gruity, and utter disregard of probability or nature? For, after he has thus wilfully debased his moral teacher by a low occupation, is there one word that he puts into his mouth, or one sentiment of which he makes him the organ, that has the most remote reference to that occupation? Is there any thing in his learned, abstract, and logical harangues, that savours of the calling that is ascribed to him? Are any of their materials such as a pedlar could possibly have dealt in? Are the manners, the diction, the sentiments, in any, the very smallest degree, accommodated to a person in that condition? or are they not eminently and conspicuously such as could not by possibility belong to it? A man who went about selling flannel and pocket-handkerchiefs in this lofty diction, would soon frighten away all his customers; and would infallibly pass either for a madman, or for some learned and affected gentleman, who, in a frolic, had taken up a character which he was peculiarly ill qualified for supporting. The absurdity in this case, we think, is palpable and glaring: but it is exactly of the same nature with that which infects the whole substance of the work-a puerile ambition of singularity engrafted on an unlucky predi lection for truisms; and an affected passion for simplicity and humble life, most awkwardly combined with a taste for mystical refinements, and all the gorgeousness of obscure phraseology. His taste for simplicity is evinced by sprinkling up and down his interminable declamations a few descriptions of baby-houses, and of old hats with wet brims; and his amiable partiality for humble life, by assuring us that a wordy rhetorician, who talks about Thebes, and allegorizes all the heathen mythology, was once a pedlar— and making him break in upon his magnificent orations with two or three awkward notices of something that he had seen when selling winter raiment about the country-or of the changes in the state of society, which had almost annihilated his former calling. (October, 1815.) The White Doe of Rylstone; or the Fate of the Nortons: a Poem. By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 4to. pp. 162. London: 1815. THIS, we think, has the merit of being the | very worst poem we ever saw imprinted in a quarto volume; and though it was scarcely to be expected, we confess, that Mr. Wordsworth, with all his ambition, should so soon have attained to that distinction, the wonder may perhaps be diminished when we state, that it seems to us to consist of a happy union of all the faults, without any of the beauties, which belong to his school of poetry. It is just such a work, in short, as some wicked enemy of that school might be supposed to have devised, on purpose to make it ridiculous; and when we first took it up, we could not help suspecting that some ill-natured critic had actually taken this harsh method of instructing Mr. Wordsworth, by example, in the nature of those errors, against which our precepts had been so often directed in vain. We had not gone far, however, till we felt intimately that nothing in the nature of a joke could be so insupportably dull;-and that this must be the work of one who earnestly believed it to be a pattern of pathetic simplicity, and gave it out as such to the admiration of all intelligent readers. In this point of view, the work may be regarded as curious at least, if not in some degree interesting; and, at all events, it must be instructive to be made aware of the excesses into which superior understandings may be betrayed, by long self-indulgence, and the strange extravagances into which they may run, when under the influence of that intoxication which is produced by unrestrained admiration of themselves. This poetical intoxication, indeed, to pursue the figure a little farther, seems capable of assuming as many hobbling versification, the mean diction, and flat stupidity of these models are very exactly copied, and even improved upon, in this imitation, their rude energy, manly simplicity, and occasional felicity of expression, have totally disappeared; and, instead of them, a large allowance of the author's own metaphysical sensibility, and mystical wordiness, is forced into an unnatural combination with the borrowed beauties which have just been mentioned. The story of the poem, though not capable of furnishing out matter for a quarto volume, might yet have made an interesting ballad; and, in the hands of Mr. Scott or Lord Byron, would probably have supplied many images to be loved, and descriptions to be remembered. The incidents arise out of the shortlived Catholic insurrection of the Northern counties, in the reign of Elizabeth, which was supposed to be connected with the project of marrying the Queen of Scots to the Duke of Norfolk; and terminated in the ruin of the Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, by whom it was chiefly abetted. Among the victims of this rash enterprise was Richard Norton of Rylstone, who comes to the array with a splendid banner, at the head of eight tall sons, but against the will and advice of a ninth, who, though he refused to join the host, yet follows unarmed in its rear, out of anxiety for the fate of his family; and, when the father and his gallant progeny are made prisoners, and led to execution at York, recovers the fatal banner, and is slain by a party of the Queen's horse near Bolton Priory, in which place he had been ordered to deposit it by the dying voice of his father. The stately halls and pleasant bowers of Rylstone are then wasted, and fall into desolation; while the heroic daughter, and only survivor of the house, is sheltered among its faithful retainers, and wanders about for many years in its neighbourhood, accompanied by a beautiful white doe, which had formerly been a pet in the family; and continues, long after the death of this sad survivor, to repair every Sunday to the churchyard of Bolton Priory, and there to feed and wander among the graves, to the wonder and delight of the rustic congregation that came there to worship. This, we think, is a pretty subject for a ballad; and, in the author's better day, might have made a lyrical one of considerable interest. Let us see, however, how he deals with it, since he has bethought him of publishing in quarto. The First Canto merely contains the description of the Doe coming into the churchyard on Sunday, and of the congregation wondering at her. She is described as being as white as a lily-or the moon-or a ship in the sunshine; and this is the style in which Mr. Wordsworth marvels and moralises about her through ten quarto pages. "What harmonious, pensive changes, Round and through this Pile of State, "The presence of this wand'ring Doo To the open day gives blessedness." The mothers point out this pretty creature to their children; and tell them in sweet nur sery phrases— "Now you have seen the famous Doe! The poet knows why she comes there, and thinks the people may know it too: But some of them think she is a new incarnation of some of the illustrious dead that lie buried around them; and one, who it seems is an Oxford scholar, conjectures that she may be the fairy who instructed Lord Clifford in astrology! an ingenious fancy, which the poet thus gently reproveth "Ah, pensive scholar! think not so! But look again at the radiant Doe!" And then closes the Canto with this natural and luminous apostrophe to his harp. 66 But, harp! thy murmurs may not cease,- Hath touch'd thee, and a Spirit's hand: The Second Canto is more full of business; and affords us more insight into the author's manner of conducting a story. The opening, however, which goes back to the bright and original conception of the harp, is not quite so intelligible as might have been desired. "The Harp in lowliness obey'd: And first we sang of the green-wood shade; Beginning, where the song must end, This solitary maid, we are then told, had wrought, at the request of her father, "an unblessed work "— "A Banner-one that did fulfil Too perfectly his headstrong will: The five dear wounds our Lord did bear." The song then proceeds to describe the rising of Northumberland and Westmoreland, in the following lofty and spirited strains:~"Two earls fast leagu'd in discontent, Who gave their wishes open vent; And that same Banner, on whose breaat The poet, however, puts out all his strength | head quarters of the insurgent Earls in the dehortation which he makes Francis scribes the first exploits of those cons Norton address to his father, when the prepa- warriors; who took possession of the rations are completed, and the household is dral of Durham, ready to take the field. "Francis Norton said, 'O Father! rise not in this fray- 'Tis meet that I endure your scorn,- The Banner touch not, stay your hand,- And live at home in blissful ease.'" The warlike father makes no answer to this exquisite address, but turns in silent scorn to the banner, "And his wet eyes are glorified;" and forthwith he marches out, at the head of his sons and retainers. Francis is very sad when thus left alone in the mansion-and still worse when he sees his sister sitting under a tree near the door. However, though "he cannot choose but shrink and sigh," he goes up to her and says, "Gone are they,-they have their desire; He paused, her silence to partake, 'Gone are they, bravely, though misled, Still stronger bends him to his course. In deep and awful channel runs After a great deal more, as touching and sensible, he applies himself more directly to the unhappy case of his hearer-whom he thus judiciously comforts and flatters: "Hope nothing, if I thus may speak To thee a woman, and thence weak; It is impossible, however, to go regularly on "Sang Mass, and tore the book of Prayer, "To London were the Chieftains bent: A Royal army is gone forth To quell the Rising of the North; And in seven days' space, will to York be led!- So they agree to march back again; at which The Fourth Canto shows Emily walking by the fish ponds and arbours of Rylstone, in a fine moonshiny night, with her favourite white Doe not far off. "Yet the meek Creature was not free, For thrice hath she approach'd, this day, "Grant that the moon which shines this night, May guide them in a prudent flight!'"-p. 75. Things however had already come to a still worse issue-as the poet very briefly and ingeniously intimates in the following fine lines: "Their flight the fair moon may not see; For, from mid-heaven, already she Hath witness'd their captivity!”—p. 75. seems, on They had made a rash assault, it Barnard Castle, and had been all made prisoners, and forwarded to York for trial. The Fifth Canto shows us Emily watching on a commanding height for the return of her faithful messenger; who accordingly arrives forthwith, and tells, 'as gently as could be,' the unhappy catastrophe which he had come soon enough to witness. The only comfort he can offer is, that Francis is still alive. "To take his life they have not dar'd. Nor vainly struggled in the might He then tells how the father and his eight sons were led out to execution; and how Francis, at his father's request, took their banner, and promised to bring it back to Bal ton Priory. 470 tot <th Canto opens with the homeward | ful doe; but so very discreetly and cautiously hobbling re of this unhappy youth; and there written, that we will engage that the most flat stupihing so truly forlorn and tragical in tender-hearted reader shall peruse it without copied, tuation, that we should really have the least risk of any excessive emotion. The tation ght it difficult to have given an account poor lady runs about indeed for some years in and t without exciting some degree of interest a very disconsolate way, in a worsted gown emotion. Mr. Wordsworth, however, re- and flannel nightcap: But at last the old white serves all his pathos for describing the white- doe finds her out, and takes again to following ness of the pet doe, and disserting about her her-whereupon Mr. Wordsworth breaks out perplexities, and her high communion, and into this fine and natural rapture. participation of Heaven's grace;-and deals in this sort with the orphan son, turning from the bloody scaffold of all his line, with their luckless banner in his hand. "He look'd about like one betray'd; What hath he done? what promise made? To excuse him in his Country's sight? A downward course? perverse and strange? Again this piteous object see? Such conflict long did he maintain pp. 99, 100. "Oh, moment ever blest! O Pair! "That day, the first of a reunion pp. 117, 118. What follows is not quite so intelligible. "When Emily by morning light Did she behold-saw once again; All now was trouble-haunted ground."-p.119. It certainly is not easy to guess what could be in the mind of the author, when he penned these four last inconceivable lines; but we are willing to infer that the lady's loneliness was cheered by this mute associate; and that the doe, in return, found a certain comfort in the lady's company "Communication, like the ray p. 126. In due time the poor lady dies, and is buried beside her mother; and the doe continues to haunt the places which they had frequented together, and especially to come and pasture every Sunday upon the fine grass in Bolton churchyard, the gate of which is never opened but on occasion of the weekly service. In consequence of all which, we are assured by Mr. Wordsworth, that she 'is approved by Earth and Sky, in their benignity;' and moreover, that the old Priory itself takes her for a daughter of the Eternal Primewhich we have no doubt is a very great compliment, though we have not the good luck to understand what it means. "And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile, (October, 1829.) 1. Records of Women: with other Poems. By FELICIA HEMANS. pp. 323. Edinburgh: 1828.1 2. The Forest Sanctuary: with other Poems. By FELICIA HEMANS. Additions. 12mo. pp. 325. Edinburgh: 1829. 2d Edition. 12mo. 2d Edition, with they are, beyond all doubt, our Superiors. Their business being, as we have said, with actual or social life, and the colours it receives from the conduct and dispositions of individuals, they unconsciously acquire, at a very early age, the finest perception of character and manners, and are almost as soon instinctively schooled in the deep and more dangerous learning of feeling and emotion; while the very minuteness with which they make and meditate on these interesting observations, and the finer shades and variations of sentiment which are thus treasured and recorded, trains their whole faculties to a nicety and precision of operation, which often discloses itself to advantage in their application to studies of a different character. When women, accordingly, have turned their minds WOMEN, we fear, cannot do every thing; While, in their perceptions of grace, proprinor even every thing they attempt. But what ety, ridicule-their power of detecting arti they can do, they do, for the most part, excel- fice, hypocrisy, and affectation-the force and lently-and much more frequently with an promptitude of their sympathy, and their caabsolute and perfect success, than the aspir-pacity of noble and devoted attachment, and ants of our rougher and more ambitious sex. | of the efforts and sacrifices it may require, They cannot, we think, represent naturally the fierce and sullen passions of men-nor their coarser vices-nor even scenes of actual business or contention-nor the mixed motives, and strong and faulty characters, by which affairs of moment are usually conducted on the great theatre of the world. For much of this they are disqualified by the delicacy of their training and habits, and the still more disabling delicacy which pervades their conceptions and feelings; and from much they are excluded by their necessary inexperience of the realities they might wish to describeby their substantial and incurable ignorance of business-of the way in which serious affairs are actually managed-and the true nature of the agents and impulses that give movement and direction to the stronger currents of ordinary life. Perhaps they are also incapable of long moral or political investigations, where many complex and indeterminate elements are to be taken into account, and a variety of opposite probabilities to be weighed before coming to a conclusion. They are generally too impatient to get at the ultimate results, to go well through with such discussions; and either stop short at some imperfect view of the truth, or turn aside to repose in the shade of some plausible error. This, however, we are persuaded, arises entirely from their being seldom set on such tedious tasks. Their proper and natural business is the practical regulation of private life, in all its bearings, affections, and concerns; and the questions with which they have to deal in that most important department, though often of the utmost difficulty and nicety, involve, for the most part, but few elements; and may generally be better described as delicate than intricate-requiring for their solution rather a quick tact and fine perception, than a patient or laborious examination. For the same reason, they rarely succeed in long works, even on subjects the best suited to their genius; their natural training rendering them equally averse to long doubt and long labour. For all other intellectual efforts, however, either of the understanding or the fancy, and requiring a thorough knowledge either of man's strength or his weakness, we apprehend them to be, in all respects, as well qualified as their brethren of the stronger sex: as they have done but too seldom-to the exposition or arrangement of any branch of knowledge, they have commonly exhibited, we think, a more beautiful accuracy, and a more uniform and complete justness of think ing, than their less discriminating brethren. There is a finish and completeness, in short, about every thing they put out of their hands, which indicates not only an inherent taste for elegance and neatness, but a habit of nice observation, and singular exactness of judgment. It has been so little the fashion, at any time, to encourage women to write for publi cation, that it is more difficult than it should be, to prove these truths by examples. Yet there are enough, within the reach of a very careless and superficial glance over the open field of literature, to enable us to explain, at least, and illustrate, if not entirely to verify, our assertions. No Man, we will venture to say, could have written the Letters of Madame de Sevigné, or the Novels of Miss Austin, or the Hymns and Early Lessons of Mrs. Barbauld, or the Conversations of Mrs. Marcet. Those performances, too, are not only essentially and intensely feminine; but they are, in our judgment, decidedly more perfect than any masculine productions with which they can be brought into comparison. They accomplish more completely all the ends at which they aim; and are worked out with a gracefulness and felicity of execution which excludes all idea of failure, and entirely satis |