consideration of mankind; for in nothing do we find the power of one mind over another - of the present over the future spicuously exhibited as in the influence of education.

So con

Pa

Amongst the various obstacles to the progress of education, there is one which proceeds from a scruple that we cannot but respect. rents fear to run the risk of trying any new experiment; and feel as if it were their duty to persevere in that plan which has always been supposed to be the best. But it should be remembered, that these suppositions are not without risk of error; and the important thing is, not what is supposed to be, but what really is, the best. No doubt there are some experiments so hazardous that we must not allow ourselves to venture on them. But, having put aside all that can reasonably inspire us with distrust, we must then fearlessly and directly seek after the truth.

By thus referring to the experience of futurity, I acknowledge how little dependence I have on my own; limited indeed and imperfect as it is, I scarcely dare venture to bring it forward. But if I cannot produce many facts, I may, at all events, have the merit of raising doubts; I may point out uncertainties, and propose difficulties. In the present state of our knowledge on this subject, perhaps the most useful work on

education would be a series of explanatory questions, to which answers might be furnished, within the next fifty years, by those enlightened minds who devote their attention to this most important subject.

CHAPTER II.

BIRTH, AND FIRST WORDS.

BIRTH and death, notwithstanding their daily occurrence in the course of nature, are two events which never fail to excite our wonder. The arrival and the departure of a human being speak to us of two unknown worlds, to which they seem to approximate our own. Yet the

interest which we take in these two events is very different. We associate ourselves closely with the dying; we suffer with them; we tremble with them; feeling that the time will soon come when we must submit to the same fate; but the new-born infant is, as it were, a stranger to us. The sight of it may affect us with emotion, but we do not sympathize with it as with the dying. The time when we bore some resemblance to it is long since passed away, and has ceased to interest us. What does not affect us either with hopes or fears for ourselves, seems to us of trifling importance.

It has often been remarked, that suffering introduces a man into the world, and accom

panies him out of it. What a crowd of tumultuous impressions must rush on a sensitive being at its first entrance into life! The air, like a rapid torrent, forces itself into the lungs of the infant, and excites them to action; the light, piercing through the transparent veil which covers the eyes, dazzles its sight; and though some have thought that a new-born child does not hear, we can hardly imagine that it is deaf to its own cries. The mysterious moment of birth, which plunges the soul into the whirlpool of life, overwhelms the infant with suffering and confusion. But a kind of quiet stupor, or a peaceful slumber, very soon rescues it from impressions, as yet too painful for its weak organs.

Some time elapses before the mind begins to know, or comprehend any thing. All the movements of an infant are what may be called convulsive and involuntary; every thing depends on its internal sensations. One action alone seems to have an object, that of turning its mouth as if to seek for food, and sucking what is offered to it; no other proof of instinct can yet be observed. In about a week after birth, however, we remark that its eyes follow the light; it begins to see; and it certainly hears now, for sudden noises make it start; still, however, it exists in a solitary state, and enters into no connection with the world in which it lives; yet, from this period, I am not disposed to consider

the infant so destitute of instinct as it is generally imagined; many of its actions cannot be explained by referring them to sensation or experience. Such are, for instance, the proofs which it begins to give of the first dawnings of its affections. At six weeks old, the child is yet a stranger in this world; nothing exists distinctly in its mind; it has not yet found out that the objects which it sees are the same as those which it touches; and whatever impression these objects may have made on its senses, it makes no effort either to obtain or to avoid them. But even now, though its senses are far from being fully developed, it is interested by the human face; and before its attention can be attracted by any material object, it is excited by sympathy. A look of affection-a caressing tone-will win a smile from its lips; gentle emotions evidently animate the little creature, and we recognise with delight the expression of these emotions on its coun

tenance.

But how, then, has the infant learnt that such an expression of countenance indicates affection? Knowing nothing of the expression of its own face, how could it imitate that of another, unless a corresponding feeling had imprinted the same character on its features? We cannot account for this by referring it to the senses. The person leaning over its cradle may not be its nurse; she