The responsibleness of woman extends widely through the world of Intellect. She is called to preside over schools for the nurture of the infant mind. Every child receives thus the impress of her taste and talents. Shall she come to this work, and daily pursue it, without a thoughtful preparation for her task? Is it for the mother to say, "I may read little or much, as I please. Of what consequence is the condition of my mind?" when she can hardly breathe on the germs before her, without either blighting their beauty, and checking their expansion, or shedding life, health, and eternal freshness, upon them? Let no young lady disclaim for herself any lot or portion in those sober concerns. Hannah More had, at one time, more than a thousand children under her instruction. Others have recently followed in her steps. Every woman is, I maintain, by virtue of her sex, a teacher. There are now, or there sometime may be, minds subjected to her influence, over whose destinies, for weal or for wo, she will exert a fearful sway. Is it certain she will never be school-mistress, or mother, or guide and guardian to another? No, it is certain that, unless her path be strange, secluded, and anomalous, she will be either the architect, or destroyer of, or at least, a more than leaden weight on, some human intellect. Let her reflect on this fact, and conduct herself always in view of it. At the fireside, what a sum of duties does her power impose? Here she wields a more than regal sceptre. Wisely did Boaz argue the excellence of Ruth, when he said, in reply to her modest question, "why have I found grace in thine eyes?" "It has fully been shewed me, all that thou hast done unto thy mother-in-law, since the death of thy husband." Such domestic piety, a virtue that could sacrifice home, people, substance, and which tendered even life itself for a parent, was an earnest of the choicest worth. It formed "A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that bloom With most success, when all beside decay." Of the confessed power of the mother, and the unrivalled claims of her children on her spiritual care, no language can speak too strongly, or even in adequate terms. From the hour when their first cry announces to her their utter helplessness, onward through the trials of childhood, and the crossing elements of youth, till they part from her charge,--no, this they never do,--but until she grasps their hand amid the chill of death, they draw from her, as a well-spring of life. What a question then is there to be asked, "Does she shed upon them an Eden-like fragrance? Is she a true mother?" Worlds of wellbeing hang on the answer.