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 bright ning 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. Sirengthened, sustained, vivified by that most mysterions 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, p.rhaps, 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 firesid. 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 sta esman who, in the moment of success, feels that an entire cass of social sins and goes is annihilated by his hand, is not conscious of co 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 wair or 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, uuspeakable, but revealed In the brightness of the eye, the majesty of the presence, and the high temper of the discourse.

The democratic opinions of the authoress-for in all but her antiMalthusian doctrines Miss Martineau was 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 wasThe Hour and the Man,' 1840, a novel or ro mance 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 prefer. nce 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 worldlike sea changes. The motion of a water-fall is too continuous-too little varied-as the breaking of e waves would be, if that were all the sca could afford. The fi fal action of a windmill, the waving of trees, the ever-changing aspects of mountains are good and beautiful; but there is soinething 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 f om 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 guu 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 a 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 windmill, now in motion, and now at rest; a lime-kiln, 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 seve al 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 ner head-for it is now chill eveningand a 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 his most of the gossip spirit, he or I? there is no shame in the answer. Any such small amuse:nent is better than harmless-is salutary--which carries the sick pris

oner abroad into the open air, among country-people. When I shut down my window, I feel that my mind has had an airing.

For four years she was an inmate of this sick room. A reries of tales, illustrative of the evils springing from the Game Laws (1845), are marked by Miss Martineau's acuteness and tine 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 1845 appeared Eastern Life, Past and Present,' three volumes a very interesting book of travels, but disfigured by wild speculative opinions 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. This is an admirable account of the thirty years' peace. In 1851 Miss Martineau published a collection of letters between herself and Mr. II. G. Atkinson, On the Laws of Man's Nature and Development '-a work which met with universal condemnation. 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 fir-t 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 Martine au 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, a fierce polemic against theology and metaphysics, with all the notions and sentiments that have their root in them'-a 'strict limitation of the human faculties to phenomenal knowledge.' Hence the system not only fails to provide an aim for the action of man and of society; but if an aim were conceded to it, has no moral force to keep men steady, no counteracting power to the notorious selfishness and sensuality against which we have ever to be on our guard.' In 1854 Miss Martineau published a Complete Guide to the Lakes.' Many years since she fixed her residence in the beautiful Lake country at Ambleside, where she managed her little farm of two acres with the skill of a practical agriculturalist, and was esteemed an affectionate friend and good neighbor. She was a regular contributor of

political and social articles to the 'Daily News' and other journals. În 1869 she reproduced in one volume all the short memoirs, royal, political, professional, scientific, social and literary, which she had written for the Daily News' from her first connection with the paper in 1852. These form a very interesting and instructive work— high-toned 1 principle, and felicitous in expression. She is occasionally unjust, as in the case of Macaulay, and inaccurate in others, but she is never dull. Miss Martineau also contributed articles to 'Once a Week' and other periodicals. It was impossible for her to be idle so long as a shred of health remained. She died on the evening of the 27th of June 1876, having entered on her 75th year. Immediately after her death the Daily News' printed an autobiography sent to that journal by Miss Martineau when she believed she was near Ccati: in 1855. It is a remarkably frank, unaffected production. As a writer of fiction, she says of herself: None of her novels or tales have, or ever had, in the eyes of good judges or in her own, any character of permanence. The artistic aim and qualifications were absent; she had no power of dramatic construction; nor the poetic inspiration on the one hand, nor critical cultivation on the other, without which no work of the imagination can be worthy to live. Two or three of her Political Economy Tales are perhaps her best achievement in fiction-her doctrine 1urnishing the plot which she was unable to create, and the brevity of space duly restricting the indulgence in detail which injured her lenger narratives, and at last warned her to leave off writing them. It was fortunate for her that her own condemnation anticipated that of the public. To the end of her life she was subject to solicitations to write more novels and more tales; but she for the most part remained steady in her refusal.' Of her book on Society in America,' while claiming credit for it as a trustworthy account of the political structure and relations of the Federal and State Governments, she says: On the whole, the book is not a favourable specimen of Larrict Martineau's writings, either in regard to moral or ar istic taste. It is full of affectations and preachments.' As to religion, she describes herself as being, in early life, an earnest Unitarian. But she says that her 'Eastern Life, Past and Present,'-which she ranks as the Lest of her writingsshewed that at that time (1849) she was no longer a Unitarian, or a believer in revelation at all.' With regard to the Letters on the Laws of Man's Nature and Development,' she bs rves: This book brought upon its writers, as was inevitable, the imputation of atheism from the multitude who cannot distinguish between the popular and the philosophical sense of the word-between the disbelief in the popular theology which has caused a long series of religious n en to be called athei-ts, and the disbelief in a First Cause-a disbelief which is expressly disclaimed in the book.'

Miss Martineau thus accounts for her choice of rural instead of London life: She felt that she could not be happy, or in the Lest

way useful, if the declining years of her life were spent in lodgings in the morning and drawing-rooms in the evening. A quiet home of her own, and some few dependent on her for their domestic welfare, she believed to be essential to every true woman's peace of mind; and she chose her plan of life accordingly.'

The Napiers.

Two generations of Englishmen have rejoiced in the felt and lively presence of a family who seemed born to perpetuate the associations of a heroic age, and to ele vate the national sentiment at least to the point reached in the best part of the military period of our civilisation, while our mere talkers were bemoaning the material tendencies and the sordid temper of our people in our own century. The noble old type of the British knight, lofty in valour and in patriotism, was felt to exist in its full virtue while we had the Napiers in our frout, conspicuous in the eyes of an observing world. We have every reason to hope that the type will not be lost, whatever may be the destiny of Europe as to war or peace..... We have many gallaut men left, as we always have had, and always shall have; but there never have been any, and there never can be any like the Napiers. They were a group raised from among the medieval dead, and set in the midst of us, clothed in a temperament which admit ed al the ameliorating influences of our period of civilisation. They were a great and never-to-be-forgotten sight to our generation; and our posterity will see them in the mirror of tradition for ages to come. We are wont to say that tradition is old and has left off work; but it is not often now that tradition has such a theme as the Napiers. It will not willingly be let die till tradition itself is dead.

The Royal Marriage Law (1857.)

There was a strong hope that when our young Queen Victoria, who was at fall liberty as sovereign to please herself in marriage, had made her choice, this wretched and demoralising Marriage Act. always reprobated by the wisest and best men of the time, would be repealed. There were then none left of the last generation who could be pointed at, or in any way affected by such a repeal; and it was thought that it would be wise to do the thing before there was a new generation to introduce difficulty into the case. The opportunity has almost been allowed to slip from us. The royal children have ceased to be children, at least the elder ones. Meantime there is, as we all know, a strong and growing popular distrust in our own country and in others of the close dynastic connections which are multiplying by means of the perpetual intermarriages of a very few families. The political difficulties recently, and indeed constantly experienced from the complication of family interests involving almost every throne in Europe, are a matter of universal feeling and conversation. There is no chance for the physical and intellectual welfare of coming generations when marriages take place among blood relations; and there is no chance for moralIty and happiness when, under legal or state compulsion, young people love in one direction and marry in another. No evils that could possibly arise from marriages out of the royal pale can for a moment compare with the inevitable results of a marriage law like ours, perpetuated through other generations, than the unhappy one that is gone. Royalty will have quite difficulties enough to contend with, all ihrough Europe, in coming times, without the perils consequent on this law. Its operation will expose all the intermarried royal families in Europe to criticism and ultimate rejection by peoples who will not be governed by a coterie of persons diseased in body through narrow intermariage, enfeebled in mind-strong only in their prejudices, and large only in their self-esteem and in requirements. There is yet time to save the thrones of Europe-or at least the royal palaces of England-from the consequences of a collision between the great natural laws ordained by Providence, and the narrow and mischievous artificial law ordained by a wilful king of England. That king is in his grave, and the last of his children is now gone to join him there. Let the time be laid hold of to bury his evil work in the tomb which is now to be sealed over him and his for ever; and the act will be gratefully acknowledged by a long line of future princes and princesses, who will be spared the bitter suffering of those who have gone before. It can never be, as was said by wise men eighty years ago, that