proceed from the people, but from the government, which did not represent the people.'

The literary career of Miss Martineau displays unwearied application, as well as great versatility of talent and variety of information. It commenced

Harriet Martineau.

in 1823, when she published Devotional Exercises for Young Persons. From this time till 1831 she issued a number of tracts and short moral tales, and wrote some prize essays, which were published by the Unitarian Association, to which body the authoress belongs. In 1832-34 she produced Illustrations of Political Economy, Taxation, and Poor Laws. A visit to America next led to a more elaborate work, Society in America, 1837, and Retrospect of Western Travel, 1838. In the same year she published a Letter to the Deaf, and two small Guides to Service, to which she afterwards added two more of similar domestic manuals. To 1838 also belongs a small tract, How to Observe. In 1839 appeared Deerbrook, a novel, containing striking and eloquent passages, one of which we subjoin.

[Effects of Love and Happiness on the Mind.]

There needs no other proof that happiness is the most wholesome moral atmosphere, and that in which the immortality of man is destined ultimately to thrive, than the elevation of soul, the religious aspiration, which attends the first assurance, the first sober certainty of true love. There is much of this religious aspiration amidst all warmth of virtuous affections. There is a vivid love of God in the child that lays its cheek against the cheek of its mother, and clasps its arms about her neck. God is thanked-perhaps unconsciously-for the brightness of his earth, on summer evenings, when a brother and sister, who have long been parted, pour out their heart-stores to each other, and feel their course of thought brightening as it runs. When the aged parent hears of the honours his children have won, or looks round upon their innocent faces as the glory of his decline, his mind reverts to Him who in them prescribed the purpose of his life, and bestowed its grace. But religious as is the mood of every good

affection, none is so devotional as that of love, especially so called. The soul is then the very temple of adoration, of faith, of holy purity, of heroism, of charity. At such a moment the human creature shoots up into the angel; there is nothing on earth too defiled for its charity-nothing in hell too appalling for its heroism -nothing in heaven too glorious for its sympathy. Strengthened, sustained, vivified by that most mysterious power, union with another spirit, it feels itself set well forth on the way of victory over evil, sent out conquering and to conquer. There is no other such crisis in human life. The philosopher may experience uncontrollable agitation in verifying his principle of balancing systems of worlds, feeling, perhaps, as if he actually saw the creative hand in the act of sending the planets forth on their everlasting way; but this philosopher, solitary seraph as he may be regarded amidst a myriad of men, knows at such a moment no emotions so divine as those of the spirit becoming conscious that it is beloved-be it the peasant-girl in the meadow, or the daughter of the sage reposing in her father's confidence, or the artisan beside his loom, or the man of letters musing by his fireside. The warrior about to strike the decisive blow for the liberties of a nation, however impressed with the solemnity of the hour, is not in a state of such lofty resolution as those who, by joining hearts, are laying their joint hands on the whole wide realm of futurity for their own. The statesman who, in the moment of success, feels that an entire class of social sins and woes is annihilated by his hand, is not conscious of so holy and so intimate a thankfulness as they who are aware that their redemption is come in the presence of a new and sovereign affection. And these are many-they are in all corners of every land. The statesman is the leader of a nation, the warrior is the grace of an age, the philosopher is the birth of a thousand years; but the lover, where is he not? Wherever parents look round upon their children, there he has been; wherever children are at play together, there he will soon be; wherever there are roofs under which men dwell, wherever there is an atmosphere vibrating with human voices, there is the lover, and there is his lofty worship going on, unspeakable, but revealed in the brightness of the eye, the majesty of the presence, and the high temper of the discourse.

all but her anti-Malthusian doctrines Miss Martineau The democratic opinions of the authoress-for in is a sort of female Godwin-are strikingly brought forward, and the characters are well drawn. Deerbrook is a story of English domestic-life. The next effort of Miss Martineau was in the historical romance. The Hour and the Man, 1840, is a novel or romance founded on the history of the brave Toussaint L'Ouverture; and with this man as hero, Miss Martineau exhibits as the hour of action the period when the slaves of St Domingo threw off the yoke of slavery. There is much passionate as well as graceful writing in this tale; its greatest defect is, that there is too much disquisition, and too little connected or regular fable. Among the other works of Miss Martineau are several for children, as The Peasant and the Prince, The Settlers at Home, Feats on the Fiord, and The Crofton Boys-all pleasing and instructive little tales. Her next work, Life in the Sick-Room, or Essays by an Invalid, 1844, presents many interesting and pleasing sketches, full of acute and delicate thought and elegant description.

[Sea View from the Window of the Sick-Room at

Tynemouth.]

Think of the difference to us between seeing from our sofas the width of a street, even if it be Sackville Street, Dublin, or Portland Place, in London, and thirty

miles of sea view, with its long boundary of rocks, and the power of sweeping our glance over half a county, by means of a telescope! But the chief ground of preference of the sea is less its space than its motion, and the perpetual shifting of objects caused by it. There can be nothing in inland scenery which can give the sense of life and motion and connection with the world like sea changes. The motion of a water-fall is too continuous too little varied-as the breaking of the waves would be, if that were all the sea could afford. The fitful action of a wind-mill, the waving of trees, the everchanging aspects of mountains are good and beautiful; but there is something more lifelike in the going forth and return of ships, in the passage of fleets, and in the never-ending variety of a fishery. But, then, there must not be too much sea. The strongest eyes and nerves could not support the glare and oppressive vastness of an unrelieved expanse of waters. I was aware of this in time, and fixed myself where the view of the sea was inferior to what I should have preferred if I had come to the coast for a summer visit. Between my window and the sea is a green down, as green as any field in Ireland; and on the nearer half of this down, haymaking goes forward in its season. It slopes down to a hollow, where the Prior of old preserved his fish, there being sluices formerly at either end, the one opening upon the river, and the other upon the little haven below the Priory, whose ruins still crown the rock. From the Prior's fishpond, the green down slopes upwards again to a ridge; and on the slope are cows grazing all summer, and half-way into the winter. Over the ridge, I survey the harbour and all its traffic, the view extending from the light-houses far to the right, to a horizon of sea to the left. Beyond the harbour lies another county, with, first, its sandy beach, where there are frequent wrecks-too interesting to an invalid-and a fine stretch of rocky shore to the left; and above the rocks, a spreading heath, where I watch troops of boys flying their kites; lovers and friends taking their breezy walk on Sundays; the sportsman with his gun and dog; and the washerwomen converging from the farmhouses on Saturday evenings, to carry their loads, in company, to the village on the yet further height. I see them, now talking in a cluster, as they walk each with her white burden on her head, and now in file, as they pass through the narrow lane; and, finally, they part off on the village-green, each to some neighbouring house of the gentry. Behind the village and the heath stretches the railway; and I watch the train triumphantly careering along the level road, and puffing forth its steam above hedges and groups of trees, and then labouring and panting up the ascent, till it is lost between two heights, which at last bound my view. But on these heights are more objects; a wind-mill, now in motion, and now at rest; a limekiln, in a picturesque rocky field; an ancient church tower, barely visible in the morning, but conspicuous when the setting sun shines upon it; a colliery, with its lofty wagon-way and the self-moving wagons running hither and thither, as if in pure wilfulness; and three or four farms, at various degrees of ascent, whose yards, paddocks, and dairies I am better acquainted with than their inhabitants would believe possible. I know every stack of the one on the heights. Against the sky I see the stacking of corn and hay in the season, and can detect the slicing away of the provender, with an accurate eye, at the distance of several miles. I can follow the sociable farmer in his summer evening ride, pricking on in the lane where he is alone, in order to have more time for the unconscionable gossip at the gate of the next farmhouse, and for the second talk over the paddock-fence of the next, or for the third or fourth before the porch, or over the wall, when the resident farmer comes out, pipe in mouth, and puffs away amidst his chat, till the wife appears, with a shawl over her cap, to see what can detain him so long; and the

daughter follows, with her gown turned over headfor it is now chill evening-and at last the sociable horseman finds he must be going, looks at his watch, and, with a gesture of surprise, turns his steed down a steep broken way to the beach, and canters home over the sands, left hard and wet by the ebbing tide, the white horse making his progress visible to me through the dusk. Then, if the question arises which has most of the gossip spirit, he or I, there is no shame in the answer. Any such small amusement is better than harmless-is salutary-which carries the sick prisoner abroad into the open air, among country people. When I shut down my window, I feel that my mind has had an airing.

A series of tales, illustrative of the evils springing from the Game Laws (1845), are marked by Miss Martineau's acuteness and fine clear style, but are overcoloured in tone and sentiment. Another short tale, The Billow and the Rock, 1846, founded on the incidents of Lady Grange's captivity, is interesting, without any attempt at conveying a political lesson. In 1848 appeared Eastern Life, Past and Present, three volumes-a very interesting book of travels, but disfigured by the wild speculative opinions of the authoress on Scripture history and character, and on mesmerism and clairvoyance. A volume on Household Education appeared in 1849, and the History of England from 1816 to 1846, in 1850. In 1851 Miss Martineau published a collection of letters between herself and Mr H. G. Atkinson, On the Laws of Man's Nature and Development—a work which met with universal condemnation, on account of its advocacy of atheism. Miss Martineau's friend, Charlotte Brontë, grieved sadly over this declension on the part of one whom she admired as combining the highest mental culture with the nicest discharge of feminine duties. The book, she said, was 'the first exposition of avowed atheism and materialism she had ever read-the first unequivocal declaration of disbelief of God or a future life.' Hundreds, she said, had deserted Miss Martineau on account of this book, but this the authoress has denied. 'I am not aware,' says Miss Martineau, of having lost any friends whatever by that book, while I have gained a new world of sympathy. In fact, most persons regarded this singular lady as sui generis, and would never dream of binding her by the fixed and settled rules.' Her next performance was a translation and condensation of the Positive Philosophy of Augustus Comte, two volumes, 1853. M. Comte's work is a complete account of science and scientific method, as developed at the time he wrote, beginning with mathematics, and ending with social physics or sociology; but it is also, says Mr Brimley, with all the notions and sentiments that have their a fierce polemic against theology and metaphysics,

6

faculties to phenomenal knowledge.' Hence the system not only fails to provide an aim for the action ceded to it, has no moral force to keep men steady, of man and of society; but if an aim were conno counteracting power to the notorious selfishness and sensuality against which we have to be ever on our guard.' In 1854 Miss Martineau published a Complete Guide to the Lakes. Many years since she fixed her residence-to the great horror of Wordsworth-in the beautiful Lake country, at Ambleside, where she manages her little farm of two acres with the skill of a practical agriculturist, and is esteemed as an affectionate friend and good neighbour. She is also a regular contributor of political and social articles to the Daily News and other journals.

root in them'-a 'strict limitation of the human

A prize had been offered for the first man who detected a crocodile, and the crew had now been for two days on the alert in search of them. Buoyed up with the expectation of such game, we had latterly reserved our fire for them exclusively, and the wild duck and turtle, nay, even the vulture and the eagle, had swept past or soared above us in security. At length, the cry of 'Timseach, timseach!' was heard from half-a-dozen claimants of the proffered prize, and half-a-dozen black fingers were eagerly pointed to a spit of sand, on which were strewn apparently some logs of trees. It was a covey of crocodiles! Hastily and silently the boat was run in-shore. Rwas ill, so I had the enterprise to myself, and clambered up the steep bank with a quicker pulse than when I first levelled a rifle at a Highland deer. My intended victims might have prided themselves on their superior nonchalance; and, indeed, as I approached them, there seemed to be a sneer on their ghastly mouths and winking eyes. Slowly they rose, one after the other, and waddled to the water, all but one, the most gallant or most gorged of the party. He lay still until I was within a hundred yards of him; then slowly rising on his finlike legs, he lumbered towards the river, looking askance at me with an expression of countenance that seemed to say: 'He can do me no harm; however, I may as well have a swim.' I took aim at the throat of this supercilious brute, and, as soon as my hand steadied, the very pulsation of my finger pulled the trigger. Bang! went the gun; whizz! flew the bullet; and my excited ear could catch the thud with which it plunged into the scaly leather of his neck. His waddle became a plunge, the waves closed over him, and the sun shone on the calm water, as I reached the brink of the shore, that was still indented by the waving of his gigantic tail. But there is blood upon the water, and he rises for a moment to the surface. 'A hundred piasters for the timseach!' I exclaimed, and half-a-dozen Arabs plunged into the stream. There! he rises again, and the blacks dash at him as if he hadn't a tooth in his head. Now he is gone, the waters close over him, and I never saw him since. From that time we saw hundreds of crocodiles of all sizes, and fired shots enough at them for a Spanish revolution; but we never could get possession of any, even if we hit them, which to this day remains uncertain. I believe each traveller, who is honest enough, will make the same confession.

'Ha!

'It is

Nemmir, 'you jest; all my country could not produce what you require in one hundred moons.' Wallah!' was the young pasha's reply, and he struck the Tiger across the face with his pipe. If he had done so to his namesake of the jungle, the insult could not have roused fiercer feelings of revenge, but the human animal did not shew his wrath at once. 'It is well,' he replied; 'let the pasha rest, to-morrow he shall have nothing more to ask. The Egyptian, and the few Mameluke officers of his staff, were tranquilly smoking towards evening, entertained by some dancing-girls, whom the Tiger had sent to amuse them; when they observed that a huge pile of dried stacks of Indian corn was rising rapidly round the tent. What means this?' inquired Ismael angrily; 'am not I pasha?' but forage for your highness's horses,' replied the Nubian, for, were your troops once arrived, the people would fear to approach the camp.' Suddenly, the space is filled with smoke, the tent curtains shrivel up in flames, and the pasha and his comrades find themselves encircled in what they well know is their funeral pyre. Vainly the invader implores mercy, and assures the Tiger of his warm regard for him and all his family; vainly he endeavours to break through the fiery fence that girds him round; a thousand spears bore him back into the flames, and the Tiger's triumphant yell and bitter mockery mingle with his dying screams. The Egyptians perished to a man. Nemmir escaped up the country, crowned with savage glory, and married the daughter of a king, who soon left him his successor, and the Tiger still defies the old pasha's power. The latter, however, took a terrible revenge upon his people: he burned all the inhabitants of the village nearest to the scene of his son's slaughter, and cut off the right hands of five hundred men besides. So much for African warfare.

The other works of Mr Eliot Warburton areHochelaga, or England in the New World, 1846 [Hochelaga is an aboriginal Indian name for Canada]; Memoirs of Prince Rupert and the Cavaliers, 1849; Reginald Hastings and Darien, novels, and a Memoir of the Earl of Peterborough-the famous earl, 16581735. The last was a posthumous work, published in 1853. Mr Warburton had been deputed by the Atlantic and Pacific Junction Company to visit the tribes of Indians who inhabit the Isthmus of Darien, with a view to effect a friendly understanding with

[Nubian Revenge.]

There appears to be a wild caprice amongst the institutions, if such they may be called, of all these tropical nations. In a neighbouring state to that of Abyssinia, the king, when appointed to the regal dignity, retires into an island, and is never again visible to the eyes of men but once-when his ministers come to strangle him; for it may not be that the proud monarch of Behr should die a natural death. No men, with this fatal exception, are ever allowed even to set foot upon the island, which is guarded by a band of Amazons. In another border country, called Habeesh, the monarch is dignified with the title of Tiger. He was formerly Malek of Shendy, when it was invaded by Ismael Pasha, and was even then designated by this fierce cognomen. Ismael, Mehemet Ali's second son, advanced through Nubia, claiming tribute and submission from all the tribes. Nemmir-which signifies Tiger-the king of Shendy, received him hospitably, as Mahmoud, our dragoman, informed us, and, when he was seated in his tent, waited on him to learn his pleasure. My pleasure is,' replied the invader, 'that you forthwith furnish me with slaves, cattle, and money to the value of one hundred thousand dollars.' Pooh !' said

with their country. He sailed in the Amazon steamer, and was among the passengers who perished by fire on board that ill-fated ship. That awful catastrophe carried grief into many families, and none of its victims were more lamented than Mr Eliot Warburton.

THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

The Confessions of an English Opium Eater, origin. ally printed in the London Magazine, and published in a separate form in 1822, is a singular and striking work, detailing the personal experience of an individual who had, like Coleridge, become a slave to the use of opium. To such an extent had the author carried this habit, that he was accustomed to take three hundred and twenty grains a day. He finally emancipated himself, but not without a severe struggle and the deepest suffering. The Confessions are written by THOMAS DE QUINCEY, a gentleman of extensive acquirements, literary and scholastic, son of an English merchant, born at Manchester in 1786, and educated at Eton and Oxford. Mr De Quincey has contributed largely to the periodical literature of the day, and is author of the admirable memoirs of Shakspeare and Pope in