inspiration in the poem, amongst others, that fol-Even as man sits, whose heart alone would be lows: THE SILENT MULTITUDE. A mighty and a mingled throng The soldier and his chief were there- There lovers met, between whose lives You might have heard the rustling leaf, On that thick-peopled ground. Your voice to whispers would have died Your tread the softest moss have sought, What held the countless multitude Was it some pageant of the air, Some glory high above, That linked and hushed those human souls Or did some burdening passion's weight A mightier thing-Death, Death himself, In any notice of Mrs. Hemans' works, not to mention the Records of Woman would seem an unaccountable omission. Both the subject, and the manner in which it is treated, especially characterize our poetess. Of all these Records there is not one where the picture is not more or less pleasing. or drawn with more or less power and fidelity. Estimated according to sheer literary merit, it would perhaps be impossible to give the preference to any one of them. Judging by the peculiar pleasure which its perusal gave us, we should select, for our favorite, The Switzer's Wife. Werner Stauffacher was one of the three confederates of the field of Grutli. He had been marked out by the Austrian bailiff as a fit subject for pillage; but it was to the noble spirit of his wife that he owed the final resolution he took to resist the oppressor of his country. The whole scene is brought before us with singular distinctness. It is a beautiful evening in the Alpine valley For Werner sat beneath the linden tree, With some deep care, and thus can find no more The accustomed joy in all which evening brings Gathering a household with her quiet wings. His wife stood hushed before him, sad, yet mild But seemed unheard; until at last the boy Passed swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook; Through tears half-quivering, o'er him bent and To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now! He looked up into that sweet earnest face, He then tells how the oppressor's envious eye "had been upon his heritage," and to-morrow eve might find him in chains. The blood leaves her cheek, and she leans back on the linden stem, but only for a moment; the free Alpine spirit wakes within her And she that ever through her home had moved With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile Of woman, calmly loving and beloved And timid in her happiness the while, Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, As it found language: -"Are we thus oppressed? "I know what thou wouldst do; and be it done! Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me. Trust me to Heaven, my husband; this, thy son, The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free! And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth May well give strength-if aught be strong on earth. "Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, My hunter of the hills, thy stately head, And let thine eagle glance my joy restore! I can bear all but seeing thee subdued That sent its lulling whispers through his door, Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. "Go forth beside the waters, and along The chamois' paths, and through the forests go; And tell in burning words thy tale of wrong To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow; God shall be with thee, my beloved!-away! Bless but thy child and leave me I can pray!" A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe, Making them tremulous, when not a breeze Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes The light lines of the shining gossamer. An eminent critic in the Edinburgh Review has spoken of the neatness and perfect finish which characterize female writers in general, and Mrs It is ever thus with all her women-gentle, courageous, full of self-devotion, and, alas! of sor- Hemans in particular. Now, these qualities imrow and suffering. This is her ideal of woman, ply a certain terseness and concentration of style, from which she rarely departs a heart overflow- which is no more a peculiarity of all authoresses ing with tenderest affection-ill-requited-yet re fusing to receive any earthly boon as a substitute for the returned affection it seeks. Fame is no compensation Away! to me, a woman, bring Sweet waters from affection's spring. than of all authors, and which we should not pronounce to be peculiarly characteristic of Mrs. Hemans' poetry. To us it often appears wanting in this very conciseness; we occasionally wish that some lines and verses were excluded-not because they are faulty in themselves, but because Genius when she sings to Love is made to say they weaken the effect, and detract from the vigor They crown me with the glistening crown, Borne from a deathless tree; I hear the pealing music of renown O Love, forsake me not! Mine were a lone dark lot, Bereft of thee! They tell me that my soul can throw A glory o'er the earth; From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow! Shed by thy gentle eyes, Genius singing to Love. of the whole; we wish the verses, in short, were more closely packed together, so that the commencement and the close, which are generally both good, could be brought a little nearer to each other. It is not so much a redundancy of expression, as of images and illustrations, that we have sometimes to complain of in Mrs. Hemans. She uses two of these where one would not only suffice, but do the work much better. There is a very pleasing little poem, called The Wandering Wind: we will quote-first, because it is thus pleasing; and secondly, because we think it would have been rendered still more so had there been somewhat more of concentration and terseness in the style. The lines which we have printed in italics, and which contain the pith and marrow of It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner as by Mrs. Hemans. She seizes, in common with others, the poetic aspect these present, but diffuses over them, at the same time, the whole, would then have struck upon the ear sprays Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood Father.-Hast thou heard, my boy, The peasant's legend of that quivering tree? Child. No, father; doth he say the fairies dance Amidst the branches? Father. Oh! a cause more deep, More solemn far, the rustic doth assign To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves! The cross, he deems, the blessed cross, whereon The meek Redeemer bowed his head to death, Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour, Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down with more distinctness and prominence. THE WANDERING WIND. The wind, the wandering wind Or from the long tall grass? Or is it from the voices Of all in one combined, Nor the fir trees whispering low. They are not of the waters, That gives them power to thrill. The verses beginning "I dream of all things free" might also be cited as an instance of this tendency to over-amplify-a tendency which seems the result of a great affluence of poetical imagery. This would be a more powerful poem merely by being made shorter. We wait too long, and the imagination roves too far, before we arrive at the concluding lines, which contain all the point and significance of the piece : My heart in chains is bleeding, Of the measures and the melody of a lyrical poet something is expected to be said. But what we feel we have chiefly to thank Mrs. Hemans for here is, that, in the search after novelty and variety of metre, she has made so few experiments upon our ear, and that she has not disdained to write with correctness and regularity. She has not apparently labored after novelties of this kind, but has adopted that verse into which her thoughts spontaneously ran. An author who does this is not very likely to select a rhythm, or measure, which is incongruous with the subject-matter of his poem.; nor, do we think, could many instances of such a fault be detected in Mrs. Hemans.. We will close our extracts with a strain that fairly exemplifies the serene and lucid current of sentiment, and the genuine natural pathos, of our poetess. It is thus she makes the Hebrew mother sing to her first-born, whom she has devoted to the Lord. Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me; And now fond thoughts arise, How shall I hence depart? Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee And, precious as thou art, And pure as dew of Hermon, he shall have thee, My own, my beautiful, my undefiled! And thou shalt be his child. "Therefore farewell! I go-my soul may fail me, We must now draw to a conclusion. One great and pervading excellence of Mrs. Hemans, as a writer, is her entire dedication of her genius and talents to the cause of healthy morality and sound religion. The sentiment may be, on occasion, somewhat refined; it may be too delicate, in some instances, for the common taste, but never is it mawkish or morbid. Never can it be construed into a palliative of vice-never, when followed out to its limits, will it be found to have led from the paths of virtue. For practical purposes, we admit that her exemplars are not seldom too ideal and picturesque. The general fault of her poetry consists in its being rather, if we may use the term, too romantical. We have a little too much of banners in churches, and flowers on graves-of self-immolated youths, and broken-hearted damsels; -too frequent a reference to the Syrian plains, and How the lone paths retrace where thou wert knights in panoply, and vigils of arms, as mere illus playing So late along the mountains at my side? And I, in joyous pride, By every place of flowers my course delaying, Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, Beholding thee so fair! And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turned from its door away! trations of the noble in character, or the heroic in devotion. Situations are adduced as applicable to general conduct, which have only occurred, or could only have occurred, in particular states of society, and are never likely, from existing circumstances, to occur again. Far better this, however, than a contrary fault; for it is the purpose of poetry to elevate, and not to repress. Admitting that the effervescence is adventitious, still it is of virtuous While through its chambers wandering, weary- growth, and proceeds from no distortion of prin hearted, ciple. If not the reflection of human nature as it actually is, it is the delineation of the fata morgana of a noble mind of something that occurs to us "in musings high," and which we sigh to think of as of something loftier and better, to which that nature would willingly aspire. We can readily Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet conceive, that to a woman of the exquisite taste me, As amidst the silence of the stars I wake, And watch for thy dear sake. And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed? Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, possessed by Mrs. Hemans, any attempt at the startling or bizarre, either in conception or subject, was a thing especially to be avoided. We do not mean to imply by this, that, as every true poet must have, she had not a manner of her own. To this hopor, no author of our day has higher or less equivocal claims. She knew what to admire in others, but she felt that she had a mission of her own. To substantiate this, we have only to suppose her productions blotted out from blank be left; for, wherever we have originality, we What have I said, my child? Will He not hear our literature, and then remark whether or not any Lands, and lyrical strains; and, from Mrs. Sigour- jects of mere occasional interest, to catch the gale ney-" the American Mrs. Hemans"-downwards, of a passing popularity. Mrs. Hemans built on there are only corroborative proofs of a Cisatlantic surer foundations, and with less perishable mate thee, have accession. We admit that originality is of all shades and grades, from a Burns to a Bloomfield, from a Crabbe to a Clare still the names of the second and the fourth are those of true poets, as well as those of the authors of "The Cottar's Saturday Night," and "Sir Eustace Gray"- Parnassus, as Dr. Johnson observes, having its "flowers of transient fragrance, as well as its cedars of perennial growth, and its laurels of eternal verdure." In the case of Mrs. Hemans, this question is set at rest, from her having become the founder of a school, and that only eclipsed in the number of its adherents and imitators by those of Scott, Byron, and Wordsworth. In America especially has this been the case; a great part of the recent poetry in that country-more particularly that of its female writers-has been little more than an echo of her Records of Woman, and Lays of Many of touch than for elegance of finish. Everything is clear, and defined, and palpable; nothing is enveloped in accommodating haze; and she never leaves us, as is the trick of some late aspiring and mystical versifiers, to believe that she must be profound because she is unintelligible. She is ever alive to the dignity of her calling, and the purity of her sex. Aware of the difficulties of her art, she aspired towards excellence with untiring perseverance, and improved herself by the study of the best models, well knowing that few things easy of attainment can be worth much. Her taste thus directed her to appropriate and happy subjects; and hence it has been, as with all things of sterling value, that her writings have not been deteriorated by time. They were not, like the ice-palace of the Empress Catherine, thrown up to suit the whim of the season, or directed to sub fact, that no copyist, however acute and faithful, has ever yet succeeded in treading on the kibes of his master, far less of outstripping him in the struggle for excellence. Like all original writers, Mrs. Hemans has her own mode and her own province. In reading the poetry of Wordsworth, we feel as if transferred to the mountainous solitudes, broken only by the scream of the eagle and the dash of the cataract, where human life is indicated but by the shieling in the sheltered holm, and the shepherd boy, lying wrapt up in his plaid by the furze-bush, with his "little flock at feed beside him." By Scott we are placed amid the men and things of departed ages. The bannered castle looms in the distance, and around it are the tented plain the baron and his vassals-all that pertains to "ladye-love and war, renown and knightly worth." We have the cathedral-pomp, and the dark superstition, and the might that stands in the place of right-all the fire and air, with little of the earth and water, of our elemental nature. The lays of Wilson reflect the patriarchal calm of life in its best, and purest, and happiest aspects-or, indeed, of something better than mere human life, as the image of the islet in the sunset mirror of the lake is finer and fairer than the reality. Coleridge's inspiration is emblemed by ruins in the silver and shadow of moonlight-quaint, and queer, and fantastic, haunted by the whooping owl, and screamed over by the invisible night-hawk. Campbell reminds of the Portland vase, exquisite in taste and materials, but recalling always the conventionalities of art. When placed beside, and contrasted with her great cotemporaries, the excellences of Mrs. Hemans are sufficiently distinct and characteristic. There can be no doubt of this, more especially in her later and best writings, in which she makes incidents elucidate feelings. In this magic circlelimited it may be she has no rival. Hence, from the picturesqueness, the harmony, the deli rials. The consequence is, that her reputation has been steadily on the increase. Of no one modern writer can it be affirmed with less hesitation, that she has become an English classic; nor, until human nature becomes very different from what it now is, can we imagine the least probability that the music of her lays will cease to soothe the ear, or the beauty of her sentiment to charm the gentle heart. SAGACITY OF A PYRENEAN DOG. - Opposite to our hotel was a dog of singular appearance, a great favorite with the neighborhood, and, I might add, with my son, who took pains to ascertain all that could be learned of his race and breeding. It was a white wolf-dog of the Pyrenees, soft, silkenhaired, scentless, spotless; invaluable as a guard, and evincing, not only the utmost powers of instinct, but, as the owners affirmed, of judgment and reason!-un chien de discernement. This clever animal, named by the familiar English abbreviation "Miss," used to lie at the booking-office door of the Messageries Royales, Rue de Bec, noticing, with one eye open, everybody and all things. She knew why luggage was placed here or there, and whether certain descriptions of goods were intended for this or that conveyance. She would not permit crowding at the counter; she could discern whether the book-keeper was being annoyed by too many applicants for places at once; she barked off all those who seemed to be de trop; and when special care was manifested by any of the porters in arranging a party's personal effects at the moment of departure, she would sit on the property till the owner began to ask for it. She was almost two sizes smaller than our common Newfoundland dog, and would have realized a high price in England. She was five years old, and malgré her ultraism in discipline, was a perfectly good-natured creature; and however loudly she might bark, however fiercely she might look, she was considered by all who understood her good qualities as a dog who did everything for the best, and did it well too. We subsequently fell in with a similar dog, three years younger, on our way from Abbeville to Boulogne, homeward; and I am surprised the breed has not cacy and grace, which her compositions display, been introduced in England. The Parson, Pen, she is peculiarly the poet of her own sex. Her and Pencil. pictures are not more distinguished for accuracy 1 THE author of this interesting volume is already favorably known to the public, both through his pencil and his pen. "Walks about Jerusalem" is a popular book; with a subject that has been so often ably handled, that it now is difficult to render popular. There is no part of the world of which fuller and better accounts have been pub lished than of Palestine. It has, therefore, become dangerous ground, but the work to which we refer has achieved popularity. The author is an enthusiast. Every man who expects to write a good book on eastern affairs must be an enthusiast. A dull though an able statistician would make nothing of Damascus. He would break down utterly in Petra-would find Beyrout even yet the most interesting port on his journey-would hasten to Smyrna to inquire after figs-to Constantinople to learn the state of the Sultan's finances-or to Alexandria for a note of the Pasha's last shipment of cotton. The Mediterranean is this author's favorite sea, the Nile his pet river. Of the former he says: What a halo seems to hang over the shores of the Mediterranean! such as invests no other place on earth. The empires, whose revolutions fill the stirring page of history, from its dawning light down to modern times, are all around; some, as Tyre and Carthage, having indeed utterly perished; but others, like Egypt, leaving behind a glorious legacy of monumental records. Where can we wander in this beautiful sea, without being reminded of the great and the good of past ages! Our When the sun was up, they felt the miseries of thirst in the desert, and the water was always bad. The evidence of this witness regarding the wilderness corresponds exactly with that of previous travellers. He says: There is a terrible and triumphal power of the sun upon this wide region of sterility and death, like that of a despot over a realm blighted by his destructive sway; no trace of verdure is there but the stunted shrubs, which struggle at wide intervals about the sandy bed of some dried watercourse; no sign of living thing but the burrow of the rat, the slimy trail of the serpent, or the carcass of the camel, who makes his grave as well as his home in the wilderness, met with in every stage of decay, from the moment when the vultures have but just fleshed their beaks in his fallen corpse, till, stripped of every integument, the wind whistles through the ghastly framework of his naked ribs, and his bones falling asunder and bleached by heat and wind, serve to mark the appointed track upon which his strength was spent. Egypt is still under the curse of vermin. Miss Martineau complained sadly of their annoyance. Messrs. Irby and Mangles were hunted by them wherever they turned. This author folded his own sheets, spread his carpet, kept the Arabs at a distance, and enjoyed an entire exemption from all the plagues. The party reached Suez at the same time with the steamer which brought the overland mail from Bombay. The arrival offered the traveller an opportunity of gathering up his own stray thoughts of home. He had been struck with the respect paid to the name of his country in the desert, and in the sickly travellers by the caravan he saw part of the prize. It was only a small portion of the had been a floating hospital, freighted only with footsteps are ever in the track of sages and poets, value that the Bombay steamer could bring if it of prophets and apostles, or of Him who is greater than all. The details of a preparation for a journey from Cairo through the wilderness, or anywhere else, are now so well known that we pass them by, as does the author, quietly. We should remark that the volume abounds with beautiful illustrations, of which the first is Cairo. The party started on the 1st October, not of the last October, but, we presume, the one immediately preceding it. Their route was that of the overland mail to Suez, and, therefore, as far as that town, though in, they seemed not to be of, the desert; for, in some respects, Egypt has again become a highway of the nations. On the second day of the journey the author writes what would seem absurd, if we forgot that he was an experienced traveller, who had been ere then in the desert : What most surprised me was the elasticity of spirits I generally experienced in the wilderness. The dry pure air probably had much to do with the sick. He mentions one sad case-but cases of that nature are of daily occurrence. The sacrifices that England asks her children to make are often very keen. The officer dying on the passage home was only one of many who have ruined health without obtaining fortune in the service of their country. It was after my return from the desert, myself broken in health, when standing on the deck of the small steamer which plies from Cairo to Alexandria, that an old medical friend, residing in the former place, came on board with a patient, a young officer, to whom he begged me to render any attentions in my power. "He may die," observed he, " at any moment;" and when I saw him borne down stairs, I much questioned whether he would ever reach Alexandria alive. I found that he had been some years in India, though young, and had already returned home once for the benefit of his health; but scarcely had he again set foot on the fatal shore of Hindostan ere he was warned this. Sometimes the sense of free movement over to return instantly if he would save his life. He the boundless expanse was indescribably and wildly ecstatic; in general the incidents of our little caravan seemed sufficient stimulus, and a universal cheerfulness prevailed among us in those hours of dawn. had been but four months absent from England, when thus, with death in his looks, and unable to move without the assistance of two men, he was fighting his way back again. He had left Bombay without a servant; on his arrival at Suez he was |