"The inheriters of unfulfill'd renown Far in the unapparent. Chatterton And many more, whose names on earth are him (in deep consumption the while) hang- | shrined in the verse of " Alastor?" Let ing over the fatal review in the "Quar- "Adonais" be at once his panegyric and terly" as if fascinated, reading it again. his mausoleum:and again, sucking out every drop of the poison. Had he but had the resolution, as we have known done in similar circumstances, of dashing it against the wall, or kicking it into the fire! Even Percival Stockdale could do this to "The Edinburgh Review," when it cut up his "Lives of the English Poets;" and John Keats was worth many thousands of him. But disappointment, disease, deep love, and poverty, combined to unman him. Through his thin materialism he "felt the daisies growing over him." And in this lowly epitaph did his soaring ambitions terminate:-"Here lies one whose name was writ in water." But why mourn over his fate, when the lamentation of all hearts has been already en Though their transmitted effluence cannot So long as fire outlives its parent spark, 'It was for thee yon kingless sphere has Swung blind in unascended majesty, MRS HEMANS. mitting this as our characteristic, we must confess the diffidence as well as the goodwill wherewith we approach a subject where respect for truth and respect for the sex are sometimes apt to jostle and jar. FEMALE authorship is, if not a great, certainly a singular fact. And if a singular fact in this century, what must it have been in the earlier ages of the world, when it existed as certainly as now, and was more than now a phenomenon, The works of British women have now standing often insulated and alone? If, taken up, not by courtesy but by right, a even in this age, blues are black-balled, full and conspicuous place in our literaand homespun is still the "only wear," and ture. They constitute an elegant library music, grammar, and gramarye are the in themselves; and there is hardly a deonly three elements legitimately included partment in science, in philosophy, in and generally expected in the education morals, in politics, in the belles lettres, in of woman, in what light must the Aspa- fiction or in the fine arts, but has been sias and the Sapphos of the past have occupied, and ably occupied, by a lady. been regarded? Probably as lusus naturæ, This certainly proclaims a high state of in whom a passionate attachment to lite- cultivation on the part of the many, which rature was pardoned as a pleasant pecca- has thus flowered out into composition in dillo or agreeable insanity; just as a slight the case of the few. It exhibits an extensquint in the eye of a beauty, or even a sion and refinement of that element of far-off faux pas in her reputation, is still female influence which, in the private innot unfrequently forgiven. But alas! by tercourse of society, has been productive and by, the exception is likely to become of such blessed effects-it mingles with the rule the lusus the law; and, at all the harsh tone of general literature, "as events, of female authorship the least the lute pierceth through the cymbal's gallant of critics is compelled now to take clash"-it blends with it a vein of delicognisance; and, without absolutely ad-cate discrimination, of mild charity, and of purity of morals-gives it a healthy Passing from such preliminary remarks, and happy tone, the tone of the fireside; we proceed to our theme. We have seit is in the chamber of our literature, a lected Mrs Hemans as our first specimen quiet and lovely presence, by its very of female authors, not because we congentleness overawing as well as refining sider her the best, but because we conand beautifying it all. One principal sider her by far the most feminine writer of characteristic of female writing in our age the age. All the woman in her shines. is its sterling sense. It is told of Cole- You could not (unknowing of the author) ridge, that he was accustomed, on impor- open a page of her writings without feeling tant emergencies, to consult a female this is written by a lady. Her inspiration friend, placing implicit confidence in her always pauses at the feminine point. It first instinctive suggestions. If she pro- never "oversteps the modesty of nature," ceeded to add her reasons, he checked nor the dignity and decorum of womanher immediately. "Leave these, madam, hood. She is no sibyl, tossed to and fro to me to find out." We find this rare in the tempest of furious excitement, but and valuable sense-this short-hand rea- ever the calm mistress of the highest and soning-exemplified in our lady authors stormiest of her emotions. The finest com-producing, even in the absence of ori- pliment we can pay her-perhaps the ginal genius, or of profound penetration, finest compliment that it is possible to or of wide experience, a sense of perfect pay to woman, as a moral being-is to security, as we follow their gentle guid- compare her to " one of Shakspere's woance. Indeed, on all questions affecting men," and to say, had Imogen, or Isaproprieties, decorums, what we may call bella, or Cornelia become an author, she the ethics of sentimentalism, minor as well had so written. as major morals, their verdict may be Sometimes, indeed, Mrs Hemans herconsidered oracular, and without appeal. self seems seduced, through the warmth We remark, too, in the writings of females of her temperament, the facility and raa tone of greater generosity than in those pidity of her execution, and the intensely of men. They are more candid and ami- lyrical tone of her genius, to dream that able in their judgments of authors and the shadow of the Pythoness is waving of books. Commend us to female critics. behind her, and controlling the motions They are not eternally consumed by the of her song. To herself she appears to desire of being witty, astute, and severe, be uttering oracular deliverances. But of carping at what they could not equal unfortunately her poetry, as to all effec-of hewing down what they could or tive utterance of original truth, is silent. would not have built up. The principle, It is emotion only that is audible to the nil admirari, is none of theirs; and, whe- sharpest ear that listens to her song. A ther it be that a sneer disfigures their bee wreathing round you in the warm beautiful lips, it is seldom seen upon summer morn her singing circle, gives them. And, in correspondence with this, you as much new insight into the universe it is curious that (in our judgments, and, as do the sweetest strains which have we suspect, theirs) the worst critics are ever issued from this "voice of spring." persons who dislike the sex, and whom We are reluctantly compelled, therefore, the sex dislikes-musty fusty old bache- to deny her, in its highest sense, the name lors, such as Gifford, or certain pedantic of poet-a word often abused, often misprigs in the press of the present day. applied in mere compliment or courtesy, Ladies, on the other hand, are seldom but which ought ever to retain its stern severe judges of anything, except each and original signification. A maker she other's dress and deportment; and, in de- is not. What dream of childhood has fect of profound principles, they are helped she ever, to any imagination, re-born? out by that fine native sense of theirs, whose slumbers has she ever peopled which partakes of the genial nature, and with new and terrible visions? what new verges upon genius itself. form or figure has she annexed, like a se cond shadow, to our own idiosyncrasy, to she so did. She was more the organ of track us on our way for ever? to what sentiment and sensibility than of high mind has she given such a stamp of im- and solemn truth—more a golden mornpression as it feels eternity itself unable ing mist, now glittering and then gone to efface? There is no such result from in the sun, than a steady dial, at once the poetry of Mrs Hemans. She is less meekly reflecting and faithfully watching a maker than a musician, and her works and measuring his beams. appear rather to rise to the airs of the She was, as Lord Jeffrey well remarks, piano than to that still sad music of hu- an admirable writer of occasional verses. manity-the adequate instrument for the She has caught, in her poetry, passing expression of which has not yet been in moods of her own mind-meditations of vented by man. From the tremulous the sleepless night-transient glimpses movement, the wailing cadences, the ar- of thought, visiting her in her serener tistic pauses, and the conscious-swelling hours the "silver lining" of those cloudy climaxes of her verse, we always figure her feelings which preside over her darkeras modulating, inspiring, and controlling the impressions made upon her mind by her thoughts and words to the tune of the more remarkable events of her everysome fine instrument, which is less the day life-and the more exciting passages vehicle than the creator of the strain. of her reading. Her works are a versified In her poetry, consequently, the music journal of a quiet, ideal, and beautiful rather awakens the meaning, than does life-the life at once of a woman and a the meaning round and mellow off into poetess, with just enough, and no more, the music. of romance to cast around it a mellow With what purpose does a lady, in autumnal colouring. The songs, hymns, whom perfect skill and practice have not and odes in which this life is registered, altogether drowned enthusiasm, sit down are as soft and bright as atoms of the to her harp, piano, or guitar? Not alto-rainbow; like them, tears transmuted into gether for the purpose of display-not at glory, but no more than they great or all for that of instruction to her audience complete. In many poets we see the --but in a great measure that she may gern of greatness, which might, in hapdevelop, in a lawful form, the sensibilities pier circumstances, or in a more genial of her own bosom. Thus sat Felicia season, have been developed. But no Hemans before her lyre—not touching it such germ can the most microscopic surwith awful reverence, as though each vey discover in her, and we feel that at string were a star, but regarding it as the her death her beautiful but tiny task was soother and sustainer of her own high-done. Indeed, with such delicate orgawrought emotions—a graceful alias of nisation, and such intense susceptiveness herself. Spring, in its vague joyous- as hers, the elaboration, the long reach of ness, has not a more appropriate voice in thought, the slow cumulative advance, the note of the cuckoo than feminine the deep-curbed yet cherished ambition sensibility had in the more varied but which a great work requires and implies, hardly profounder song of the author are, we fear, incompatible. before us. We wish not to be misunderstood. Mrs Hemans had something more than the common belief of all poets in the existence of the Beautiful. She was a genuine woman, and therefore the sequence (as we shall see speedily) is irresistible, imbued with a Christian spirit. Nor has she feared to set her creed to music in her poetry. But it was as a betrayal, rather than as a purpose, that It follows naturally from this, that her largest are her worst productions. They labour under the fatal defect of tedium. They are a surfeit of sweets. Conceive an orchard of rose-trees. Who would not, stupified and bewildered by excess and extravagance of beauty, prefer the old, sturdy, and well-laden boughs of the pear and pippin, and feel the truth of the adage "the apple-tree is the fairest tree in the wood?" "Hence, few, compara tively, have taken refuge in her "Forest | tables, like a foreign curiosity, to be seen, Sanctuary;" reluctant and rare the ears shown, and lifted, rather than to be read which have listened to her "Vespers of and pondered. A William Miller sings, Palermo;" in her "Siege of Valencia" one gloaming, his "Wee Willie Winkie," she has stormed no hearts, and her and the nurseries of an entire nation re"Sceptic" has made, we fear, few con- echo the simple strain, and every Scottish verts. But who has not wept over her mother blesses, in one breath, her babe "Graves of a Household," or hushed his and his poet. We mention this, not enheart to hear her "Treasures of the Deep," tirely to approve, but in part to wonder in which the old Sea himself seems to at it. It is not just that one strain from, speak, or wished to take the left hand of a lute or a Pan's-pipe should survive a the Hebrew child and lead him up, along thunder-psalm—that effusions should, with his mother, to the temple service; eclipse works. or thrilled and shouted in the gorge of Mrs Hemans' poems are strictly effu"Morgarten," or trembled at the stroke of sions; and not a little of their charm her "Hour of Death?" Such poems are of springs from their unstudied and extemthe kind which win their way into every pore character. This, too, is in fine keephouse, and every collection, and every heart. ing with the sex of the writer. You are They secure for their authors a sweet saved the ludicrous image of a doublegarden plot of reputation, which is envied dyed Blue, in papers and morning wrapby none, and with which no one inter-per, sweating at some stupendous treatise meddles. Thus flowers smile, unharmed, or tragedy from morn to noon, and from to the bolt which levels the pine beside noon to dewy eve; you see a graceful and them. Even a single sweet poem, flow-gifted woman, passing from the cares of ing from a gentle mind in a happy hour, her family and the enjoyments of society, is as "ointment poured forth," and carries to inscribe on her tablets some fine a humble name in fragrance far down into thought or feeling, which had throughfuturity, while the elaborate productions out the day existed as a still sunshine of loftier spirits rot upon the shelves. upon her countenance, or perhaps as a A Lucretius exhausts the riches of his quiet, unshed tear in her eye. In this magnificent mind in a stately poem, case, the transition is so natural and which is barely remembered, and never graceful, from the duties or delights of read. A Wolfe expresses the emotions the day to the employments of the desk, of every heart at the recital of Sir John that there is as little pedantry in writMoore's funeral in a few rude rhymes, ing a poem as in writing a letter, and the and becomes immortal. A Shelley, dip-author appears only the lady in flower. ping his pen in the bloody sweat of his Indeed, to recur to a former remark, Mrs lonely and agonised heart, traces volumi- Hemans is distinguished above all others nous lines of "red and burning" poetry, by her intense womanliness; and as her and his works are known only to some own character is so true to her sex, so hardy explorers. A Michael Bruce trans- her sympathies with her sex are very pefers one spring-joy of his dying frame, culiar and profound. Of the joys and the stirred by the note of the cuckoo, to a brief sorrows, the difficulties and the duties, and tear-stained page, and henceforth the the trials and the temptations, the hopes voice of the bird seems vocal with his and the fears, the proper sphere and misname, and wherever you hear its strange, sion of woman, and of those peculiar connameless, tameless, wandering, unearthly solations which the "world cannot give voice, you think of the poet who sighed nor take away," that sustain her even away his soul and gathered his fame in when baffled, she has a true and thorough its praise. A Bayley constructs a work appreciation; and her "Records of Wo"before all ages," lavishes on it imagina- man," and her "Songs of the Affections," tion that might suffice for a century of are just audible beatings of the deep fepoets, and it lies, on some recherché male heart. In our judgment, Mrs Ellis's idea of woman is trite, vulgar, and limit-ble fields are bathed-the rekindling of ed, compared with that of "Egeria," as the cheerful fires upon the hearth-the Miss Jewsbury used fondly to denote her leaves falling to their own sad musicbeloved friend. What a gallery of Shak- the rising stackyards-the wild fruit, ripspere's female characters would the author ened at the cold sun of the frost-the of the "Mothers, Daughters, and Women "ineffable gleams of light dropping upon of England," have painted! What could favourite glens or rivers, or hills that she have said of Juliet? How would she shine out like the shoulder of Pelops' have contrived to twist Beatrice into a the beseeching looks with which, trempattern Miss? Perdita! would she have bling on the verge of winter, the belated sent her to a boarding-school? or insisted season seems to say, "Love me well, I on finishing the divine Miranda? Of am the last of the sisterhood that you that pretty Pagan, Imogen, what would she can love;" in short, that indescribable make? Imagine her criticism on Lady charm which breathes in its very air, coMacbeth, or on Ophelia's dying speech lours its very light, and sheds its joy of and confession, or her revelation of the grief over all things, have concurred with "Family Secrets" of the "Merry Wives some sweet and some sad associations to of Windsor!" render autumn to us the loveliest and Next to her pictures of the domestic the dearest of all the seasons. As Mrs affections, stand Mrs Hemans' pictures Hemans loved woodland scenery for its of nature. These are less minute than kindly "looks of shelter," so she loved passionate, less sublime than beautiful, the autumn principally for its corresponless studies than free, broad, and rapid dence with that fine melancholy which sketches. Her favourite scenery was the was the permanent atmosphere of her woodland, a taste in which we can tho-being. In one of her letters, speaking of roughly sympathise. In the wood there an autumn day, she says, "The day was are a fulness, a roundness, a rich harmony, one of a kind I like—soft, still, and grey, and a comfort, which soothe and com- such as makes the earth appear 'a penpletely satisfy the imagination. There, sive but a happy place.' We have too, there is much life and motion. The sometimes thought that much of Wordsglens, the still moorlands, and the rugged worth's poetry should always be read, hills, will not move, save to one master and can never be so fully felt as in the finger, the finger of the earthquake, who autumn, when "Laodamia," at least, must is chary of his great displays; but before have been written. Should not poems, each lightest touch of the breeze the com- as well as pictures, have their peculiar placent leaves of the woodland begin to light, in which alone they can properly be stir, and the depth of solitude seems in-seen? Should not Scott be read in spring, stantly peopled, and from perfect silence Shelley in the fervid summer, Wordsworth there comes a still small voice, so sweet in autumn, Cowper and Byron in winter, and sudden, that it is as if every leaf were Shakspere all the year round? the tongue of a separate spirit. Her fa- In many points, Mrs Hemans reminds vourite season was the autumn, though us of a poet just named, and whom she her finest verses are dedicated to the passionately admired-namely, Shelley! spring. Here, too, we devoutly participate Like him, drooping, fragile, a reed shaken in her feelings. The shortening day-the by the wind, a mighty wind, in sooth, too new outbursting from their veil of day- powerful for the tremulous reed on which light of those, in summer, neglected trem- it discoursed its music; like him, the vicblers, the stars-the yellow corn-the grey tim of exquisite nervous organisation; like and pensive light-the joy of harvest-the him, verse flowed on and from her, and fine firing of all the groves (not the "fading the sweet sound often overpowered the but the kindling of the leaf")-the fre- meaning, kissing it, as it were, to death; quent and moaning winds-the spiritual like him, she was melancholy, but the quiet in which, at other times, the stub- | sadness of both was musical, tearful, ac |