If this were thus, if this indeed were all,
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart,
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days,
The long, mechanic pacing, to and fro,
The set gray life and apathetic end.

But am I not the nobler through thy love?

O these times less unworthy! likewise thou

Art more through love, and greater than thy years.
The sun will run his orbit and the moon

Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring
The drooping power of Knowledge changed to fruit
Of Wisdom. Wait my faith is large in Time,
And that which shapes it to some perfect end."

"Love and Duty," from which this extract is gleaned, reminds us of the selectest passages of the old dramatists in its united clearness and fervour. Who that has ever renounced from principle that to which his soul clung, feels not the significance of such language as this?

"O then, like those that clench their nerves to rush Upon their dissolution, we two rose,

There-closing like an individual life—
In one blind cry of passion and of pain,
Like bitter accusation even to death,

Caught up the whole of love and uttered it,
And bade adieu forever.

MISS BARRETT.

GENUINE verse is an excellent safety-valve. I once heard the publication of a lady's effusions regretted by one of her sex, on the ground that she had " printed her soul." The objection is not without significance to a refined nature, but its force is much diminished by the fact that poetry is "caviare to the general." It is the few alone who possess any native relish for the muse, and a still more select audience who can trace the limits between fancy and the actual, or discover the separate fruits of personal experience and mere observation. Those capa

ble of thus identifying the emanations of the mind with traits of character, and recognizing the innate desires or peculiar affections of a writer, and plucking out the heart of his mystery, will be the very ones to reverence his secret, or at least to treat it with delicacy. The truth is, no one can reach the fountains of emotion in another, except through sympathy-and there is a freemasonry, an instinctive mutual understanding thus awakened, which makes the revelation sacred. Accordingly there is little danger of a compromise of self-respect in uttering to the world our inward life, if any proper degree of tact and dignity is observed. The lovers of poetry are thus gratified; the deeper sentiments and higher aspirations of the universal heart are confirmed; solace is afforded the unhappy by confessions of kindred sorrow-and all the while, the privacy of the individual is uninvaded. At the

same time, let us acknowledge that authorship, as a career, is undesirable for a woman. Only when duty lends her sanction, or pre-eminent gifts seem almost to anticipate destiny, can the most brilliant exhibition of talent add to the intrinsic graces or true influence of the sex. There are circumstances, however, which not only justify but ennoble publicity. There are situations in life which in a manner evoke from retirement those whose tastes are all for seclusion. If we look narrowly into the history of those with whose thoughts and feelings literature has made us most intimate, it will often appear that in them there was combined a degree of sensibility and reflection which absolutely, by the very law of the soul, must find a voice, and that it was the pressure of some outward necessity, or the pain of some inward void that made that voice-(fain to pour itself out in low and earnest tones) -audible to all mankind. Some one has said that fame is love disguised. The points of a writer are usually those wherein he has been most alone; and they owe their effect to the vividness of expression which always results from conscious self-reliance. Literary vanity is a frequent subject of ridicule; but many confound a thirst for recognition with a desire for praise. The former is a manly as well as a natural sentiment. Indeed there is something noble in the feeling which leads an ardent mind-looking in vain for a response to its oracles among the fellow creatures amid which its lot is cast-to appeal to a wider circle and send its messages abroad on the wings of the press, in the hope and faith that some heart will leap at the tidings and accept them as its own. I am persuaded that this truly human craving for sympathy and intelligent communion, is frequently mistaken for a weaker and more selfish appetite-the morbid love of fame. High-toned and sensitive beings invariably find their most native aliment in personal associations. They

are sufficiently aware that notoriety profanes, that the nooks, and not the arena of life afford the best refreshment. It is usually because poverty, ill health, domestic trial, political tyranny, or misplaced affection, has deprived their hearts of a complete sanctuary, that they seek for usefulness and honour in the fields of the world.

My poems," says Miss Barrett, "while full of faults, as I go forward to my critics and confess, have my soul and life in them." We gather from other hints in the preface and especially from her poetry itself, that the life of which it is "the completest expression "attainable, has been one of unusual physical suffering, frequent loneliness and great study. As a natural result there is a remarkable predominance of thought and learning, even in the most inartificial overflow of her muse. Continu

ally we are met by allusions which indicate familiarity with classic lore. Her reveries are imbued with the spirit of antique models. The scholar is everywhere coevident with the poet. In this respect Miss Barrett differs from Mrs. Hemans and Mrs. Norton, in whose effusions enthusiasm gives the tone and colour. In each we perceive a sense of beauty and the pathos born of grief, but in the former these have a statuesque, and in the two latter a glowing development. The cheerfulness of Miss Barrett appears the fruit of philosophy and faith. She labours to reconcile herself to life through wisdom and her religious creed, and justifies tenderness by reason. This is a rather masculine process. The intellect is the main agent in realizing such an end. Yet discipline and isolation explain it readily; and the poetess doubtless speaks from consciousness when she declares the object of her art" to vindicate the necessary relation of genius to suffering and self-sacrifice." The defect of poetry thus conceived is the absence of spontaneous, artless and exuberant feeling. There is a certain hardness and formality,

a want of abandon of manner, a lack of gushing melody,
such as takes the sympathies captive at once.
We are
conscious, indeed-painfully conscious—that strong feel-
ng is here at work, but it is restrained, high-strung and
profound. The human seems to find no natural repose,
and strives, with a tragic vigour that excites admiration,
to anticipate its spiritual destiny even while arrayed in
mortal habiliments. Without subscribing to her theology
we respect her piety. "Angelic patience" is the lesson
she teaches with skill and eloquence. She would have
the soul ever "nobler than its mood." In her isolation
and pain she communed with bards and sages, and found
in their noble features, encouragement such as petty joys
failed to give. She learned to delight in the ideals of hu-
manity and gaze with awe and love on their

Sublime significance of mouth,
Dilated nostrils full of youth,
And forehead royal with the truth.

In her view,

Life treads on life and heart on heart

We

press too close in church and mart, To keep a dream or grave apart.

And from all this she turns to herself, and cherishes her individuality with a kind of holy pride. She seeks in the ardent cultivation of her intellectual resources a solace for the wounds and privations of life. She reflects intensely-traces the footsteps of heroes-endeavours to make the wisdom of the Past and the truths of God her own-and finds a high consolation in embodying the fruits of this experience in verse:

In my large joy of sight and touch,
Beyond what others count as such,
I am content to suffer much.

It would argue a strange insensibility not to recognise