perhaps, advises the committee to send the teacher to London, or some other place, for three months, and have him regularly trained under a good infant school master. In vain! they cannot wait so long, it will protract the business, and the zeal of the good people in the town might get cool in the mean time. The infant school must be opened in a fortnight or three weeks at the latest, and this is consequently all the time that can be permitted to the newly chosen master for his preparation. The question of time being settled, another arises: to what place is he to be sent? The expense of sending him up to London, or to some other place of note, is found too great, particularly for so short a time, and it seems, therefore, better that he should be sent the least distance possible, to the nearest infant school, to "catch" the system. But suppose even he come to London, or to Exeter, or Bristol, to one of the best schools that are, what can he learn in so short a time? What strikes him chiefly, is the singing of the tables, the distribution in classes, the marching round the room, the clapping of hands, and all the other machinery. This he catches, as well as he can, and back he goes, and opens his school, and his chief endeavour is to follow the system which he has caught, as closely as he can. And what can be expected after this? What else, but that the infant school should become a treadmill for the minds of the poor children!

Such has been the history of the infant system; it has been misapprehended by prejudice and narrow-mindedness, and perverted by bigotry and false zeal, so much so, that those who were its warmest advocates, are tempted to wish that never so much as one infant school had been established in the country.'

We can add nothing to this. Surely every member of the committee of the House of Commons who reads it, will be eager to make the labours of that committee instrumental to the reform of such abominations.

We conclude in the words of the same author, with the following general summary, every word of which accords with all our own information.

I have had a sad picture to lay before you, when speaking of the neglect of education, and of the numbers of children who are left without any instruction at all; but no less sad is the picture of the present state of our charity schools. All the evils under which society at large labours are, as it were, concentrated upon this point, as if to destroy the very vitals of the nation. The universal motive is money-getting; the means are all devised upon the analogy of large manufactures, carried on by mechanical power; and, to make the measure of evil full, the cloak of it all is a dead profession of the gospel. The principle of mammon is recognized as the life of education, the existence of mental and moral powers is set aside, and the spirit of religion is supplanted by the letter. Such is the general character of the education which is imparted to the poorer classes of this country, whatever may be the name of the system under which it is done. I leave you to judge, what must become of the nation!'

814

THE WELSH WANDERER.

ON a sultry day, towards the end of July, a traveller was seen slowly advancing along the road which forms the passage from Here. fordshire to Worcestershire, at the end of the Malvern Range. From the knapsack at his back, and the entire arrangement of his costume, he was evidently one of those pedestrian tourists, whose complete equipment for their vocation is a part of the true genius for travelling-those whose love of beholding nature in her varying aspects is stronger than the toil of ministering to the gratification of artificial wants. noontide sun was burning fiercely, and every object around, that had once been called vegetation, showed signs that it had been both a burning and shining light,' day after day, for weeks. The moss on the hills, so far famed for its extreme richness and beauty, was no longer of that refreshing green which makes so sweet a promise of rest to the weary eye, and yields such kindly fulfilment to the pressure of a weary foot; but now, brown and parched, and needing but a single spark to lighten it up into a blaze, like the driest hay. The poor sheep were lying exhausted in all directions, crowding together in heaps, where any thing like shade could be found, gasping and panting for the moisture, for want of which they, and the moss, and, indeed, all creation, seemed to be suffering. The traveller continued slowly to ascend the road, and as he reached the spot where the opposite valley opened upon him, he sent his eye forward with the intense expectation which an acclivity in a beautiful country seldom fails to excite. In this case it was not the expectation to admire, but an almost irritated longing for shelter from the burning sun, that made the heavens appear to give out heat like one vast concave of glowing metal. Behind him was one valley in a misty swoon; before him, all the exquisite richness, and beauty, and luxurious stretch of the view was lost in the thick yellow atmosphere, which was as if the earth were sickening with fever. His eyes pulled up suddenly-like a checked horse when at full speed-from the distance, to seek for the nearest appearance of shelter. There were a few trees near a farm-house; but then there were red tiles, and there would be noise from pigs and poultry. What was that, beyond the broad open field, on the right? A small, dark-looking church embosomed in trees. Shelter, shelter! and he jerked up his knapsack, and seemed to gain fresh vigour at every step that brought him nearer to the object he sought. There was a scattered group of people at work in the open field, and he thought with a deepened interest of the hard fate of the peasant, who, in such days as these, had to labour unceasingly to earn a bare subsistence; and longed earnestly for the time when machinery should have fulfilled its high destiny, in superseding the necessity of painful and laborious exertion in man. And there were women too! and as he turned into the gate he sickened at the thought of such bitter toil being their portion. Little Malvern churchyard is perhaps one of the most perfect places of rest, both for the dead and for the living, that can be found for the searching. It lies at the foot of one of those hills, which are almost mountains, sheltered alike from wind and sun, by the high barrier beyond, and the rich trees which cluster around it. It

commands a terrace view of the far valley, where orchard, cornfield, and hop-garden, all in their season, yield a harvest of equal but differing beauty. Our traveller entered the little gate, heaved that expressive half-sigh, half-yawn, that says, 'that is done, and now for rest,'-threw back his arms in a sort of extacy, using just so much exertion as to rouse the attention of his muscles to the delicious repose they were about to enjoy, and then looked round the quiet shady inclosure, to secure the nook best fitted to his purpose. There was a mound heaped up in a remote corner, which probably at one time was a collection of superfluous mould, but was now covered with rich soft grass, that had been kept freshly green by the shade of a chestnut growing directly above it, and throwing its branches so low as almost entirely to screen it from view. That was the place! The knapsack was untied, and he threw himself down. Ah!-the pleasure was almost pain. He could not sleep; but remained for some time in the full enjoyment of the cool green, transparent roof above him, and then closed his eyes, and continued in that state which is neither sleeping nor waking, reverie or contemplation, where the body may be described as being in a pleasant unconsciousness of any thing save mere pleasurable sensation. How long he remained thus he did not know, nor did he ask; for, on rousing himself, and looking between the boughs that formed a screen between him and the churchyard, his eye was at once fixed by a vision which, from its extraordinary appearance, he almost believed to be the creation of his own brain, while in the half-awakened state to which we have alluded. At the opposite side of the churchyard, where the low fence made the boundary-line between it and the wide expanse of valley beyond, was a human face; the rest of the person was concealed by the fence; and, to make it so, must have been in a stooping posture. Though at some distance, the remarkable and strong character of the countenance, and its deadly paleness, peculiarly striking at such a time. of sunny heat, gave to it the effect of near proximity. The traveller unconsciously drew himself up higher on the bank, where he had full opportunity for observation, without its being returned upon himself. The ghastly face continued to rest upon the fence. A small black hat was drawn down nearly to the eye-brows, from beneath which there was a gaze so intensely searching as almost to attain to fierceness. The nose and mouth were strongly marked; and there was a firmness about the latter that contrasted strangely with the exceeding paleness of the complexion. In this day, when the cheek of man, woman, and child, was burning and browning with the hot sun, when the earth was yellow with the thick shower of its beams-whence could come that face so pale, and yet so strong of purpose? And was it that of man or woman? It remained in this position until the whole of the churchyard had been carefully explored, and then the figure drew itself up for a moment to stoop again; and in another instant a child was thrown lightly over the fence-in the next, a woman was by its side. She was of middle stature, inclining to short; but, from the energy and purpose in her movements, gave an idea of being much taller. The figure was one of slight fabric, and even that had been evidently much impaired by sickness or suffering. She was habited in the short jacket and petticoat worn by Welsh women of the peasant class, and a handkerchief was folded neatly across her chest.

She was

It

bare-armed and bare-footed; the arms so slight and attenuated, as to make you wonder at the strength that lifted the stout, ruddy, tired child so lightly. She pushed the hat that had occasioned a part of the mystery-but was, in fact, only in keeping with the rest of her costume-from her brow, discovering a broad expanse of forehead, and at the same time a nobility of expression in the face, which was one of its peculiar characteristics, but which, owing to the partial concealment, had until now remained unnoticed. At her back she bore a lightly, but strongly-made basket, somewhat similar in shape to the coracle of the fisherman, to which was attached at either end a cord, fastened from side to side, so as to form two flexible handles. She threw it, and the small bundle it contained, on the ground-her hat next and the whole of her beautifully formed head was given to view. She then dropped on her knees to the child, and taking the round, heated, tired face between her hands, kissed it repeatedly and tenderly -not smotheringly, but so lightly as if she would kiss away the slight shade fatigue had caused to rest upon it; all the while murmuring some words in a tone that was like that of a dove cooing to its young. was a strange sight to see the ruddy face of the boy by the side of his pallid mother. It was as if, like the fable of the pelican of the wilderness, she had drawn from her own veins the blood which had nourished him into health and vigour. His dress was of the simplest possible make, and humblest material, but there was nothing in his appearance to betoken the slightest discomfort. He wore, suspended from his neck, a small dog-whistle, which seemed neither to belong to the character of ornament or plaything. The mother rose from her knees and seated the child gently on the grass, and then moved towards a thickly-boughed dwarf tree at the end of the terrace. On her way she continually looked back, and spoke to the boy in Welsh, and, from the exquisite tenderness of her voice, the harshness usually found in a language abounding in gutturals was entirely lost. She busied herself among the boughs of the tree, trying the different strengths of some, and twisting others skilfully and rapidly in and out, so as to form a kind of bower. She kept up a continued coo to the child during the whole of her work, hurried back to him the moment it was completed, and, with him in one hand, and the basket and bundle in the other, again turned towards the tree. She succeeded in securing the cradle-basket to the bough, so that it would rock with a gentle touch, and then lifted the boy and laid him down within it, with the bundle for a pillow. She then took up the whistle, looked at him earnestly, pointed to it, spoke one steady, emphatic word, and then locked it in his little hand, with hers upon it; again and again kissed him, and again and again drew back from the cradle to look at him. She then began tenderly to move it, and at the same time to sing, in a low lulling tone, an air which at first recalled the well known Rising of the Lark,' but as it went on proved to be of an entirely different character. The traveller watched earnestly, and listened attentively. He was both poet and musician. He marked well the gesture and expression that accompanied the air. It served him for an after record, and although passing from his own mind, and given in his own language, it is yet a faithful interpretation in words of the feeling that pervaded the whole scene,

Her voice died away in a murmur; she ceased to touch the cradle ; she looked down upon the sleeper for a moment, mournfully shook her head, and then stepping back a pace, ingeniously twisted the boughs so as entirely to conceal the cradle from view. While returning slowly to the place by which she had entered, the expression of her face and figure changed. A deep gloom settled on the brow, and her whole appearance was that of a being weighed down with the heaviest sorrow. She rested against the fence in a half sitting, half standing posture, scarce seeming to know that she did so. Her eyes fixed, she becamenot paler-she could not-but the shadows on her face deepened almost into blackness. One hand was laid upon the fence-she grasped the handkerchief at her chest, as if to crush the viper that was gnawing within. Oh, the bitterness of that agony! as thought chased thought, each one seeming to deepen the characters that misery had written so strongly upon her brow. At last she started as if an adder had stung her; pressed her hands tightly to her forehead; heaved a sigh that seemed to shake her whole frame; and then stole gently to take one more look at the unconscious slumberer. She came back with a calmer brow and steadier step-caught up her hat-sent one more searching glance round the inclosure-threw a blessing from her eyes upon the peaceful little covert-and was out of sight in an instant.

Thank God, I have seen her happier!' was the traveller's first thought, as he saw her no longer-he felt if it had not been so, the vision of her misery would have haunted him for years. His next-to remain there, and watch the child till her return. And then came conjecture as to her history-plans to find it out-and when found out, to do all that could be done to mitigate her misery. While thus engaged in thought, he heard the gate, by which he had entered, open, and on looking out perceived a man, habited in a rustic dress. He was old