deeper communion with man and Nature | fered him a volume,-some on easy terms, of Wordsworth. She has also Byron's some at an advanced price, He received beautiful intervals of tenderness, his strong, letters, he received calls, and, worse still, practical thought, and his forcible expres- volumes of MS. verse. But the friendly sion." This is high praise. "Let us suggest, however," says the Athenæum, "that, in the present state of critical opinion, the compliment is somewhat equivocal, it being hard to decide whether it implies a merit or a defect." If Mrs. Norton is an eminently thoughtful writer, Miss Barrett is still more She is the most learned of our ladywriters, reads Eschylus and Euripides in the originals with the ease of Porson or of Parr, yet relies upon her own mother-wit and feelings when she writes, so. "Nor with Ben Jonson will make bold If Mrs. Norton is the Byron, Mrs. Southey is said to be the Cowper of our modern poetesses. But it would be idle to prolong comparisons. Whatever we may think of our living poets, we have every reason to be proud of our living poetesses. We will conclude with an anecdote. A charming article appeared about six years ago in the Quarterly Review, entitled "Modern English Poetesses." It was written, we believe, by the late Henry Nelson Coleridge, and is full of cautious but kindly criticism. The conclusion is worth quotation: "Meleager bound up his poets in a wreath. If we did the same, what flowers would suit our tuneful line? 1. Mrs. Norton would be the Rose, or, if she like it, Love Lies a Bleeding. 2. Miss Barrett must be Greck Valerian or Ladder to Heaven, or, if she pleases, Wild Angel ica. 3. Maria del Occidente is a Passion-Flower confessed. 4. Irene was Grass of Parnassus, or sometimes character of the criticism was not confined in its influence to the nine reviewed; parcels of verse from all parts of the country were sent to receive an imprimatur at Albemarle Street. Some were tied with white tape, some were sewn with violet riband, and a few, in a younger hand, with Berlin wool. "I wished," Mr. Murray has been heard to relate, "ten thousand times over that the article had never been written. I had a great deal of trouble with the ladies who never appeared before; and, while I declined to publish for the Nine, succeeded in flattering their vanity by assuring them that they had already done enough for fame, having written as much or more than Collins, Gray, or Goldsmith, too secure to be disturbed." This deserves whose reputations rested on a foundation to be remembered. From Fraser's Magazine. THE novelist, the dramatist, the lyrist, is now a peer of France. The bold defender of the liberty of the stage, the spirited pleader before the Tribunal de Commerce, sits on the benches of the noblesse viagère : the author of the interdicted drama,* of the supposed offence against the family of Orleans, is installed among the constitutional nominees of Louis Philippe. Long life to him at the Luxembourg-the Baron Victor Hugo! Whether he will attempt in the upper chamber the ambitious role of his friend and brother bard, De Lamartine, in the lower, remains to be seen. that he will not avail himself of his position as a senator to press those Rhenane, and (he must pardon us) insane pretensions which produced that marvellous political paper from the tourist; otherwise we shall be compelled to part company, and to range ourselves, with hostile look intent, against one with whom, admiring him as we do, we would fain continue upon terms of cordial The complimentary nature of the criti-intimacy. It is not, however, in the arena cism drew a world of trouble upon John of political controversy that we are now to Murray, the well-known publisher of the seek him; so let us have no unfriendly anQuarterly. He was inundated with verse. a Roman Nettle. 5. Lady Emeline is a Magnolia Grandiflora, and a Crocus too. 6. Mrs. Southey is a Meadow Sage, or Small 7. The classical nymph of Exeter is a Blue Teasel. Bell. 8. V. is a Violet, with her leaves heart-shaped. 9. And the authoress of Phantasmion Heart's Ease." is Each of the nine in less than a week of "Le Roi s'amuse." We trust ticipations. We resume the pen to fulfil An intent and earnest perusal of Victor au engagement made to our readers to in- Hugo will reveal this disposition, of which crease their acquaintance with the bard probably few English readers would suspect whom we introduced in a former paper; a poet of a nation they are too accustomed and it now devolves upon us to exhibit him to regard as the pattern of frivolity. We in the exercise of his art upon other sub-confidently recommend such study to all jects than those, the admirable treatment of who desire the gratification of delicate taste, which has justly earned for him the title of and deep and truthful feeling, contenting Historical Poet par excellence. There is ourselves with producing here a few specino lack of variety in Victor. Few are the mens of the versatility of Hugo's powers. children of song in whom will be found a We have seen that he can build the lofty greater diversity of matter, a more free and rhyme in the shape of Ode Historical. In facile multiformity of style. Ennui is a many an effusion of less pretension, he exstate of feeling he is never likely to pro- hibits not less excellence; in many a happy duce in his readers; for want of transitions strain of individual sentiment, in some and novelty none will cast him aside. Be- delicious ballads. His lays of love have sides the materials of history,-wars, revo- a surpassing delicacy and tenderness; his lutions, politics,-in his dealings with which verses which respect personal emotions we have already displayed something of his and experience, be they enjoyments or spirit, abundant are the subjects which en- regrets, mourn they or exult, have an intengage his muse-which his taste selects, his sity communicating itself by a charm that imagination embellishes, his sympathy as- attests the truth of the feeling, and the sociates itself with, and his voice interprets. felicity of the expression. Imparting his Into the feeling-fraught heart of humanity own emotions he seems but to be the echo he enters, and inly dwells; with beauty- of yours. It is thus that the true poet is breathing nature he respires; with calm-in- known and approved-he is felt: he speaks ducing, thought-suggesting, love-fostering for the incapable man; his language is your nature he meditates, and quickly feels. | feeling, clothed as you would clothe it, had Gentle, domestic affections; home, parents, Heaven but willed to endow you with that children, friends; the love of infancy, and the reverence for age; kindly cheerfulness and chastened sorrow; a calm, meditative melancholy dwelling upon recollections of early hopes and dreams gone by-these are among the feelings which occupy him, who at other times, with the eye at once of poet, patriot, and sage, regards the changing scenes and actors in the great drama of nations. Pensive, serene, peaceful, glides among homely haunts, by the household hearth, amid the fields, the hamlets, and the woods, the verse that elsewhere rolls its mighty stream around kings and conquerors, triumphs and trophies, and shattered thrones, and contending factions. To him may be applied in their comprehensiveness the words of one with whom he, Frenchman though he be, has much in common: "Not love, not war, nor the tumultuous swell glorious " art divine of words;" and your heart leaps with gratitude to the interpreter of that, which, beating in your breast and crowding your brain, had never found freedom and expression but for him whose magic voice sets open the gates, and liberates thought from its silent chamber, and struggling, fluttering, panting passion from its cage. So is it, in many a strain of personal intensity, that Byron has made himself the voice of the burning longings of the heart; so that Campbell has breathed the breath of delicate passion in verse of such sensible fragrance, that, as you read, you inhale a rich atmosphere of which you had dimly dreamed, but never tasted before. These are they that relieve the burdened heart from its incapability, and give form and vocality to the vague, the bodiless, and the unexpressed. What the spirit has dreamed, what the soul has imagined and felt, has at length been told to it—to itself, better than itself yet knew; the wondrous, the all-expressive, the very words it has never been able to devise for its emotions, they have been spoken; and the "Eureka!" of the philosopher was not more joyous, or more sincere, than the recognition which the heart at such moments makes of the long-desired, the at-last discovered. Hear Regret. Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind! Then, through the distant future's boundless space the Victor in a mournful mood,—a plain- [delineations of natural scenery he is tive but subdued strain, wherein, many a without a rival in the poetical literature of listening ear will catch the tones which, his country. We shall only so far qualify soothing sorrow by the faithful expression that praise as to say, that if fault is to be they yield to it, are the favorite music of found with his landscapes, it is that they melancholy :are occasionally too crowded. The richness of resource with which he accumulates image upon image is sometimes indulged to an excess, which may be thought to impair the general effect. Yet, for ourselves, we confess that even in those instances we have experienced in the perusal that species of pleasing bewilderment which every one must have felt when, in some gorgeous prospect, rich with the wonders, the graces, and the sportive caprices of Nature, the demands made upon the eye are too numerous to be satisfied,-fail (if failure it can be called), by the very abundance of beauty. For examples of our author's descriptive powers applied to external nature, we specially refer the reader to a poem in the Chants du Crépuscule, entitled "Au bord de la Mer," containing a magnificent picture, and furnishing a conspicuous instance of Victor's diffuse style: to two pieces in the Feuilles d'Automne, under the titles of " Pan," and "Bièvre;" and to a portion of a long narrative in the Rayons et Ombres, "Ce qui se passait aux Feuilcon-lantines vers 1813." In these particularly, We seek the lost companion of our days: "Return, return!" we cry; and lo, apace Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place Of that we mourn always. I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now, Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire, When it is wet with tears. Each in his secret heart perchance doth own Some fond regret 'neath passing smiles cealed : Sufferers alike together and alone Are we with many a grief to others known, Alas! for natural tears and simple pains, For tender recollections, cherished long, Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace: and in some delightful verses à Virgile," in the Voix Intérieures, will be found that richness and truthfulness of description, that intimacy with and enjoyment of Nature, which distinguish in a remarkable degree the poetical character of our favorite -in so great a degree, that there are really few pages of Victor's volumes (some of the historical poetry excepted) in which the reader will not be made sensible, by prompt and vivid metaphor, striking simile and illustration, that he is in the hands and under the guidance of one whose study has been the book of Nature since first he looked There is a graceful melancholy, at once upon its pages, who has mastered his subkindly and dignified-a deep but not a mo-ject with the mastery of love, and treasured rose mournfulness, which pleases us greatly it in heart and mind,-a store from which in this unpretending composition. There he can draw inexhaustibly, and with all the is a polish, and a finish too: excellencies freedom, vigor, and boldness, of one who, observable in many of the smaller poems knowing that he hath the knowledge, knowof our author, and in which he strikes us eth also how to employ it. as bearing a peculiar similarity to our own elegant and tasteful Campbell. There is, however, a form of poetical power which, perhaps, may be most properly termed allusive description (readers of Milton cannot be unacquainted with its exinercise); and which, not so exclusively respecting scenery-understanding that word as applied to the mere components of a On a former occasion we expressed our admiration of Hugo's powers as a descriptive poet; asserting our opinion, that * Europa. nante, Eylau, froid et brumeux.” You behold that immortal sun peering over and blazing upon Moravian uplands; you behold, too, that wintry scene of horror on the inhospitable plain of Prussian-Poland. In landscape-consists in presenting an idea" Le Nil, le Rhin, le Tibre; Austerlitz rayonof a region, a country, or (if you like) a more confined locality, either by the designation of some prevailing quality which at once conveys the spirit, the influence of the whole to the reader's mind, reflects the light and shade that form the color of the scene, or by grouping together, in more or less quantity, the separate objects of association and interest which, at once heightening and heightened by the attractions of external nature, giving and receiving charm, make up a more complete picturesque than is within the reach even of that art, "Which morning, noontide, even, Do serve with all their changeful pageantry." For the antiquarian and man of art are the remains and monuments of a country; for the painter its landscapes; for the historian its annals; for the romancer and the lover of grotesque lore its traditions, fables, superstitions, legends; for the commentator on life and character, its manners, tastes, and tone but all of these are for the poet. Of other men, each appreciates in his own department; but the poet alone combines and exhibits in masterly portraiture the whole of which their respective subjects are parts. Thus, he compels and seizes the spirit that eludes the grasp of others: thus, he brings into presence before his readers that national existence which is composed of a people's past and present, its aspect and its associations, its history and romance, its tone of feeling and popular characteristics, its works of art, its riches of naturescenery, and soil, and clime. Victor Hugo abounds in this allusive description; and of its two modes of bringing scenes before the eyes we select some few examples, which the reader, taking the author's volumes in his hand, will have no difficulty in multiplying. Sometimes this presentation of the scene is effected by an epithet, the beauty or the vivid truthfulness of which is instantaneously felt and acknowledged; and in this our Victor is most happy, as- "Le volcan de la Sicile blonde," wherein you see the yellow surface of that land of the golden ear, the granary of old Rome, "De noirs Escurials, mystérieux séjour." You recognise the resort of Philip the darksouled, up among the gloomy sierra of Guadarama. “L'Arabie infranchissable,” you feel that a single word has spread out the desert before you. And be it remarked, by the way, that, in that excellent test of a poet, the degree in which he possesses, and the manner in which he exercises a sway over epithets, the author in question will bear the closest and nicest criticism. Pages of commendation might be written, and pages filled with instances showing how rich is his command, and how graceful and judicious his employment of this most expressive quality of his native language. At another time, the poet's power in bringing either a single scene, or the grand national features and historical associations ciation of his readers, is shown in a few of a country, to the knowledge and apprerapid and off-hand touches-sufficient, rapid and off-hand as they are--to place the individual spot, or the succession of views, the whole picturesque character of the land, indeed, before them. Look at this tableau of the renowned Christian and Moslem fortresses on the banks of the glorious stream that reaches from its Swabian springs to "The vast cncincture of that gloomy sea, Whose waves the Orphean lyre forbad to meet In conflict." It is from a piece in the Orientales, entitled " Le Danube en colère," a piece finely conceived, indeed, but spoilt by sundry extravagancies, such as this undoubted genius sometimes permits himself to run into. Old Father Danube is chiding these his unruly children for their, ever-recurring hostilities: Ye daughters mine! will naught abate That such unfriendly neighbors made? And thy bright minarets, Belgrade! tianity and Islamism. The stanza contains at once the picture of the place and its history, its aspect and its associations. Look, again, at this grand and delicious view of a land dear to the soul of Victor, this moving panorama of Iberian scenery. A few bold dashes, and the spell of the country is upon you. Its romance of olden time, its historic grandeur, its romance of modern war; the drear, and wild, and sublime features of its external nature; its wide-lying cities, its long and melancholy tracts, its glorious monumental remains, are seen in--ay, and something of the character of its singular people is transparent through--the vigorous, the beautiful, the most musical verses which we attempt to render. The lines afford, also, an excellent example of that felicity of illustration which we numbered among our author's accomplishments. The poem of which they form the close is occupied with the sweetness and innocent joyousness of childhood, and pleads for, and exhorts to indulgence for its free and sportive sallies. "As for me," exclaims the poet,—— For me, whate'er my life and lot may show, Turmoil or peace; ne'er be it mine, I pray, So, if my hap it be to see once more To pass thy plains with cities sprent between, Thy palaces, of Moor's or Roman's time; But they whose favor is dear to us as the light of our eyes, are, doubtless, desirous to hear a love-lay of our boasted bard. They shall surely have one, if they will but permit us first to select a few felicitous specimens; some small gems, but sparkling, even amidst an atmosphere of brilliancy. Here, for instance, is a sweet transparency, a veil of soft light, a gleam from an open corner of heaven, such as Campbell was wont to shed in liquid verse. Here it is, clothing you with beauty:- "La lune au jour est tiède est pâle, Comme un joyeux convalescent: Ye deep, deep waves, of kneeling mothers feared, tween The while in crowds to the flood-tide ye pour; |