral, and religious; for the child has a body, a mind, a heart, and a soul. Each of these in their numerous features; each of these in their reciprocal relations; each of these, in their separate and in their combined action, demands the attention of the educator. But, in drawing out a body, we aim at some specific object; we have an end in view. Why are a child's faculties drawn out in education? If by "why?" we mean on what account?" the answer is, "because the child possesses those faculties."

66

They were given to be developed. But if one, so all were given to be developed. Here education is universal in its comprehension as well as in its extent. It has a regard to the poor man's child as well as to the rich man's child. It knows no distinction of condition or outer form. Having to do with the human faculties, it finds a task wherever it finds an undeveloped capability.

In undertaking this task, however, at what does education aim? The aim is determined partly by the materials; it is to draw out the latent faculties of the young. Partially? No restriction is involved in the idea. If we are to educate the faculties, we are to educate them as far as they are capable of education, otherwise we leave our work incomplete. Hence, the extent of man's capability is the measure of his edu cation. We fall short of our duty, if of ourselves we set any limit to our efforts. The only limit that we can recognise is the limit which na ture may have set. Education may be termed a boundless task; for, as yet, no limit has been found to the expansibility of the human mind.

Our aims are also determined by our power. Men grow as rich as they can. The conquering general stops at nothing short of an absolute impossibility. Education, then, is to be measured by the educator's power. Here, however, we must look, not to the individual, but the species. Society is the great educator. Society is represented by its best minds. The highest culture of the day, therefore, is the measure of a child's education. In education, we undertake to bring up the child to the attainments which, in the course of many ages, society has made. We attempt to place the child in our own position. We take as our model the great men of the past and of the present age. We impart to the young the accumulated treasures of centuries. But, mixed with these treasures, we find inferior elements. Truth and untruth have come down to us intimately blended together. In men of the brightest genius we see some spots. In ourselves we are conscious of many defects. Reflection on these leads us to a standard of excellence, while we contrast what we are, with what we ought to be. Hence arises, in our conceptions, an ideal culture. This ideal culture becomes our educational model. The light of the past we would transmit without its darkness. Our own good that we love, we wish to see reproduced in our children, unmixed with our evil, which we deplore. In painful thought, we speculate on what we might have been, and on what we might have done, had we possessed better guidance or more tractable wills; and amidst our regrets, and perhaps our self-reproaches, we resolve that those who are to take our places shall enjoy the highest advantages that we can command. To aim for our children at anything short of perfection, seems a kind of impiety. We are, therefore, led to form the conception of an ideal culture, and to take measures for securing an ideal excellence in the education of the young. And that the rather because it is only by a faithful pursuit of ideal excellence that the edu cator can attain that perfection of character, which with every individual is, or ought to be, the aim of his life. An inferior aim in education is better than no aim at all. And, therefore, it is so far well that parents endeavour to prepare their offspring for the engagements of their several callings. A youth, who is expert and trustworthy in business, is not only of value in the social commonwealth, but is also in a fair way of