XIII. FEMALE POETS. JOANNA BAILLIE*- -CATHERINE FANSHAWE. BELOVED, admired, appreciated by the best spirits of her time, it is with no little triumph that I, who plead guilty to some of that esprit de corps, which may be translated into "pride of sex,” write the name of our great female dramatist-of the first woman who won high and undisputed honors in the highest class of English poetry. The pleasure of rendering her a faint and imperfect justice is all the greater that I have the honor of claiming acquaintance with this most gifted person, and that she is, in her domestic relations, the very pattern of what a literary lady should be-quiet, unpretending, generous, kind, admirable in her writings, excellent in her life. And yet of Mrs. Joanna Baillie, the praised of Scott, and of all whose praise is best worth having for half a century, what can I say, but that many an age to come will echo back their applause! Her tragedies have a boldness and grasp of mind, a firmness of hand, and a resonance of cadence, that scarcely seem within the reach of a female writer; while the tenderness and sweetness of her heroines-the grace of the love-scenes-and the trembling outgushings of sensibility, as in Orra, for instance, in the fine tragedy on Fear-would seem exclusively feminine, if we did not know that a true dramatist-as Shakspeare or *Since writing this paper, this gifted authoress and admirable woman has passed from this world to the higher and happier state which was ever in her thoughts. A letter from her to a mutual friend, written a very few days before her death, expresses her satisfaction in having received the sacrament with her sister the Sunday previous. In this letter, for the first time during a long correspondence, she breaks off somewhat suddenly, complaining of bodily fatigue, although no one then thought her ill. Fletcher-has the wonderful power of throwing himself, mind and body, into the character that he portrays. That Mrs. Joanna is a true dramatist, as well as a great poet, I, for one, can never doubt, although it has been the fashion to say that her plays do not act. It must be above fifty years ago that I, then a girl of thirteen. in company with my old and dear friend, Mr. Harness, the bosom friend of Thomas Hope, the friend and correspondent of Lord Byron (and, be it observed, of all his correspondents, the one who seems to have impressed the daring poet with the most sincere respect), then a boy considerably younger than myself, witnessed the representation of "De Montfort," by John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. Forty years after, we had the pleasure of talking over that representation with the authoress, in Lady Dacre's drawing-room, a place where poets "most do congregate," and we both agreed that the impression which the performance had made upon us had remained indelible. Now, the qualities in an acted play that fixed themselves upon the minds of children so young, must have been purely dramatic. Purely dramatic, too, are many of the finer traits that strike us in reading, as, when De Montfort, with his ear quickened by hatred, announces the approach of Rezenvelt, and Freberg exclaims: "How quick an ear thou hast for distant sound! I hear him not-" and many others scattered through the tragedies. I concede, however, very willingly, that Mrs. Joanna is a most charming lyrical poetess; as witness the beautiful Morning Song in the "Beacon," which breathes the very spirit of hope. Up! quit thy bower; late wears the hour; Long have the rooks cawed round thy tower; The wilding kid sports merrily : Up! lady fair, and braid thy hair, The rolling stream that soothed thy dream Is dancing in the sunny beam; And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay, Will waft good fortune on its way. G* Up! time will tell; the friar's bell May bring good fortune ere the night. There is a remarkable freedom in the diction and versification of the following beautiful song; the more remarkable that it is written for a Welsh air. THE BLACK COCK. Good morrow to thy sable beak, That twinkles in the morning air, A maid there is in yonder tower, One fleeting moment of delight Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day; The climbing herd-boy chants his lay; The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring; Thou art already on the wing. This song is distinguished by the same delicious freedom, and was also written to music. Truly, the Muse can dance in fetters. O welcome bat and owlet gray, Aud welcome shadows dim and deep, And stars that through the pale sky peep; O welcome all! to me ye say My woodland love is on her way. Upon the soft wind floats her hair, I can not resist indulging myself by transcribing the following Scottish ballad, a delightful specimen of quaint richness and quiet humor. FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING. (An Auld Song New Buskit.) Fy, let us a' to the wedding, And there will be jibing and jeering, And there will be Bessy, the beauty, And there will be auld Geordie Tanner, And brown Tibbie Fowler, the heiress, To catch up her gloves when they fa', Repeat a' her jokes as they're cleckit, While tocherless mays are negleckit,- And Maysie, wha's clavering aunty And Andrew, wha's granny is yearning Was sent to the college for learning, And there will be auld Widow Martin, And Elspy, the sewster sae genty, And Angus, the seer o' fairlies, That sits on the stane at his door, And tells about bogles, and mair lies Than tongue ever uttered before. And there will be Bauldie, the boaster, Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue; Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster, Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young. And Hugh, the town-writer, I'm thinking, And Maggie-ha! ha! will be civil, Then, fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will get sheep's-head and haggi And browst o' the barley-mow; |