The father's face sank to the pillow. Oh! what a bitter punishment for his selfish complainings, when his own child, in dying out of his arms, thought only that she was ridding him of a burden! He could scarcely find words in which to sob out his love, his regrets, his entreaties that her tender spirit might be spared at least long enough to witness his expiation. But even while he prayed it escaped him. He clasped only a frail waxen form that answered no kiss, uttered no more any childish, plaintive word.
"God forgive me!" he said. "Now I know what real loss is; and I deserve it."
How they missed the careful, pathetic little face! How often they became suddenly speechless when, in laying their plans—they found that they had unconsciously included Josie! But they worked on bravely in spite of pain—worked the better for it, indeed. And when in after-years, all happy and prosperous and with homes of their own, they talked over the past, and Mr. Willian told of the wonderful time when his daughters had made caryatides of themselves to support the edifice of his fallen fortunes, Josie was gratefully mentioned as the noblest helper there. "For it was by her means that the cornerstone of our new home was laid in heaven," he said.
RELIGION IN EDUCATION.
In every century there has arisen some question which, by reason of its intrinsic importance, or immediate influence on society, may be called the problem of the age. Our century, though differing in so many respects from all the others, is not, however, an exception to this seeming law of history. Not a few long-standing grievances have been righted, knotty political intricacies severed, and brilliant scientific triumphs achieved; yet important as was the emancipation of 1829 or the disestablishment of 1869, the laying of the transmarine cable, or the cutting of Suez, we believe with the Dublin Review that the great problem of our age is the adjustment of the oft-debated educational question. Much has been said, many editorials have been written, and pamphlets published on this subject. It has afforded a noble theme for such orators as Lacordaire, Montalembert, and Archbishop Hughes; and a trying task for the skill and practical wisdom of such eminent statesmen as Thiers, Lord Derby, and Gladstone. We know no better proof of the vital importance of education, than the active part thus taken in its discussion by men of every religious persuasion and political shade. In fact, few questions affect so directly the welfare and interests of the people; and assuredly in this country there is none of more moment as regards the well-being and permanence of our national institutions.
Two centuries ago, Leibnitz declared the proper training of youth to be "the foundation of human happiness;" in the last century, Washington called it the "pillar" of society; and in our own, Bishop Dupanloup assures us that it and it alone "forms the greatness of a nation, maintains its splendor, and prevents decay." But it may be argued that intellectual discipline without the coöperation of any religious element will produce these great and inestimable results. This we deny. Did polite literature, for instance, save the most refined nation of antiquity? Listen to the masters of the lyre bewailing the degradation of their countrymen, and sighing for a purer and loftier virtue than any their religion could inspire. Did the plastic arts? Phidias and Apelles will return the melancholy answer. The eloquence of the orator? The noblest appeals of duty, the most patriotic harangue or spirit-stirring philippic palled alike upon a degenerate race. The wisdom of the legislator? All the sagacity of Solon and Lycurgus could but retard the downfall of the country. In fine, did philosophy? Its schools were often sinks of immorality, and vice. A few great minds, indeed, rose above the absurd creations of mythology, and taught the precepts of natural morality; but, like the dragon-fly of the tropics, they flitted across the night of paganism, lights to themselves and mere ornaments of the surrounding darkness. No wonder that the Grecian states declined, that their last day soon "quivered on the dial of their doom," and that they went down into a night which never knew a morrow. The Romans once added to the speculative wisdom of the Greeks an almost heroic practice of all the natural virtues. Yet they, too, were swept by a torrent of vice into the common tomb of nations; and only a few broken columns remain to-day to tell the traveller what was once the seat of a world-wide empire.
Separate religion, then, from education, as Mr. John Stuart Mill would fain do; banish it entirely from the class-room, and you will have taken the most effective means of insuring proximate dissoluteness and ultimate ruin. Even the author of Lothair recognizes that "without religion the world must soon become a scene of universal desolation." If, when children are asked how they are occupied in school, they cannot say with the Joas of Racine,
"J'adore le Seigneur, on m'explique sa loi,"