sure a thing of theory. The present work is almost exclusively one of practice, the reason why," as Sir James Graham would say, being seldom given. It is more a dictionary of phrases than a grammar. But without disputing about nomenclatures, we are free to confess that the volume is well calculated to assist students, and to expedite the progress of learning French as it is spoken.

"A PROPOSAL FOR EDUCATIONAL SUFFRAGE," relates to one of those subjects of profound and permanent importance, the settlement of which was indefinitely postponed by the calamity of war. The author adduces many cogent arguments in support of his proposition-arguments, a few of which are new, whilst others have been replied to in Parliament and out of Parliament, during times when the public mind had leisure for the discussion of questions of social and national improvement, and was not wholly absorbed by the contemplation of bloodshed and war. The conflict with Russia has produced a sort of military mania, pending the existence of which all other subjects are neglected. But we think this humour is but temporary, and that the period is not distant when, whether or not, a honourable peace shall be concluded, and the thoughts of men will revert to the topics which until recently had happily occupied them since the close of the French war. Until that period fortunately arrives, an essay like the one before us can hardly obtain a fair hearing, though it is well written, and contains several well-reasoned points.

LORD BROUGHAM, we are glad to find, has been employing some of the leisure of his old age in preparing a revised edition of his miscellaneous works. Volume I. contains "The Philosophers of the Reign of George the Third," and gives memoirs of the most eminent British political economists, chemists, mathematicians, &c., who flourished towards the close of the eighteenth and during the early part of the nineteenth centuries. Volume II. is to contain "The Men of Letters," and Volume III. "The Statesmen," of the era. Volume I., already published, displays many evidences of having been extensively revised; and we trust that the learned author will persevere, nor spare the pruning-knife-an instrument which, truth to tell, might be applied to most of his writings and speeches with particular improvement and increase of the utility thereof, and with corresponding advantage to the noble lord's fame. The re-publication of Lord Brougham's works (subject to plentiful correction) is a really useful and important literary enterprise, of a character quite different from that of the attempt to give standard rank to some of the foul, nauseous, and tiresome strings of jargon produced by the late Professor Wilson.

Glasgow: R. Griffin.

DR. DORAN, author of the popular and somewhat eccentric works on Dress, Diet, &c., has entered a new field of literary effort. His "Lives of the Queens of England of the House of Hanover," "* is, we think, destined to take permanent rank amongst works of its class. It is truly a "strange, eventful history." Some of the royal women whose career is here sketched were victims to cruelty, profligacy, and baseness, perhaps the most deliberately villanous, of which the history of Christian nations contains any records. Others, on the contrary, were dominant to their husbands. Of the first, the wife of the monster whom posterity execrates under the name of George the First was an example, and Caroline of Brunswick (her self far from stainless), the foully ill-used wife of George the Fourth, our present revered queen's profligate and miserable uncle, was another. The wives of George the Second, brutal debauchee though he was, and of the poor maniac George the Third, were examples of a contrary state of affairs, in which the ladies gained and kept the whip-hand of their lords. Bnt in no case was there such a thing as a prolonged course of domestic happiness. George the Second's debauched habits rendered it impossible, as regarded himself and his wife; and with respect to George the Third and his queen, his madness, aggravated no doubt by the ingratitude and disgraceful misconduct of some of his children, disappointed Charlotte's hopes of matrimonial felicity. The late King William and Queen Adelaide possessed several characteristic parts; but there were deeprooted differences between them, which sometimes led to much unpleasantness. In the relations

between Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, the people witness for the first time, in connexion with the line of Hanover, the true realization of connu bial hopes. The history of the royal ladies, married to kings of England of that line, is, on the whole, one of sorrow and dishonour, and instructively illustrates the soundness of the phi losophy which tells us that rank and happiness are two very different, or rather opposite, predi cates. Dr. Doran gives an outline of the thrice told tale of the origin of the house of Guelph, and imparts much interest to it by the introduc tion of several anecdotes that had not previously obtained much publicity. We differ from those who think that, in order to the "completeness" of the work, he ought to have added a memoir or notice of the reign of Queen Victoria. We think, on the contrary, that he shows good judgment in not trusting himself with such a subject, but leaving it to be written by the impartial hand of some future chronicler. Perhaps he felt that if he had entered on it, he would not have fortitude to avoid that strain of maudlin, nauseating adulation which has so much prevailed, and which, we have reason to believe, is supremely disgusting to the queen herself, as it certainly is to every discreet friend of her majesty.

THE incomprehensible shadow still lies between Dr. Oliver and his servant. It has now so lain very many months, when Honor one morning asks him a question. It is a simple one: Miss Charnwood is coming up to London, to some public examination of the government schoolmistresses, and may she have a bed there for a few nights ?

"Certainly, Honor," replies Dr. Oliver, in his cold, stately manner. "I have already said that any one in whom you are interested is welcome to my roof."

"Thank you, sir. Miss Charnwood will be obliged. She is quite a lady."

"As such is the case, show her all respect. Let her have the use of the drawing-room, and prepare the best bed-room. This is my desire."

Except on two

Miss Charnwood comes. occasions, for a day or so, Honor has not been into Warwickshire since her first lengthened visit; so that there are multiplied things to talk over, which have deep interest. Of these, Dora, who is now six years old, has the first place. ·

"She grows very pretty, and her raven hair is the loveliest I ever saw," says Alice, as she sits in Honor's parlour the night she comes; "but her innocence and tenderness win still more. To me, the latter, knowing her history, are inexpressibly touching. To say I love her, scarcely expresses my affection. Every day the bond between us strengthens. I thank you, Honor-must ever thank you for sending her, who, as the years roll by, must be to me as my own child; unless, indeed, Dr. Oliver should come to know her, and take her from me. A little incident will tell you how much I am loved in return. About three months since, she went to play in the rectory garden with the children there; for both Mr. and Mrs. Seddon are very kind to her. When she came home in the evening, and just as she was going to bed, she wound her arms about my neck in her old caressing way, and said she had something to ask me.

"What is it, dear?' I said. "Oh, something very, very particular!' she answered. Then hiding her face in my

* Concluded from page 268.

VOL. VII. N. S.

bosom, she asked me to let her call me 'mamma.' That the little Seddons called their mother 'mamma,' and that she should like to call me by the same name.

"I said, "I am not your mother, dear. I am not even married.'

"But then I love you, as little children love their mothers,' she pleaded; and if you will let me call you mamma, I can tell people that ask, that I call you so for love. Then they will know. So please let

me.'

"I consented. So ever since I have been called by my new name. It is one, I am told, which sits well upon me.

"The next most curious thing," continues Alice, "is Southam's manner towards the child. At first, as you know, he did not notice her, but turned rudely away, as he did from you when you last were in the country; but by degrees things changed. He lingered about the child when she played in the woods; then he gathered her nuts, blackberries, or flowers. The violets in the memorable letter your master saw were of his gathering. Another time he put a sovereign in her hand, and told her to take it home to her grandmother.

"One day she came running in from the lane which leads to the brook, to tell me that the nice man,' as she called him, had taken her up in his arms, looked at her very hard, and asked her who her mother was? When she replied she had none, that her mamma was gone to God,' he kissed her many times, and cried very much. From this time he met her often, brought her cakes and fruit, and presently asked if she would like to ride, as he had a little broadbacked pony at home for her. Of course,

child-like, she said 'Yes.' So he brought the pony, and let her ride up and down with his arm about her. This matter went on for some time before I knew it. I then negatived it, by keeping the child away. But, undeterred, Mr. Southam brought the pony to the school-house door, and asked to let Dora go with him. I had never spoken to him before; yet now I said boldly what I had to say. 'I am surprised at you, Mr. Southam,' I said, asking such a question, after the aspersions you have thrown on

Honor Freeland's character, and your resolution in maintaining that this is her illegitimate offspring.'

"Would to God that I could believe it wasn't!' he said, solemnly; then I should be a happy man. But tell me whose child

it is?' he added, impatiently and fiercely. "If you will not believe,' I answered, 'my earnest asseveration that Dora is not Honor Freeland's child, I must leave it, as I have no right to reveal another's secret without their sanction.'

"Ah!' he said, bitterly, as he turned away, the old story-the old story. The rich can have their secrets kept, Honor's master amongst the rest. Ah! ah!' Thus saying, he left me.

"For some time I heard no more of the matter. Still I judged that Southam sought after the darling child with his old love. Indeed Dora told me, in her innocent way, that the nice man' was very kind to her. At length your father met her one day on the pretty creature of a pony, with Southam taking care of her. A fierce altercation ensued between the men, for you know your father's stubborn pride and independence. 'Put her down!' said the old man, fiercely, 'put her down! The child wants nothing of thee-bit nor drop. Put her down! Though she ain't my girl's bastard, as thou sayest, the babe's dear to me and mine, and wants neither to know thee nor receive thy benefits.'

"So the matter ended again for a time. But this spring and summer, things recurring to their old condition, I thought for Dora's sake I would henceforth be a passive lookeron, more especially as the pony is such a delight to my darling. So presently Southam himself came with it day by day, hanging its bridle on the garden-gate at such hours as he knew Dora might go out, or school was over. One day, when I accidentally stepped into the garden as he was doing this, he said hurriedly to me, 'Don't, please, say a word, ma'am, if you would save me from an utterly broken heart. Let me love the child, be it whose it may.' I did not, and from that day Cowslip, the pony, became a regular guest of ours. Dora and I went away shortly afterwards, on a little visit to an aunt of mine; and on our return, we found Cowslip had taken his lodgment with us altogether. The shed at the bottom of the school-house paddock had been converted into a nice little stable for him; and there

he is at the present moment, well supplied with hay and corn, and with one of Mr. Southam's men always looking after him. Dora and I have but to saddle him-for a new saddle, whip, and bridle were hung up in the stable and this is easy to do, for the creature is as docile as a dog, often running and putting his nose in at one of the schoolroom windows, or else through that of the parlour whilst we are at tea, to beg an apple or a piece of bread. So Dora now rides every day, to the great improvement of her health and strength I think; and whenever I have a holiday, I walk beside her. Indeed, she looks so pretty on the back of Cowslip, that every one notices her-the squire stops to talk to her, and even your father is grown tolerant."

"How kind of Benjamin," says Honor, softly.

"As he is thus kind," says Alice, with gentle firmness," as he thus shows his unalterable love for you-as under his roughness, his fierceness, his jealous and suspicious mode of viewing things, there lies a really noble nature-would it not be best to tell him the truth? Does he not show himself worthy the revelation? Is it not justly his? Have you not both suffered long enough and sufficiently? I think soI answer the question affirmatively, from my own point of view."

"I think so, too, ma'am-I have long thought so but much as I should like to comfort Benjamin, it would bring this evilhe would be urging me to marry him, as impatiently as before, even perhaps more so. He would be coming here, and pleading perhaps to my master; and thus the secret about our little Dora might steal out at an unlucky moment. Besides, there is a greater reason now than ever that I may not, cannot, should not, marry Benjamin."

"What is it, Honor?"

"I would rather not tell you at this moment, madam. It must come out byand-bye. I would rather conceal it as long as I can. I have been striving to do so."

Alice is alarmed. "I thought you had confidence in me, Honor?"

"I have, maʼam-in no living being have I trust so great as I have in you. But I would rather not speak of this matter just yet, so please not urge me. You shall know it in time. From my own lips Benjamin shall learn the truth about Dora, as well as

the reason that I had best remain peacefully

in my master's service to the end."

"To the end ?” Alice says nothing, but looks earnestly into Honor's face. It is at rest-nothing but peace is there nothing to read there, but what implies resolve and resignation. She is perplexed, distressed,

but says no more.

The secret is not hidden from her many hours. In the night, happening to lie awake, something like a continuous smothered cough meets her ear. It is most painful to listen to; in its suppression lies a whole history, of tenderness to others, of suffering to the individual self. Alice resolves to say no more to Honor, but to speak to Dr. Oliver, if opportunity permit.

Her acquaintance with him begins sooner and less formally than she suspected. Next day, in returning from the duties which have engaged her, she meets him face to face in the hall. There is nothing for her to do but to bow, to stay, to speak, to thank him for his goodness. He is greatly pleased with her; perceives she is educated, refined, far above in breeding her position of a government schoolmistress; and what is more an essential in winning his acquaintanceship, he at once feels quite at home with her-her simple, unaffected manner wins him at once.

That same evening, when he has dined, he sends a message to say that he will be happy if she will honour him by taking tea. This she does, presides at the table, converses with him upon various subjects, finds his opinions and her own agree on many points, and they spend the hours most pleasantly. Once or twice she tries to say something in reference to Honor, but without effect; the subject, as it seems to her, is purposely avoided, and this with a cold austerity which is not to be set aside. On several occasions after this she takes tea with Dr. Oliver, and with precisely the same result as regards Honor.

Alice has now been ten days in town. Her business is over. On the morrow she returns home. When sitting quietly reading, Honor comes into the room.

"If you please, ma'am, Dr. Oliver is engaged in the study with a gentleman; and as Maltby is not in the way, I have to go an errand for him. Would you, therefore, for once pardon such an unusual office, and open the front door if there should be visitors ?"

"Certainly, Honor, with pleasure."

Honor has not been gone more than five minutes, when a double rap is to be heard. Hastening to the door, she opens it, and stands face to face with a gentleman, for an instant or more without speech. Both seem to spiritually recognize each other, to feel as though they had met before, though they know not where, to read each other's history, to feel sure that it has been thus their destiny to meet, and in an inseparable sympathy to know no spiritual separation from this hour. Then, quite abashed, quite moved from her habitual self-possession, Alice answers his inquiry as to Dr. Oliver's being at home, and ushers him into the dining

room.

"Mrs. Honor will soon return-Dr. Oliver be presently disengaged-if you please to wait, sir."

She is closing the room door, when he who has been watching her so intently-who has been reading her character to its very depths -follows her a step or two, and says, nervously:

"Miss Charnwood, I think?”
She bends affirmatively.

"My name is Minehead. Dr. Oliver mentioned in a letter that you were here. I may almost claim your acquaintanceship, for I hear much of you from young Mr. Oakover, whom I occasionally meet at a seat in Warwickshire, where I and my little daughter Bella visit. The young squire speaks enthusiastically of what you have done for the children of his tenantry."

"I am glad I thus give satisfaction, for I wish to perform my duty well.” this, she goes.

Saying

Mr. Minehead stays to dine, and Alice is a subject of conversation. Dr. Oliver greatly admires her staid demeanour, her gentleness, and intellectual qualities, and speaks warmly in her favour.

"I feel so perfectly easy and at home with her," he says, "that I almost wonder at it. Had I known her for years, or were she an intimate relative, I could not find more pleasure in her company, so much do her habits and intellect suit mine."

In a little time, Honor bears a message to the effect that if Miss Charnwood will set aside ceremony, and make tea, Dr. Oliver and Mr. Minehead will with great pleasure wait upon her in the drawing-room. This she does, and receives them with all courtesy.

If Mr. Minehead was pleased with her when he first met her face to face an hour

or so before, he is so now in her pretty evening dress, so neat, and yet so tasteful, and with her beautiful hair so exquisitely arranged. It seems that he has here met with a governess for Bella-a something more, for he is never weary of watching her, and look up when she may, his eyes are upon her. Then, on her part, she falters beneath this gaze; her hand shakes as she gives or takes his cup and saucer; she does not raise her face without trembling and changing colour. She wonders at herself, is vexed at herself, for she is neither coquettish nor affected; on the contrary, usually so unaffected and full of self-possession.

As the evening passes by, the subject of conversation reverts to Honor. Mr. Minehead thinks that she looks ill, and has become greatly thinner; he is sorry, he adds, to see so great a change.

"Indeed! Do you think so?" asks Dr. Oliver, a little stiffly, yet unable, nevertheless, to disguise his uneasiness. "She was ill certainly in the spring, as she was the previous autumn, and she had change of air on both occasions. At one time, after some observations made by my friend Dr. Hastings, I was somewhat anxious about her; but since I have discovered, as I think, that she has a very serious cause for mental uneasiness, I have not felt that proportionate alarm. I well know the influence of the mind upon the body, and that disquietude in the one induces disease in the other."

He says this gravely, and with that look of austerity he can so well assume. It implies, that since his supposed discovery of his servant's lax morality at some previous time, his faith in her is gone, and his interest in her well-being comparatively dead.

"That Honor has a cause for mental disquietude, I know," replies Alice, with much seriousness; "and it is that of having forfeited others' good opinion without a cause. But time will-I am aware-make all clear, and Honor be known for what she really is -one of the purest, as well as the worthiest, of women-though in a lowly station of life." "I am aware that you are Honor's advocate, madam," says Dr. Oliver, with studied courtesy; "but it is no duty of mine to discuss the subject of my servant's morality. For the rest, can you suggest any point that might be beneficial, or in any way add to her comfort?"

"I think I can ;" says Alice; some help in her domestic duties would be valuable."

Dr. Oliver shakes his head. Dreadful visions of Tweektea invasions flit before him; now so long accustomed to clock-work regularity and studious peacefulness, any admission of evil spirits into his paradise seems an impossibility even in thought. He hints as much, and relates in portion, what his sufferings were before Honor's advent.

"I can suggest a remedy without the evils you dread; and recollect, in doing this, sir, that I speak disinterestedly, and without Honor's knowledge. The subject has never been even named between us. She has a niece named Ruth, a girl now of about sixteen, who might admirably assist; and this without any interference with your studious quietude. She is an excellent girl -very like Honor in look and manner. She was my scholar for some years, and latterly she has been my little maid. But I have another scholar now to advance to that post; and the change would do Ruth good in many ways, for she could not have an abler domestic instructor than her aunt; and, besides, in this way be prepared for your service, if Honor's duties come unhappily to a close. For I cannot think but what the latter is ill-though she has made no complaint to me. I observe that she goes up and down stairs with difficulty, as I have come upon her, whilst staying and holding her side; and her cough at night, though suppressed, is a sad one.

"Dear me dear me," says Dr. Oliver, struck dumb by this intelligence, and recollecting what his learned physician-friend said long ago. "What can be done, madam ;— shall I send for Dr. Hastings at once? I cannot tell you how profoundly grieved I am." This is visible; and it is all the deeper grief for the shadow which has lain between him and his honoured servant so long. May it not have been throughout & shadow cast needlessly down by himself? He mentally questions himself thus, and his grief amounts to agony.

"No!" says Alice; "more harm would be done than good. Honor studiously conceals this matter even from me-as often happens in such cases. I am merely giving you the result of my own observationthinking it best to do so. The better method will be for Dr. Hastings to come here to dinner, and make his remarks without suspicions on the part of Honor; he can afterwards come some day when you are out. and speak to her. For the rest, I will