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examination could bring out moral results, and thus the higher aims of the experiment in the Drygate School were, as yet, unappreciated. The most distinctive part of his system in relation to other infant schools was, at that time, the hold which, by Bible truth, he sought to take of the early moral life, that it might be moulded anew. In dependence on the Divine blessing, he made the daily Bible lesson, explained and enforced on principles which he had laid hold of in his Sabbath-school, the basis of his system of moral training. All conduct in the 'uncovered school' was habitually referred to the instructed consciences of the collected children, and the distinction between right and wrong being perceived, there was established in the 'little world' a common sentiment, which the sympathy of numbers' firmly maintained. Infants from the Drygate learnt to be truthful, honest, and forbearing; flowers bloomed in the small gardenstrip which edged the play ground, and pendent currants ripened within the reach of children who had, in this training school, early acquired the power of self-denial.

A reaction of public feeling which followed certain extravagant exhibitions of the mental capabilities of children so far removed sympathy with the work as to render the raising of £150 for the Drygate school impossible. Mr. Stow, having faith in his principles and in himself, not only accepted this burden, but obtained a large hall in the Saltmarket, with space for playgrounds, always insisted upon as essential to his methods of moral training. Here, again, he laboured almost unaided, but with a confidence of success which was enduring. In 1834 nearly a hundred teachers had been 'trained,' and in order to carry out his system with older children, he purchased a playground for the St. John's Parish School, which, as 'the juvenile school,' was soon filled with children over six years of age, and afforded to the increasing number of students further opportunity of practice in the methods of instruction. Queen's scholarships were then unknown, and each candidate who came for a few weeks' training was soon quickened into enthusiasm, and gave himself or herself wholly to the study of the greatest effectiveness in the methods of instruction and moral training. The Rev. J. Auld was Mr. Stow's chief coadjutor at the St. John's School.

The impulse derived from infant exhibitions was, as we have seen, very short-lived; but in these new schools Mr. Stow presented to the minds of educationists something which could be estimated, and which was capable of being embodied elsewhere. Men of highest influence were brought to acknowledge the power of the principles here exhibited in practice, and freely offered the sympathy and co-operation which had been so long withheld. The Glasgow Educational Society, for some time inactive, was reconstituted, lectures were delivered to crowded audiences, and 'the common school was advanced.' Chief among the objects now proposed was one 'to maintain a Normal Seminary in connection with our parochial institutions for the training of teachers in the most approved modes of intellectual and moral training, so that schoolmasters may enjoy a complete and professional education.' In March, 1835, the Society adopted as their own the Model Schools hitherto maintained by Mr. Stow, who, in this fact and triumph, had his highest reward. The first formally-instituted Normal School in Great Britain-one

which issued diplomas of skill in method to students who had satisfied prescribed conditions-was that originated by Mr. Stow. St. John's, Battersea (the first founded in England), was established by Sir James Kay Shuttleworth and E. C. Tufnell, Esq., in 1840. The Regulations of the Normal Seminary, drawn up in 1828, provided: (1) That every student be trained in the Model Infant School, that he may be thoroughly initiated into the system of Moral Training. (2) That each candidate engage to remain at least three months, in order to secure a diploma; (3) That he (or she) possess a certain amount of elementary education; (4) That each applicant for admission produce a satisfactory certificate of moral character; and (5) That each student be subject to the Regulations of the Model Schools and to the direction of the Model Superintendent.

Teachers who wished to improve themselves were allowed to visit the Model Schools for shorter periods, but not less than six weeks. Among those who sought the diploma were many who had previously passed through the University.

The two Model Schools-'infant' and 'juvenile'— were a mile apart, and this inconvenience was so increased by the crowded state of the class-rooms that a new building became indispensable. Repeated appeals to the Lords of the Treasury having long remained unanswered, the Glasgow Society raised £2,260, and began to build.'

On November 14, 1836, a procession of five hundred of the leading citizens of Glasgow wended its way through the city to witness the laying of the foundation-stone of the Normal Seminary. It was headed by members of the University, the chief magistrates, and distinguished ministers, who, by their presence at this ceremony, showed their interest in the intellectual, social, and religious welfare of the people. Bible-training in schools' and the 'practical training of schoolmasters' had been distinctly avowed by the Glasgow Society as two elemental principles necessary to the progress of true education; and on this historic day' these principles received public acceptance. Normal schools, however, were 'new,' and did not 'command' the needed funds. Still, Mr. Stow persisted, and in the summer of 1837 four Model Schools-initiatory, junior, senior, and industrial (for girls) were opened, each fully furnished and 'assigned to first-class workers.'

Mr. John M'Crie, a distinguished scholar, was chosen as the first rector of the new Normal Sminary, and began his labours in Glasgow in November, 837. He had been deputed to visit the chief educatical institutions on the Continent, but testified, on return, that nowhere had he seen any which, efficiency and completeness, were so far in advance as those based on the principles and methods of Mr. Stow's system.

Sir James Kay Shuttleworth (then Dr. Kay) and E. C. Tufnell, Esq., who, in the discharge of their official duties, had been impressed by the influenc which the trainers'-masters and mistresses-hd over the young, visited Glasgow at this time in ord to see the working of the system under Mr. Sto personal supervision. They were both much gratifi and many additional trainers were introduced i ats the schools connected with the Poor-law Unions England, then largely under the control of t enlightened Christian gentlemen. Dr. Kay in

ay.

evidence before a Select Committee of the House of Commons, in 1838, described the Glasgow Normal Seminary as the most perfect school with which he was acquainted,' as affording opportunity both for the acquisition of theory, and for the practice of the methods of instruction. He added, that whilst in Scotland persons might be easily found who were sufficiently educated to enter at once as students of the system, it would be difficult to find a similar class of candidates in England, and urged that measures should be adopted for preparing young men and women by preliminary courses of elementary instruction, to enter upon a subsequent study of 'methods' for at least eighteen months.' He also stated that the students then at Glasgow were persons of 'strong religious convictions,' and were 'under the influence of religious sentiments.' He believed that the difficulties of establishing a Normal School in England were not insurmountable, and with reference to the question of moral training, said: 'From the experience I have had, I am inclined to think, that if systematic arrangements were adopted for superintending the conduct of the children in the playground, and for the whole course of moral training pursued in the school, that the difficulties of making that part of the training of a young child efficient in a large school are greatly exaggerated by those who have not had an opportunity of witnessing the success obtained in such schools.'

He applied these remarks also to the higher class of schools, adding that although it may require a larger amount of intelligence, and superior vigilance and activity on the part of the master, yet his opportunities, not merely of inculcating moral lessons, but of forming good habits, are increased by the accidents which occur when numbers are assembled, and which develop the peculiarities of character, and especially the moral tendencies of different characters, rather than in a small school.'

This evidence was taken fully eight years before the appointment of the first pupil-teacher, and foreshadowed the 'Minutes' of 1846, which, pervaded by the spirit of Dr. Kay during fourteen years, gave a vast impulse to popular education in Great Britain, and added to the name of Sir James Kay Shuttleworth a lustre which will not grow dim for many generations.

By Mr. M'Crie's early and lamented death, the whole weight of the institution again rested on Mr. Stow, whose incessant labours nearly exhausted his physical strength. In the midst of these toils, the Committee of Privy Council offered him the first inspectorship in Scotland. Many have regretted that he declined the offer, as a position of such influence would have enabled him to show, over a large area, the effects of his system of Bible-training. He did not like to be paid for services in any shape,' and, besides, the failure of his health prevented his undertaking the arduous work of an inspector. He humorously paraphrased the caution of his medical adviser, saying: 'If I do not pull in, I must be stretched out.' Still, he was constantly in attendance at the Seminary until November, 1839, when the rectorship was accepted by the Rev. Robert Cunningham. This gentleman had practical acquaintance with the best schools on the Continent, and also in the United States, where he had been a professor. Much needed relief was, however, secured by this appointment. From all quarters there came demands for 'trainers,' which could not be met. In 1840, the

Wesleyan body planned a scheme of education, and adopted the Moral Training System' for their dayschools. All their 'students' were sent to the Glasgow Normal Seminary for about six months' training, until they opened their own Institution at Westminster in 1851. During that interval of ten years about four hundred and forty teachers were trained by Mr. Stow for Wesleyan schools in England.

The class-rooms were crowded with students, whose minds and hearts offered ready sympathy with the objects of the Training system, and who, in the presence of its visible effects, were soon subject to the prevailing enthusiasm. Mr. Stow's stated visits to conduct the private and the public criticism lessons were prized opportunities of culture. His exposition of principles, illustrated on those occasions by practical examples, furnished what was most necessary to a teacher's professional success. His earnest zeal was contagious, and every man and woman who completed the course at the Normal Seminary, short as it was, quitted Glasgow, nevertheless, in conscious possession of a power to 'do good' in the methods there acquired. The elasticity of the student's mind was not injured during training by any anxiety about prospective examinations, for examinations for certificates were then unknown. Each student at that period paid his own expenses. All his time and energy were devoted to the study of the 'normal' theories, and to their practical illustration in the model schools.

In 1840 the Rev. Robert Cunningham resigned the Rectorship. The debt on the new building exceeded £10,000, and as the educational enthusiasm of the time proved to be effervescent, and appeals for aid were fruitless, the double burden of extra work and anxiety weighed heavily on Mr. Stow, and for a time rendered extension and improvement impossible. After a long correspondence, the Privy Council agreed, on December 31st, 1841, to make a grant-in-aid to the extent of £5,000, but on condition that the Normal Seminary should be handed over to the management of the Church of Scotland. In the stress of their financial difficulties, the Educational Society reluctantly yielded. Before the remaining portion of the debt could be discharged, however, there occurred, in May, 1843, a disruption of the Established Church of Scotland, by the secession of five hundred of her ministers; and this event, the particular history of which would here be foreign to our purpose, led ultimately to the necessary abandonment of the building. Mr. Stow and the staff of teachers generally had become adherents of the Free Church, and when, therefore, it was officially notified, that in future the members of the staff must be in communion with the Established Church, there was no possibility of their remaining in the Seminary. Mr. Stow for two years earnestly strove to avert this catastrophe, but in vain. It grieved him to the last to have to establish a second institution in Glasgow. In the hope of the success of his exertions, no site had been secured for a new Normal Seminary; and when, finally, it was necessary to remove, a site was hastily obtained in the neighbourhood, and there long canvas-covered tents, with a sawdust floor, and with rough benches, constituted for a time an admirable collegiate structure.'

(To be continued.)

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These bold and uncompromising words, written at least four thousand years ago, are absolutely true now, as they were then.

Wild animals, no matter what they may be, instinctively flee from man. The domesticated horse, which has never seen a beast of prey, trembles with terror at the smell of a distant menagerie; but the lion which inspired that terror is, in its wild state, quite as much afraid of the odour of man.

Let a lion but detect the dreaded emanation of man, and he slinks off as quickly as he can.

For, though we are happily unconscious of it, a very powerful odour emanates from all human beings, and strikes terror into wild animals. Deer-stalkers know well that they must approach a stag against the wind, for that even at the distance of a mile the stag can detect the presence of man, should the wind blow from him and not to him.

Similarly, the practical rat-catchers will never touch a trap with bare hands. They wear gloves rubbed with aniseed, and imbue the soles of their boots with the same perfume, before they can venture to handle a trap or to walk near the spot where the trap is set. Inexperienced persons neglect these precautions, and in consequence, the rat detects the dreaded odour of man, and keeps aloof from it.

Mole-catchers, again, always keep the skin of a dead mole by them, and rub it between their hands, before they set their trap, so as to overpower the natural odour of the hand.

Of course, there are some animals, such as lions, tigers, and the like, which will attack and devour human beings. But these are exceptional individuals, being almost invariably the aged animals, which have become too infirm to catch prey in the ordinary fashion, and are reduced to lurking about villages and pouncing upon any unwary straggler.

It is well known that the skin of a "man-eater," whether lion or tiger, is never worth preservation, being mangy, bald in patches, and altogether unsightly. Its skull is equally useless as a specimen, the teeth being blunt, worn down and decayed.

There is no animal, however gigantic, however fierce, however powerful, of which man is not the master. In proportion to his bulk, man is perhaps the weakest of living beings, and yet he is master of the strongest.

Not only can he destroy them-that is comparatively a simple task-but he can take them from their own savage life, and force them to become his

servants.

So he has taken possession of the horse, the camel, and the ox, and made them bend their backs to the burden and submit their necks to the yoke.

He has reclaimed the dog from a predaceous life, and taught some of them to guard the flocks which in the wild state they would have devoured, and to be the friends and companions of their masters. Others he has taught to chase prey, not for themselves but for him.

He has taught the falcon to chase birds for him in the air, and the otter and cormorant to catch fish for him in the water. They not only do his work, but are proud of doing it, and contemptuously reject the society of their relatives who live only for themselves.

No better example of the universal mastery of man can be found than in the tame elephant. What is a man, that he should make the mighty elephant obey his orders? The creature could crush him in a moment, and in a fit of blind fury will do so. But when it is in its senses, the elephant acknowledges man as its master, and becomes his obedient

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servant.

Man rules by two means, Fear and Love. There are some beings which, from no fault of their own, are so constituted that they must be made subject to fear before they can learn to acknowledge Love; and this is the case, not only with different animals, but with different individuals belonging to the same species.

Take, for example, the dog. There are some dogs, just as there are some men, which are constitutionally ill-tempered, violent, ungrateful for kindness, mistaking forbearance for weakness, and ready to bite the hand that feeds them. It is impossible to rule them by love, until they have learned to fear, and can understand that the hand which gives food can withhold it at will, can render them powerless at will, and can at will inflict pain without the possibility of their evading or avenging it.

Having, then, been taught by fear to acknowledge that man is their master, they can begin to learn to be grateful for their food, and to lick the hand which gives, in lieu of biting it. For such dogs a severe chastisement is really the kindest of lessons, and although "force is no remedy," it is often a needful preliminary before applying the remedy.

But there are dogs, as there are men, of a higher order, which are absolutely amenable to Love, but would be only made obstinate and resentful by fear. Such an one was my bull-dog "Apollo." Possessing all the concentrated strength and courage, added to the instinctive combativeness of his race, which make the thoroughbred bull-dog one of the most wonderful animals in the world, he could be compared to nothing but the Faure "accumulator,"

wherein a million foot pounds of force can be carried in one hand. Despite his powers, which none knew better than himself, he was one of the gentlest and most obedient dogs that I have ever dealt with. I had him when he was but a puppy, and never once beat or scolded him. Yet, he would obey the lifting of my finger, or the glance of my eye, and the very idea of incurring my displeasure was unendurable torment to him.

All servants of the pen must of necessity be so absorbed in the evolution of ideas and the balance of sentences, that they are unconscious of time, space, hunger, thirst, cold, or other material conditions.

It has happened that while I have been thus absorbed, Apollo has tried to attract my attention, and in failing, has taken it into his loving brain that he must have offended me in some way. On such occasions he grovelled on the floor, he whined, he licked my hand, and lay in abject despair until again noticed.

So it is with elephants. There are not two elephants with precisely the same disposition, and the best keepers are those who try to find out the peculiar disposition of the creatures under their care, and to treat them in accordance with that disposition.

As elephants, like falcons, are seldom bred in captivity, but are captured when wild, it necessarily follows that the first lesson they must learn is to fear man, and to realize the strange fact that he is their

master.

It is a remarkable fact that there is no task which tame elephants undertake so willingly as that of capturing their wild relatives. They seem to enjoy it with all their hearts; and both sexes are equally keen at the sport, the females acting as decoys, and the males as the representatives of force.

Supposing that a male has to be captured, two female "koomkies," as these decoys are called, saunter leisurely along, and soon make the acquaintance of the victim. Each has her keeper, or "mahout," on her back, and it is a curious fact that an elephant never seems to notice a man as long as he is on another elephant's back.

The koomkies manage to place themselves on either side of the male, and by degrees sidle him close to a tree. One of the mahouts then slips quietly to the ground, and while his koomkie and her companion are distracting their victim's attention, he passes strong cords round the animal's ankles, and then makes them fast to a tree. The koomkies will often aid him in this part of the work by taking the ropes in their trunks, and passing them to their master's hand as he wants them.

A similar process is then pursued with the forelegs, and then the treacherous koomkies suddenly slip off, leaving their dupe fast bound to the tree.

Sometimes, before the ropes are firmly tied, the elephant becomes suspicious and tries to escape. The koomkies employ all their blandishments to lull his suspicions; but if he should still resist, and be too strong for them, a powerful male is summoned to their help, and all three beat him and hustle him about until he is quite bewildered, and at last is held firmly against the tree where the mahout is ready with his ropes.

In either case, the duped elephant is left alone, his vast strength paralyzed in some mysterious manner, and his struggles for freedom only resulting in pain. Those who have witnessed these struggles say that the contortions into which a bound elephant will

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Now comes its future mahout. Bringing green food in his hand, he cautiously approaches the prostrate elephant. Mostly, rage will for the moment overcome hunger and weakness, and the animal will try to attack the man. In that case, the mahout quietly retires, and leaves the elephant for a few more hours.

This process is repeated until the elephant no longer tries to resist. He has learned his first lesson, that man, small as he may be, is, in some inexplicable manner, stronger than himself, and that resistance is useless.

Now he will take the grass from the mahout, and before long he welcomes the man's presence as the only mode by which he can obtain food. Sooner or later the lesson is learnt, and the captive acknowledges himself in subjection. The koomkies are again summoned, his hind feet are freed from the ropes, though the fore feet are kept hobbled, and, guided by the koomkies, he is taken to his future home, his new master seated on his neck.

As the late Mr. Rarey found to be the case with horses, the subdued elephant entirely trusts in the man who has conquered him, and even conceives a strong affection for his captor.

Sometimes the elephants, instead of being taken singly, are partly enticed and partly driven into a large and very strong enclosure, called a "keddah." This is made of massive posts planted deeply in the ground, and set far enough apart to allow a man to pass easily between them. These are supported on the outside by stout buttresses, so as to withstand the charge of the trapped elephants.

Fortunately, a herd of elephants never unites in a charge on a given spot. If they were to do so it would be scarcely possible to build a keddah which could withstand them. As it is, the posts and buttresses need only be strong enough to resist charges of single elephants.

Once inside the keddah, the elephants are never allowed to rest. By means of fireworks, guns, torches, and shoutings, the elephants are driven backwards and forwards until they are fairly wearied out, and huddle together without even thinking of escape. Then come the hunters, with their koomkies and ropes, and bind the limbs of the wearied animals before they can understand what is happening to them.

Whether the elephant be taken singly or in numbers, the first lesson which it must learn is that it fears man as being stronger than itself, and that therefore it must obey him. Next, it learns to trust to man for food, and is not long before it learns to love him.

But, when, as was the case with the grand African elephant "Jumbo," the creature has lived with man from its infancy, the preliminary lessons are not needed, and man can rule the animal by love without any mixture of fear. On more than one occasion, when Jumbo was disposed to be rather wilful, his keeper, Scott, was urged to use his whip. This he

invariably refused to do, saying, that if he were once to do so, his influence over the animal would be gone.

I fully believe that if I had even once used the whip to Apollo, his absolute belief in me as a being whose displeasure was infinitely worse torture than bodily pain, would have been lost. No creature can defy the extreme of bodily pain more heroically than a thoroughbred bull-dog. Diabolically cruel experiments have been tried on the animal, and a bull-dog has endured the severest tortures without flinching. Pain he would not have feared, but he did fear the loss of my love for him.

Not but that force may not be sometimes necessary with any elephant. However gentle an elephant may be, it is liable to occasional aberrations of temper, which affect it much as a half-grown cat is often affected with fits. The animal loses all control over itself, and for a time is subject to raging mad

ness.

Now, even a cat can do much harm during a fit, and what a terrible creature a mad elephant must be can be well imagined.

The elephant keepers of India, when they perceive symptoms of coming madness, fasten the animal to a tree just as if it had been newly taken. They put it on very low diet, and if it should be very outrageous, they employ their largest and strongest male elephants to assist in coercing it. These animals understand the necessity of restraining their companion, and if other means fail, will beat him with their trunks when he tries to break his bonds.

Only a short time before these lines were written, a remarkable instance of madness in an elephant occurred in Siam.

In that country an albino, or, as it is generally called, a White Elephant, is held to be, not a mere animal, but a material habitation of Divinity, and is honoured accordingly, even the king paying homage to it. The White Elephant is addressed as "Sublime Grandeur." He has his court and household officers like the king. He is lodged in a palace, and is decorated with jewels of priceless value. The "Order of the White Elephant" is in Siam what the Garter is in England, or the Golden Fleece in Spain.

A short time ago, one of these elephants was unexpectedly seized with madness.

He began by trampling to death five of his attendants, and then broke away from all control. As he was a sacred being, he might not be destroyed nor even injured. By direction of the high priest a fence of consecrated bamboos was hastily set up round him, but he made short work of the bamboos, and the high priest himself had a narrow escape of his life.

"His Sublime Grandeur" then fortunately made his way into a court of his palace, where he could be barred in. Just as a cat does during a fit, the elephant dashed himself furiously against the walls, trying to batter them down with his tusks, and at last inflicted such injuries on himself that he fell dead.

Now it would have been much kinder to His Sublime Grandeur if his attendants could have placed him under control during the period of his madness. It would not have lasted for any length of time, and the animal might now have been enjoying the luxuries of his royal home, and the king and court of Siam would not be wearing the garb of woe.

That semi-worship should be offered to an elephant

in Siam, may seem absurd enough to us in England. But really, when we recall the history of the great African elephant "Jumbo," I do not think that we can fairly laugh at the Siamese. The strangest part of the Jumbo-worship is, that it sprang up like a mushroom, in a single day.

There were four elephants in the Zoological Gardens, two from Africa, and two from India, the latter having been brought by the Prince of Wales after his tour in India, in 1875-6. Of the two African specimens, the male, named "Jumbo," was obtained by exchange from Paris, and the female, "Alice," was purchased in 1865.

Of all these creatures, the Indian specimens are the most generally interesting, being playful, and so gentle that they are quite pleased when the keeper's children enter their enclosure. Now, Jumbo, though a good-tempered and docile beast enough, had for some time been so uncertain in his temper, that only his keeper, Scott, dared to enter the cage alone.

Temporary madness does not exclusively belong to the male elephant, as is generally supposed. With him, it is almost sure to take place after he has attained adult age.

The Indian magnates are so well aware of this fact that in order to gratify their love of a peculiar department of sport, akin to the bull-fights of Spain, and the badger-drawing, bear-fighting, and dog and cock-fighting, which until lately disgraced our own country, they keep a number of adult male elephants for the purpose of fighting.

Elephants are mild enough except when in the state of "must," as this peculiar condition is called, and when two "must" elephants are placed in proximity to each other, how they fight is admirably told by Dr. W. Knighton in his "Private Life of an Eastern King."

Mr. Davis, the American agent who came to buy Jumbo, mentioned to me that out of the great number of elephants which had been possessed by the firm for which he is acting, some of the most dangerous were females. Few of my readers may be old enough to recollect "Madame Jack," the elephant which took an important part in several plays at the Adelphi Theatre, many years ago. She, like others, went mad, killed her keeper, and, I believe, several men besides, and then had to be destroyed.

Mr. Davis told me that the first sign of the distemper is that the elephants begin to play with something that takes their fancy, and become so excited that they do not obey their keepers. So that for all elephants, male and female alike, the means of restraint ought always to be at hand. We will now return to Jumbo's life in this country.

To naturalists he was of more importance than either of the others, as he was the first example of an African elephant ever known to be imported into England. To myself in particular he was a singularly interesting creature, and I have watched him at intervals since he was no larger than a Shetland pony.

Indeed, so anxious were his owners and keepers, that Professor W. H. Flower, the President of the Zoological Society, stated that he would have consented to Jumbo's removal even if nothing had been paid for him. More than this, Mr. Bartlett, who has had a life-long experience of elephants, was obliged, many months ago, to apply for means of

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