Widnes Examiner. — 1884-08-30 (Widnes, Cheshire, England)

MIKE THE CHILDREN SELF•RELIANT.—There can be DO question but that it is natural for some children to be far less daring and self-reliant than others; but that timidity and nervous terrors are much increased by the over•sympethy of mothers I have not the slightest doubt. Bid your two.year.old Carrie to bring some article from the next room. "It's dark," she says, shrinkingly. "Oh ! not too dark to get mother what she wants," you answer cheerily; and almost invariably the child will go at once. Be careful not to prelude your request by, "Are you afraid to go in the dark ?" Too of ten the mother says pityingly, "Oh ! she's afraid • I'll go," and the result is that the child never ventures alone in a darkened room. Semebody must go upstairs with it, somebody must get it a drink of water, somebody must put away its hooks or hat, because "it'd dark." We have seen this child-formed habit cling to persons even of mature years, a habit exceedingly uncomfortable to themselves and others. This unwise sympathy of mothers causes themselves mach unnecessary work, inasmuch as it renders children more independent than they need be. There are mothers too sympathetic to teach infants to sit alone, but weary, back and arms, holding them. This unwise seenI pathy causes a child to magnify trifling ills into great misfortunes, and helps to strengthen as with cords the two ready selfishness of the heart. As an excellent writer said but lately, "a saintly, unselfish woman may have very die'agreeable, selfish children, ever putting herself last; but it is her own fault." Expect something of your child, and show him or her that you do expect something, and in nine cases out of ten your child responds to you, even at a much earlier age than soft disciplinarians will admit. As a char, acter in a late book for girls energetically puts it, "Set I your children on their feet —on their own feet!" They are 'neither angels nor toys, but human beings, with immortal I souls, whose usefulness and happiness in this world, and Ipreparations for another, may be greatly marred, if not lost, by unwise training. REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES Mum—Despite his elaborate theories about art, Mr. Reade was in reality only guided by practical results. I have frequently known him take grave exception to an actor's conception of a part at rehearsal, but if the offender struck fire at night, the end justified the means, even if his views were diametrically opposed to those of the author. If from some adverse circametance—a bad house, an east wind, an unsympathetic audience—the play did not elicit the usual modicum of applause, then the actors were stigmatised as "duffers"— "Differs, sir, who have defiled my composition mixed ditch-water with my champagne, murdered my work." The next night perhaps there was a good house—perhaps the wind was not in the east, perhaps a thousand things—at any rate, if the play was received enthusiastically, then all was condoned and forgiven. The popular applause was music to Mr. Reade ; he would ensconce himself in his box, turn his back to the stage, and as the audience laughed or cried he laughed and cried with them, and their tears or cheers were always his barometers of the actor's ability. I have often heard him say that he thought the great orator or the great actor quaffing the full wine of applause crushed in one moment into a golden cup and drained from the pub • lie heart, was the most enviable of human beings. No man, except himself, ever combined, in one and the same person, such an extraordinary mass of contradictions as I Charles Reade. Of course, it is well known, that if any one assailed him, he dipped his pen in vitriol, and poured I the vials of his wrath upon his luckless adversary. On these occasions nothing could restrain the headstrong rush of his impetuosity, nothing check the torrent of his oblate gationa. Yet, on the other hand, if called upon to advise a friend under similar circumstances, he frequently exercised quite a judicial function, and was the very incarnation of mildness.—John Coleman, in Temple Bar, for August.