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FEMALE EDUCATION.

THE Science of female education in this country has become far too much the science of mere behaviour. Principles are inculcated, but not with earnestness-we look much more to manner. We do not educate the feelings, but we are carefully didactic as to the mode of their expression. We do not encourage independent thought, or love to draw out the earnest expression of natural emotion. Some natures there are so strong and so elastic, as to rebound from the pressure of education into the beautiful region of natural enthusiasm and innocent trueheartedness, but the many are so moulded that everything they do is but a trick of custom. And even this may be-nay, it is often

very beautiful, and graceful, and winning; and all that the habits of society demand is gone through with an air so delicately right, so exquisitely as it should be, that one is ready to exclaim, "If this be education merely, let her then be my goddess, for nature's self was never sure more lovely." But, alas! this feeling will not stand the wear and tear of life. There must be something fervent-something original—something created, or thrown into new shape, by that mind which would charm for ever, and cast upon the every-day occurrences of life the glow of feeling,

and the interest of novelty. In mere behaviour there is a wearying sameness. The mind must expand into generous sentiment, or trace for us with delicate discernment new views of things, if it would hope to interest, and to prolong that delightful feeling of respectful admiration, which is so near akin to love, if it be not indeed the thing itself.

But why all this preachment? Simply because there is too little regard shown to any thing but behaviour in education, and in after life we find there is too little heart. Shall I be thought too severe if I say that society abounds far too much with such persons as the Chloe of Mr. Pope?

"With every pleasing-every prudent part,
Say what can Chloe want? She wants a heart.
She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought,
But never, never, reach'd one gen'rous thought."

If there be many of this description, as I fear there are, I would have them, for the sake of their own happiness, as well as that of their neighbours, friends, and any other nearer connections they please, to cultivate something better than the best manner of doing what is to be done, though that, too, is of high importance. I would have them consider what it is reasonable to think, as well as what it is correct to say, and to revolve with deliberate thoughtfulness what they ought to do, as well as how they ought to do it. Thus will they soon surpass the yotaries of mere behaviour, and rear up for

themselves an internal character, which, like a firm and enduring pillar, they may adorn with the external ornaments of graceful manners and beautiful accomplishments.

But it is not to be forgotten that there arc occasions when such a guard as mere behaviour supplies, is of the very greatest efficacy, as checking, opposing, and controlling, the working of sincere, temporary emotion. This is especially the case in regard to quarrels, which are apt to begin among all sorts of people, but among the highly civilized and educated they rarely proceed to such storms of passion as are quite common among those who have less habituated themselves to the control of good behaviour.

"Alas! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,

And sorrow but more closely tied ;

That stood the storm when waves were rough,

Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When Heaven was all tranquillity!
A something light as air-a look,
A word unkind-or wrongly taken,
Yes, love that tempests never shook
A breath-a touch like this hath shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
'Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,

And hearts so lately mingled seem
Like broken clouds—or, like the stream
That, smiling, left the mountain's brow,
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plain below,
Breaks into floods that part for ever."

It is painful and humiliating to think of all this; but it is all very true, though published as poetry, and not in the least exaggerated, unless it be in the similes. Against the spreading of the breach, which an angry look or an unkind word begins, the proprieties of behaviour will present a better barrier than even affection itself (which when rudely touched rebounds into resentment), and therefore are these proprieties to be ever kept at hand for aid upon such

occasions.

There are few mistakes more pernicious than that concerning the amantium iræ-the quarrels of those who love-as though these storms made the succeeding sunshine brighter, or more perceptibly bright than it was before. Believe it not. The infinitely delicate spell of respectful tenderness, which anger or unkindness has once broken, can never be renewed in its perfect purity and completeness. Something else may come, more fit for bearing the accidents of life, but the original charm is dimmed for ever, and even joy will henceforth cast a shadow like that of fear. And yet it is scarcely to be hoped for that in this world there can be any other fate than that of at least injuring that delicate spell

of mutual contentment, by some rude jar or another, to which the infirmity of our nature is so liable, and, therefore, it is that the pensive mind, when dwelling, as it will, upon this fatal probability even amid the sunshine of beauty and of happy hours, sighs over the anticipations of a too busy fancy. This mood of the mind is described by Mr. Moore, in two stanzas, which are second to none he has written, in those qualities for which the better portions of his poetry are so remarkable-namely, elegance and melody :

"Whene'er I see those smiling eyes,

All fill'd with hope, and joy, and light,
As if no cloud could ever rise

To dim a heaven so purely bright,

I sigh to think how soon that brow
In grief may lose its every ray,
And that light heart, so joyous now,
Almost forget it once was gay.

For time will come with all his blights,
The ruin'd hope—the friend unkind—
The love that leaves where'er it lights
A chill'd or burning heart behind!
While youth that now like snow appears,
Ere sullied by the dark'ning rain,
When once 'tis touch'd by sorrow's tears
Will never shine so bright again."

II.