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Otherwise it were devilish. I trust in my soul That the great master hand which sweeps over
Of this deep harp of life, if at moments it stretch To shrill tension some one wailing nerve, means
to fetch Its response the truest, most stringent, and
Its pntlios the purest, from out the wrong heart, Whose faculties, flaccid it may be, if less Sharply strung, shurply smitten, had failed to
Just the one note the great final harmony needs. And what best proves there's life in a heart?—
that it bleeds!
Grant a cause to remove,grant an end to attain, Grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain !'"
Wo are extremely limited in our space for extract, and we have preferred to take such passages, by no means the best in point of poetry, which most strikingly express the author's moral design and purpose. But the range of thought and feeling displayed throughout the poem is very wide. There is the lightest social raillery, there is sound and truthful satire, and there is the manliest earnestness in dealing with questions of human life. There is a full sense of the poetry of nature in the earth and sky, varying between playful garden pictures and expression of the grandeur of the mountains or the glory of the sunrise and the sunset. Nor can the writing of such a poem have failed to give to its author some of that reward of genius worthily described in the one passage more that we must find room to quote. If the reward of work were but the praise it wins, he tells us—
"Thrice better, Nctera, it were Unregarded to sport with thine odorous hair, Untroubled to lie nt thy feet in tho shade And bo loved, while the roses yet bloom overhead, Than to sit by tho lone hearth, and think tho
long thought, A scvoro, snd, blind schoolmaster, envied for
nought Save the name of John Milton! For all men,
Who in some choice edition may graciously read,
madness! Dante's dreams—not his waking to exile and
sadness! Milton's music—but not Milton's blindness 1 . .
My Milton, and answer, with those noble eyes Which the glory of heaven hath blinded to earth! Say—the life, in the living it, savors of worth:
That tho deed, in the doing it, reaches its aim: That the fact has a value apart from the fame: That a deeper delight, in the mere labor, pays Scorn of lesser delights, and laborious days: And Shakspcarc, though all Shakspeare's writings were lost,
And his genius, though never a trace of it crossed Posterity's path, not tho less would have dwelt In the isle with Miranda, with Ilumlet have felt All that Hamlet bath uttered, and haply where,
On its death-bed, wronged love lay, have moaned with the Moor!"
Before we part from a book that contains such noble promise of another poet to our country, we may call slight attention to occasional blemishes on its surface, arising from what we cannot but hold to be a departure from the sound theory of poetical composition. Question as to the relative advantages of rhyme and blank verse in a long metrical story that demands extreme variety of expression, and has no affinity to the old ballad tales, we shall not raise; but in our belief the discussion would necessarily turn upon the same ground taken in Dryden'g time for discussion of the rhymed and unrhymed drama, and would finally be decided, as that was practically decided, against rhyme. But the essential nature of verse, rhymed or unrhymed, is the same. By providing a fixed system of pauses and modulations of the voice it ensures a place of emphasis for every emphatic word, and thus gives to expression a peculiar vigor. One of these places of emphasis is the last word in a line, and no good English poet until these days ever marred his verse by putting unessential words into this prominent position. Neither does the author of Ltictte, as our extracts will have shown, when he puts on his singing robes; but he appears too hastily to have accented the doctrine that a story in verse should in its lighter passages be only metrical prose, and that it can be made colloquial simply by violation of the fundamental theory of verse. This is, of course, fighting vainly against nature. The mechanism of the verse must and will moke its usual emphasis, and nothing is obtained but the jar of emphasis in the wrong place by such division as
"forever at hide And seek with our souls—"
"thinking of those Strange backgrounds of Raphael."
As rhymed verse gives to the last word of each line a double claim on attention, the defect here is even more to be avoided than in blank verse, to the vigor of which also it is yet always fatal.
Wo have probably indicated, in these few words, what may serve to intercept from this poem, for the present at least, the full ac
the author shall have determined his place in poetry by more matured productions ; but it will come not less surely even if ho should not publish again. For Lvcile is remarkable lor what it is, and not merely for the
ceptance and praise to which on every other j promise it contains. We know of no such ground it is entitled. Its claims are too ! performance of surpassing merit in English marked and various, however, not to obtain j verse which has not sooner or later found fit ultimate recognition. This may come when | and sympathizing audience.
Mediaeval Rhymes.—In a MS. in tbo British Museum (lliirlcian, No. 275) occurs the following curious mixture of English and Latin rhymes. One would almost suppose that the lines of the canticle were intended to be sung alternately by the laity and clergy :—
"Joyne all now in thys fcsto
ffor Vcrbum caro factum est.
"Jhcsns almyghty king of hlvs
"All holy churche of hym mak mynd
Intravit vcntris thnlamum;
"To Mnry came a mcssanger,
ffcreus sal in liomini;
"The myght of the holy goste
Palarium in:;,in- uteri;
"When ho was borne that made all thyng'
Pastor creator oiura;
"Thro kvnges come the xii day
Siclli nitente previft;
"A stcrre furth leddo the kyngcs all
"For ho was fcyng of kyngis ay
ffor he was God and Lord verray Sccundus rex thus protulit,
"ffor he was man; the thyrd kyng
Incensum pulcrum tradidit: lie us all to hys blys brynge
Qui mori crucc voluit." -Notes and Queries. John Wj
Alleged Interpolations In Tfir "T« Deum."—In the course of the discussions on this subject which have appeared in "N. and Q.," reference has been made to an imitation of the " Tc Dcum," in the shape of a hymn to the Blessed Virgin—" \Ve praise thee, Mother of God; we acknowledge thcc to bo Virgin Mary" (To Matron) Dei laudumiis, to Muriaiu Virgincm confitemur). This imitation has been generally attributed to St. Bonavcnture, and appears as part of the "Psalter of the Blessed Virgin," also supposed to be his. I observe, however, that your correspondent F. C. II. says in unqualified terms, " this ' parody ' on the Te Deum is /u/sc/y ascribed to St. Bonaventurc." Will F. 0. II. be so obliging as to state his grounds for this assertion? I am aware that Alban Butler says in a note "The psalter of (lie Blessed Virgin is falsely ascribed to St. Bonavcnture, and unworthy to bear his name." Butler adds "See Fabric-ins in Biblioth. med. letat. Bellarmin and Labbodo Script. Eccl. Nat. Alexander, Ilist. Eccl. Sasc. 13 :" but on an examination of these authorities, nothing is found, to bear out Butler's assertion. Sec tho evidence examined at length in King's Psalter of the D. V. Mary illustrated, Dublin, 1840, p. 48, etc.
An "improved" recension of the Prayer Book, published for the Unitarians in 1820, contains an expurgated version of tho Te Deum, from which the clauses invoking tho Holy Trinity are left out; or so modified as to bo neutralized. Are there any other examples of this kind of dealing with that ancient hymn? —Notes and Queries. B. II. C.
From Tho Englishwoman's Journal.
I Have passed my life as a, dressmaker, going about among some of the best families 111 L . One of my most constant employers was a Mrs. Dash wood, a worldly and fashionable woman with a large family.
Among her many sons and daughters, though apparently not of them, was a young man of far different character. This young gentleman's mother (sister to Mr. Dashwood) had married unfortunately, lost her husband the first year of her marriage, and, dying herself ten years after, left her only child, a penniless orphan, to her brother's charge, who had not entirely neglected the trust. But, at the outset of life, poor young Frankland hail been attacked with a long illness, which, though yielding to medical treatment, saddled him for life with a perceptible lameness, and a something peculiar and quaint in his manner. His cousins called him "poor George." Poor George was glad to be content with a clerkship in a good office at the humble salary of a hundred and fifty pounds a year, with which he paid his aunt for his board, and put by something for charity. He was of a lower and slighter make than his fashionable cousins, and, by the side of theirs, his clothes looked but old-fashioned; nevertheless his face could not be seen without exciting interest. Sad to plaintivcness as it was, there was an expression of manly endurance upon his countenance which redeemed it from all morbidness, and there was no mistaking the refinement and kindliness of his heart. The servants all liked him, and he never met me on the stairs, or anywhere, without some courteous remark. I used to notice, too, what a pleasant way he had with the children during his frequent visits to the schoolroom, calling forth their intelligence with unaffected simplicity, or checking their passions with a certain quiet wisdom peculiarly his own. The schoolroom was always appropriated to me and my work ; I suppose in recollection of the time, not so long ago, when I had seen better days.
It was an agreeable surprise to me to find on returning to Mrs. Dashwood, after their usual summer absence, that the former supercilious governess was gone, and a new young lady in her place, who greeted me with i pleasant smile, set a chair i'or me, and clearoi a space for my work at the other end of the table next the fire. This young lady was no pretty, but she was a fresh, swcct-tcmperei looking creature, with clear, loving eyes, am the brightest smile I ever saw. It was a pleasure even to hear her cheerful voice will the children. After tho children's tea, Mis Woodvillo, that was the new governess" name
had to see that her charge were nicely dressed o appear at dessert down stairs, then delivering them over into the hands of the nurse, icr day's work was at length over, and she at down to enjoy herself. I came back to he schoolroom from superintending the moothing of some trimmings, and found her with a book in her hand. This she laid aside it once on my appearance, and taking out ler work, evidently set herself to be sociable, and do the honors of her little kingdom. She won my heart at once by speaking of my mother. Her aunt, she said, had often mentioned her with great respect, and she insinuated, with the most delicate tact in the world, hat she knew how different was my original •ank from that which I now held. Then we talked about the children, concerning whom and their characters she had theories without end. Next the conversation turned to books, and she told me the tale of the novel she was reading in such a pretty way that it was as jood as reading the book itself. I was engaged to work for Mrs. Dashwood the whole af this week, and, at the end of that time, a real friendship had sprung up between myself and Miss Woodville. Women see through each other so clearly, that they can scarcely be in the same house any length of time without a downright like or dislike.
Miss Woodville was a poor orphan, destined from her cradle to be a governess. When I became acquainted with her, she had been teaching ten years, having begun at the early age of sixteen. She had no expectations of any happier lot, but was content, with instinctive love, to trust her future to her God. Her pride did not revolt at the idea of serving. She had known much adversity, but she did not think she deserved a brighter lot. People were often kind to her, then she enjoyed music so much, and reading, and had she not the gift of writing verses? Of this power it must be confessed she was not n little vain, and loved to give a copy of her odes on any trifling occasion; but if this vanity were a tare among the wheat, it was such a harmless, pretty weed, and made so gay the barren soil of her life, that mothinks the angel-reaper even would pass it lightly by. I never knew a creature more capable of enjoyment than was this child of adversity, or one more giflcd with a grateful temper, making the most of the faintest bit of pleasure. Sweet Susan Woodville! would that all were as happy in their prosperity as thou wort in thy lowly lot!
When I worked for Mrs. Dashwood, the only time Miss Woodville and I had to be together was when the children had gone to bed; and how keenly we enjoyed that time! Sometimes I would give her hints on her wonderful projects for making up anew dress, or for converting an old one into quite a ] capital garment; sometimes she would sin" her pretty ballads to me, or we would read aloud. One evening when wo were indulging ourselves with the last-named pleasure, and Miss Woodville, who had a sweetly modulated voice, was reading the " Vicar of WakeSeld " to me, I happened to look up and perceived Mr. Frankland standing in the doorway. As he caught my eye, he entered the room with many apologies.
"I happened, ladies, to catch a few words of my old friend, the •Vicar, and I could not resist listening, as I thought I should not disturb you. However, as the disturbance has been made, pray let me join the admiring circle round my old friend. Ami intrusive?" added he, addressing Miss Woodville, who with some embarrassment'had half closed her volume.
"Oh no, sir!" she replied, fearing to have wounded him, for she had often remarked with commiseration the lonely and despised position of the poor lame gentleman in the family; "oh no, sir, we shall gladly welcome any friend of good Dr. Primrose!"
And she then rose and set him a chair, for she loved to play the hostess in her little parlor. The reading recommenced, our reader soon resumed her animation, and so interested were we, that I lingered an hour after the proper time of my departure.
"Well, Miss Woodville," said Mr. Frankland, rising as I moved to leave, "a very good story, but a sad moral after all has Goldsmith given us."
"A sad moral!" repeated we both, breathlessly.
"Yes, after all their trials and troubles, he has only the old commonplace to reward the Primrose family with, — marriage 1 Such a hackneyed reward! always the same in all books, no matter what the merit of hero or heroine."
"Yet you listened with much interest to this hackneyed end'/" returned Miss Woodville, roguishly.
"So much so, that I want to know whether I may attend to-morrow's reading?"
'•Yes, if you will pay your footing, if yon will read to "us yourself. You see, Miss Wilson," remarked Susan, as soon as Mr. Frankland was gone, "Mr. Frankland is such a confirmed bachelor that there can be no harm in these little visits of his."
Mr. Frankland read to us the evening following, and the next. When I again came to work at Mrs. Dashwood's he entered the schoolroom with a hesitating manner.
"Now, ladies," he said, "I know this is your holiday time, you must please deal frankly with me, and declare in plain terms whether my presence be irksome to you? It
would deeply grieve me to deprive you of vour leisure; for perhaps I am a check upon ;he discussion of many feminine topics. If so, do not scruple to tell me; you know I am used to spend my evenings alone, so pray speak as you feel."
He had evidently strung his mind to say this much, in his formal quaint way, no doubt expecting that, if his society were not agreeable to Miss Woodville, that kind tongue of hers would frame itself to tell him so. But I am sure that Susan had honestly no dilemma of the kind. A more delicate one beset her woman's wit: how should she manage not to appear too eager for his company? So now Miss Woodville, who had never spoken before but from the impulse of her heart, got up a little scheme, and, turning the tables on Mr. Frankland, charged him with being wearied of our. company, and so contriving this excuse for not again boring himself with it. It was wonderful how easy Mr. Frankland became a victim to so very palpable an intrigue. He was so nervously eager to disprove her words, that his anxiety fluttered him out of the power of using any of his long words and somewhat quaintly ceremonious phrases. He stammered out that Miss Woodville was utterly wrong in the construction she had put upon his words, because the evenings spent in her company were, were— What they were, he never said, but oh, the unfinished sentences are the prettiest telltales!
Not to make my story too minute, Mr. Frankland only left the room to seek a favorite book to read to us. As soon as he was gone, Miss Woodville, looking terribly conscious, but very happy, said, with a silly little cough, though trying to speak with great indifference:
"You know, Jane, we could not be so rude as to say we did not wish for his company, and you seem to enjoy his reading so much."
"Oh, yes, very much, indeed," demurely replied I.
Mr. Frankland returned with Thomson's "Seasons." How very odd, it was exactly the poetry one of his audience loved the best! He read his favorite passages, and then Susan remembered one very dear to her, so, at his request, the book passed from his hand to hers, and she read the lines with a voice that trembled a little, but was not a whit less sweet for that, nor less set off by the timid blush which painted her cheek when busy instinct told her (despite her down-cast eyes) that a tender gaze was reading the page of her open, artless brow. Then he resumed the book. Did she remember the close of "Spring V" Did she? She could not be certain, she had not read •' Spring" very lately. Ah, Susan Woodville, shrewdly do I suspect that every word of a description so ineffably lovely, so enchanting to woman's yearning, timid heart, was engraven on thy memory! Should he read it to her? Oh, yes, certainly! He read with that grave sweetness which imparted so peculiar a charm to his otherwise ordinary person, and as he read, that pretty blush stole back, and, no longer flitting away, took up its station steadily on Susan's cheek.
The next day, Miss Woodville told me that Mr. Franklin, having discovered through the children that she wrote poetry, had persuaded her to let him see some of her productions. It would be an unspeakable advantage to her, she thought, because he was so clever, and had promised to criticise every line with great severity. She had not thought it right to refuse his ofl'cT. He was coming to return her her poems, and tell her all the faults in them. "So expect to see me savagely mangled, Jane I" added she, with a smile.
Well, Mr. Frankland was true to his appointment, and they sat down to their task, he armed with all critical gravity, she ready to defend and explain. To do them justice, some faults were pointed out, and some very gentle excuses given; but I listened vainly for "savage mangling." The tone of criticism rapidly relaxed, they began to read together, to admire together, and the poetry, like all oilier things, became a delicious meeting-place for thought, for fancy, for opinion.
iVomcn must certainly learn the language of love instinctively: how well did I comprehend in Miss Woodville why her eye was so dreamy over and anon, as the children repeated their lessons to her, the sudden flurried resumption of attention, her long silences as we sat together, or the deep sigh and the " Oh, dear, but it is a strange world, Jane !" that broke them. I was amused at the surprising turns which would bring the conversation from the remotest topics somehow to George Frankland. "Jane," she said, innocently, one day, " I think you arc always talking of Mr. Frankland!"
At last, my engagement with Mrs. Dashwood ending, I saw and heard nothing of Miss Woodville for some weeks. You will not wonder that I often pondered on the progress of affairs between her and Mr. Frankland, nor that I rejoiced to receive a summons to North Street. I was cordially received by Miss Woodville, but of course had no time for conversation till the evening, when Susan, coming and sitting down by my side, unable as a child to keep her happiness any longer to herself, began —
"Oh, Jane, I am so happy! You cannot guess what has happened."
"Perhaps I can. Arc you invited to spend
your holidays with your old pupils in Cornwall?"
"No, no I something better. But I know you can never guess unless I give you a little hint! There is a wedding in question. You know the parties."
"And the gentleman's name is Frankland. and the lady's Woodville? Am I wrong ? *
"How could you guess so soon V But it is true, quite true? Can you wonder that I am so happy, Jane V"
Her face was radiant with blushes, and love and happiness: •who could refuse to rejoice with this little governness, hitherto all alone and neglected? Not I. I begged her to tell me how the event came about.
"Well, then, Jane, after you left us, I saw more and more of Mr. Frankland, somehow we were continually meeting, when something was sure to be said so interesting, that I thought of it till we met again. I told myself I should never be fit to teach if this went on. Well, one Sunday — do not think me very wicked !— thoughts and anxieties about Mr. Frankland kept tormenting me all church-time, so that I determined to stay at home in the evening, which the children were to spend with their grandmamma, and see whether reading to myself would not bring me into a better frame of mind. So I went to the schoolroom, and sought to persuade myself that I shut out the world as I closed the door; when who should coma knocking at the door, but that very bit of the world that had done all the mischief."
"Mr. Frankland, in short," interposed I.
"Well, Jane, it was. He looked very awkward, and so did I. Indeed I was such a bewildered goose, that I never asked him to walk in, till, looking very sad and grave, he said, 'Perhaps I intrude, Miss Woodville?' Then I was so grieved to have hurt him, that I recovered my self-possession at once, and welcomed him in quite properly, Jane. Well, he sat down by my side, and looked very kindly at me. I wore my white dress and blue ribbons, and I rather think — do not laugh at me — that they become me, Jane. 'Did Miss Wilson make this pretty gown 'i' inquired he. You may be sure that I cleared you from such a disgrace !' I am certainly ignorant,' said he, 'of flounces, and skirts, and tuckers, in which you ladies vie with each other, but I love to see a woman wear white, it reminds me of the white robes of the angels, and would seem to imply that women imitated them, outwardly, at least!' After a while, he said ho should esteem it a great favor if I would consent that we should read the Bible together. For my very life I could not refuse, Jane. Think of the happiness of reading the Bible with him. He asked to