he need only be faithful to his subject; and cannot be held responsible for the want of grace in his heroes, or of piquancy in the circumstances which surround them. The novelist is responsible not only for the drawing of the figures, but for the position in which he places them. He must not only be true, but the truth must interest. There must be a purpose in all that seems casual; and a power of concentration, which shall give to the catastrophe its proper pre-eminence over the subordinate incidents. It is very true that the most ordinary subjects may be raised into importance, and rendered attractive, by the faithfulness with which they are represented. But if it is a merit to be a Mieris, it is a still greater merit to be a Hogarth, who never depicted the merest trifle, without interweaving it with the main subject and business of the picture, and making it conduce to the general effect. Now, in this concentration of purpose-this felicity of arrangementwhich is so instrumental to the success of a novel, the authoress of Deerbrook' has not excelled. It contains descriptive scenes of much poetical beauty―eloquent expositions of opinion-admirable sentiments, truly conceived and forcibly expressed; and frequent evidence of a deep knowledge of human nature. Yet, with all these merits-and they are great and numerous-it is not such a novel as is likely to be popular. It has little incident, and little variety. It sins, occasionally, against probability, without the poor excuse of having so sinned for the sake of a startling or romantic interest; and we meet with much that is not at all essential to the conduct of the story. Miss Martineau owes nothing to her subject. The scene she has chosen is contracted. The events are few, tame, and trite. No great interests are brought into play; and the charactersinhabitants of a country village-belong chiefly to that highly valuable, but most unromantic and unpicturesque, portion of the community-the middle class. Miss Martineau has written as though disdaining such adventitious aids as usually conduce most to make novels attractive. She has addressed herself to thoughtful and patient readers; and has not ministered to that impatient craving after some excitement, which is characteristic of too large a portion of the novel-reading public. She will, doubtless, have her reward-the reward of that species of success to which, probably, she has had the wisdom to confine her expectations; but that reward will not be extensive and immediate popularity. This work reminds us, in some respects, of the writings of an authoress, who, though eventually much esteemed, did not immediately receive her due meed of popularity—we mean the late Miss Austin. There is the same microscopic observation of foibles-the same quick sense of the ridiculous, especially as dis played in affectation and pretension; both avoid the leaven of romance; and both draw their scenes among country society of the middle classes. Both have displayed a very uncommon knowledge of human nature; but Miss Austin is like one who plays by ear, while Miss Martineau understands the science. Miss Austin has the air of being led to right conclusions by an intuitive tact-Miss Martineau unfolds her knowledge of the principles on which her correct judgment is founded. Each also has advantages which the other does not possess. Miss Martineau has more eloquence, more poetry, more masculine vigour of style; Miss Austin had more grace, more ease, more playful humour, and a more subtle and lively power of ridicule-more skill in making her personages speak characteristically-and a more exquisite completeness of design and strict attention to probability. We have already said that the plot of Deerbrook constitutes no prominent portion of its merits. It is indeed very simple, and owes its interest to the intimate acquaintance we make at once with the personages who figure in it. A few pages in the commencement serve to show the footing on which the families of Messrs Grey and Rowland (partners in business) are living. The very first chapter opens to us a little volume of envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness-such as rarely exists but in a small society, or can be fed but by close neighbourhood; and in the sayings and doings' of these families, we see an admirable representation of village gossip, malice, and vulgarity-mixed with occasional touches of homely kindness, which heighten our sense of its utility. Of the merits of Deerbrook, foremost in our opinion are its able analyses of dispositions, and especially of what may be called the morbid anatomy of human passions. Next is the careful and skilful delineation of the principal characters of the work-especially of the three heroines (for such they are in the interest they awaken), Maria Young, and the sisters Hester and Margaret Ibbotson. The family resemblance and individual difference between two sisters, pure, attractive, and refined, must be an agreeable subject of contemplation, whether in reality or in fiction; and among the many portraits of sisters with which fiction abounds, we do not remember to have met with any more original and yet more true. The characters of the two furnish throughout, beautiful specimens of that nice discrimination of feelings and motives which so peculiarly distinguish the writings of Miss Martineau, and render them at once attractive and instructive. In Hester and Margaret, we perceive the same refinement, the same tastes, the same manners, something even of the same turn of thought, which makes us feel that, to the eyes of casual observers, they bore the usual sisterly resemblance; while in disposition and feelings there existed the widest difference. In Margaret, we find that engaging combination of gentleness and firmness which strong principle can give to the softest nature-there is the ready sympathy that teaches her to rejoice with those that rejoice, and weep with those that weep-the self-sacrificing spirit, that makes the happiness of others still dearer to her than her own the active principle of benevolence, that turns pity into usefulness, and resignation into cheerfulness-the timidity of gentleness with the courage of good sense. In Hester, we see that union of acute feeling and morbid sensibility, which is, of all states, most dangerous to the happiness of those in whom it exists. In Mrs Opie's tale of the Odd-tempered Man,' we had a striking picture of this unhappy combination; but there it was in that extreme form which led the sane to the borders of insanity. Here we have the same state existing in the milder form in which it is more frequently to be found, leading the amiable to the borders of the unamiable. This diseased sensitiveness, which craves with an unhealthy appetite for undue demonstrations, is a failing of which the seeds are to be found in characters, that, but for this one evil, would have added to the happiness, as they enjoyed the affections, of their friendly and domestic circle. Of all ill weeds, it is that, too, which most grows apace. It needs no soil to nourish it, no food to support it; for it will derive fresh strength even from that which should destroy it; till at last it spreads around and overshadows those feelings which should have arisen above its influence. It extinguishes all sympathy, it destroys all trust; acuteness of feeling, tenderness, sensibility, generosity, are soon lost to others; and an active egotism, exacting where it does not repay, is the only remaining tie to those whose kindness is misconstrued, affections doubted, and sincerity suspected. There are probably few, if any, who, through irritability of temper or depression of spirits, have not at times indulged in the expression of that species of discontent, and which has induced them to speak, and still more to feel, unkindly towards others. The whole character of Hester is a great practical lesson to those who are willing to read aright; and to all such we recommend the perusal of that character, and of the following eloquent appeal. • Mankind are ignorant enough, Heaven knows, both in the mass, about general interests, and individually, about the things which belong to their peace but of all mortals, none perhaps are so awfully self-deluded as the unamiable. They do not, any more than others, sin for the sake of sinning; but the amount of woe caused by their selfish unconsciousness, is such as may well make their weakness an equivalent for other men's gravest crimes. There is a great diversity of hiding-places for their consciences-many mansions in the dim prison of discontent: but it may be doubted whether, in the hour when all shall be uncovered to the eternal day, there will be revealed a lower depth than the hell which they have made. They, perhaps, are the only order of evil ones who suffer hell without seeing and knowing that it is hell. But they are under a heavier curse even than this; they inflict torments second only to their own, with an unconsciousness almost worthy of spirits of light. While they complacently conclude themselves the victims of others, or pronounce, inwardly or aloud, that they are too singular, or too refined, for common appreciation, they are putting in motion an enginery of torture whose aspect will one day blast their minds' sight. The dumb groans of their victims will sooner or later return upon their ears from the depths of the heaven to which the sorrows of men daily ascend. The spirit sinks under the prospect of the retribution of the unamiable, if all that happens be indeed for eternity-if there be indeed a record-an impress on some one or other human spirit-of every chilling frown, of every querulous tone, of every bitter jest, of every insulting word-of all abuses of that tremendous power which mind has over mind. The throbbing pulses, the quivering nerves, the wrung hearts that surround the unamiable—what a cloud of witnesses is here! and what plea shall avail against them? The terror of innocents who should know no fear-the vindictive emotions of dependents who dare not complain-the faintness of heart of lifelong companions-the anguish of those who love-the unholy exultation of those who hate-what an array of judges is here! and where can an appeal be lodged against their sentence? Is pride of singularity a rational plea? Is super-refinement, or circumstance from God, or uncongeniality in man, a sufficient ground of appeal, when the refinement of one is a grace granted for the luxury of all,-when circumstance is given to be conquered, and uncongeniality is appointed for discipline! The sensualist has brutified the seraphic nature with which he was endowed. The depredator has intercepted the rewards of toil, and marred the image of justice, and dimmed the lustre of faith in men's minds. The imperial tyrant has invoked a whirlwind, to lay waste, for an hour of God's eternal year, some region of society. But the unamiable—the domestic torturer has heaped wrong upon wrong, and woe upon woe, through the whole portion of time which was given into his power, till it would be rash to say that any others are more guilty than he. If there be hope or solace for such, it is that there may have been tempers about him the opposite of his own. It is matter of humiliation and gratitude that there were some which he could not ruin; and that he was the medium of discipline by which they were exercised in forbearance, in divine forgiveness, and love. If there be solace in such an occasional result, let it be made the most of by those who need it; for it is the only possible alleviation to their remorse. Let them accept it as the free gift of a mercy which they have insulted, and a long-suffering which they have defied.' Next in interest to the portraiture of the two sisters, is the character of Maria Young-the crippled, patient, much-enduring, cheerful governess. She is in no way essential to the development of the plot; but some of the most delightful passages in the book are drawn from her conversations or reflections. The written thoughts of the poor young cripple, as she sits at the window on a soft spring day, watching the happy group, born to hopes and pleasures from which she has been cut off, are very touching, and replete with valuable truth. It is a luxury," thought the gazer, "for one who cannot move about to sit here and look abroad. I wonder whether I should have been with the party if I had not been lame. I daresay something would have taken off from the pleasure if I had. But how well I can remember what the pleasure is! The jumping stiles-the feel of the turf under foot-the running after every flower-the going wherever one has a fancy to gohow well I remember it all! And yet it gives me a sort of surprise to see the activity of these children, and how little they are aware of what their privilege is. I fancy, however, the pleasure is more in the recollection of all such natural enjoyments than at the moment. It is so with : me, and I rather think with every body. This very landscape is more beautiful in the dark night, when I cannot sleep, than at this very moment, when it looks its best and brightest and surely this is the great difference between that sort of pleasures and those which come altogether from within. The delight of a happy mood of mind is beyond every thing at the time; it sets one above all that can happen; it steeps one in heaven itself; but one cannot recall it: one can only remember that it was so. The delight of being in such a place as those woods, is generally more or less spoiled at the time by trifles which are forgotten afterwards;-one is hungry, or tired, or a little vexed with somebody, or doubtful whether somebody else is not vexed; but then the remembrance is purely delicious-brighter in sunshine, softer in shade-wholly tempered to what is genial. The imagination is a better medium than the eye. This is surely the reason why Byron could not write poetry on Lake Leman, but found he must wait till he got within four walls. This is the reason why we are all more moved by the slightest glimpses of good descriptions in books, than by the amplitude of the same objects before our eyes. I used to wonder how that was, when, as a child, I read the openings of scenes and books in Paradise Lost.' I saw plenty of summer sunrises; but none of them gave me a feeling like the two lines, , Now morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime If all this be so, our lot is more equalized than is commonly thought. Once having received pictures into our minds, and possessing a clear eye in the mind to see them with, the going about to obtain more is not of very great consequence. This comforts one for prisoners suffering carcere duro, and for townspeople who cannot often get out of the streets; and for lame people like me, who see others tripping over commons and through fields where we cannot go. I wish there was as much comfort the other way-about such as suffer from unhappy moods of minds, and know little of the joy of the highest. It would be a small gain to them to fly like birds to see like the eagle itself.--O, there are the children! So that is their cowslip meadow! How like children they all look together, down on the grass!-gathering cowslips, I suppose. The two in black are more eager about it than Sophia. She sits on the stile while they are busy. The children are holding forth to their cousinsteaching them something evidently. How I love to overlook peopleto watch them acting unconsciously, and speculate for them! It is the most tempting thing in the world to contrast the little affairs one sees |