ng with her for some time, exclaimed, 'So you don't speak Italian.
You must have had a very bad education'! And this story about the
Waverley Novels may possibly be new to some of my readers:

A very amusing circumstance in connection with Mrs. Somerville's
acquaintance with Sir Walter arose out of the childish
inquisitiveness of Woronzow Greig, Mrs. Somerville's little boy.

During the time Mrs. Somerville was visiting Abbotsford the Waverley
Novels were appearing, and were creating a great sensation; yet even
Scott's intimate friends did not know that he was the author; he
enjoyed keeping the affair a mystery. But little Woronzow discovered
what he was about. One day when Mrs. Somerville was talking about a
novel that had just been published, Woronzow said, 'I knew all these
stories long ago, for Mr. Scott writes on the dinner-table; when he
has finished he puts the green cloth with the papers in a corner of
the dining-room, and when he goes out Charlie Scott and I read the
stories.'

Phyllis Browne remarks that this incident shows 'that persons who want to
keep a secret ought to be very careful when children are about'; but the
story seems to me to be far too charming to require any moral of the
kind.

Bound up in the same volume is a Life of Miss Mary Carpenter, also
written by Phyllis Browne. Miss Carpenter does not seem to me to have
the charm and fascination of Mrs. Somerville. There is always something
about her that is formal, limited, and precise. When she was about two
years old she insisted on being called 'Doctor Carpenter' in the nursery;
at the age of twelve she is described by a friend as a sedate little
girl, who always spoke like a book; and before she entered on her
educational schemes she wrote down a solemn dedication of herself to the
service of humanity. However, she was one of the practical, hardworking
saints of the nineteenth century, and it is no doubt quite right that the
saints should take themselves very seriously. It is only fair also to
remember that her work of rescue and reformation was carried on under
great difficulties. Here, for instance, is the picture Miss Cobbe gives
us of one of the Bristol night-schools:

It was a wonderful spectacle to see Mary Carpenter sitting patiently
before the large school gallery in St. James's Back, teaching,
singing, and praying with the wild street-boys, in spite of endless