MISS MARTINEAU'S BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES.* IT is quite impossible, within the

limits of a single article in this journal, to say all that we should like to say of this delightful volume. We must accordingly content ourselves with putting -down a few observations as to the general merits revealed in Miss Martineau's biographical sketches, and singling out one or two -of her portraitures for special comment, which, however, must, in the main, prove for commendation.

Miss Martineau has furnished us in the compass of fewer than 500 pages with representations of forty-aix more or leas distinguished or noteworthy personages, who have recently passed from the stage of visible human life. Nine or ten pages are all the space which she affords to any of her delineations, and yet she never fails to leave with the reader a singularly distinct impression of the character, the surroundings, and the work of the subject of her presentment.

In the first place, we are struck, as, indeed, we were prepared to be, with the range of Miss Martineau's sympathies. George Combo and Bishop Blomfield, Robert Owen and Archbishop Whately, Mrs. Jameson and Lady Noel Byron, David Roberts and the Emperor Nicholas, Mrs. Wordsworth and Thomas De Quincey, "plain John Campbell" and " Christopher North," not to mention other names, have all their rightful place of appreciation in her picture-gallery. Then the knowledge of the authoress is seldom, if ever, at fault. She is as equally at home with the happy circum stances of Lockhart's early intimacy with Walter Scott, as with those of the Wordsworths at Rydal Mount, or with the political events in the long career of Lord Palmerston. Again, the sense of justice makes itself felt in every one of her essays. Or, at all events, if we were to make any exceptions, it would be in these two in stances :—She seems a little too severe on Mrs. Jameson, and rather exaggerates the influence of Lady Byron on the world at large—in the latter case imputing to a wider outer circle feelings which only existed within a comparatively limited one. Finally, the artistic ability with which the authoress combines a careful analysis of character, with just so much thread of narrative as is necessary to render a given .sketch intelligible and lifelike, and with telling anecdotes which at once illuminate the idiosyneracy of the person depicted and also the wit or humour of the biographer, is of a kind highly admirable.

The first sketch is entitled the last birthday of the Emperor Nicholas, and there is something almost prophetic in its character. For though on the day in question, July 6th, 1854, Nicholas was broken in health, and stooped as if burdened with the weight of old age, yet he was only in his fifty-ninth year, and to the world at large he was still the most prominent and responsible actor in the Crimean drama. When, accordingly, eight months later, the tidings reached England that the Emperor had passed away, we can most of us recall the sensation which spread over the country, and with what bated breath all men spoke under the sudden overshadowing of the wings of the Angel of Death. On Sunday, the 4th of March, 1855, there was scarcely a pulpit in which reference was not made to the startling event which had occurred in the previous week ; and history was eagerly ransacked by many reverend speakers for a parallel instance of the unlooked-for intervention of the Divine Providence in the fortunes of a great campaign.

Tamerlane, Alaric, Attila, Sennacherib were not altogether injudiciously brought forward to point the moral on the occasion,—so suddenly had each of these warriors been sum

moned by the Sovereign Will from the command of their armies and the visions of their ambition. But Miss Martineau writes in the previous year as if a brain-wave of the coming end of Nicholas had already reached her consciousness, assuring her that the days of the haughty autocrat were numbered. And if her language is prophetic, it is not less remarkable for its pathos and power. There is not perhaps in the whole volume a passage so striking as that in which she depicts the Russian Emperor "sitting among the wreck of all his idols" on that birth-day which proved to be his last. We mast make room for a portion of it :—

"Hated by his nobles ; liked only by an ignorant peasantry who can give him no aid, and receive no good from him ; drawn on by his own passions to sacrifice them in hecatombs, while they fix their eyes on him as their only hope ; tricked by his servants all over the Empire ; disappointed in his army and its officers ; afraid to leave his capital, because it would be laid waste as soon as his back was turned ; cursed in all directions for the debts of his nobles, the bankruptcy of trade, and the hunger of his people ; conscious of the reprobation of England and France, whose reprobation could be no indifferent matter to Lucifer himself ; finding himself out in his count about Austria, and about everybody but his despised brothers of Prussia and (as an after-thought) Naples ; and actually humbled before the Turk,—what a position for a man whose birthday once seemed to be an event in the Calendar of the Universe ! Be it remembered the while that he is broken in health and heart. . . . Ho trembles with weakness because he cannot take sufficient food. The eagle glance has become wolfish. The proud calm of his fins face. has given way to an expression of anxiety and trouble. Let him be pitied then, and with kindness. He is, perhaps, the greatest sufferer in Europe, and let him be regarded accordingly. But, as we need not say, he Is totally unfit for the management of human destinies."

Miss Martineau arranges her Essays under six divisions, which are the "Royal," "Politicians," "Professional," "Scientific,"

"Social," and "Literary." Beginning the first list with the Emperor of Russia, she closes it with the late Duchess of Kent. To the mother of the Queen she dedicates a paper, which 3s altogether charming,—full of womanly grace and geniality. Indeed, each of Miss Martineau's representations is so thoroughly a caught reflection of the individual subject of her pen-and-ink art, that the perusal of her sketches has been to us like a study of the portraits of one of our ablest artists—we mean especially those of the late Thomas Phillips. The heads of Phillips are all "objective," if you like the word. He saw the object, and could paint it. And in reading Miss Martineau's volume, the same

sense of truth and reality has been awakened within us as.we experienced, lately, in surveying in succession the masterpieces of

Phillips, such as his smug Dissenting parson, the fine old country gentleman, redolent of high breeding, a copious cellar, and endless broad acres, side by side with the polished bishop, the fiery Hetman Platoff, and the marvellous face of Lord Byron, in which last the whole complex character of the man is rendered for those who can read it. To return to the essay last named, Miss Martineau tells us in it the following characteristic story of the young Princess Victoria :— "It became known at Tunbridge Wells that the Princess had been unable to buy a box at a bazaar, because she had spent her money. At this bazaar she had bought presents for almost all her relations, and had laid out her last shilling, when she remembered one cousin more, and saw a box, priced half-a-crown, which would suit him. The shop people of course placed the box with the other purchases, but the little lady's governess admonished them by saying, No, you see the Princess has not got the money, and, therefore, of course she cannot buy the box.' This being perceived, the next offer was to lay by the box till it could be purchased ; and the answer was, Oh, well, if you will be so good as to do that,' and the thing was done. On quarter-day, before seven in the morning, the Princess appeared on her donkey to claim her pm-chase. Anecdotes like these, apparently small, have large meanings ; and in such traits people saw promise of the rectitude and elevated economy which have made the mother of our large Royal family respected by the people whose need and convenience elle has so admirably respected."

Among the politicians of whom Miss Martineau has thought it well to write there is one name which was but little known to the general world—that of Lord Murray. But we cannot doubt that this Edinburgh celebrity will, for a short time, be a somewhat interesting subject of discourse in literary circles. Lord Murray, a Scottish judge, and the son of a Scottish judge, was in his early days associated with the light-hearted and audacious young men who, through the medium of the Edinburgh, bearded old Toryism in its den. In due course Murray became Lord Advocate, and while he held the office, his tea-table at St. Stephens's, "with an enormous and excessively rich Edinburgh cake in the centre" (was it ;ot the canonical Scotch bun, we wonder ?) was a very popular board of gay and witty conference. There was to be seen no end of celebrities, including, of course, Sydney Smith, when in town. Then, in Mr. Murray's country house on Loch Fyne, the hospitalities of host and hostess, to use Chaucer's phrase when writing of the Franklin's open table, quite "snowed" all sorts of good things upon the guests. Doubtless Lord Murray was a sufficient and companionable host, an honest Liberal, and wholly respectable individual ; but as Miss Martineau is careful to note, the goodly fellowship of the Edinburgh reviewers did not turn out one great statesman. With the exception of Lord Brougham, they said, and did not. Murray himself settled down into a mere steady promoter of Whig elections, and rumours used to be current in the northern metropolis of his mild enjoyment of a good snooze on the bench, with this special addition in one instance, that Lord Cockburn gently whispered to him, "Murray, dinna snore sae loud, or ye'll wauken Cunningham."

Miss Martineau writes in an altogether righteous tone of Murray's more distinguished brother reviewer, Lord Brougham ; but as we had occasion so very recently to give expression to our own estimate of the erratic nobleman, it would be rather superfluous to say more about him now ; only the concluding paragraph of Miss Martineau is much too piquant to be omitted :— "Lord Brougham was at his château. at Cannes when the first introdection of the daguerreotype process took place there ; and an accomplished neighbour proposed to take a view of the château, with a group of guests in the balcony. The artist explained the necessity of perfect immobility ; he only asked that his lordship would keep perfectly still 'for five seconds,' and his lordship vehemently promised that he would not stir. He moved about too soon, however, and the consequence was a blur where Lord Brougham should be ; and so stands the daguerreotype to this hour. There is something mournfully typical in this. In the picture of our century, as taken from the life by history, this very man should have been a central figure ; but now, owing to his want of steadfastness, there will for ever be a blur where Brougham should be."

Did our space permit, we would gladly add to our selections from Miss Martineau's ' Recreations,' as her essays might appropriately be .designated, and give our readers some account of the rare workmanship which is to be met with in the articles on Whately and Bloomfield, Miss Berry and Samuel Rogers, whose united ages nearly make out a couple of centuries ; George Combs and Robert Owen, Mrs. ()pie and Mrs. Wordsworth, John Gibson Lockhart and Lord Macaulay, Thomas de Quincey and John Wilson Croker ; nor should we forget the one on good Father Matthew.

Miss Martineau is singularly candid in all she writes concerning Owen, Combe, and Father Matthew. To the worth of their respective characters she is keenly alive, as to the benevolence of all their intentions and systems ; but she is equally bold in asserting of the three that their endeavours after the amelioration of human society must needs fail, because of their imperfect views of the needs and deeper aspirations of the Human Being, whose welfare they all had so much at heart. Vows, mechanical associations, enlarged acquaintance with the structure of the animal portion of our nature, and of the laws which rule over its health will not cast out the demons which possess society. No; the culture of the higher faculties of man will alone lead to that hoped-for consummation, and, as we believe, that culture is only to be gained in the school of Christ.

We most reluctantly come to a conclusion, but ere doing BO would specially call the attention of our readers to Miss Martineau's In Memoriam of Christopher North. It is altogether beyond praise of ours, and is written at once with the finest discrimination, and with a generous enthusiasm which makes us feel that the heart of our essayist is still young.