2. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES.

*Lives of Lord Lyndhurst and Lord Brougham. Lord Chancellors, and Keepers of the Great Seal of England" by the late John Lord Campbell. Those who have perased the Lives of the Chancellors." made public during his lifetime by Lord Campbell, and notably those of Lords Eldon and Erskine, will be prepared for many of the grievens defects with which these posthumous memoirs are chokefull. They will hardly, however, be prepared for the absurdities which it has pleased the author to introduce repeatedly into his narratives, not to mention the marvellous bad taste to say the least every where conspicuous in them. The fact is, Lord Campbell was the very man who ought to have abstained from any life of either of these his two contemporary Chancellors, and this, if for no other reason, because during a long legal career he had been perpetually in conflict with one, if not both of them, and had shown himself, as those who remember those times can readily recollect, by no means a kind or generous antagonist. We therefore fully expected to meet with what we shall call “vulgar sneers," though we confess we did not suppose we should have found quite so much of them as we have really met with.

To begin with the notice of Lord Lyndhurst. It is well known that at a famous dinner in 1846, given by the Benchers to the heads of the law, on the occasion of Sir Robert Peel's retirement, Brougham, in allusion to Lord Campbell's "Lives of the Chancellors," remarked that "to an expiring Chancellor death was now armed with a new terror." But even Brougham did not foresee how every point that could have been made against himself and Lyndhurst would be taken advantage of by their "friend" and biographer: no trifling act, no petty phrase which could seem to dénigrer them being omitted by this singularly and affectedly candid pen. Thus, noticing Lyndhurst's pedigree, Lord Campbell states that he can find nothing of his ancestry in Debrett, Lodge, or Burke, "they do not even mention the Chancellor's father, for they all begin with his own birth on May 21, 1772, as if he had then sprung from the earth, without even telling us what region of the world witnessed this wonderful vegetation." Wonderful vegetation indeed! and wonderful perversion of language! We thought all the world knew that Lyndhurst's father was the great painter who drew the deaths of Wolfe and Chatham, of Major Pierson, of the siege of Gibraltar, and of the arrest of the five members by Charles I.; and that his illustrious son lived to his death in the house in George-street, Hanover-square, he inherited from a father he venerated, some of whose finest works he retained. Certainly Lyndhurst was the last man to care whether his name, Copley, might once have sounded like the Norman De Couple," but every one who had the privilege of knowing him knew, also, that he was proud indeed of his immediate ancestor.

The writer of this article had the good fortune to hear him speak in the House of Lords in March, 1849, in reference to works of art:-"They recall to my recollection many circumstances of my early life: when I attended the lectures of Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. Barry, and other professors, when I was very much associated with the proceedings of the Royal Academy, and when I was intimately acquainted with many of its members." On another occasion, he related that at one of Reynolds's lectures at which he was present, an alarm was spread that the floor was giving way, on which Burke, who also was one of the

audience, implored those there to keep calm, that the danger might not be increased by a rush. It should be added that when this speech was spoken, Lyndhurst was nearly seventy-seven, and that he was speaking of lectures which he could not have heard more recently than fifty-seven years before, as Sir Joshua himself died in 1792. Nor is Lord Campbell more just when he comes to speak of his later years, when, after attaining the University honour of second wrangler in 1794, Copley took to the serious study of the law, under the well-known Mr. Tidd, for the biographer states, "In after-life he (Lord Lyndhurst), asserted that he had never been a Whig-which I can testify to be true. He was a Whig, and something more-or, in one word, a Jacobin. He would refuse to be present at a dinner given on the return of Mr. Fox for Westminster, but he delighted to dine with the Corresponding Society,' or to celebrate the anniversary of the acquittal of Hardy and Tooke." Now, nothing can be farther from the fact. That young Copley may, for a short period—before men knew what the French Revolution would really become-have embraced principles of liberty which we know such men as Mackintosh, Southey, and Coleridge likewise adopted (only to discard them when, in a few years, they discerned their hollowness), is likely enough, nor could such a course be quoted as an instance of base political treason against any one by any other writer than Lord Campbell: but that Copley was no more Republican by ancestry than he was in maturer years from judgment, is certain from the fact that his family were sufferers for their adherence to and preference for the English Constitution, and that they were devotedly loyal.

Again, though always in the same dispreziativo tone, we find Lord Campbell remarking that "he never heard of his being engaged in any literary undertaking, except writing some letters in the Times newspaper along with Benjamin D'Israeli, under the signature of Runnimede;"" and, further, that "Copley always had a great contempt for authorship, and would rather starve than disgrace himself by it." Two assertions for which, we need scarcely add, he gives no authority at all. When we come to what may be called Lord Lyndhurst's social relations, the calumnies become more foul, and the spirit of the calumniator worse and worse. Thus, after stating that Copley married first, in 1820, the widow of an officer who had fallen at Waterloo, and who was justly celebrated for her beauty and social talents, he adds, that, after living with her for some years in harmony, "there were afterwards jealousies and bickerings between them, which caused much talk and amusement; but they continued on decent terms till her death, in 1834, at Paris, an event he sincerely lamented. He was sitting as Chief Baron in the Court of Exchequer when he received the fatal news. He swallowed a large quantity of laudanum and set off to see her remains; but his strength of mind soon again fitted him for the duties and pleasures of life." We think we are fully justified in saying that a more farouche statement never flowed from the pen of any professing friend.

But enough of Lord Campbell's judgment of Lord Lyndhurst. When from this we turn to his life of Lord Brougham we notice the same defects as before, only they are decidedly intensified, Lord Campbell's dislike of Brougham being much greater than his dislike of Lyndhurst. One short sentence shows at once the temper and the tone in which Lord Campbell was prepared to describe the brilliant abilities of his great rival. Speaking of Brougham's disappointment at not immediately obtaining an extensive practice on being called to the English Bar in 1808, he says, "Neither brief nor retainer came in, and the world seemed quite uncon

scious of the great epoch which was supposed to have arrived in our forensic history." A sneer which was as unjust as unmerited. It is, however, certain that, with all his brilliant talents, Brougham did not get a large practice till he got into Parliament in 1810, but his success in Parliament itself was complete, for we find him at the end of the first Session competing with the Right Hon. G. Ponsonby, ex-Chancellor of Ireland, for the leadership of the Opposition, though shortly afterwards treated, as the Whigs have ever been ready to treat their ablest servants, with jealousy and distrust, and thus kept out of Parliament between 1812 and 1816.

"The Life of Columbus," by Arthur Helps and friends, could hardly fail to be a book worthy of perusal when we remember what this writer has accomplished in his earlier literary efforts; but we are not quite sure that this, his last, is his happiest compilation; indeed, we should much have preferred it, could we have known for certain how much of it was the actual production of his own pen. The author of " Friends in Council," one of the most original books ever written, -the writer of the "History of the Spanish Conquest in America," Mr. Helps, has claims upon our attention which comparatively few other writers have established.

"The Life of the Rev. John Milne, of Perth," by the Rev. Horatius Bonar, D.D., belongs to a class of works now happily almost extinct, yet common enough in the old days of the Cameronians, and still apparently surviving in some parts of Scotland. A few extracts will show better than any comment the way in which Holy Scripture, or rather, perhaps, the lessons derivable from it, is tortured by these gentlemen to suit their unreasoning and unreasonable theories. Speaking of the desecration of Sunday, which, with the writers of his class, he will call the Sabbath-which it happens not to be-he says, "Last night I came upon a group of grown-up lads in High-street, making a nice-looking dog stand on his hind-legs and beg. He looked tired. I put my hand on the shoulder of one that was conducting the operation, and said, 'That's a very nice dog, and he does it very well; but should not you let him rest on God's day ? ' They seemed taken aback, and one of them said, 'It's quite right, sir, we should.'" One more extract, and our readers will have been able to form a fair judgment both of the value of the work as a biographical sketch, and of our opinion of it. "Going to the infirmary, a number of women were sitting on a high wall, and a man was parading before them, and they were making a great noise. I said, Take care; you are like a city set on a hill.' 'Hech, sir,' said one of them; and they were quite still." We own we fail to see the connexion between these worthy Scotch women, who were probably only indulging a natural love of talking, and the "city set on a hill" of the Bible. It is clear, however, that the women felt the force of the comparison, their silence showing, as the minister believes, that he had struck the true key-note.

"The Life of Sir George Sinclair, Bart.," by James Grant, will be of interest to any readers who care for the personal history of the more eminent men who have played their parts in England during the last seventy years. The son of Sir John Sinclair, himself a man of much note-the personal, we might add, the confidential friend of William Pitt, and the intimate acquaintance of all the most distinguished men of the last quarter of the last century :-sent, too, to Harrow when he was only ten years of age, yet, before a year had elapsed, the composer of a poem in Latin "On Human Life," which naturally attracted much attention, as the production of one only just in his teens-we should naturally expect that

George Sinclair would rise to be a man of mark, as he really did.

Nor was

his early life unadventurous; and it is much for a man who died only in 1868 to be able to say that the two most intimate friends of his boyish youth were Sir Robert Peel and Lord Byron. The latter has given an admirable account of him -The prodigy of our school was George Sinclair (son of Sir John). He made exercises for half the school, verses at will, and themes without it. He was a friend of mine, and in the same remove, and used at times to beg of me to let him do my exercise-a request always most readily accorded upon a pinch, or when I wanted to do something else, which was usually about once an hour. On the other hand, he was pacific and I savage; so I fought for him, or thrashed others for him, or thrashed himself to make him thrash others, when it was necessary as a point of honour and stature that he should so chastise; or we talked politics, for he was a great politician, and were very good friends." The whole book is full of anecdotes, with a voluminous correspondence from and with many of the most remarkable men of the times. Inter alia, we may notice a playful letter from Sir Francis Burdett to Sir John, thanking him for some grouse which had not arrived. It is dated, "Freemark, Sept. 17, 1838," and is as follows:-"I delayed answering your last, first, on account of Penn's having written to give time for digestion; next, in expectation of the grouse arriving, and that I might be able to tell you how good they were; and, also, that we were determined to treat ourselves to all you recommended, soups, broiled grouse, &c., &c., the description of which had excited such an appetite that we were like Esop's foxes attending their dying sire's confession, representing the dreadful spectre which haunted him of turkeys, geese, and the hungry foxes around them. As regards the promised treat, so, Pennand, all exclaim to you,—

'Where, Sir, is all this dainty cheer?

No grouse or ptarmigan is here;
These are the phantom of your brain,

And your friends lick their lips in vain!'

However, in consideration of your impatience, I will wait no longer, then, their arrival, but say, as Charles II. is reported to have done in answer to an offering from Parliament which he considered no benefit, and therefore declined accepting it, Charles the King having no need, thanks you as much as if he had'! We all thank you as much as if the grouse had arrived safe and sound; and, as soon as they do, all the culinary experiments pointed out will be diligently made, and, no doubt, successfully."

One anecdote more, and we have done: we quote it chiefly owing to the unhappy stories that have during this year been spread broadcast by an American novelist, who had some years since acquired not a little notoriety by her efforts (as it turned out, but too successful efforts) to stir up civil strife between the Southern and the Northern citizens of her own countrywe mean Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Need we say that it is an anecdote of the youth of Lord Byron? and illustrates most remarkably the evil manner in which he was brought up by a mother alternately fond and tyrannical, loving and spiteful. It was told to Sir John Sinclair by Sir Robert Abercromby, who had, as a child, lived on intimate terms with young Byron, while residing with his mother at the small town of Banff. It is as follows:Mrs. Byron sadly spoilt her son. One day, Mrs. Abercromby, who was constantly with her, said to her, 'Now, Mrs. Byron, if you don't punish your

son, not for the fault he has committed, but for telling a lie to screen himself, I declare I will do it myself.' On this Mrs. Byron got up and seized her son, and, after a struggle, she administered a sort of chastisement. When she let him down, he marched deliberately to where Mrs. Abercromby was sitting, and when he got near, he struck her a blow on the face with his fist, exclaiming, There, that is for you; if it had not been for you, my mother would never have dared to beat me!' Years afterwards, when Sir Robert Abercromby was in Parliament for Banffshire, he was one day behind the throne, when a striking looking youth came up, and asked, 'Is your name Abercromby?' He said it was. He then added, I suppose you don't know me.' But he had looked down at his feet, and replied, 'Oh, yes, I know you; you are Lord Byron.' He then added, 'How is your mother? I very well remember the beating she made my mother give me; but tell her from me, it would have been well for me had they been many more."

Mr. Hosack, in his "Mary Queen of Scots and her Accusers," writes like a gentleman, and with the zeal of the legal profession to which he belongs, but he must forgive us if we say that his book is the book of an advocate, and lacks wholly judicial calmness; could we forget poor Mary's marriage with Bothwell -unquestionably himself one of Darnley's murderers, whether or not the Queen herself was an accessory to it before the fact—we might be content with nearly all Mr. Hosack has written. But this is, in our judgment, the "damned spot' in her memory, which not "all great Neptune's ocean" will avail to wash away.

In Sir John Coleridge's "Life of John Keble" we find one of the most charming pieces of biography we have ever had the pleasure of perusing. Nor could we doubt that this would be so. Himself the pupil, and subsequently, for more than half a century, the most intimate friend of the poet, we were well assured that if a life of him were to be written, no pen could do it fuller justice; and so we find it. Uneventful as his life unquestionably was, if compared with the lives of statesmen, or great military commanders, it is probable that no one man ever exercised so wide an influence over so large a body of Christians of the English Church as did Keble. And yet he was almost wholly unconscious of this, as he was equally unconscious of the effect produced by his famous publication, "The Christian Year "—of which, by-the-bye, we learn from Sir J. Coleridge, that no less than 108,000 copies had been sold in forty-three editions during the twentyseven years that had elapsed between its first publication in 1827 and 1854. We believe the last edition for 1869 was something like the 83rd or 84th. The sale of "The Christian Year" has, we believe, been unsurpassed, except, possibly, by such works as 66 The Pilgrim's Progress," or "Robinson Crusoe."

It is hardly necessary here to draw attention to Keble's views, whether religious or political. Those who knew him well, knew, too, how he shrunk, almost instinctively, from any thing that seemed like putting himself forward; yet how firmly he stood against evil, imagined as well as real, whenever, in his judgment, there was need of resistance. We do not say that we think he was always right: sometimes, no doubt, he fell back too much on the times of the great Divines of the reign of Charles I., not sufficiently noting the changes which have separated the England of Victoria from the England of before the Civil Wars. Yet even in this sturdy objection to change there is much to love. The biographer quotes a sentence of his we ourselves heard him utter, "If," said he, "a measure offend against what I believe to be honest, or violate what I think sacred, I cannot admit any good motives in the framing thereof as palliatives." Doubtless, the