PREFACE. · IT has been said by a fine writer, that, although genius is the heir of fame, the loss of life is the condition on which the bright reversion must be earned; that fame is the recompense not of the living, but of the lead, its temple standing over the grave, and the flame of its altar kindled from the ashes of the great. There is truth in the thought, as well as beauty in the expression of it, though, like most general remarks of the same description, it is open to both quali fication and exception. It is true that fame is not popularity merely. It is not the shout of the multitude. It is not the idle buzz of fashion, the venal puff, the soothing flattery of favour or of friendship.' But is it alone, on the other hand, the spirit of a man surviving himself, as Hazlitt describes it, in the minds and thoughts of other men? Or, as he splendidly represents it again, is it only the sound which the stream of high thoughts, carried down to future ages, makes as it flows-deep, distant, murmuring evermore like the waters of the mighty occan?' This is fame, indeed. No reputation can be called such, that will not endure that test. But may it not begin also in the life of him | that earns it? May it not begin, and continue, coincident with the mere popularity which is so often mistaken for itself,-as the immortal soul disdains not the envelope of perishing humanity, which it is destined so soon to leave, and to outlive so long? May not the spirit of a man transfuse its influence into the spirits of other men, without the mythological transmigration which, according to this theory, death implies;—and the force of that influence be felt, and recognized, and acknowledged,---imperfectly and tardily we admit that it generally is,-ere yet the 'swift decay' of him that so works for the world, and for posterity, shall quite release him from his toils? It is truly a 'weary ife' "A wasting task, and lone-" is that of the diver, in Eastern Seas, for the gem that, gleam as it may, 'a star to all the testive hall', "-Not one 'midst throngs will say. A life has been, like a rain-drop, shed, A weary life! And who will think, e mournful fancy adds, "When the strain is sung. Till a thousand hearts are stirr'd, "None! none!-his treasures live like thine, Thou that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, And this also is doubtless true, that, weary and wasting as it is,-this diving for the gems of thought,-the world, that is to wear the rich results, does not and cannot appreciate, or but slowly and slightly at the best, the exhausting effort which it costs. That can be understood only by him who suffers it, and it is the province of the one party even to enjoy the price of the bitter tears' of the other. But it is enjoyed; and that is fame. It is the influence of mind upon mind, independently of every personal consideration; and that is fame, however much those considerations, or some of them, were they known and felt, as they cannot be, might add to the interest of that influence, and even to its force. The best confirmation, melancholy though it be, of the truth of these remarks, is furnished by the case of the gifted, accomplished, and amiable writer whose beautiful illus tration of her own career-not to call it a prediction of her own destiny—we have borrowed, and whose works are now for the first time gathered together, in the following pages, we trust with something like a completeness corresponding to the exertion which has been made by the Publisher, as well as to the merit and charm of the works them selves. The mere popularity of these poems,-their cotemporaneous notoriety,-and especially as indicated by the notice of the periodical press, has been perhaps entirely unexampled in the history of literature of this description. Such at least was the re *Mrs. Hemans's Diver. putation of the larger portion of them, all her later productions included; for it is true, as critics have remarked, that not only the debût which she made in a juvenile volume, it Liverpool, while yet in her childhood, (a collection of little effusions written between the ages of eight and thirteen, to which she, who had the right of decision, did not herHelf subsequently choose to give a place among her mature works',) but even the much more elaborate compositions of many succeeding years, including the Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy, (published in 1817,) and other poems studded as richly with brilliant passages, did not have the ef. fect to establish her reputation. In fact, the Records of Woman, which appeared only some eight years since, may be considered as having fairly laid its foundations. From that time, however, as we have said, the favour her poems met with was unexampled. But who will pretend that it was no more than 'favour;' that it was but a transient air of popular whim which sustained them, but gave no test nor pledge of an inherent and enduring buoyancy? Who will deny that Mrs. Hemans has enjoyed-or, if we use the term which is applicable to the personal effort and effect, that she has suffered,-in her own life-time, a true fame,-even the truest, dearest, best, of all its specics,-though only as the dim beginning of the brightness which awaits her name? Even the extraordinary newspaper popularity (so to speak) of her later writings, is itself an indication, on the whole, of the fact. It shows the feeling of the people, which dictates the fashion of the press; and although there are many of the works of genius which may largely attract the attention and admiration of the world, for a time, and for various and obvious reasons, without leaving their mark on the minds or hearts of men, others there are, possessed of a vital spirit, that, once appreciated, they will not willingly let dic.' The notoriety of such an author, as an author, is equivalent to his fame. It is as true of virtue, especially, as of vice, that it 'needs but to be seen;' and although that conventional corporation which has the name of the public,' increly, are not seldom deceived by false pretences, and dazzled by brilliant shows, the world at large is wiser han the public, (as much as it is wiser than any individual,) and will see. It will feel, too; and acknowledge what it feels. It will · acknowledge it, not in the columns of the newspapers, to be sure, alone-though these certainly have their part to play-but as Scott's was acknowledged, when a traveller states that he found, in the remotest regions of Hungary, a volume of one of his delight ful romances in a peasant's cabin; as Thom son's was, when a shabby, soiled copy of 'The Seasons' was noticed, by a man of genius, lying on the table of an obscure ale-house, in England. That,' said he, is trus fame!' And it was, and is so. Such is tize fame of the Vicar of. Wakefield, and John Gilpin, and the Pilgrim, and poor Robinson Crusoe, and the Cotter's Saturday Night It is seen not in the diamond editions that glitter on the centre-tables of genteel society, or crowd, with everything else, the biblio pole's multifarious collections of rarities; but the ragged volumes of every circulating li brary, grown old and illegible before their time by dint of reading-and the thumbed copies that lie on the window-ledge of the poor man's cottage, with the leaves turned down by the good woman to keep the place'-and the song, or the ode, which the milk-maid trolls on the hill-side, or a band of freemen (like the descendants of the Ply. mouth Pilgrims) adopt for the festal commemoration of their fathers' glory,-these are the quick pulses that prove the existence of an author in his fame. Such has been already the success of Mrs. Hemans. She addressed herself not to passion, or fashion. or the public, or any class of the community or country she lived in, but to human beings, as such, to their hearts, as well as their heads-with truth's transparent and glowing passport in her hand;—and it was an intro duction that never yet failed to be effectual, nor ever will. Fashion will pass away, and passion subside in satiety; and the frivolou industry that ministered to the gratification of the one, and the false excitement that led the other to its own destruction, will be despised first, and then forgotten; but man emains the same, from first to last; and truth which also remains, is mighty, and, worthily interpreted, must prevail. How long it may be in making its way, depends upon the cir cumstances of each particular case. It may address the head, or the heart, or both. It may be more or less a matter of necessity or of luxury alone. It may be left to the recommendation only of its own modes. merit, or be drawn into notice by fortunate crises, or casual accompaniments, well adapt. ed to excite a seasonable sympathy as it were at the mere sight of its features, or the sound of its name, while its absolute character is yet unknown. Meanwhile "The soul whence these high gifts are shed, May faint in solitude," exhausted by these same efforts, or borne down by circumstances which have little or no connexion with them; or it may thrive s the young tree that leans over running waters, and grow stronger as it gives more fruit, till it lives to feel, in the airs that reach it from many a far-off shore, the joy of its own blossomy breath returned to it, and to hear the blessing of the poor pilgrim who has paused in the dust of the way-side of a weary life, and the school-girl's glee, and the child's murmur of sweet delight, as they turn down from the heat of the day, to be refreshed and rejoice together in the gloom of its green repose. So, we say, has it been already, and so, we venture to predict, it will be still, with much of the poetry of Mrs. Hemans. She strove to be the worthy interpreter of worthy truth, deeply concerning the happiness of her race; and the vital spirit of virtue has inspired her to be equal to the task. This is ner praise; and it is praise enough; not that she has spent her strength in the rearing of dazzling fabrics of fancy, as brilliant and as useless as the ice-palaces of the northern Queen; not that she has chosen to indulge the impulse of a wayward temperament in the reckless expression of feeling without principle, and of sentiment without point; | not that she has dealt only in the cold oracles of a selfish philosophy, more thoughtful of truth, and of proof, than of the use of either in the wants of the world; not that she has indulged unholy passion in her own breast, or the breast of any living creature; not that she has dared to exaggerate, that at all events she might astonish, or deigned to be mean, in the miserable hope of amusing. No! She has neither failed to feel the high dignity of her profession, nor forgotten to observe it. She has made no vain display of genius faithless to its trust. She has cultivated self as the means, not consulted it as the end. She has been ambitious less to gain honour, than to give pleasure, and do good. She has not assumed to assert what is doubtful, or to deny what is not. She has not dogmatized, criticized, or theorized. She has not speculated. She has not trifled. She has not flattered, nor inflamed. But she did strive to ennoble virtue; to encourage ex ertion; to sustain hope; to increase the happiness of men, by increasing their capacity to be happy, and developing their taste for what is deserving of pursuit. She strove, in a word, as we began with saying, to be the worthy inter. preter of worthy truth. And she was so. praise; and it is the There has been too This, we say, is her greater for its rarity. much among us of extravagant excitement,even from the master-minds of the times,as if there were no way of avoiding the cold gorgeousness of the mere phantasmagoria of fancy, or the idle insipidity of a soulless sentimentalism, or any other of the deficient styles of the day, but by rushing headlong to the opposite extreme. Mrs. Hemans has taken the reasonable medium, which her native sense and sensibility alike approved. She has shown us that nature alone is strange enough, and strong enough, for all the purposes of interest and instruction which poetry demands: and that its true office is not to distort, but to describe; not to magnify, but to simplify; to do justice, strictly, to divinity, and to humanity, and to the universe around us, not by assuming to paint them as they should be, but by faithfully labouring to interpret them as they are. No Delphic frenzy could aid in the discharge of such a service; it would have made it, as in so many other cases, (not heathen,) it has done, a worse than worthless labour. She wanted the powers of perception, and reflection, to appreciate the world without, and the world within; and these she had, and did; but not as if to know, and to think, only, were the life of the soul. She wanted sensibility,—the more exquisite the better,—and the more cultivated with all the faculties in due proportion, the better, for what is it to live, if it be not to love?'* She wanted to be ready to feel, as only the good can do, 'at the sight of whatever is excellent, an emotion like that which the sweet remembrance of infancy causes;'-an instinct to recognize the fac of the beautiful, wherever it may be, and t rush, as it were, into its arms, as the Syrian pilgrim,† from all his wanderings returned to his mother's home again, into hers. She wanted enthusiasm even, in the exercise of these capacities,-enthusiasm to make the exercise a delight, and to inspire her to communicate to other bosoms the rejoicing of her own. But with all these, which she had, she needed no morbid disorder. She had none. She knew that "we preserve this precious faculty of the heart"-even this— 'only in proportion as we cultivate truth, and guard against the exaggerated, affected, or factitious.' She kept herself calm even for the purpose of feeling-of feeling rightly-as much as of seeing clearly,-knowing also it is a fruitless torture we choose to suf fer, 'to force ourselves to be false to ourselves, and to everything, that we may learn how to be true;' that the mind may faithfully mirror, only in a state of composure, the impressions which meet it; that the knowledge, the knowledge of all nature, and especially of his own, which the poet pursues, flees from the rushing footstep of passion, even as the haste of the hunter startles his game. And why, after all,'-the philosopher we have cited so often, inquires,-why should we be disturbed? What should we gain by so much toil? Why do we not allow our selves time to breathe? The good we follow-and this is as true in poetry, as in philosophy is nearer to the soul than we think; it would come to us, if we only consented to be calm.' This calmness it is, which eminently characterizes the poetry of Mrs. Hemans, and which most distinguishes it from the revolutionary poetry of the revolutionary age we live in. It is a self-possession which never forsakes her in the heat of her highest enthusiasm of joy or sorrow. There is a divine dignity, unsurpassed even by the grandeur of Milton, in the rapture of an admiration that seems almost to lift her in her song, as apon angels' pinions, "To the breath Oi Dorian flute, or lyre note soft and slow:"* and again, in the darkest mood of the 'tender gloom' which beautifully tinges the whole surface of her works, (like the dim religious light of an ancient forest, or of one of her own lonely fanes "A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast,)" there is yet a more than wakeful,-a cheerful, -an inextinguishably cheerful spirit,-an immortal hope,-'a calmness of the just,'a manifest and as majestic in herself as in *League of the Alps. her own "Alvar's glorious mien," + — and making its voice heard in the midst of its sorrow, like the martyr's "Sweet and solemn-breathing strain, Piercing the flames, untremulous and clear" We have called it the vital spirit of virtue which sustains her. Let us say, in her own language, again,— "It is a fearful, yet a glorious thing. To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know For such an exhaustless reservoir of resources, after all, is the secret of her inspi ration. And this, too, is the inspiration of truth, deep-seated, but calm, as a lake of the hills, in the sun-bright silence of the breast. This, then, we regard as the principle of the poetry of Mrs. Hemans,-its truth. It implies much, in detail. It implies perception, imagination, sensibility, self-control, and control over language; and truth, and taste, in all; for there is need to know, feel, reason, conceive, and describe, and all in their due proportion and season; in other words, as truth requires,-since to feel too much (for example) is of course as false to Nature as to feel too little, or not at all; and as regards the party to whom poetry is addressed, to be unable to command the means of convey. ing what is felt, by suitable language, is the same, so far as the deficiency exists, as if there were nothing to be conveyed, and no effort made to do it. This characteristic implies, then, that what is attempted, is done. It does not imply, necessarily, the highest order of genius, in the popular sense of the term, or,-not to settle the precedence of the diversities of genius, it does not imply every kind of it In the Evening Prayer at a Girls' School, Mrs. Hemans may have exquisitely succeeded in doing justice to the truth of a beautiful subject (as we think she has) without evincing (as we think she has not) the uni versal power of Shakspeare to identify him self, intuitively, as it has been described with every character which he wished to re present, "and to pass from one to anothe like the same soul successively animating different bodies." This may be necessary to a perfect dramatic talent, but not to every species of composition; the writer himself, whose splendid sketch we refer to, admits † Forest Sanctuary. |