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fiding child-like familiarity that is the very opposite of the sullen formality which is only rudeness in disguise. And more than this: the boys playing in the large open space, or the girls chatting together in the corridors, do not lower their tones, or move away, or look confused, or even selfconscious, at the unexpected appearance either of visitor, teacher, master, matron, or committee. This is their home, from which they are sent out to situations, and to which they make periodical visits for seven years after they leave it. Indeed, many of the boys become subscribers to, and some of them grow to be governors of, an institution their obligations to which they are proud to acknowledge, even though it is supported by voluntary contributions.' As to the girls, those who leave school are still under the watchful care of the ladies' committee, and each lady has a girl or two to whom she is the particular friend for reference, counsel, guidance, and help. It is a delightful feature of this school that the girls go back to the school once a year to take tea with these friends, and often meet them at their houses beside. In fact, this personal domestic association of the supporters of the institution with the children is one of its best features, and it often takes the very pleasant form of treats and tea-drinkings at the houses of members of the committee, or of visits to the Zoological Gardens and other places by means of a number of admissions paid for by a friend. Among the donations in kind we find all sorts of seasonable and toothsome presents. A new bun

dle of books for the school library, or a score of tops or a cricket set, or a dozen skipping-ropes or toygames, dolls, toy-ships, and ob

jects for the museum will alternate with packets of sweets, boxes of oranges, a basket or so of bloaters, packets of articles for tea for six girls, baskets of fruit, invitations to alternate select parties to tea and spend the evening,' or even such a trifle as a sucking-pig; while one lady and gentleman, with true loving kindness, made guests for a day of all the children who were obliged to remain at the school during a midsummer holiday.

But we are still in the great hall, and one of the girls, in a distinct pleasant voice, is reading her report of the seamstress department of last year. In the girls' school there were mended 17,551 pairs of stockings and 18,860 other articles, beside 2876 articles made, including dresses, pinafores, and so on; while in the matron's workroom there were 7898 articles made and 23,126 articles mended. A pretty good amount of useful work that, beside lessons in washing, cooking, and light house-work. So come up, girls, for your prizes for diligence in needlework, as well as for proficiency in learning, and come up also for a reward for 'neatness of person, property, duties, &c., during the year.' Come up also, young lady who has been specially noticed for good manners and politeness. Next come thirtythree girls who are rewarded for specially good conduct: yes, and come forward also, you to whom the suffrages of your companions in the senior division have awarded the prize for Christian patience, goodwill, and forbearance. There is a similar prize to this among the boys as well as the usual rewards for progress in various studies. One fact, however, strikes the visitor as the girls come forward to receive their awards, and it is that some of

them are so well 'set up,' have an appearance of firmness of limb and clearness of skin, which is not universal. On inquiry it will be found that these are the swimmers of the girls' school, and that most of them have taken prizes for diving, swimming distances, or elegance of style, the rewards being appointed by a ladies' committee and the recommendation of three of the teachers, each of whom has her special novice to be trained to the art.

One word more. Among the Among the bright little maids who come smiling to take their prizes of books, workbaskets, desks, money, or other things, is one large-eyed swarthy pretty child-orphan of an Hindoo ryot-and surely that young face, full of kindly regard and keen intelligence, should speak volumes for such an institution as this, where every year one orphan from India is supported by the proceeds of the sale of needlework executed by those who are already inmates of the great airy happy home at Maitland Park.

If those fourteen old gentlemen who, above a hundred years ago, met in Ironmonger-lane and completed a scheme for maintaining twenty boys and twenty girls in a school at Hogsden' could only see what the institution has grown to (and who shall say that they do not ?), they would (or must) be either surprised or delighted (perhaps both) at the differences that have come to the training of the young since that old severe, repressive, repellent time, when the children had only the smallest and most restricted recreations, and also the most restricted teaching when they were employed

in dreary durance making garden-nets, list carpets, and list shoes; and when, having been for years droning out their readinglessons and learning to scrawl moral maxims from copy-slips, they were only allowed to be taught arithmetic as far as addition by special recommendation of the committee, who had an extraordinary meeting to discuss the question. And yet the institution survived, and has lived not only to refute the old jealous, hardening, repulsive theories, but to show that such a school may be so organised as to be an example not only of the wider, freer, and more loving charity that should belong to the higher life, but of a true practical economy which will bear all the inquiries of the commonsense' section of society. For not the least remarkable feature of the Orphan Working School is, that its accounts are so kept (and published with its reports) that the average cost of every child, including its share of every item, such as rent, salaries, and even advertising, may be seen for each of the last twelve years.

When it is added that the entire cost of everything, when accurately divided according to the number of children supported and educated, represents an average of less than twenty-seven pounds per head, during the last year of exceptionally high prices, there is reason to believe that this robust charity is, at all events, moving with the times in other respects beside that of adding an S to the three R's that are sometimes supposed to represent the whole area of popular education.

T. A.


WHEN I was quite a little boy I dearly prized a 'brown,'
Felt wealthy with a 'tizzy,' and went mad o'er half-a-crown;
There was music in their jingle to please my boyish heart,
For well I knew that every brown' would buy an apple tart.
But now for childish tastes like these I've grown too stiff and old,
And little care for any sound save that of bonny gold.

Talk not to me of music; it has charms, I know them well;
For I've heard the deep-voiced organ through majestic arches swell;
And in sylvan still recesses I have heard the summer's hum
Like the murmur of a fountain through the leafy forest come.
O'er my
sickened wearied senses all this sweetness softly rolled;
But I longed for other music-'twas the chink of bonny gold.

I've heard the trumpet's martial note, that called upon the brave
To wreathe their brows with glory's crown or seek a soldier's grave;
Alone I've heard on Alpine heights the echoing thunder roar,
Alone I've heard the angry waves boom heartless on the shore;
Yet what were these but thrilling sounds whose music little told,
Compared to volumes spoken by the chink of bonny gold?

If I should hear an organ grind a waltz before my door,
It makes me dream I sail again along the polished floor;
But as I coax my pipe and watch the curling smoke arise,
My smiling fancy half recalls a laughing pair of eyes-
Of heartless eyes that years ago declared my own too bold,
Because I could not dazzle them with bright and bonny gold.

There's music in my dear one's voice, I love her words to hear,
For softly and caressingly they fall upon my ear;
I love the patter of her feet, the tremor of her sighs,
The rustle of her silken dress, her greetings and good-byes;
But yet I love my money more, nor deem my bosom cold,
For how shall we be wed without the help of bonny gold?

Tis said that gold is evil's root, and preachers all declare
That wealth is a delusion, all a vanity, a snare.
Sweet, sweet is humble poverty,' these gentlemen will say,
The virtues of humility will never pass away;'

Nor must pale Poverty to them her piteous tale unfold,

parsons hate the jingling sound of their departing gold.

'Tis true that youth and health and love can ne'er by gold be bought;
Yet want of these has oftentimes by want of gold been wrought.
The withered cheek, the wasted form, the wrinkled brow of care,
The broken heart, the rayless eye, the silver-threaded hair,
All tell a tale, and sadly prove life's blessings must be sold
Ere some may hear the merry chink of bright and bonny gold.

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'Can this be life?' I murmured, 'this the object of man's soul?
The stormy sea beneath him, and gold his only goal?
Can this be life? I murmured, as I gazed upon the west,
And saw it in the glory of its evening beauty dressed.
'Ah, no; beyond life's ocean the weary may behold

A fabled land whose portal gleams more bright than bonny gold.'


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