illustrative engravings, proceeds to "narrate" and argue in the tone indicated by the above announcement of the author's prepossessions, interpreting all the great events of Napoleon's life by the dictates of that foregone conclusion. It is a curious-a very curious book-one that even an enthusiastic Frenchman of the empire would hardly have composed. Yet here we have it "owned to," by a gentleman with an unmistakeable English patronymic. People will be apt to ask themselves, of course without prejudice to Mr. Abbott's credit for sincerity, would it ever have been written if Napoleon's nephew were not Emperor of the French?

IN no part of the world, not even excepting Italy, does the archæologist and antiquarian find more ample materials for study than in onceglorious, but now abject and degraded, Greece. Art, literature, science, philosophy, were there cradled, and there attained vigorous maturity, in ages when Rome herself, having destroyed the old Etruscan learning, was sunk in savage ignorance. A learned Frenchman (M. E. Beulé), has, in his "Studies on the Poloponnesus," produced a work which revives and does justice to the classic memories of the peninsula. His criticism is that of a scholar thoroughly versed in the history and literature of the grand old days of Greece, and the industry with which he has pursued his inquiries and researches has enabled him to throw much light-by way of suggestion, not of crabbed dogmatism-on several points which have formed subjects of discussion amongst the learned. Some of the propositions which he advances-that, for example, which relates to the cultivation of literature and poetry by the Spartans, will not readily receive the assent of those who have already formed settled opinions thereon; but not the less is the author's merit, as a learned, accomplished, and, it must be added, a candid critic.

The wise and learned of all nations have concurred in doing honour to the memory of the illustrious Sir Isaac Newton. He stands alone-as facile princeps of practical philosophers, between whom and those who occupy the next stage of eminence, there exists a wide and distinctive separating space. Newton's genius was extremely originalso far as that predicate can be applied to the genius or intellect of any human being; and to whom, more than to any other single individual on record, the world is indebted for the solution of some of the greatest difficulties, and the establishment of some of the most important truths, comprehended within the wide range of the physical sciences. It is a quarter of a century since Sir David Brewster composed a biography of this great man, which appeared in a popular serial collection of volumes enjoying an extensive circulation at the time. The volume now before us-"Memoirs of the Life, Writings, and Discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton," also by Sir David Brewster, is a more erudite and scientific work than its predecessor; and though, in the former

biography Sir David appeared to have exhausted the subject of Newton's ordinary course of life, many new and interesting particulars are given illustrative of his personal character, &c. The scientific portion of the present work is elaborately written, and contains a great variety of matter which would have been scarcely appropriate in the simple and popular publication of 1831. It would be impossible to name a man, amongst living philosophers, better qualified by literary accomplishments as well as by scientific aquirements and pursuits, to produce a satisfactory record of the life, character, and labours of our greatest philosopher; and it is fair to say that the eminent biographer has performed his work in a style which will not disappoint those who expected most from him. The severe truths of science receive sufficient consideration to satisfy the scholar and savan, whilst domestic and personal details those points which, peradventure, are most intelligible and most interesting to general readers-are so treated as to afford practical proof that the grave and abstruse studies to which so much of Sir David Brewster's time has been devoted, not have impairedthe attractive gracefulness of his literary style. In fact, a peculiar union of qualities was requisite for the production of a biography of Newton, a man in whose character goodness and greatness were singularly combined, and those qualifications are possessed in a rare degree by Sir David Brewster. The book cannot fail to be read with interest, and to take permanent and prominent rank amongst standard works of its class.

OUR present number contains a notice of a standard historical book, which, since its first appearance, forty years ago, has been so much improved in every way, as almost to take the character of a new work. An observation nearly similar would apply to the second volume of Professor Lindley's "Theory and Practice of Horticulture." So great are the advances whichpartly owing to the labours of the professor himself-have been made in all branches of horticulture in the course of fifteen years, that many of the expositions and instructions which were valuable in 1839-40, would be quite behind the requirements of 1854-5. Many principles, or schemes of systems, which were then matters of theory, have since been resolved affirmatively or negatively; not a few propositions which were ridiculed have been verified by experience, whilst others, which had, time out of mind, been accepted as axioms by gardeners of the "old school," have been consigned as exploded fallacies to the tomb of all the Capulets. Notices of those changes, advances, improvements, and what not, with information of every kind that can well be conceived as interesting to the intelligent horticulturist, will be found in this work, which is a noble monument of the result of scientific proficiency and unconquerable industry addressed to a particular pursuit.

• London: Longman and Co.

As Honor thus sits-the shades of evening falling fast upon the landscape, a farmerlike looking man rides slowly by. He has been observing her keenly during his approach, and now as he passes he turns his face to look, but failing, as it seems, to recognize her, in the fading light and in her greatly altered dress, he turns down the lane, and rides rapidly onwards. But Honor recognizes and knows him well, though he is more altered than even she, for he has aged immensely, and grown coarse and stout; and knowing the cause too well, a tremor seizes her, as though from pain too great to bear, and burying her face in her hands, she weeps bitterly.

In a while, when her tears are stayed, she goes slowly onwards. The twilight is fully come, so that the massive hedgerows cast broad shadows down, contrasting with the lovely strips of red and silvery light that lie faintly on the grass, the gate-posts, the roots and boles of trees, and here and there upon little runnels and pools, which come gushing through the hedgerows, or lie in the hollows of woodland and meadow.

The lane is long, but at length, after being crossed by a brook too shallow to need other bridge than a few flat stepping-stones, it opens into the village, which consists of some thirty cottages, farms, and houses, picturesquely scattered in various directions amidst gardens, orchards, barns, patches of original. common, and the exquisite windings of the sylvan silvery brook. Of these houses the blacksmith's shop is very conspicuous, so is the grocer's, but more than the rest, is the village inn. A large patch of common lies before the door; a vast old oak tree, with an ale-bench beneath, shadows it; and massive ivy clothes its gables and twines about its thatch. Arriving here, Honor looks eagerly towards the horse-block, and sees, as she expected, that the rider has dismounted and gone within, for his horse is tethered to the iron staple. Though it will lengthen her way and rather give her pain than otherwise, she takes this path by the inn-door, and is soon opposite the latticed windows, which light the vast old kitchen. Some candles are already alight, and a good many farmers,

*Continued from page 159. VOL. VII. N. S.

labourers, and others, are sitting in the settles or at little round tables, drinking, resting, talking, or smoking. The conversation is very busy and general, till the comely landlady, advancing from the picturesque little bar with a glass of spirit and water in her hand, addresses a man who sits solitary at a small table, with his hat pressed upon his brows and his face buried in his hands. It is the newly-come rider-and most of the talkers stay to listen when the landlady speaks.

"Here, Ben Southam," she says, "I've only brought half of what thou'st asked for, but it'll be enough for thee, and when thou hast drunk it, ride home; thou mustn't make such a Sabbath-eve o' this, as thou did'st the last."

"I need to make a worse on't, if drink would drown care," he says, hoarsely and sullenly, as he glares up into her face, with bloodshot eyes, that betray already a day's hard drinking.

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Why, Ben," asks the mistress kindly, as she lays her friendly hand upon the farmer's shoulder; "as the world goes, thou has n't much to fret thee; many a man has a worse trouble, and with starving children about him, and yet dunna run to the dram bottle for comfort. Come, Ben, be content wi' this sup, and then ride home."

"I know my troubles best," is the sullen answer, "and if thou think'st I canna pay for what I've had, look here," and diving his hand into his pocket, he brings out a handful of gold, with that swagger peculiar to the drunkard's state.

"Well, take care, and make good use on't, Ben," is the answer; "but not a farthing on't shall thou spend here this night. It is against my master and me saying as much; but we won't be amongst those to bring thee low, Ben Southam, and that's the truth."

She is going away when she has said this, but the farmer lays his hand upon her arm, and says, gently: "Is Honor Freeland coming home? thou can'st tell me; thou art friendly with the old people; I think I passed her on the road."

"Didst thou? I fear thou be'st mistaken, Ben, uniess Honor be coming unawares, for had old Missis Freeland been knowing, she'd

mentioned it, I know, for she was up this way for barm this afternoon. But bless me, if it be her, we shall be all right glad to see her."

The man makes no reply, though the sullen shadow again darkens his face.

"Thou must be glad, Ben, too," says the mistress, in a lower voice, "and get rid o' thy low spirits and these drinking ways o' thine. If she be come, or coming, it'll be a sad thing to her to hear o' thy love o' drink."

"Well, it's her fault, ain't it?" he asks loudly and angrily, "I know I didn't act straightforward like; but then I tried to make amends, and asked her again to have me, and she wouldn't."

"And rightly," says the mistress, with a native, womanly dignity that does her infinite credit; "thou led that young girl to like and love thee, Ben Southam; then offered her marriage, and she accepted it, and left a good place, and got her things ready to be thy wife. Then, because o' that bit o' money trouble, and the thought that thou could'st better thyself elsewhere, thou would'st not fulfil thy promise, but left her to her fate, though thou knew better than anybody else, how tenderly her heart was set upon thee. After this, thee calls it 'making amends,' when the old woman you took to court, because o' her bit o' money, jilted thee, and thou wast left to thyself. That Honor refused thee then, and went right off to London, I think, as Mr. Seddon's mother said at the time, did her much credit. As to marrying thee now, Ben, don't think on't; for first, she wouldn't have a drinking man, and next, they say, that though for a time, she knew a deal o' poverty and sickness, she has now got a wonderful place, where she is as happy as the days are long."

"Where?" and Southam looks up inquisitively.

"Well, I can't exactly tell; the Freelands, as thou knowest, ain't talkative folks, but it is somewhere where she is both master and mistress, and does just as she likes, for the gentleman is very learned, and quite lost amidst a heap o' books and writing."

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"Is he old, and what is his name?" This interrogation is put almost fiercely. "I canna say. But thou may be sure Honor would be much thought of anywhere. As good old Mrs. Seddon used to say, there was never a better servant than Honor, and the Parson's young wife was saying, only last

week, they wish they had just such a one now. Ay! Ben, thy mistake was a sad one; at this day a tidy household would have been thine, and children, may be, about thy knees; but such is human creatures' blindness."

"I know it, I know it," he says, hoarsely, and in a tone which bespeaks humility and penitence.

The woman's ear detects this, and she adds, tenderly—“Well, maybe a better day will come for thee, Ben; but not unless thou strivest against this drink. Now take what is here, then ride thy way home, and let to-morrow's Sabbath see thee at church, and a better man.

"It shall," is the fervent, ready promise, for the man's heart is touched; so without saying more, he pushes the glass untasted from him, then pays for it, wishes the landlady good night, and leaves the room. In another moment he has mounted his horse, and ridden away to his farm, about three miles distant.

After hearing much of what has passed in reference to herself, Honor goes on too, and only escapes his observation by stepping into the shadows of a narrow lane which winds

upwards to a farm. On the pathway opposite the blacksmith's shop, she stays again. She would fain go in, for there stands her brother Dick, a stout lad of about seventeen ; but then he would run off, wild with joy, to announce her coming. As this would be to anticipate her pleasure, she hurries onwards, for she can see that the smiths are leaving off work, as the forge fire is dying out, the bellows and anvils still, and the master standing at a sort of shelf paying his men.

It is one of the very loveliest of English villages, and now as she advances up it, the woodlands grow thicker, and the whirr of the mill wheel meets her ear. At length, turning from the wood, she skirts the mill pool, crosses a patch of heathery common, and her old home is before her, surrounded by an orchard and garden of large size. A low privet hedge fences off a strip of the heathery sward, within which are old-fashioned flower borders gay with early flowers; and, stretching far amidst them, is the roomy porch of a quaint timbered cottage of the Elizabethan age. There is a look of old-day comfort about it that is very charming.

Opening the wicket very gently, she steals into the porch, and looks within the cottage, for all is still without, and sees a sight that fills her heart with love and joy; though a

fraction of it has already been anticipated, for she has smelt her father's pipe even so far off as the path beside the pool. And now here he sits beside the shadowed window in his arm chair, smoking; a little girl named. Ruth-the only child of a dead daughteris standing beside him, with one arm about his neck; and the dear old mother, a comely matron of fifty, has spread a little round table for supper, and now comes towards it, bearing a newly-baked pie and a foaming jug of home-brewed beer. Honor taps gently on the door, and little Ruth comes bounding towards it, followed by the old man. At first he gazes wonderingly on the welldressed stranger; then, hearing the words "dear father," and recognizing the face he loves so well, he cries out in old country phrase: "Mother, mother, here's our dear girl, our dear Honor. The Lord be praised for many mercies, but for this of seeing our girl again especially.'

So the dear mother comes forward, and cleaves to her child, and sheds happy tears, and brings her in, and cannot feast her eyes enough upon her face, or say words tender enough to express her deep-souled love.

"My heart," she says at length, "thou should'st have let us known. Father and Dick would have met thee, and I got things nice for thee; now thou must take me as thou find'st."

"Oh! I wanted to surprise thee. Things I know will be nice, and I shall have holiday long enough; for my dear master, Dr. Oliver, has given me a whole month, and provided for me as no other master would."

"Eh! what a comfort that thou got'st such a one. For when I was up at the Vicarage the other day, Mr. Seddon told me what a great and good gentleman Dr. Oliver is, and how lucky that thou hast such a home instead of the one as might have been thine here———___””

"Come we won't talk of that old sorrow," interrupts the father; "let us have supper, dame, and welcome our girl with cheerful hearts.'

So Honor is embraced again, and inquiries are made and questions asked in breathless parentheses; and whilst little Ruth fetches other things from the pantry to add to the hospitality of the supper, the good mother leads her daughter up-stairs, where the tearful welcome is renewed. Then coming down again, a dog rushes in, and little Ruth

after it, to say that Dick is coming, and in a moment more the happy family are gathered into one.

After supper, Dick sets off with the cart to fetch Honor's box from the station; and little Ruth steals away into the village to spread the good news, and the father and mother are left alone with their child. They tell her many things-pleasant things they were going to write of to her by an early post. Amongst others, how William, their only other son, has lately become more steady, and means to settle down as farming bailiff to a large agriculturist in the Lothians; how he has sent them a little money towards paying off the mortgage, and how he writes feelingly and penitently with respect to his past wild ways. To this they add how much what she has sent has assisted them, and how, in a few years' time, they hope the little property will be once more free. This subject leads on to their confession of Honor's filial tenderness and goodness; they say how much the sum she paid for Dick's apprenticeship has prospered; how Arrowman, the blacksmith, likes the lad, and has begun already to pay him wages, six shillings a week, which sum Dick brings home invariably to his mother.

"Doing all this for us, my dear, since thy prosperity," says the mother, "why did thou not let us know of those evil days, of thy want, thy sickness, thy bad places."

“I did not wish to add to your burdens,” is the answer, 66 'or take money so sadly needed here. Nor did I wish to come home just then; you know why. Now let us talk of something else. How is Ruth getting on with her learning?"

"Oh! wonderfully," replies the old man. "Mr. Oakover's school is a blessing to the village; and Miss Charnwood, the mistress, a real lady as well as the kindest."

"Yes!" adds the mother. "She gives little Ruth, as she does the other children, the best of learning. Why, the child sits and tells father and me all about foreign lands, and reads to us quite as plainly as Mr. Seddon in the pulpit; and she's taught singing and drawing beside. This is something different to old Margery Crosspin's teaching i' th' only school the village had, or at the school thee and Will used to trudge to, six miles a day, through wind, and rain, and mire. Ay learning's a fine thing, 'specially as folks now give it."

"It is what is called a Government in

spected school," says Honor's father, "though it is entirely supported by the young squire, Mr. Oakover. You see, the old squire, his uncle, lived long away in foreign parts, and cared for nothing so he got the rents. Now everything is different, and no money spared to improve the people or the village."

"Ay, the school and school-house is the prettiest far and wide," adds the good mother; "and rarely nice Miss Charnwood keeps her home. She's a parlour, wi' a piano, and books, and pictures in it; indeed, she is altogether a sweet lady, and quite as clever as many of the titled ladies hereabouts, though they have had fortunes spent upon them, and look down upon her wi' condescension because she's but a village schoolmistress. But thou wilt see her at church to-morrow, and judge wi' thy own eyes."

"But may I go there, mother?" asks Honor, tremblingly.

"Yes, child. There be no fear o' him. It aint a place for such drunken reprobates as he. No! thou mayst go: he never enters the house of God. It might be well if he did."

Thus the conversation continues till Dick returns with the box; and then it is unpacked, and there is inspection and a giving of the nice things brought a waistcoat and some shirts for the old man, a gown and shawl for the good old mother, smart garments for little Ruth, and a suit for Dick; to say nothing of other miscellanies, such as tea and like niceties—not purloined in Tweektea fashion, but bought with money honestly earned. Then bed-time comes at last; and in the chamber of her childhood, amidst snowy linen and lavendered smells, Dr. Oliver's good servant sinks to rest.

The morrow breaks divinely bright. The old-fashioned garden flowers spread wide their perfume; countless bees are on the wing; though the mill is still, the water sweeps across the mill-dam with a music of its own. Honor rises early, puts on the grand gown her master gave her, and dressing her little niece, they go hand in hand into the garden together. There they visit every well-remembered spot, thence pass into the orchard, thence across the little bridge to the mill. The miller's wife sees her, and runs out to kiss her; the old miller looks out from the window above, though he is shaving, and one side of his face is all lather, then comes down stairs, and there is a great greeting, and presently much lamentation

that she will not stay breakfast. But returning home, little Ruth bearing a basket of eggs the miller's wife has slid into her hand, there is breakfast ready; the good mother in her snowy cap, and the old man and Dick in their Sunday's best. After breakfast, Honor and her father go into the village together to see divers friends, and thence take the path to church.

This lies in a secluded spot; its graves shaded by sweeping trees, its dead sung to by a murmuring rivulet. And here, taking their seat by the little vestry door, they await the good clergyman. He comes early, with his young wife on his arm, and greets Honor very kindly. He says how much his

mother missed her-how much she talked of her before her death-how glad he would be if she were again at the Rectory; and then he asks her about Dr. Oliver and her situation. Honor soon tells him of her comfort and her good master.

"Yes! I hear from those who know him, that he is an excellent man, one in whose home you can reside with the greatest propriety; and I further understand that he greatly appreciates your services. Continue these and your faithful duty to him, for he has had many sorrows, and needs the peacefulness of a well-ordered home."

"I will, sir; my honoured master shall not find me wanting."

The clergyman passes on, and Honor goes into the church. It is yet early, and but few people are come; still she takes her seat in a retired pew which belongs to her father's little freehold, the old man sitting elsewhere near the pulpit, for hearing sake. As she quietly sits, Honor cannot fail to notice, in a pew at some little distance in front of her, a quantity of small posies, laid along the shelf which holds the books; and as she is wondering who can have laid them there, and for whom they can be, her curiosity is set at rest by seeing her own little Ruth steal in and lay some violets on the books themselves. Then the child sits down, and Honor knows that it is the schoolmistress' pew, a few favoured scholars being privileged to sit with her. In a minute or so more, Miss Charnwood herself arrives; and comes tripping after her several other little scholars, though her school is not one that takes supervision of the children on Sundays. This duty and attendance of theirs is one, therefore, of pure affection. Honor looks at the lady with much respect, and likes her in