(October, 1829.) 1. Records of Women: with other Poems. By FELICIA HEMANS. pp. 323. Edinburgh: 1828. 2. The Forest Sanctuary: with other Poems. By FELICIA HEMAN3. Additions. 12mo. pp. 325. Edinburgh: 1829. WOMEN, we fear, cannot do every thing; nor even every thing they attempt. But what they can do, they do, for the most part, excellently-and much more frequently with an absolute and perfect success, than the aspirants of our rougher and more ambitious sex. They cannot, we think, represent naturally the fierce and sullen passions of men-nor their coarser vices-nor even scenes of actual business or contention-nor the mixed motives, and strong and faulty characters, by which affairs of moment are usually conducted on the great theatre of the world. For much of this they are disqualified by the delicacy of their training and habits, and the still more disabling delicacy which pervades their conceptions and feelings; and from much they are excluded by their necessary inexperience of the realities they might wish to describeby their substantial and incurable ignorance of business-of the way in which serious affairs are actually managed-and the true nature of the agents and impulses that give movement and direction to the stronger currents of ordinary life. Perhaps they are also incapable of long moral or political investigations, where many complex and indeterminate elements are to be taken into account, and a variety of opposite probabilities to be weighed before coming to a conclusion. They are generally too impatient to get at the ultimate results, to go well through with such discussions; and either stop short at some imperfect view of the truth, or turn aside to repose in the shade of some plausible error. This, however, we are persuaded, arises entirely from their being seldom set on such tedious tasks. Their proper and natural business is the practical regulation of private life, in all its bearings, affections, and concerns; and the questions with which they have to deal in that most important department, though often of the utmost difficulty and nicety, involve, for the most part, but few elements; and may generally be better described as delicate than intricate-requiring for their solution rather a quick tact and fine perception, than a patient or laborious examination. For the same reason, they rarely succeed in long works, even on subjects the best suited to their genius; their natural training rendering them equally averse to long doubt and long labour. For all other intellectual efforts, however, either of the understanding or the fancy, and requiring a thorough knowledge either of man's strength or his weakness, we apprehend them to be, in all respects, as well qualified as their brethren of the stronger sex: 2d Edition. 12mo. 2d Edition, with While, in their perceptions of grace, propriety, ridicule-their power of detecting artifice, hypocrisy, and affectation-the force and promptitude of their sympathy, and their capacity of noble and devoted attachment, and of the efforts and sacrifices it may require, they are, beyond all doubt, our Superiors. Their business being, as we have said, with actual or social life, and the colours it receives from the conduct and dispositions of individuals, they unconsciously acquire, at a very early age, the finest perception of character and manners, and are almost as soon instinctively schooled in the deep and more dangerous learning of feeling and emotion; while the very minuteness with which they make and meditate on these interesting observations, and the finer shades and variations of sentiment which are thus treasured and recorded, trains their whole faculties to a nicety and precision of operation, which often discloses itself to advantage in their application to studies of a different character. When women, accordingly, have turned their minds as they have done but too seldom-to the exposition or arrangement of any branch of knowledge, they have commonly exhibited, we think, a more beautiful accuracy, and a more uniform and complete justness of think ing, than their less discriminating brethren. There is a finish and completeness, in short, about every thing they put out of their hands, which indicates not only an inherent taste for elegance and neatness, but a habit of nice observation, and singular exactness of judgment. It has been so little the fashion, at any time, to encourage women to write for publi cation, that it is more difficult than it should be, to prove these truths by examples. Yet there are enough, within the reach of a very careless and superficial glance over the open field of literature, to enable us to explain, at least, and illustrate, if not entirely to verify, our assertions. No Man, we will venture to say, could have written the Letters of Madame de Sevigné, or the Novels of Miss Austin, or the Hymns and Early Lessons of Mrs. Barbauld, or the Conversations of Mrs. Marcet. Those performances, too, are not only essentially and intensely feminine; but they are, in our judgment, decidedly more perfect than any masculine productions with which they can be brought into comparison. They accomplish more completely all the ends at which they aim; and are worked out with a gracefulness and felicity of execution which excludes all idea of failure, and entirely satis that belongs to them, from the legends of dif ferent nations, and the most opposite states of society; and has contrived to re ain much of what is interesting and peculiar in each of them, without adopting, along with it, any of the revolting or extravagant excesses which may characterise the taste or manners of the people or the age from which it has been derived. She has transfused into her German or Scandinavian legends the imaginative and daring tone of the originals, without the mystical exaggerations of the one, or the painful fierceness and coarseness of the other-she has preserved the clearness and elegance of the French, without their coldness or affectation fies the expectations they may have raised. We might easily have added to these instances. There are many parts of Miss Edgeworth's earlier stories, and of Miss Mitford's sketches and descriptions, and not a little of Mrs. Opie's, that exhibit the same fine and penetrating spirit of observation, the same softness and delicacy of hand, and unerring truth of delineation, to which we have alluded as characterising the purer specimens of female art. The same distinguishing traits of woman's spirit are visible through the grief and piety of Lady Russel, and the gaiety, the spite, and the venturesomeness of Lady Mary Wortley. We have not as yet much female poetry; but there is a truly feminine tender--and the tenderness and simplicity of the ness, purity, and elegance, in the Psyche of early Italians, without their diffuseness or Mrs. Tighe, and in some of the smaller pieces langour. Though occasionally expatiating, of Lady Craven. On some of the works of somewhat fondly and at large, among the Madame de Staël-her Corinne especially sweets of her own planting, there is, on the there is a still deeper stamp of the genius of whole, a great condensation and brevity in her sex. Her pictures of its boundless de- most of her pieces, and, almost without exvotedness-its depth and capacity of suffering ception, a most judicious and vigorous con-its high aspirations-its painful irritability, clusion. The great merit, however, of her and inextinguishable thirst for emotion, are poetry, is undoubtedly in its tenderness and powerful specimens of that morbid anatomy its beautiful imagery. The first requires no of the heart, which no hand but that of a wo-explanation; but we must be allowed to add man's was fine enough to have laid open, or a word as to the peculiar charm and character skilful enough to have recommended to our of the latter. sympathy and love. There is the same ex- It has always been our opinion, that the quisite and inimitable delicacy, if not the very essence of poetry-apart from the pathos, same power, in many of the happier passages the wit, or the brilliant description which of Madame de Souza and Madame Cottin-to may be embodied in it, but may exist equally say nothing of the more lively and yet melan-in prose-consists in the fine perception and choly records of Madame de Staël, during her long penance in the court of the Duchesse de Maine. But we are preluding too largely; and must come at once to the point, to which the very heading of this article has already admonished the most careless of our readers that we are tending. We think the poetry of Mrs. Hemans a fine exemplification of Female Poetry and we think it has much of the perfection which we have ventured to ascribe to the happier productions of female genius. vivid expression of that subtle and mysterious Analogy which exists between the physical and the moral world-which makes outward things and qualities the natural types and emblems of inward gifts and emotions, or leads us to ascribe life and sentiment to every thing that interests us in the aspects of external nature. The feeling of this analogy, obscure and inexplicable as the theory of it may be, is so deep and universal in our nature, that it has stamped itself on the ordinary language of men of every kindred and speech: and It may not be the best imaginable poetry, that to such an extent, that one half of the and may not indicate the very highest or most epithets by which we familiarly designate commanding genius; but it embraces a great moral and physical qualities, are in reality so deal of that which gives the very best poetry many metaphors, borrowed reciprocally, upon its chief power of pleasing; and would strike this analogy, from those opposite forms of us, perhaps, as more impassioned and exalt-existence. The very familiarity, however, of ed, if it were not regulated and harmonised the expression, in these instances, takes away by the most beautiful taste. It is singularly its poetical effect-and indeed, in substance, sweet, elegant, and tender-touching, per- its metaphorical character. The original sense haps, and contemplative, rather than vehe- of the word is entirely forgotten in the deriva ment and overpowering; and not only finished tive one to which it has succeeded; and it throughout with an exquisite delicacy, and requires some etymological recollection to even severity of execution, but informed with convince us that it was originally nothing else a purity and loftiness of feeling, and a certain than a typical or analogical illustration. Thus sober and humble tone of indulgence and we talk of a sparkling wit, and a furious blast piety, which must satisfy all judgments, and a weighty argument, and a gentle stream allay the apprehensions of those who are most-without being at all aware that we are afraid of the passionate exaggerations of poetry. The diction is always beautiful, harmonious, and free-and the themes, though of great variety, uniformly treated with a grace, originality and judgment, which mark the same master hand. These themes she has occaonally borrowed, with the peculiar imagery speaking in the language of poetry, and trans ferring qualities from one extremity of the sphere of being to another. In these cases, accordingly, the metaphor, by ceasing to be felt, in reality ceases to exist, and the analogy being no longer intimated, of course can pro duce no effect. But whenever it is intimated, t does produce an effect; and that effect we think is poetry. It has substantially two functions, and operates in two directions. In the first place, when material qualities are ascribed to mind, it strikes vividly out, and brings at once before us, the conception of an inward feeling or emotion, which it might otherwise have been difficult to convey, by the presentment of some bodily form or quality, which is instantly felt to be its true representative, and enables us to fix and comprehend it with a force and clearness not otherwise attainable; and, in the second place, it vivifies dead and inanimate matter with the attributes of living and sentient mind, and fills the whole visible universe around us with objects of interest and sympathy, by tinting them with the hues of life, and associating them with our own passions and affections. This magical operation the poet too performs, for the most part, in one of two ways-either by the direct agency of similies and metaphors, more or less condensed or developed, or by the mere graceful presentment of such visible objects on the scene of his passionate dialogues or adventures, as partake of the character of the emotion he wishes to excite, and thus form an appropriate accompaniment or preparation for its direct indulgence or display. The former of those methods has perhaps been most frequently employed, and certainly has most attracted attention. But the latter, though less obtrusive, and perhaps less frequently resorted to of set purpose, is, we are inclined to think, the most natural and efficacious of the two; and it is often adopted, we believe unconsciously, by poets of the highest order; the predominant emotion of their minds overflowing spontaneously on all the objects which present themselves to their fancy, and calling out from them, and colouring with their own hues, those that are naturally emblematic of its character, and in acordance with its general expression. It would be easy to show how habitually this is done, by Shakespeare and Milton especially, and how much many of their finest passages are indebted, both for force and richness of effect, to this general and diffusive harmony of the external character of their scenes with the passions of their living agents-this harmonising and appropriate glow with which they kindie the whole surrounding atmosphere, and bring a that strikes the sense into unison with all that touches the heart. But it is more to our present purpose to Bay, that we think the fair writer before us is eminently a mistress of this poetical secret; and, in truth, it was solely for the purpose of illustrating this great charm and excellence in her imagery, that we have ventured upon this little dissertation. Almost all her poems are rich with fine descriptions, and studded over with images of visible beauty. But these are never idle ornaments: all her pomps have a meaning; and her flowers and her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among Eastern lovers, so as to speak the language of truth and of passion. This is peculiarly remark able in some little pieces, which seem at firs sight to be purely descriptive-but are soon found to tell upon the heart, with a deep moral and pathetic impression. But it is in truth nearly as conspicuous in the greater part of her productions; where we scarcely meet with any striking sentiment that is not ushered in by some such symphony of external_nature-and scarcely a lovely picture that does not serve as an appropriate foreground to some deep or lofty emotion. We may illus trate this proposition, we think, by opening either of these little volumes at random, and taking what they first present to us.-The following exquisite lines, for example, on a Palm-tree in an English garden: 'It wav'd not thro' an Eastern sky, Beside a fount of Araby; It was not fann'd by southern breeze In some green isle of Indian seas, Nor did its graceful shadow sleep O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. "But far the exil'd Palm-tree grew 'Midst foliage of no kindred hue; Thro' the laburnum's dropping gold Rose the light shaft of orient mould, And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, Purpled the moss-beds at his feet. "There came an eve of festal hoursRich music fill'd that garden's bowers: Lamps, that from flowering branches hung, On sparks of dew soft colours flung, And bright forms glanc'd-a fairy show Under the blossoms, to and fro. But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng Seem'd reckless all of dance or song! He was a youth of dusky mien, Whereon the Indian sun had beenOf crested brow, and long black hairA stranger, like the Palm-tree, there! "And slowly, sadly mov'd his plumes, Glittering athwart the leafy glooms: He pass'd the pale green olives by, Nor won the chesnut flowers his eye; But, when to that sole Palm he came, Then shot a rapture through his frame "To him, to him its rustling spoke! The silence of his soul it broke! It whisper'd of his own bright isle, That lit the ocean with a smile; Aye, to his ear that native tone Had something of the sea-wave's moan! His mother's cabin home, that lay Where feathery cocoas fring'd the bay; The dashing of his brethren's oar; The conch-note heard along the shore ;All thro' his wakening bosom swept; He clasp'd his country's Tree-and wept! "Oh! scorn him not!--The strength, whereby The patriot girds himself to die, Th' unconquerable power, which fills The freeman batting on his hillsThese have one fountain, deep and clear.The same whence gush'd that child-like tear!" The following, which the author has named, "Graves of a Household," has rather less of external scenery, but serves, like the others, to show how well the graphic and pathetic may be made to set off each other: "They grew in beauty, side by side. They fill'd one home with glee, "The same fond mother bent at night She had each folded flower in sight,- "The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one! O'er his low bed may weep. "One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain : He wrapt his colours round his breast, "And one-o'er her the myrtle showers "They that with smiles lit up the hall, And nought beyond, oh earth!" We have taken these pieces chiefly on account of their shortness: But it would not be fair to Mrs. Hemans not to present our readers with one longer specimen and to give a portion of her graceful narrative along with her pathetic descriptions. This story of "The Lady of the Castle," is told, we think, with great force and sweetness: Thou seest her pictur'd with her shining hair, (Fam'd were those tresses in Provençal song) Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along Her gorgeous vest. A child's right hand is roving 'Midst the rich curls, and, oh! how meekly loving Its earnest looks are lifted to the face, Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace! Yet that bright lady's eye methinks hath less Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness, Than might beseem a mother's: On her brow Something too much there sits of native scorn, And her smile kindles with a conscious glow. tell -These may be dreams! But how shall Woman Of woman's shame, and not with tears?-She fell! That mother left that child !-went hurrying by Its cradle-haply not without a sigh ; Haply one moment o'er its rest serene She hung-But no! it could not thus have been, For she went on!-forsook her home, her hearth, All pure affection, all sweet household mirth, To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing, Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king. "Her lord, in very weariness of life, On whose first flow'ring thoughts no parent smil'd, And shrouded in long robes of widowhood, A stranger through them broke :-The orphan maid With her sweet voice, and proffer'd hand of aid, Turn'd to give welcome: But a wild sad look Met hers; a gaze that all her spirit shook; And that pale woman, suddenly subdued By some strong passion in its gushing mood, Knelt at her feet, and bath'd them with such tears As rain the hoarded agonies of years [press'd From the heart's urn; and with her white lips The ground they trode; then, burying in her vest Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out-Oh! un defil'd! I am thy Mother-spurn me not, my child! more Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll'd. 'Her child bent o'er her-call'd her-'Twas too late Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate! The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard.How didst thou fall, O bright-hair'd Ermengarde!" The following sketch of "Joan of Arc in Rheims," is in a loftier and more ambitious vein; but sustained with equal grace, and as touching in its solemn tenderness. We can afford to extract but a part of it :— — 44 "Within, the light. Through the rich gloom of pictur'd windows flowing. Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight. The chivalry of France, their proud heads bowing In martial vassalage!-while 'midst the ring, And shadow'd by ancestral tombs, a king Received his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn Swell'd out like rushing waters, and the day With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim, As through long aisles it floated, o'er th' array Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone And unapproach'd, beside the altar stone, [ing, With the white banner, forth like sunshine stream. And the gold helm, through clouds of fragrance gleaming, Silent and radiant stood?—The helm was rais'd, And the fair face reveal'd, that upward gaz'd, Intensely worshipping;-a still, clear face, Youthful but brightly solemn!-Woman's cheek And brow were there, in deep devotion meek; Yet glorified with inspiration's trace! "A triumphant strain, A proud rich stream of warlike melodies, Gush'd through the portals of the antique fane, And forth she came.' "The shouts that fill'd The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still'd One moment; and in that brief pause, the tone, As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown, Sank on the bright maid's heart! Joanne !' Who spoke? Like those whose childhood with her childhood grew Under one roof?- Joanne !'-that murmur broke With sounds of weeping forth!-She turn'd- she knew Beside her, mark'd from all the thousands there, The stately shepherd! and the youth, whose joy Was in her heart; a music heard and felt, Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said,Bless me, my father, bless me and with thee, To the still cabin and the beechen-tree, Let me return!'' There are several strains of a more passionate character; especially in the two poetical epistles from Lady Arabella Stuart and Properzia Rossi. We shall venture to give a few lines from the former. The Lady Arabella was of royal descent; and having excited the fears of our pusillanimous James by a secret union with the Lord Seymour, was detained in a cruel captivity, by that heartless monarch, till the close of her life-during which she is supposed to have indited this letter to her lover from her prison house : My friend, my friend! where art thou? Day by day, Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away, My silent youth flows from me! Spring, the while, Comes, and rains beauty on the kindling boughs Round hal. and hamlet: Summer, with her smile, Fills the green forest ;-young hearts breathe their vows; Brothers, long parted, meet; fair children rise Round the glad board: Hope laughs from loving "There went a swift bird singing past my cellO Love and Freedom! ye are lovely things! With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, And by the streams; But I-the blood of kings. A proud unmingling river, through my veins Flows in lone brightness, and its gifts are chains! -Kings-I had silent visions of deep bliss, Leaving their thrones far distant! and for this I am cast under their triumphal car, An insect to be crush'd! Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know! There would be rescue if this were not so. Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd, Thou'rt where the dancers meet!-a magic glass Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass, Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall! I see one shadow, stateliest there of all,Thine!-What dost Thou amidst the bright and fair, Whisp'ring light words, and mocking my despair?" The following, though it has no very distinct object or moral, breathes, we think, the very spirit of poetry, in its bright and vague picturings, and is well entitled to the name it bears- An Hour of Romance :" "There were thick leaves above me and around, And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound [sleep, Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still A tale of Palestine. Meanwhile the bee Swept past me with a tone of summer hours, Where sat the lone wood-pigeon: But ere long, All sense of these things faded, as the spell Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong On my chain'd soul! Twas not the leaves I A Syrian wind the Lion-banner stirr'd, [heardThro' its proud, floating folds! 'twas not the Singing in secret thro' its grassy glen;- [brook, As the waste echo'd to the mirth of kings.- There is great sweetness in the following portion of a little poem on a "Girl's School :".. Hath murmur'd, and the rill.-My soul grows faint With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint" Your haunts by dell and stream,--the green, the free, The fall of all sweet sound,-the shut from me! Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest, Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, 'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun |