gave herself up to an agony of grief, which, to do her justice, was not wholly selfish, "The patient was bled largely. Hot iron was applied to his head ; a loathsome, volatile salt, extracted from human skulls, was forced into his mouth. He recovered his senses, but he was evidently in a situation of extreme danger. "The queen was for a time assiduous in her attendance. "On the morning of Thursday the London Gazette announced that his majesty was going on well, and was thought by the physicians to be out of danger but in the evening it was known that a relapse had taken place. "The king was in great pain, and complained that he felt as if a fire were burning within him; yet he bore up with a fortitude which did not seem to belong to his selfish and luxurious nature. The sight of his misery affected his wife so much that she fainted, and was carried senseless to her chamber. The prelates who were in waiting had from the first exhorted him to prepare for his end. They now thought it their duty to address him in a still more urgent manner. William Sancroft, an honest and pious, though narrow-minded man, used great fredom. It is time,' said he, to speak out, for sure you are about to appear before a judge who is no respecter of persons.' "Charles, however, was unmoved. He made no objection, indeed, when the service for the visitation of the sick was read, but nothing could induce him to take the Eucharist from the hands of the bishops. A table with bread and wine was brought to his bedside, but in vain. Sometimes he said there was no hurry, and sometimes that he was too weak. "Charles had never been a sincere member of the Established Church. When his health was good and his spirits high he was a scoffer. In his few serious moments he was a Roman Catholic." The charm of this narrative is apparent-all things fall into their proper places, and a perfect picture is presented to the mind. The mantle of romance is thrown over the forbidding form of History. She moves and talks with a grace that was supposed wholly to belong to Fiction, and while she delights, she instructs. It is quite impossible, despite the solemnity of the occasion, not to smile at the courteous banter of the expiring king, uttered almost "in articulo mortis," apologizing for the trouble he is giving, and begging them to excuse the unconscionable time he is in dying. It seems to be the opinion of many men that all that is requisite for an historian, is a plodding, impartial man. The fallacy of this is apparent for although Byron asserts that "Truth is stranger than fiction," it yet requires a rare union of faculties to write it properly. Were history written as it ought to be, it would take an author who comprised the patience and research of Bayle, the philosophical and logical powers of Bacon, the style of Burke, the political sagacity of Tallyrand, and Washington's patriotism and nobility of soul. Since these are somewhat out of human reach, we cannot be too thankful that a writer combining so many excellencies as Mr. Macaulay, sits down to the drudgery of exploring the past. History enables a man to exist from the first ages of the world; he becomes the fellow-citizen of Demosthenes; assists in the expulsion of the tyrant Tarquin; stands beside Brutus as he plunges his dagger into Cæsar's heart, and is invested with a retrospective life: in a word, history presents every man with the freedom of the world, and gives to him a national interest in every country. It is not enough that a dramatist should give the plot and the costume, he must give his characters language and life. It must not be done in words, it must be done in deeds. Mr. Macaulay has accomplished this. He has clothed the skeletons of the past with flesh, and thrown blood into their veins: they become again animated with the bygone passions of olden days, and inoculate us with their feuds. ELIZABETH BARRETT. MISS BARRETT, was, till her marriage with Robert Browning, in 1846, so entirely hidden from the world that she might have suggested to Wordsworth the idea of "A violet by a mossy stone And truly the poetical spirit of Miss Barrett was so exquisite as to deserve altogether the epithet of being the violet of women. In person she is slender and petite: her voice very soft and low; her complexion pale: her eyes and hair dark, the latter being very long and hanging down her neck. In addition to her honours as a poetess, she has lately added that of a mother! All honour to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the greatest poetical intellect ever vouchsafed to an English woman. The facts of her life are so few, and she has mixed so little with society, owing to her fragile state of health, that we shall devote the rest of this chapter to the consideration of her genius; we may mention, en passant, that she has suffered much domestic sorrow-among the greatest may be mentioned that she had the trial of witnessing the death of a favourite brother who was drowned while swimming in Torbay. The poetry of most female poets is almost invariably founded on the affections, and treated with a delicacy and tenderness which only a woman can impart: "in that sweet circle none can walk but she," but in addition to this exquisite gift, nature has endowed Miss Barrett with a force and subtlety of mind which renders her the loftiest specimen of her sex. "Gentle in heart, subtle and strong in mind, She shines the marvel of all womankind!" Mr. Leigh Hunt in one of his clever poems calls her "the sister of Tennyson"-we object to this, and claim her as Shakspere's daughter!-great as Robert Browning is in the world of poetry, his wife is literally the better half." 66 One of the most original female writers of America, Margaret Fuller, has so well expressed our own opinion of Miss Barrett that we give it in her own words. "In delicacy of perception Miss Barrett may vie with any of her sex. She has what is called a true woman's heart, although we must believe that men of a fine conscience and good organization will have such a heart no less. Signal instances occur to us in the cases of Spenser, Wordsworth, and Tennyson, The woman who reads them will not find hardness or blindness as to the subtler workings of thoughts and affections. "If men are often deficient on this score, women on the other hand are apt to pay excessive attention to the slight tokens, the little things of life. Thus in conduct or writing, they tend to weary, as with a morbid sentimentalism. From this fault Miss Barrett is wholly free." It is not in Miss Barrett's longest and most ambitious poem that she is the most successful. Her blank verse is sweet and full of tender cadence, but it wants the muscular force to render it fit for so long a march as the "Drama of Exile." Still this is a poem which none but Miss Barrett D could have written. The tenderness, the delicacy, and the grace of this sweet Paradise belong entirely to the female heart. The perusal of "the Drama of Exile" will give the reader a more complete idea of the nature of woman by comparing our first parents in this poem with Milton's Adam and Eve, than a volume of philosophy, with all its physical and mental analysis. Miss Barrett's Eve is one of the most refined, tender, and etherialised creation of sad smiles and gentle tears that ever stept forth into the world of poetry. Even Lucifer became Barrettised and softened to a horrible beauty. Listen to a speech he makes to Gabriel. "Here's a brave earth to sin and suffer on! Right o'er the edges-and good Gabriel Ye like that word in Heaven -I too have strength, Strength to behold, and not to worship Him: Strength to be in the universe, and yet Neither God nor his Servant. The red sign Burnt on my forehead, which you taunt me with, With what a magnificent pity Gabriel rebukes his fallen compeer. "Thou speakest in the shadow of thy change, This morning for a moment, thou hadst known While hate avengeth." |