meant to do, she was wise; but she had hardly reached her humble lodging, before she became calm and assured again. She had promised her poor husband that she would go back to him, and go she would. But, oh! with what fear she returned; with what crowding, unfortunate presentiments! What they meant she could not tell, but she never lost them for a moment till she stopped at Whitby Station, and saw her landlady waiting to meet her, and smiling in cordial, pleasant fashion, as she stepped up to the carriage door. "Dill was off to a little hamlet, some miles off," she explained, “and would not be back till the next day. A poor man, whom he sometimes went to read to, was near his end, and had just sent to beg that he would sit up with him that night and pray with him." "And Dill is all right?" asked the wife. "As right as can be,” was the answer. Where now were all her fears? She was so wearied and exhausted with what she had gone through, that her knees shook and her head ached. The relief was great of finding her superstition, as she now called it, unjustified by any reasonable cause, yet she could not settle to any work. What she had gone through is by no means a rare experience; it had been a restless sense of conscious danger or of deep need, weighing down the spirit of her husband, and having power to affect 'her, making her a partaker of his misery, without imparting to her the cause. She knew she should not be quite at ease till she had seen Uzziah, and she wanted to pass away the time, so as soon as she had taken something to eat, she dressed her boy in his best, and went forth among the visitors to the pier that forms one side of the harbor. She had been so deeply brooding over her own thoughts, that during the journey she had hardly noted any thing that passed around her. Now her eyes wandered with conscious refreshment, and her ears were thankful and attentive; all that passed helped to fill her mind with fresh images. Two old fishermen were coiling ropes close to her seat. Ay, ay," quoth one to the other, speaking with deep pity of the visitors, "there they was, dawdling about, poor souls; nought to do but listen to the pestilent music tootle-tooing, fit to drive 'em distracted. Folks should be piped to their work, and not to their play." 66 "What's a lugger?" some boy coming up asked the other fisherman. His companion quietly went on with his business, while he answered, in his broad dialect and soft, persuasive voice, "What's a lugger? Why, that's one; her that has a small mizzen and lug sail on it." "Won't her masts come out?" asked a still younger boy. 66 Ay, for sure; they have kin' o' steps in the boat for to rest 'em on-yo' can see 'em. They make the foremast rake a vast. Now, mebbe yo' doon't see what that's fur." Neither of the urchins pretended that he did see. He continued, "It's to give the wind more power, so's to lift the sail- git under it like; and so, if she's heavy laden wi' fish, to lift her at the bows moor out o' t' watter." This valuable information was given with conscientious care: in his deep pity for these poor children of the land, the old seaman would neglect no opportunity, but do his manifest duty towards them, which was to put the A B C of shipping life (and what other life is worth the name?) plainly before them. Mrs. Dill looked at their rosy faces with interest. A great many little boys are brought up by old fishermen to take to the water. A few quaint phrases stick in their minds. The loss of that one life-boat, the Whitby life-boat, has alone caused many youths to risk their lives, for danger that ends in death has a fearful attractiveness; it draws the island children out, quite as strongly as that which is surmounted and comes safe home again. "Ay, t' harbor dues are high," she next heard on her other side. "What do they come to? Why, nigh upon sixpence a ton!" "Oh!" said the lady who had inquired. "Then, how much will that ship pay?" indicating a vessel with her finger. "That collier schooner?" asked the fisherman, with genuine pity in his air. "She's not a ship at all, mem. Well, mebbe eighteen shillings. Folks say t' new dues kept out t' vessels. But I don't complain; when God shuts one door, he mostly opens another. There's less shipping, but there's moor fish. - Who pays for t' lights? Why, every vessel that passes Whitby lights has to pay a halfpenny." "All those vessels out there? Why, surely it's not worth while to send out to them for only a halfpenny?" The old fisherman straightened himself up when he heard this, and looked at his mate, as if he would have him testify that the words had truly been said. "The vessels pay wheer they start from as to let him get friendly and intimate she would not let him help to feed her young ducks, or knock down the sweetest crab-apples for her, or beat the donkey when she indulged in a canter-she must, therefore, take the trouble to smooth her wandering locks for him, and treat him to her best frock. She never gave him a smile, but then she took care that her sash was not awry. Nothing, however, could repress the gallant soldier's love, and one afternoon, when Delia was out- gone out riding with her sister and old Sir Samuel-he laid his modest prospects before Felix, together with his manly hopes, and begged leave to make his offer in due form. It was his last hour in the neighbor. hood; his leave was up. Felix was perfectly sure that Delia cared nothing at all about him, but he consented to lay the matter before his ward; and when the two girls returned, rosy and beautiful, from their ride, he called her into his study. Felix was seated on his sofa. He had seldom in his life looked so well. Delia looked at him, and thought so. There was more fire in his dark eyes than usual; there was even a shade of red under the dark cheek. He began quietly to state the soldier's wishes. "What a goose he is!" said Delia, when the story had been told. Felix was gratified. He would have liked to rise and set a chair for Delia, but this would have been such an unwonted proceeding, that it must have roused her attention, and for the present he did not dare to do that; he wanted to let things drift. "Was he very droll, coz?" she next inquired." "Droll!" exclaimed Felix; "droll, poor fellow ! No. Why?" Delia was standing before him, with her whip in her hand; she was twisting round it a long bine of wild briony that she had gathered in the hedge. "Oh, because you look so- so amused. I don't like you to look pleased Felix could not help looking pleased. "Why?" he inquired, almost faintly. Delia made no answer for the moment. She seemed to cogitate; then she said, in a pleading tone, "I suppose I'm not obliged to try to like him, coz, if I don't wish?" "Certainly not," replied Felix. Delia came and sat down beside him next, and she blushed, and seemed to look inquiringly at him. So sweet a hope had never dawned in the heart of Felix in all his life, as swelled it in that happy moment, but he said not a word. Then the unreasonable young creature laughed, and shrugged her shoulders. "IE you want me to send an answer to him," she said, "you'd better tell me what to say; for, of course, I don't know." Felix was so sure she did not care for her lover, that he found no difficulty in doing him justice, and in taking care that his suit was duly presented. "How can I tell what to say, unless I know what you feel?" he inquired. "I don't feel anything particular," replied Delia -"excepting when he comes," she added. "And what then?" "And then I do so wish he would go." Felix laughed. He felt that the situa tion was getting the mastery over him. This child of his adoption was so sweet, so familiarly affectionate in her manner towards him, that he could not but retain his old household ways with her, and yet she did not now give him her good-morning kiss without making him tremble from head to foot. He started up hastily from his seat, and began to pace the room. Delia still occupied her hand with the strand of wild briony, and he looked at her a beautiful blush went and came on her rounded cheek; it seemed that she could not meet his eyes. "Delia," he said, stopping opposite to her, and speaking not without some trem blement in his voice, "you must say your self what I am to repeat to him. You must make a direct answer to his proposal." "He's so old," said Delia, as if excus ing herself for not caring about him. "Old!" exclaimed Felix, astonished and almost horrified. He felt himself turning chill, and a sudden dimness seemed to becloud all his dearest hopes. "He is only six-and-twenty," he went on, sitting down and sighing. "He's much older than Dick," said Delia. "Oh I would much ratherwait for Dick." Felix looked at her earnestly while she spoke; a flood of rosy color covered her fair face and throat. She bent her head a little, and was too much absorbed in her own trouble to notice that coz was pale. "Wait for Dick?" repeated Felix, in the quietest of tones. Delia felt something unusual in it; a certain dulness and dimness made it seem far off. She blushed yet more deeply. "I did not think you would mind," she began. "Dick is a mere boy," said Felix. "Is it possible that he has spoken already?" No, he hasn't yet," answered Delia, excusing him; "but he will soon." "He will soon?" repeated Felix, between astonishment and dismay, and instantly Delia started up and ran to him. He rose to meet her, and putting her dimpled hand on his shoulder, she sighed out, "Oh, coz, don't tell him. I did not mean to say it." "Never mind, my sweet," he answered, and it seemed as if he was consoling her "never mind; it cannot be helped." "But you'll never tell any one?" she entreated, and she laid her cheek for a moment against his. He answered, "No." "No, coz, dearest, don't," she repeated; "and there he is coming." She had caught the sound of Dick's foot outside the door, and, with a mischievous little laugh, she snatched up the train of her habit, and, darting out at the open window, ran to jcin Sir Samuel, who was sitting under a chestnut-tree on a low bench. She spent the next quarter of an hour in thinking a good deal about her cheeks, now and then laying her dimpled hand upon them, to ascertain whether they were growing cooler. Felix spent the same time in his study, sitting perfectly motionless and silent. He had wasted his youth on a long, obstinately cherished attachment; it had melted away quite unaware, and for the last few weeks only a few weeks a new one had risen, suddenly as a star. Delia was so young. He knew, of course, that at present she felt only a childlike love for him, but he never supposed that she loved any one else; and now she herself had told him that she did, and if he could believe that she knew her own mind, his hope was lost, and his day was over. CHAPTER XXXIII. LITTLE PEEP was dead. Amias wrote a long, affecting account of his last illness to Amabel, how for many alternate nights he and Lord Robert had watched by him, how patient and content he was, and how kind Mr. Tanner had been. Amabel kissed the letter; it pleased her to think that Amias had such an affectionate heart. Little Peep, in his last will and testament, left several thousand pounds in trust to Amias, to build a temperance public-house, and his portrait was to hang in the bar. Little Peep was there represented as a young man of average size, and a decidedly intellectual countenance. The temperance lecture that Amias had written, appeared in his hand as a folded scroll, and he was coming forward on a platform to read it. The poor young fellow took much innocent pride in this picture, and the last night of his life, when Lord Robert and Amias were both with him, he told them what he intended to have done with it. 66 "Some people think it an excellent likeness," he said faintly. "I enjoy public speaking, and if it had pleased God to prolong my life, I might have made myself a name by it. I might have done something great." "That you would, dear boy," said Lord Robert; and soon after this he died. "He had so many endearing qualities," said Amias, speaking to Lord Robert the night after his funeral-"so many endearing qualities-that it was impossible to despise him, and yet I think, on the whole, he was the greatest fool I ever knew." "He was not by any means the greatest fool I ever knew," answered Lord Robert, pointedly, and in a tone of good-natured banter. Why, what have I done now?" exclaimed Amias. "Oh, nothing now; but I do not see why you are to be allowed to go about the country making yourself conspicuous for this temperance cause, without being made to pay for it." "I have paid," answered Amias, “I paid when I was a boy." "But I have a fine eye. I observe the march of events. You'll see that poetical justice will be done upon you before long. I don't say that I should not take a certain pleasure in seeing it done." "What do you mean, Bob?" "When you took yourself off from your old uncle, he had three sons. They have all died, one after the other, and every year he became more attached to you. Now, there's a great uncertainty about the ways of this world; people don't always do in Lord Robert, it seemed, had "broken real life what is expected of them. But down" at the funeral. Yes, but Lord if you had been a man in a book, Amias, Robert had got a fine appointment in one of the colonies; he would sail in a few days with his pretty wife, and soon forget poor little Peep. Amias never would. the old uncle about this time would have done poetical justice upon you; he would have let you know-in fact, he would have said, in the presence of those friends you quired by close and concentrated study, The fewness of attainable specimens of which has of itself disqualified him from states and the difficulty of procuring prespeaking on the thousand and one subjects cise information about them, will always which are lightly dismissed in these occa- give such a political science a different sional chapters. Philosophy, theology, superficial appearance to most other sciliterature, art, science, are only a few of ences. It will always be compelled to deal these subjects, and on each of them no one much in long narratives, and the task of can without years of study speak an authenticating the facts will always be disauthoritative word. I listen to the his- proportionately heavy. A student who torian of the Elizabethan age, when he has this plan in his mind will produce speaks of the trial of Mary, the diplomacy works superficially not unlike the histories of Elizabeth, or the fortunes of the Span- of the old school. He will write narratives ish Armada; but I do not want his opinion of public or governmental affairs. But a on Spenser's versification, or Bacon's claim definite scientific object will be apparent to the title of a philosophic discoverer. in them. They will not deviate into ornate He may review Shakespeare's historical description, or be tricked out with literary plays; they deal with political matter; it eloquence; on the other hand they will lies within his province to consider how not avoid difficult and technical discussions. that age regarded the past; but I am not Rather, since the state itself is their anxious to know whether he prefers subject, and not great men or stirring "Lear" as a tragedy to the "Agamem- deeds, nor even the life of the people, they non," or the English drama to the French; whether he is a classicist or a romanticist. Let writers deal with what they understand. Historical writing is infested more than any department of serious literature with superficial and unnecessary dogmatism on subjects which lie outside the historian's studies. Now the student of human affairs can select whichever field he prefers. He may, if he will, neglect political history, and take up some of those subjects which Mr. Buckle would substitute for it, and which have since received so much extension. He may become an anthropologist or so ciologist. On the other hand he may take the very opposite course, and attach himself to political history more consciously and more exclusively than historians used formerly to do. He must certainly, I think, if he would throw any new light upon the subject, renounce the old fashion of treating all kinds of heterogeneous subjects at once. But he may still place in the front those political phenomena to which the old school of historians gave precedence. Among the various phenomena of human life he may select the single phenomena of government for his investigations. He may analyze the phenomenon itself; he may also classify the varieties of it presented by history. Considering universal history as a vast collection of specimens of the governed community or state, he may make it a principal task to arrange these specimens under genera and species. This will be his descriptive politics. By the side of this he will place a sort of political physiology, and beyond both will come a science of the mutual relations of states. will give peculiar prominence to everything relating to organization. Individuals will fall somewhat into the background, and the state itself will become the hero. The first question will always be, How is the state constituted, to what class of states does it belong, at what stage of its development does it stand, and how do the events of the time affect its organization? History, thus regarded, may be defined as the biography of states. Now I think this is the way of handling history which it is practically most desirable to adopt in universities, and, as far as possible, in schools, and for this reason, that to study history so is to study politics at the same time. Nothing seems to me more prodigious or more ominous than that a nation which, like this, claims the most unlimited right of self-government, should entirely neglect to educate itself in politics. It is very magnanimous, no doubt, that every individual among us should claim his share, as a free man, in determining the policy of the nation; but it is senseless that men should put forward such a pretension and yet never think it necessary to prepare themselves for the exercise of the powers they claim. The study of politics answers to liberty as the duty to the right. Now to study politics is neither more nor less than to study history in the manner I have indicated. If by history we understand, not as in past times a particular sort of eloquent writing but a serious scientific investigation, and then again consider it not as mere anthropology or sociology, but as a science of states, then the study of history is absolutely the study of politics. And then this study, existing already in schools and universities, may be so handied as to become in time that national education in politics which is among the leading wants of the time. Such is my vision of the future of historical study in England. I see it made on the one hand scientific by the careful definition of its subject-matter, and on the other hand in the highest degree practical by being brought into the closest connection with politics. Hitherto the study has been neither properly scientific nor prop. erly practical. How few among our policians have seriously based their politics upon a reasoned historical philosophy; how few among our historians have made their way through the jungle of learned research to definite scientific conclusions! But my experience as a teacher has made me aware of certain obstacles which the student has to surmount before he can in this way bring his politics and his history together and fuse them into one practical philosophy. The nature of these obstacles, and the way to remove them, I shall consider in some future papers. SARAH DE BERENGER. BY JEAN INGELOW. (continued.) IT was past midnight, about six weeks after Hannah Dill's brief sight of her children, when, coming home once from a dinner-party, Amias de Berenger let himself into his own chambers with a latchkey. The fire in a comfortable room, very much cumbered with books, had been made up for him, and a reading-lamp was burning near it on a small table. There were bookcases ranged about his walls, and there were red curtains let down before the windows. The sound of passing vehicles was heard, as well as the general murmur made by the multitudinous noises of London. But as Amias sat, with his feet on the fender, a slight tap roused his attention, and it was repeated several times. He threw up the window and looked out. A man at the same moment had withdrawn from the door, and was looking up. He shrank back when the light fell on his face, but Amias saw that it was his "inspired cobbler," his favorite temperance lecturer, and, wondering what the man could want at that time of night, he went down and let him in. "You want to speak to me?" he asked, as he shut the door of his sitting-room, and moved to Uzziah to sit down. The "inspired cobbler" made no answer. His face was pale; he looked inexpressibly forlorn. In his best black clothes, Amias had always seen him looking the picture of neatness, as if he had the ambition to hope that he might be taken for a third-rate Dissenting minister. Now his hair was wild, his dress disor dered, his face pale. He shivered, and as he spread out his hands to the fire, Amias noticed that they were blue with cold, and that his breath came with a series of involuntary sighs. "Well," exclaimed Amias, when he did not speak, "what is it, man?” "Sir, I can't speak at your lecture tomorrow." "You should have let me know before, Mr. Dill. And why cannot you?" "There's two reasons," answered Uzziah, uttering the words with difficulty, as if his sighs almost suffocated him; "and they're both of them as bad as they well can be." "Indeed! I fear you mean more than you say.' "I mean, first, that I've got down into the slough again. I did not think it could be; but I've fallen. God forgive me! I presumed; I was too sure of myself; and the drink (I was very miserable)—and the drink (I'd been a long way, and had nothing, and was faint) - and the drink was at every street-corner. I passed fifty publichouses, and counted them aloud to keep myself out, but at the fifty-first I went in; and I reeled home, sir, as drunk as ever." "I am truly sorry for you," was all Amias said. "Oh, sir, and it took so little to overcome me. I went home to my poor wife; and now the thirst and the longing for it are upon me, and I shall do it again." 66 No," answered Amias; "this will go off; you must not despond. But how came you to be so imprudent as to walk till you were faint? And what misfortune has made you miserable?" he continued, calling Uzziah's words to mind. "Oh, I am a miserable man!" was all the reply his "inspired cobbler" made; and he sank upon his knees before the fire, and covered his face with his hands. "I am truly sorry for you, Dill," repeated Amias, very much shocked. "But the worst thing you can do is to talk in this despairing way. Pluck up courage; be a man. Come, I'll give you something to eat at once; and I'll see you safe into |