tormentor, so inveterate a grumbler, that I am persuaded she has studied grumbling as an art, and piques herself on the attainment. Never surely did any human being so thoroughly understand the the ory and practice of discontent. And then she mistakes her uncertain temper and inordinate self-love for the fastidiousness of a refined and delicate mind. It is really too amusing. After all, she has some very good points in her character,' said Mrs. Grenville: she is capable of generous exertions and sacrifices, and her understanding is excellent. She has often very kind thoughts and feelings;-I have not forgotten her coming to Dover to meet us on our return from Italy, and all the comfortable arrangements she had made.

But you know, my dear mother, people are to be estimated, as Johnson says, by the mass of character-a block of tin may have a grain of silver in it, but still it is tin-and a block of silver may have an alloy of tin, but still it is silver-really we cannot be expected

and paramount. Co-intimates and companions were, with her, competitors and rivals; she. was disposed to overwhelm her favorites with attentions, and then to wonder and feel angry that they were not returned fourfold. From these mistakes, her intimacies, instead of ripening into friendships, after a few ague fits, generally passed from estrangement to alienation. With a warm heart and a good understanding, she has contrived to multiply enemies and distance friends; mortification has embittered her life; disappointment has soured a temper originally uncertain; and now, instead of looking on the sunny side of events and characters, she sees every thing in shade; she runs away from society, not choosing to pay the current coin of little civilities and sacrifices required-shuts herself up with her own prejudices, by her own fireside, and then complains of being left alone.'

THE LOVES OF THE POETS,

the magic of your benevolence can metamorphose cousin Frances into any thing but a very trying personage. We were children together,' observed Mrs. Grenville, and for many years lived under the same roof; I shall always, therefore, take a warm interest in Frances; she is just one of those unfortunate persons, who, by want of self-control and self discipline, discover to all the world the infirm parts of their characters, and thus contrive to be less valued than they really deserve.'-How did it all happen? inquired Constance: what evil genius presided over her destiny, and wrought the ill? Her evil genius was early independence,' replied Mrs. Grenville. Those who have only themselves to please, and all appliances and means to boot, generally manage the matter remarkably ill. Frances expected and exacted too much. If she formed an intimacy, she was not satisfied with affectionate attention; she required exclusive preference; she must reign alone, and supreme, and, like Cæsar, be first, or nothing; she made no allowance for the infinite variety of dispositions, the endless shades of character which society presents; she expected demonstration from the reserved, and ardor from the cold; she was not content to be welcomed and approved-she must be distinguished

2 vols.

Ir is a great misfortune for female writers, that those who publicly criticise them should in general be men. From their own sex they would meet with more lenity, instead of being considered as intruders in the field of literature. Two periodical critics have under-valued the sense and talent of the lady who now re-appears before us. One says, that none but a poet or a philosopher can adequately treat of the loves of poets, and that, as Mrs. Jamieson has no pretensions to either of those characters, her book is very different from what it ought to be. The other insinuates, that she has missed the philosophy of the subject, and possesses not that “ power of delineation in which a more masculine writer would have indulged." We admit that she does not treat of love, as a metaphysician would do,—that is, without understanding it;-but she appears to feel the force of sentiment, which may be called the philosophy of love, and can distinguish its various phases and modifications;-that, we think, is no small merit.

The loves of Dante and Petrarch are properly discriminated.-"Dante and his Beatrice are best exhibited in contrast to Petrarch and Laura. Petrarch

was in his youth an amiable and accomplished courtier, whose ambition was to cultivate the arts, and please the fair. Dante early plunged into the factions which distracted his native city, was of a stern commanding temper, mingling study with action. Petrarch loved with all the vivacity of his temper; he took a pleasure in publishing, in exaggerating, in embellishing his passion in the eyes of the world. Dante, capable of strong and enthusiastic tenderness, and early concentrating all the affections of his heart on one object, sought no sympathy; and solemnly tells us of himself, in contradistinction to those poets of his time, who wrote of love from fashion or fancy, not from feeling, that he wrote as love. inspired, and as his heart dictated.

"A coquette would have triumphed in such a captive as Petrarch: and, in truth, Laura seems to have 'sounded him from the top to the bottom of his compass;''-a tender and empassioned woman would repose on such a heart as Dante's, even as his Beatrice did. Pe trarch had a gay and captivating exterior; his complexion was fair, with sparkling blue eyes and a ready smile. He is very amusing on the subject of his own coxcombry, and tells us how cautiously he used to turn the corner of a street, lest the wind should disorder the elaborate curls of his fine hair! Dante, too, was in his youth eminently handsome, but in a style of beauty which was characteristic of his mind: his eyes were large and intensely black, his nose aquiline, his complexion of a dark olive, his hair and beard very much curled, his step slow and measured, and the habitual expression of his countenance grave, with a tinge of melancholy abstraction. When Petrarch walked along the streets of Avignon, the women smiled, and said, there goes the lover of Laura!' The impression which Dante left on those who beheld him, was far different. In allusion to his own personal appearance, he used to relate an incident that once occurred to him. When years of persecution and exile had added, to the natural sternness of his countenance, the deep lines left by grief, and the brooding spirit of vengeance, he happened to be at Verona, where he was well known. Passing one day by a portico, where several women were seated, one of them whispered, with a look of awe, "Do you see that man? that is he who goes down

to hell whenever he pleases, and brings us back tidings of the sinners below!'Ay, indeed!' replied her companion,→ very likely; see how his face is scarred with fire and brimstone, and blackened with smoke, and how his hair and beard have been singed and curled in the flames !'

"Dante had not, however, this forbidding appearance when he won the young heart of Beatrice Portinari. They first met at a banquet given by her father, Folco de' Portinari, when Dante was only nine years old, and Beatrice a year younger. His attachment commenced from that hour; it became a passion, which increased with his years, and did not perish even with its object.'

"The love of Dante for his Beatrice partook of the purity, tenderness, and elevated character of her who inspired it, and was also stamped with that stern and melancholy abstraction, that disposition to mysticism, which were such strong features in the character of her lover. He does not break out into fond and effeminate complaints; he does not sigh to the winds, or swell the fountain with his tears; his love does not, like Petrarch's, alternately freeze and burn him, nor is it 'a bitter sweet,' with which his fancy can sport in good set terms. No; it shakes his whole being like an earthquake; it beats in every pulse and artery; it has dwelt in his heart till it has become a part of his life, or rather his life itself. Though we are not told so expressly, it is impossible to doubt, on a consideration of all those passages and poems which relate to Beatrice, that his love was approved and returned, and that his character was understood and appreciated by a woman too generous, too noble-minded, to make him the sport of her vanity. He complains, indeed, poetically, of her disdain, for which he excuses himself in another poem: We know that the heavens shine on in eternal serenity, and that it is only our imperfect vision, and the rising vapors of the earth, that make the ever-beaming stars appear clouded at times to our eyes. He expresses no fear of a rival in her affections; but the native jealousy as well as delicacy of his temper appears in those passages in which he addressed the eulogium of Beatrice to the Florentine ladies and her young companions. Those of his own sex, as he assures us, were not worthy to listen to her praises, or must

perforce have become enamored of this picture of female excellence, the fear of which made a coward of him.

"It appears that, in the early part of their intercourse, Beatrice, indulging her girlish vivacity, smiled to see her lover utterly discountenanced in her presence, and pointed out her triumph to her companions. This offence seems to have deeply affected the proud, susceptible mid of Dante: it was under the influence of some such morose feeling, probably on this very occasion, that his dark passions burst forth in some bitter lines. I curse the day on which I first beheld the splendor of those traitor eyes,' &c. This angry tirade forms a fine characteristic contrast with that eloquent and empassioned effusion of Petrarch, in which he multiplies blessings on the day, hour, minute, the season and the spot, in which he first beheld Laura.

"This fit of indignation was, however, short-lived. Every tender emotion of Dante's feeling heart seems to have been I called forth when Beatrice lost her excellent father. The descriptions we have of her inconsolable grief, and the sympathy of her young companions, so poetically, so delicately touched by her lover, impress us with a high idea both of her filial tenderness and the general amiability of her disposition, which rendered her thus beloved. In the 12th and 13th sonnets, we have, perhaps, one of the most beautiful groups ever presented in poetry. Dante meets a company of young Florentine ladies, who were returning from paying Beatrice a visit of condolence on the death of her father. Their altered and dejected looks, their downcast eyes, and cheeks, 'colorless as marble,' make his heart tremble within him; he asks after Beatrice-' our gentle lady,' as he tenderly expresses it: the young girls raise their downcast eyes, and regard him with surprise. 'Art thou he,' they exclaim, who hast so often sung to us the praises of our Beatrice? the voice, indeed, is his; but, oh! how changed the aspect! Thou weepest! why should'st thou weep?-thou hast not seen her tears;-leave us to weep and return to our home, refusing comfort; for we, indeed, have heard her speak, and seen her dissolved in grief; so changed is her lovely face by sorrow, that to look upon her is enough to make one die at her feet for pity.

"It should seem that the extreme

affliction of Beatrice for the loss of her father, acting on a delicate constitution, hastened her own end, for she died within a few months afterwards, in her 24th year. In the Vita Nuova there is a fragment of a canzone, which breaks off at the end of the first strophe; and annexed to it is the following affecting note, originally in the handwriting of Dante.-I was engaged in the composition of this piece, and had completed only the above stanza, when it pleased the God of justice to call unto himself this gentlest of human beings, that she might be glori fied under the auspices of that blessed Queen, the Virgin Mary, whose name was ever held in especial reverence by my sainted Beatrice.'

"Boccaccio, who knew Dante personally, tells us, that, on the death of Beatrice, he was so changed by affliction, that his best friends could scarcely recognise him. He scarcely ate or slept; he would not speak, he neglected his person, until he became una cosa selvatica a vedere,' a savage thing to the eye: to borrow his own strong expression, he seems to have been grief-stung to madness.'

6

"On the anniversary of her death, Dante tells us, that he was sitting alone, thinking of her, and tracing, as he meditated, the figure of an angel on his tablets. Can any one doubt that this little incident, so natural and so affecting,-his thinking of his lost Beatrice, and by association sketching the figure of an angel, while his mind dwelt upon her removal to a brighter and better world,-must have been real?

"Another little circumstance, not less affecting, he has beautifully commemorated in two sonnets addressed to some kind and gentle creature, who from a window beheld him abandon himself, with fearful vehemence, to the agony of his feelings, when he believed no human eye was on him. 'She turned pale,' he says, 'with compassion; her eyes were filled with tears, as if she had loved me; then did I remember my noblehearted Beatrice, for even thus she often looked upon me.' And he confesses that the grateful, yet mournful pleasure with which he met the pitying look of this fair being, excited remorse in his heart, that he should be able to derive pleasure from any thing.

"He concludes the collection of his miscellaneous poems with this remarkable

note-'I beheld a marvellous vision, which has caused me to cease from writing in praise of my blessed Beatrice, until I can celebrate her more worthily; which that I may do, I devote my whole soul to study, as she knoweth well; in so much, that if it please the Great Disposer of all things to prolong my life for a few years upon this earth, I hope hereafter to sing of my Beatrice, what never yet was said or sung of woman.'-In this transport of enthusiasm, he conceived the idea of his great poem, of which Beatrice was destined to be the heroine. It was to no Muse, called by fancy from her fabled heights, and feigned at the poet's will; it was not to ambition of fame, or to literary leisure seeking a vent for overflowing thoughts, or to the wish to aggrandise himself, or to flatter the pride of a patron, but to the inspiration of a young, beautiful, and nobleminded woman, that we owe one of the grandest efforts of human genius. And never did it enter into the imagination of any lover, before or since, to raise so mighty, so vast, so enduring, so glorious a monument to the worth and charms of a mistress. Other poets were satisfied if they conferred on the object of their love an immortality on earth: Dante was not content till he had placed his on a throne in the empyreum, above choirs of angels, in presence of the very fountain of glory, her brow wreathed with eternal beams, and clothed with the ineffable splendors of beatitude;-an apotheosis, compared to which, all others are earthly and poor indeed."

Our authoress does not dwell upon that species of love which may be supposed to have influenced Shakspeare, beside the common-place affection which he felt for his wife. She concludes, from some of his sonnets, that he was under the "full and irresistible influence of female fascination," and that, in one instance at least, he fixed upon an unworthy object, on whose account he endured all the " pangs of agony, shame, and jealousy." Not being able to discover who it was that thus influenced him, or what other female captivated him in a similar way, when he was leading a "wild and irregular life" between the court and the theatre, she contents herself with exclaiming, "I rejoice that the name of no one woman is popularly identified with that of Shakspeare. He belongs to us all! the creator of Desde

mona, of Juliet, Ophelia, Imogen, Violá,, Constance, Rosalind, and Portia, was not the poet of one woman, but the Poet of Womankind.

Adverting to the loves of Spenser, Mrs. Jamieson says, "We know that the first developement of his genius was owing to female influence.-Immediately on leaving college, Spenser retired to the north of England, where he first became enamoured of the fair being to whom, according to the fashion of the day, he gave the fanciful appellation of Rosalind. We are told that the letters which form this word being well ordered' (that is, transposed) comprehend her real name; but it has hitherto escaped the penetration of his biographers. Two of his friends were entrusted with the secret, and they, with a discretion more to be regretted than blamed, have kept it. One of these, speaking from personal knowlege, tells us, that she was the daughter of a widow; that she was a gentlewoman, and one, that for her rare and singular gifts of person and mind, Spenser need not have been ashamed to love.' We can believe this of a poet, whose delicate perception of female worth breathes in almost every page of his works; but after having, as be hoped, made some progress in her heart, a rival stepped in, whom Spenser accuses expressly of having supplanted him by treacherous arts; and on this obscure and nameless wight Rosalind bestowed the hand which had been coveted-the charms which had been sung by Spenser ! He suffered long and deeply, wounded both in his pride and in his love: but her beauty and virtue had made a stronger impression than her cruelty and her lover, with a generous tenderness, not only pardoned, but found excuses for her disdain."

The history of the lady who had the honor of being loved and admired by Sir Philip Sydney, is particularly interesting.

"The Stella of Sydney's poetry, the Philoclea of his Arcadia, was the lady Penelope Devereux, the eldest sister of the favorite Essex. While yet in her childhood, she was the destined bride of Sydney, and for several years they were considered as almost engaged to each other; it was natural, therefore, that he should be accustomed to regard her with tenderness and unreproved admiration, and should gratify both my making her the object of his poetical raptures. She