cause in each of us there is, besides the body to be fed and trained, and the mind to be cultivated and taught, somewhat else, which in its turn needs to be strengthened and tended and trained. And so surely there is. When we have described man or boy by his body, and by his mind, we have hardly half described him. We have said nothing of his heart, with its feelings and affections, its changes of hope and fear; nothing of that which bounds and leaps in us on a glorious summer's day; that which vibrates to music and song; that which warms at the thought of home, and of some who are there; that which is knit in strong affection to school-friend; that which kindles with admiration at a high example, a pure character, an unselfish deed; that which loathes, and that which loves; which mourns and is comforted; which is wounded, and broods or forgives. But also we have said nothing of that other mysterious wonderful thing in us which bids and forbids, which distinguishes right and wrong, which from early childhood shadows our heart with an uneasiness of pain and gloom, like a cloud creeping over a bright sky, when we have done wrong, and again makes our heart sparkle and spring up when we have done right, or confessed our fault. This mysterious and wonderful thing—conscience we call it—must not this be trained? and must not our school train this and help it to grow, as well as the body and the mind?
Think how it begins: simply the child's knowledge "this is right," "this is wrong:" and then "it is happy and good to do right;" "I may not, I must not, do wrong." There is the first call, the first obedience. Happy are those who in childhood and in boyhood so obey: 'it is right, it shall be done:' 'it is
