posure. Eldon did not look calm, though he spoke in such a measured voice. "Do you think there was no foundation for the report we heard, then ?" pursued Mrs. Smith. "Oh! quite foundation enough." "How people will talk about these things; it really ought to be prevented; so much mischief is done," Mrs. Smith said energetically. Mr. Anniston delayed to appear. The long spring twilight faded. It was past Elfleda's bed-time, but her eager petition to sit up to see her friend was not to be denied. "Beatrice! when will he come! Has any thing happened, do you think? Isn't it very, very late indeed ?" were questions Elfleda poured out at intervals. "Suppose he has gone right away to America, without coming here at all?" That was the crowning horror suggesting itself to Fleda's imagination. Beatrice sat still and worked on steadily, bending her head a little lower. In a few moments Eldon and Mr. Anniston came into the room. Beatrice, as she rose to shake hands with him, noted that he was paler and graver-looking than formerly; but spite of its deepened lines, his face retained the same indescribable freshness and openness of expression. He approached Beatrice with a slight hesitation of manner, but the hand she held out was clasped with the same heartiness as of old; there was the old beaming look in his eyes as, for a moment, they looked right into hers. Yet after the first greeting, she was made to feel a change in his bearing towards her, a something of formality and distant respect foreign to his frank nature, and painful to her, as it seemed to tell of estrangement. It is always painful to become conscious of diminution of regard, When Beatrice answered only, "Sup-esteem, friendship, what you will; it pains pose he has!" Elfleda grew indignant at our pride if nothing more. her indifference, and vehemently asserted her conviction that he would come; because he had promised, and he never broke his promises. Beatrice sat by the table at work: she had had the lamp lighted, though all the windows were still unclosed; she could not bear idleness and her own agitated thoughts. So she sat there, her hands eagerly busy and the soft light falling full on her broad white brow and shining hair. Eldon paced up and down on the verandah, outside the windows; pausing every now and then to listen; looking in now and then to say a few words to soothe Fleda's impatience. "Mrs. Smith, do you think he will remember me?" the child asked, turning from Beatrice to seek a more interested listener. "You know it is-I don't know how many years since he saw me, and I am so grown and altered!" Elfleda seemed full of terror at this sudden idea of being forgotten. "Mr. Anniston doesn't forget people he is fond of, you may depend upon it, even if they are changed a little," was the old lady's consoling reply. Elfleda was quite satisfied that SHE was not forgotten. Beatrice busied herself at the tea-table which had so long stood ready for the traveler. A slight accident had detained him, nothing of any mo ment, but it had caused delay and now served as a useful topic for conversation. "It is like old times to have you here again!" Eldon said, as they settled round the tea-table. Rather an unfortunate remark; old times were not very pleasant to recall. "I have my little fairy here grown into a young lady, to remind me that time has passed and changes have taken place since I was here last," Mr Anniston replied. "I have grown old since then; I think Fleda might find gray hairs on my head if she looked for them sharply," he added, smiling. Beatrice resumed her work when she had lost the occupation of tea-making; Elfleda went to bed, and the two friends fell into serious conversation, touching on many topics, Eldon questioning Mr. Anniston as to his hopes and intentions in going abroad. Beatrice listened: Mr. Anuiston talked He is come!" Eldon now exclaimed, as of yore in a plain, manly, cheery strain, hastening through the drawing-room to- some things he said betokening deeper wards the gate. Elfleda stood hesitating thinking, perhaps, than she had ever bea moment whether to follow, or to be dig-fore given him credit for; but still it was nified and wait where she was; then she bounded after Eldon. Mrs. Smith went to the house-door; the same Henry Anniston who spoke, hardly the same Beatrice who listened: there was no longer the strange mixture of contempt and liking for the speaker, any more than there was the scorn of such merely sensible, matter-of-fact talk, and the restless longing for what was imaginative, wild, "original." No; all Mr. Anniston said served to strengthen the restful feeling of satisfied confidence with which he inspired her. She grew quiet and at ease, forgot herself and the perplexities of her dignity and doubt; she could look up brightly and answer composedly when Eldon addressed her. There was a relying tone in all Mr. Anniston said, which induced reliance on the person who said it. Mr. Anniston could not make a long visit; he still had many final preparations for his emigration to attend to, the frequent allusions to his departure saddened the whole party, save Eldon, who paid little heed to them, in whom they seemed to provoke mirth. The fair spring days were all too short, each one was more dearly prized than the former, yet departed as swiftly and unrelentingly. It was lovely weather and there much lingering out in the soft twilights, spending of whole days in the woods, or on the hills. Eldon was always planning something. Mr. Anniston was ever attentive and watchful, yet he preserved a distant respect towards Beatrice, under the influence of which she grew graver and more constrained, though she struggled hard to be friendly and unembarrassed. "Why will you go to America? Why can't you stay here? Fleda demanded suddenly one evening, after a long and quiet inspection of her friend. He started, but he answered, smiling: "I am a poor man now, Fleda, with a fortune to make, if I care to possess one. "The world is all before me where to choose,' and I think it best to try a perfectly new life." "Ask Beatrice," he said softly. Mr. Anniston started; the blood rushed to his temples as he glanced up eagerly. Beatrice darted a look of indignant reproach at her brother, and left the room. Mr. Anniston's face was deadly white to the very lips as he said: "No one wishes to prevent my going, Fleda, save you." He kissed the child passionately. Mrs. Smith soon after hurried the little lady off to bed. Beatrice did not return that evening; and the two friends were left alone. Mr. Anniston was pained at Eldon's ill-timed levity, deeply concerned that Beatrice should have been annoyed, yet Eldon offered no explanation-none was asked for. Beatrice met Mr. Anniston with a blushing face and downcast eyes next morning. He hardly dared think what the new timidity of her manner might mean. "I have letters to write this morning," Mr. Anniston said, after breakfast. Beatrice was arranging flowers by the window; Fleda had brought in a basketful. "Write them here," Eldon answered; "I shall be engaged in the library for an hour or so; Fleda will be at her lessons; and I do not suppose that Beatrice will interrupt you." They were left alone; Beatrice bent over her flowers, Mr. Anniston over his writing-table. "It is of no use!" he exclaimed, after some minutes had elapsed. Beatrice looked up to meet his fixed and intense regard. He threw down his pen and came to her side. "May I have some of those violets ?" he asked. "Certainly." "But will you give me some?" She dropped some into his extended hand, but did not look up. "A parting gift!" he said sadly. She did not lift up her eyes, but tears dropped from them. Then Beatrice's face was crossed by a blinding blush as she thought, "What if I repeat Fleda's question: Why do you go?" "I do not know that he any longer loves me?" she said to herself, or those words would have been spoken. She turned pale now. How she longed to lean her head down among her flowers, hide her face and weep, striving to drown the pain that gnawed at her heart. Mr. Anniston held the violets in his hand very regardfully, and still stood near Beatrice. He watched the flitting about of her trembling hand till the last flower was adjusted in its place; then he took the vase from her, and set it where he knew it was meant to go. Beatrice's occupation gone, she knew not what to do. She stood by the table playing with leaves and bits of flowerstalks scattered there. He came back to her side. "I am afraid I may seem very presump tuous," he said. "I hardly know what I dare say or do. I meant to be too proud and independent to suffer myself to think such thoughts now that I am a poor man; but-what did Eldon mean last night? It was not Eldon's wont to jest unkindly. Is he changed, or دو "It is not Eldon who is changed," Beatrice said, flushing and trembling; she, the beautiful woman, felt humble, and a very child. "Is it Eldon's sister who is so generous, so noble, that she gives me now what she refused me when I was prosperous? Beatrice do you love me?" He took her hand and drew closer to her, feeling how she trembled. "I am not generous or noble," she said, speaking passionately now. "I am not worthy of you; yet, if you love me still, you must not go away." She hid her face upon his arm. "I do love you still," he said, bending over her; "God only knows how well." She was pressed very close in a steadfast embrace. A slight noise outside sent Beatrice flying to her own room. Mr. Anniston went into Eldon's study. Eldon sprang up; the two friends clasped hands. Then they sat down to talk, but Mr. Anniston laid his folded arms upon the table, bent his brow down upon them. He was thoroughly subdued by this great unlooked-for happiness. "All's well that ends well,' old fellow?" Eldon said, in a rather unsteady voice. "God in heaven bless and prosper you!" he added earnestly. When tidings of the engagement between Henry Anniston and Beatrice reached Mrs. Fenton, she came to the Ringtons far more inclined to scold and condole than to congratulate. Nothing could have surprised me more, Mrs. Smith," Mrs Fenton began "Here is Miss Rington!" Mrs. Smith interrupted; but Mrs. Fenton ran on in much the same strain. "And how the man could dare propose to you now, I can't imagine, Beatrice!" she wound up by saying. "Aunt Fenton, Mr. Anniston did not dare think so meanly of me as to believe that his want of fortune could make any difference. Besides," she added, smiling, (she was too happy to be indignant long,) "I am not quite sure that Mr. Anniston did propose to me." "My dear, don't say such shocking things. Now just tell me what could attract you in Henry Anniston ?" "Aunt, he is thoroughly good and true, and he loves me so well," she answered softly. Then to change the subject, she added: "But I hope that you will soon hear of an engagement that will please you better. Eldon very often rides over to the Elms, now that Mary Lornford lives there." "I am a poor man's wife! You did misjudge me, Eldon," Beatrice Anniston whispered in sweet saucy triumph to her brother, when he first visited her at her home. "Nay! she is a very rich man's wife!" her husband said. On the very last page of her green and gold-clasped book, Beatrice Anniston wrote thus: "In youth, it seems to me that we women are too much attracted by the glitter of intellectual gifts, or of the tinsel appearance of them. We must fancy a man to be more than a good, true man, before we can give him the love of our imaginations. The chance is, that we live to find him somewhat less. When we have gained experience, we learn to value chiefly that before despised solid gold of goodness. Simplicity, truthfulness, steadfastness, are the qualities that win our hearts. The girl worshiped some imagi nary hero, the woman worships only God, and loves some good man, not after the manner of the girl's passion, but with quiet, enduring household love. Household love! dear words! a love that knows no jar and fret, but is rest and peace. This is not the love of dramatists, poets, and novelists, because it is too sacred, its depth defies expression, its quiet truth is impossible of representation, its perfection mocks at the imperfection of lan guage. It is the next holiest thing to the love of God." This little book was shown by Beatrice to her husband; he smiled contentedly over that last page; then, at her wish, the little book was put upon the fire. Sitting hand-in-hand they watched it burn. From the Dublin University Magazine. REVOLUTIONS IN ENGLISH HISTORY. THE volume before us is a vigorous attempt to condense into a popular form the stores of knowledge we have recently acquired about English history. While the historian and the professed scholar will always study the subject from original authorities, it is obvious that the general reader must content himself with obtaining the conclusions which the researches of others have made upon it. In history, as in other intellectual products, few only have the ability or the leisure to examine masses of rude material, and to mold them into their proper shape; and the many must be satisfied with considering the results which the minds of others have evolved and reflected. This may be regretted, but can not be helped; and accordingly, though books such as this of Dr. Vaughan will never supersede historical study properly so called, they are not the less of much value as popular interpreters of history. Looking at his volume from this point of view-that from which the author wishes it to be contemplatedwe do not hesitate to pronounce it of great merit as regards thoughtfulness, method, and composition. Its design is less to portray the striking scenes of the national life of England, than to answer the question, "What is it that has made her what she is ?" what, rejecting all that is casual and accidental, have been and are the essential elements of her civilization? Surveying the vast field of English history, Dr. Vaughan proposes to himself the object * of Tacitus: "Ut non modo casus, eventusque rerum, qui plerumque fortuiti sunt, sed ratio etiam causæque noscantur." In accomplishing this purpose, so far as he has gone, he has displayed no little ability and learning; and, although we differ from him in some of his opinions, and believe that, in some respects, he has not justly estimated the influences which wrought out our early English history, we think that he has given us a very valuable analysis of the causes which, from the age of Cæsar to that of Henry the Seventh, have operated on the destiny of England. So comprehensive a review, indeed, is no where else to be found; though, in several not unimportant particulars, we think that it has miscalculated the true significance of events and institutions, and the subject may have been treated in some of its details more fully and distinctly by other writers. Here, however, from the nature of the case, we can not expect an uniform richness of knowledge, or a judgment invariably free from error; and Dr. Vaughan's shortcomings in these respects will be readily excused by competent critics. With regard to the style of this volume, it is very clear, easy, and popular; and, though here and there we detect in it an echo from Lord Macaulay, it is sufficiently natural and original. We might also note a few faulty words and phrases, but, on the whole, it is a good specimen of that "undefiled English" of which Dr. Vaughan is justly a great admirer. From the age of Cæsar to that of Henry V., the main characteristic of English history is, as Dr. Vaughan observes, the Revolution of Race, and all that is com prehended under that term. During that long period of fourteen centuries, England was overrun and conquered by a variety of races, whose union at length made up the English nation, and whose laws, institutions, habits, and tendencies, wrought out the framework of its polity. Since 1400, England has undergone immense alterations; her empire has been extended to all parts of the world, her religion has been considerably modified, her social fabric has been civilized and refined, and her government and constitution have been molded into those majestic forms which now command the envy and admiration of the world. But striking and important as these changes have been, they are only the developments of that order of things which really was established in England when the various Roman, Celtic, Saxon, Danish, and Norman elements in her society were fused into a common nationality, when she was placed under a parliamentary system, when her inhabitants were made law-worthy and freemen, and when the language of Hall and Wycliffe attained its predominance. Before that time the future of England was unsettled, and at several periods of her his tory it seemed uncertain whether she would not be completely Romanized, or whether she would not be made a province of France, or whether she would not become a great European and continental power with comparatively foreign language and institutions. But since that time her destiny has been assured, her position in the world has been fixed, and her social and political constitution "is to the constitution under which she flourished five hundred years ago, what the tree is to the sapling, what the man is to the boy-the alteration has been great yet there never was a moment at which the chief part of what existed was not old." If, therefore, we would understand the England of Elizabeth and the Stuarts, of George the Second and of Queen Victoria, we must trace out the different causes which made her what she was about the close of the fourteenth century: what she owed to Roman civilization, what to the Celtic aborigines, and what to her Saxon, Danish, and Norman invaders and conquerors; and how the influences of these different streams of race concurred to mold her peculiar individuality. This can only be done by a careful review of the composition, character, in stitutions, and social life of the races which ultimately mingled in her people; and to this accordingly Dr. Vaughan has turned his attention in the volume we are about to examine. Lord Macaulay tells us in his brilliant manner, that the Celtic inhabitants of ancient Britain were little superior to the "natives of the Sandwich Islands." Mr. Hallam, also, in his account of the Middle Ages, is rather inclined to depreciate the importance of this race as an element of the people of England; and Dr. Arnold emphatically asserts that "her history does not begin till the white horse of the Saxon appeared on her hills." In opposition to these authorities, Dr. Vaughan has shown successfully that even before the invasion of Cæsar, the Celtic natives of Britain had merged from mere barbarism; that when the island was really subjugated by Agricola, it bore the marks of much civilization; and that the Celtic element in its population survived the Saxon conquest in a far greater proportion than has generally been suspected. This is one of the best parts of Dr. Vaughan's work, and we think that he has fully established his theory. Strabo, writing in the age of Cæsar and Augustus, tells us that the natives of Cornwall and the Scilly Islands were rich in flocks and herds and in mineral wealth, and were dressed after a fashion not at all akin to barbarism. Even Cæsar, who depreciates the Britons as much as possible, describes them as a race well practiced in war, whose formidable chariots attested their mechanical ingenuity. During the century that elapsed before the invasion of Agricola, Celtic Britain had grown into a comparatively opulent country, that maintained a regular commerce with Gaul and the Netherlands, that was thickly covered with towns and villages, and that was subject to a scheme of government and religion. did ultimately submit to the authority of Rome, "The Britain," says Dr. Vaughan, "which was certainly a country of considerable industry and wealth. If the Britons of Cæsar's time were wont to delight in human sacrifices, to paint or stain their bodies in barbarous fashions, and to have the wives of a family in common, nothing of this would seem to apply to the Britons described by Tacitus and Dion Cassius. This is a fact of importance in relation to our early histo "y, and should be marked by the student." And as Celtic Britain was more power |