as much as fourteen or fifteen years of age, being taught in general to take my place on a low stool, as indicative of inferiority. Neither did I, till that period, presume to speak in company, unless in reply to some question put to me. My mother's manners and mode of conduct towards her children were, I believe, more according to the old fashion than those of her cotemporaries; though it is not to be supposed that the difference between them was great. It may, perhaps, be thought that the old fashioned severity towards children was extreme; but, at any rate, it was a less disgusting and pernicious extreme than that which is at present so common among us. For who are now the persons in a family least considered, but the father or mother, the uncle and aunt? With what disgusting familiarity do we often hear a parent addressed, even in families which would be ashamed to be called ungenteel! Are they not the young people, in many circles, who support the conversation, drowning the voices of the old and experienced by their pragmatical and shallow impertinence?--thus depriving themselves entirely of that improvement, which they might otherwise derive from the conversation of their elders. For that old person must be empty and dull indeed, who has not more to say to the purpose than those who as yet know little or nothing by experience.

"I also greatly object," said the lady of the manor, "to the childish manner in which we often hear grown women, and perhaps even mothers of families, addressing their parents, lisping out the words 'papa' and 'mamma' like a child of four years old. How much more suitable would the appellations of 'Madam' and 'Sir,' be from such mouths! And though some may think such appellations somewhat too ceremonious; yet, undoubtedly, an extreme of ceremony from an inferior to a superior is always more graceful and honourable to both parties than the contrary. I should not," continued the lady of the manor, "dwell so long on these forms, if I did not consider that much actual vice and lawlessness is often the consequence of their neglect. But, as I shall have occasion, at a future time, to speak more at large on this subject, I will now leave it, and begin my narrative."

The lady of the manor then opened her manuscript, and read as follows.

Filial Affection; or, the History of Clarissa.

In one of the eastern counties of England, not very distant from the sea-shore, there is a village, or rather small town, so beautifully situated, and withal so cheap and convenient, as to have rendered it, for a length of time, the chosen residence of many genteel families; in consequence of which it could boast a larger and more polished society than is commonly found in places so far from London.

About the middle of the last century, a certain gentleman of the name of Danzy possessed a handsome estate near this village, and a beautiful mansion at one extremity of it.

This gentleman married, early in life, a young lady of extraordinary beauty, but of an extremely delicate constitution, which, however, did not appear till some time after the birth of her second child; when she was suddenly seized with a disorder, which, from its first appearance, affected her head to such a degree, that she for a time totally lost her memory, and the powers of her mind became so entirely confused, as to render it necessary that she should be placed under the charge of some responsible person, who should take the whole management and direction of her.

After a few years, she recovered her recollection in some degree; and it is remarkable, that, when this took place, it was found that she had lost all sense of the events which had fallen out during her sickness, though she recollected what had happened before that time with peculiar accuracy, very eagerly enquiring about those whom she had known and loved at that period, supposing that she had parted from them only the day before. She remembered especially the fair and beautiful infant which had particularly occupied her attention for the last six months before her seizure, and which had been taken from her breast at the moment when she was first attacked; neither could she be persuaded by any means, that the little girl of six years old, who was brought to her and taught to call her mamma, was the same little lovely one whose endearing smile and soft caresses were fixed upon her memory in characters which never could be changed.

It is one of the most affecting symptoms of derangement

in some minds, that it seems to unfit the patient for taking any knowledge of the lapse of time; so that persons suffer. ing under this malady are accustomed to speak of that which is past as if it ought still to be present. Thus, where derangements take a melancholy turn, and images of past sorrow have strongly seized upon the imagination, the mind appears so entirely to lose its elasticity, as to retain no power whatever of throwing off its painful feelings; but former distressing images, for ever recurring, so strongly colour every passing scene and object with their dark and morbid tincture, that every new idea becomes wholly assimilated to the old, entirely destroying the varieties of life. This state of mind is described by the poet in these few words, namely, "One dreadful now."

With respect to the unhappy lady of whom we are speaking, this was so much the case that, even after she had recovered her recollection in some degree, time seemed to stand still; and though her ideas were more tender and pathetic than terrific, yet it was with her, to use the somewhat obscure expression of the poet, a perpetual and melancholy now, though not altogether a dreadful one.

From the time of her first seizure, Mrs. Danzy had been confined to two apartments, the same which had been her favourite rooms while in health. The one was a large convenient bed-room, in the corner of which was an elegant tent bed or crib, which had been used for her infants, and which those who attended her had been afraid to remove, because, when once an attempt of that kind had been made, she had expressed great uneasiness. It was hung with an

oldfashioned Madras chintz, and had a coverlid of embroidered satin. To this little bed she would often go, when her memory was in some degree restored, which happened about six years after her first attack, and would seem very busy in preparing and arranging the bed-clothes, as if for her infant, whom she would often request her attendants to bring and place on its pillow. On these occasions, an evasive answer would sometimes amuse her; and sometimes she would not be so easily satisfied, but would begin to weep, saying, that she feared some heavy misfortune had befallen her baby, as it was so long since she had seen it. The second apartment which was devoted to this unfortu nate lady opened on a balcony, from which there were steps

descending into a pretty flower-garden, neatly arranged in the old fashioned style, with trim parterres and garden-seats, and inclosed entirely with iron rails. In her happier days, this little flower-garden had been the delight of this poor lady; and here, at one time of her life, she might have been often seen watering her flowers and weeding her mignionette, while the little Isabella, the elder of her two daughters, followed her mother with tottering steps, and amused her with her infant prattle. The dressing-room itself contained several pieces of furniture to which the poor lady had always shewn a particular partiality: a cabinet, containing many memorandums of ancient friendship; a teatable, which had been made in the days of Queen Anne, with a border of carved mahogany; a gilt bird-cage, where linnet after linnet succeeded one another, always appearing to be the same individual bird to the poor lady, whose daily business was to feed her bird and dress its cage. A small bookcase likewise, containing certain beloved volumes, which were read again and again with the same pleasure as at first, stood in one part of the room; and, in another part, was an embroidered footstool, on which Isabella formerly sat in those days of the lovely infancy of her children which the fond mother remembered with such tender interest-days of exquisite bliss, (as she described them,) when her little Clarissa lay on her lap, while Isabella sat at her feet. There was also in this room, besides the teatable above mentioned, another, on which stood a desk, and near which Mr. Danzy used to sit when he came to see his family in this apartment: in addition to which there were sundry old pictures, chimney-ornaments, clocks, and other toys, which had belonged to grandmothers, aunts, and other venerable personages then no more, concerning each of whom Mrs. Danzy had always some tale to tell, whenever she saw the eye of any visitor or attendant fixed upon the articles which had belonged to them.

Mr. Danzy, who sincerely loved his wife, retained his regard for her during her long illness; and when the severest symptoms of the disorder were so far abated that she began in some degree to recover her recollection, and to be able to amuse herself with the articles about her, he took particular care that all the little things which she had once valued should be brought before her and placed as

she wished. He also provided her with an attendant, who, he trusted, would make her life as comfortable as possible. Every day, at a certain hour, he made a point of visiting her; and as he knew that she expected him at that hour, he would put off any other engagement, rather than disappoint her.

And now, having stated with some accuracy the afflictions of this lady, and the situation to which she was reduced in consequence of them,—a situation, though melancholy, not without its comforts, at least while her husband lived,-I pass on to a more remote period of my history, in order to give some account of the daughters of this lady, and the manner of their education.

Isabella, the eldest, was nearly three years of age, and Clarissa, the younger, not more than half a year old, when they were deprived of the attentions of their tender mother. As Clarissa was a very tender infant, when taken from her mother's breast, a decent matron, who resided in the village, was hired, not only to take care of her, but to administer that nourishment to her which her mother could no longer supply. This nurse proved a very faithful servant; and as her husband was taken at the same time into the family, (her only child, a boy, being placed with his grandmother,) she continued in charge of her little nursling till she was seven years old, bringing her up to the best of her judgment and abilities. Miss Isabella was likewise partly left under the jurisdiction of this nurse; but, not being so fond of her as her sister Clarissa was, she often made her escape from the nursery into the housekeeper's room, where the lessons she received from Mrs. Burton, the housekeeper, were of a far less desirable nature than those with which her sister was furnished by her nurse.

In those days there was not that outcry on the subject of education which we now hear: but whether affairs of that kind were not quite so well managed at that time as they are now, remains perhaps to be decided. There is reason to think, that the whole system of education, as now generally conducted in this country, is built on such false principles, that, although the superstructure may be eniched with many dazzling ornaments, yet that the whole fabric is naught by reason of its lacking a proper basis. For it is greatly to be feared, that our modern system