Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 64, No. 398, December 1848

We fancy we trace something of this Teutonic inspiration in the poem, amongst others, that follows: —

THE SILENT MULTITUDEA mighty and a mingled throngWere gathered in one spot;The dweller, of a thousand homes —Yet midst them voice was not.The soldier and his chief were there —The mother and her child:The friends, the sisters of one hearth —None spoke – none moved – none smiled.There lovers met, between whose livesYears had swept darkly by;After that heart-sick hope deferred,They met – but silently.You might have heard the rustling leaf,The breeze's faintest sound,The shiver of an insect's wing,On that thick-peopled ground.Your voice to whispers would have diedFor the deep quiet's sake;Your tread the softest moss have sought,Such stillness not to break.What held the countless multitudeBound in that spell of peace?How could the ever-sounding lifeAmid so many cease?Was it some pageant of the air,Some glory high above,That linked and hushed those human soulsIn reverential love?Or did some burdening passion's weightHang on their indrawn breath?Awe – the pale awe that freezes words?Fear – the strong fear of death?A mightier thing – Death, Death himself,Lay on each lonely heart!Kindred were there – yet hermits all,Thousands – but each apart.

In any notice of Mrs Hemans' works, not to mention The Records of Woman would seem an unaccountable omission. Both the subject, and the manner in which it is treated especially characterise our poetess. Of all these Records there is not one where the picture is not more or less pleasing, or drawn with more or less power and fidelity. Estimated according to sheer literary merit, it would perhaps be impossible to give the preference to any one of them. Judging by the peculiar pleasure which its perusal gave us, we should select, for our favourite, The Switzer's Wife. Werner Stauffacher was one of the three confederates of the field of Grutli. He had been marked out by the Austrian bailiff as a fit subject for pillage; but it was to the noble spirit of his wife that he owed the final resolution he took to resist the oppressor of his country. The whole scene is brought before us with singular distinctness. It is a beautiful evening in the Alpine valley, —

For Werner sat beneath the linden tree,That sent its lulling whispers through his door,Even as man sits, whose heart alone would beWith some deep care, and thus can find no moreTh' accustomed joy in all which evening bringsGathering a household with her quiet wings.His wife stood hushed before him, sad, yet mildIn her beseeching mien, – he marked it not.The silvery laughter of his bright-haired childRang from the greensward round the sheltered spot,But seemed unheard; until at last the boyRaised from his heaped up flowers a glance of joy,And met his father's face; but then a changePassed swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee,And a quiet sense of something dimly strangeBrought him from play to stand beside the kneeSo often climbed, and lift his loving eyes,That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise.Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook;But tenderly his babe's fair mother laidHer hand on his, and with a pleading lookThrough tears half-quivering, o'er him bent and said,"What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey,That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away?"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend!Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow,Missing the smile from thine? Oh, cheer thee! bendTo his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now!Thou dost not kindly to withhold the shareOf tried affection in thy secret care."He looked up into that sweet earnest face,But sternly, mournfully: not yet the bandWas loosened from his soul.

He then tells how the oppressor's envious eye "had been upon his heritage," and to-morrow eve might find him in chains. The blood leaves her cheek, and she leans back on the linden stem, but only for a moment; the free Alpine spirit wakes within her —

And she that ever through her home had movedWith the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smileOf woman, calmly loving and belovedAnd timid in her happiness the while,Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour —Her clear glance kindling into sudden power.Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light,And took her fair child to her holy breast,And lifted her soft voice, that gathered mightAs it found language: – "Are we thus oppressed?Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod,And man must arm, and woman call on God!"I know what thou wouldst do; – and be it done!Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me.Trust me to heaven, my husband; this, thy son,The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free!And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearthMay well give strength – if aught be strong on earth."Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dreadOf my desponding tears; now lift once more,My hunter of the hills, thy stately head,And let thine eagle glance my joy restore!I can bear all but seeing thee subdued —Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood."Go forth beside the waters, and alongThe chamois' paths, and through the forests go;And tell in burning words thy tale of wrongTo the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow,God shall be with thee, my beloved! – away!Bless but thy child and leave me – I can pray!"

It is ever thus with all her women, – gentle, courageous, full of self-devotion, and, alas! of sorrow and suffering. This is her ideal of woman, from which she rarely departs – a heart, overflowing with tenderest affection – ill-requited – yet refusing to receive any earthly boon as a substitute for the returned affection it seeks. Fame is no compensation —

Away! to me, a woman, bringSweet waters from affection's spring.

Genius when she sings to Love is made to say —

They crown me with the glistening crown,Borne from a deathless tree;I hear the pealing music of renown —O Love, forsake me not!Mine were a lone dark lot,Bereft of thee!They tell me that my soul can throwA glory o'er the earth;From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow!Shed by thy gentle eyes,It gives to flower and skiesA bright new birth!Genius singing to Love.

It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner as by Mrs Hemans. She seizes, in common with others, the poetic aspect these present, but diffuses over them, at the same time, a refinement of sentiment gathered entirely from her own feelings. A subject which from another pencil would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness the poem called The Wood Walk and Hymn; we will quote the commencement of it.

WOOD WALK AND HYMN"Move along these shadesIn gentleness of heart – with gentle handTouch – for there is a spirit in the woods."WordsworthFATHER – CHILDChild.– There are the aspens with their silvery leavesTrembling, for ever trembling; though the limeAnd chestnut boughs, and these long arching spraysOf eglantine, hang still, as if the woodWere all one picture!Father.– Hast thou heard, my boy,The peasant's legend of that quivering tree?Child.– No, father; doth he say the fairies danceAmidst the branches?Father.– Oh! a cause more deep,More solemn far, the rustic doth assignTo the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!The cross, he deems, the blessed cross, whereonThe meek Redeemer bow'd his head to death,Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,Through all its race the pale tree hath sent downA thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,Making them tremulous, when not a breezeDisturbs the airy thistle down, or shakesThe light lines of the shining gossamer.

An eminent critic in the Edinburgh Review has spoken of the neatness and perfect finish which characterise female writers in general, and Mrs Hemans in particular. Now, these qualities imply a certain terseness and concentration of style, which is no more a peculiarity of all authoresses than of all authors, and which we should not pronounce to be peculiarly characteristic of Mrs Hemans' poetry. To us it often appears wanting in this very conciseness; we occasionally wish that some lines and verses were excluded – not because they are faulty in themselves, but because they weaken the effect, and detract from the vigour of the whole: we wish the verses, in short, were more closely packed together, so that the commencement and the close, which are generally both good, could be brought a little nearer to each other. It is not so much a redundancy of expression, as of images and illustrations, that we have sometimes to complain of in Mrs Hemans. She uses two of these where one would not only suffice, but do the work much better. There is a very pleasing little poem, called The Wandering Wind: we will quote – first, because it is thus pleasing; and, secondly, because we think it would have been rendered still more so had there been somewhat more of concentration and terseness in the style. The lines which we have printed in italics, and which contain the pith and marrow of the whole, would then have struck upon the ear with more distinctness and prominence.

THE WANDERING WINDThe wind, the wandering windOf the golden summer eves —Whence is the thrilling magicOf its tones amongst the leaves?Oh! is it from the waters,Or from the long tall grass?Or is it from the hollow rocksThrough which its breathings pass?Or is it from the voicesOf all in one combined,That it wins the tone of mastery?The wind, the wandering wind!No, no! the strange, sweet accentsThat with it come and go,They are not from the osiers,Nor the fir trees whispering low.They are not of the waters,Nor of the cavern'd hill,'Tis the human love within usthat gives the power to thrill.They touch the links of memoryAround our spirits twined,And we start, and weep, and tremble,To the wind, the wandering wind!

The verses beginning "I dream of all things free" might also be cited as an instance of this tendency to over-amplify – a tendency which seems the result of a great affluence of poetical imagery. This would be a more powerful poem merely by being made shorter. We wait too long, and the imagination roves too far, before we arrive at the concluding lines, which contain all the point and significance of the piece: —

"My heart in chains is bleeding,And I dream of all things free."

Of the measures and the melody of a lyrical poet something is expected to be said. But what we feel we have chiefly to thank Mrs Hemans for here is, that, in the search after novelty and variety of metre, she has made so few experiments upon our ear, and that she has not disdained to write with correctness and regularity. She has not apparently laboured after novelties of this kind, but has adopted that verse into which her thoughts spontaneously ran. An author who does this is not very likely to select a rhythm, or measure, which is incongruous with the subject-matter of his poem; nor, do we think, could many instances of such a fault be detected in Mrs Hemans.

We will close our extracts with a strain that fairly exemplifies the serene and lucid current of sentiment, and the genuine natural pathos, of our poetess. It is thus she makes the Hebrew mother sing to her first-born, whom she has devoted to the Lord.

Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me;The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes;And now fond thoughts arise,And silver cords again to earth have won me,And like a vine thou claspest my full heart —How shall I hence depart?How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playingSo late along the mountains at my side?And I, in joyous pride,By every place of flowers my course delaying,Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hairBeholding thee so fair!And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted,Will it not seem as if the sunny dayTurn'd from its door away!While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted,I languish for thy voice, which past me stillWent like a singing rill?Under the palm-tree thou no more shalt meet me,When from the fount at evening I return,With the full water urn;Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me,As midst the silence of the stars I wake,And watch for thy dear sake.And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee,Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?Wilt thou not vainly spreadThine arms when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,A cry which none shall hear?What have I said, my child? Will He not hear thee,Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?Shall He not guard thy rest,And in the hush of holy midnight near thee,Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy.I give thee to thy God – the God that gave theeA well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!And, precious as thou art,And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!And thou shalt be His child."Therefore farewell! I go – my soul may fail me,As the hart panteth for the water brooks,Yearning for thy sweet looks.But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me,Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,The Rock of Strength – Farewell!"

We must now draw to a conclusion. One great and pervading excellence of Mrs Hemans, as a writer, is her entire dedication of her genius and talents to the cause of healthy morality and sound religion. The sentiment may be, on occasion, somewhat refined; it may be too delicate, in some instances, for the common taste, but never is it mawkish or morbid. Never can it be construed into a palliative of vice – never, when followed out to its limits, will it be found to have led from the paths of virtue. For practical purposes, we admit that her exemplars are not seldom too ideal and picturesque. The general fault of her poetry consists in its being rather, if we may use the term, too romantical. We have a little too much of banners in churches, and flowers on graves, – of self-immolated youths, and broken-hearted damsels; – too frequent a reference to the Syrian plains, and knights in panoply, and vigils of arms, as mere illustrations of the noble in character, or the heroic in devotion. Situations are adduced as applicable to general conduct, which have only occurred, or could only have occurred, in particular states of society, and are never likely, from existing circumstances, to occur again. Far better this, however, than a contrary fault; for it is the purpose of poetry to elevate, and not to repress. Admitting that the effervescence is adventitious, still it is of virtuous growth, and proceeds from no distortion of principle. If not the reflection of human nature as it actually is, it is the delineation of the fata morgana of a noble mind – of something that occurs to us "in musings high," and which we sigh to think of as of something loftier and better, to which that nature would willingly aspire. We can readily conceive, that to a woman of the exquisite taste possessed by Mrs Hemans, any attempt at the startling or bizarre, either in conception or subject, was a thing especially to be avoided. We do not mean to imply by this, that, as every true poet must have, she had not a manner of her own. To this honour, no author of our day has higher or less equivocal claims. She knew what to admire in others, but she felt that she had a mission of her own. To substantiate this, we have only to suppose her productions blotted out from our literature, and then remark whether or not any blank be left; for, wherever we have originality, we have accession. We admit that originality is of all shades and grades, from a Burns to a Bloomfield, from a Crabbe to a Clare – still the names of the second and the fourth are those of true poets, as well as those of the authors of "The Cottar's Saturday Night," and "Sir Eustace Gray," – Parnassus, as Dr Johnson observes, having its "flowers of transient fragrance, as well as its cedars of perennial growth, and its laurels of eternal verdure." In the case of Mrs Hemans, this question is set at rest, from her having become the founder of a school, and that only eclipsed in the number of its adherents and imitators by those of Scott, Byron, and Wordsworth. In America especially has this been the case; a great part of the recent poetry in that country – more particularly that of its female writers – has been little more than an echo of her Records of Woman, and Lays of Many Lands, and lyrical strains; and, from Mrs Sigourney – "the American Mrs Hemans" – downwards, there are only corroborative proofs of a Cisatlantic fact, that no copyist, however acute and faithful, has ever yet succeeded in treading on the kibes of his master, far less of outstripping him in the struggle for excellence.

Like all original writers, Mrs Hemans has her own mode and her own province. In reading the poetry of Wordsworth, we feel as if transferred to the mountainous solitudes, broken only by the scream of the eagle and the dash of the cataract, where human life is indicated but by the shieling in the sheltered holm, and the shepherd boy, lying wrapt up in his plaid by the furze-bush, with his "little flock at feed beside him." By Scott we are placed amid the men and things of departed ages. The bannered castle looms in the distance, and around it are the tented plain – the baron and his vassals – all that pertains to "ladye-love and war, renown and knightly worth." We have the cathedral-pomp, and the dark superstition, and the might that stands in the place of right, – all the fire and air, with little of the earth and water of our elemental nature. The lays of Wilson reflect the patriarchal calm of life in its best, and purest, and happiest aspects – or, indeed, of something better than mere human life, as the image of the islet in the sunset mirror of the lake is finer and fairer than the reality. Coleridge's inspiration is emblemed by ruins in the silver and shadow of moonlight, – quaint, and queer, and fantastic, haunted by the whooping owl, and screamed over by the invisible nighthawk. Campbell reminds of the Portland vase, exquisite in taste and materials, but recalling always the conventionalities of art.

When placed beside, and contrasted with her great cotemporaries, the excellences of Mrs Hemans are sufficiently distinct and characteristic. There can be no doubt of this, more especially in her later and best writings, in which she makes incidents elucidate feelings. In this magic circle – limited it may be – she has no rival. Hence, from the picturesqueness, the harmony, the delicacy and grace, which her compositions display, she is peculiarly the poet of her own sex. Her pictures are not more distinguished for accuracy of touch than for elegance of finish. Every thing is clear, and defined, and palpable; nothing is enveloped in accommodating haze; and she never leaves us, as is the trick of some late aspiring and mystical versifiers, to believe that she must be profound because she is unintelligible. She is ever alive to the dignity of her calling, and the purity of her sex. Aware of the difficulties of her art, she aspired towards excellence with untiring perseverance, and improved herself by the study of the best models, well knowing that few things easy of attainment can be worth much. Her taste thus directed her to appropriate and happy subjects; and hence it has been, as with all things of sterling value, that her writings have not been deteriorated by time. They were not, like the ice-palace of the Empress Catherine, thrown up to suit the whim of the season, or directed to subjects of mere occasional interest, to catch the gale of a passing popularity. Mrs Hemans built on surer foundations, and with less perishable materials. The consequence is, that her reputation has been steadily on the increase. Of no one modern writer can it be affirmed with less hesitation, that she has become an English classic; nor, until human nature becomes very different from what it now is, can we imagine the least probability that the music of her lays will cease to soothe the ear, or the beauty of her sentiment to charm the gentle heart.

ON THE MISERIES OF IRELAND, AND THEIR REMEDIES

In resuming this subject, we feel that we cannot be justly accused of going out of our own province, or of meddling with matters which concern only our neighbours. In the present state of this country, we not only recognise the people of Ireland as our fellow-subjects, but we practically feel, as we ought to do, that their miseries are reflected upon us. This might be illustrated in various ways, but there is one illustration which comes peculiarly home to all people of this country at this moment. Much has been said and written, of late years, on the sanitary condition of the great towns of this country, and on the importance of thorough cleansing and draining, as a preservative against the epidemic diseases which have so often lately afflicted, and in some instances nearly decimated, our population; and when we state that, in the neighbouring city of Glasgow, during last year only, the mortality was one in nineteen of the population, and that the number of deaths exceeded the number of births by more than sixteen thousand, – that the mortality from fever, in particular, is known very generally to fall upon those who, in a worldly point of view, are the most valuable lives in society, and that a new and still more appalling epidemic is already among us – we have surely said enough to show that there cannot be a more important or serious object of contemplation, or of inquiry, than the means of purification and sanitary improvement of such graves of the human race, as so many parts of that and others of our great towns are at this moment.

It is equally certain that "atmospheric impurity" has been justly charged as the most general and effective of all the causes, which so depress the vital energies as to dispose the living human body to suffer, and sink under, such visitations of Providence.

But, in order to understand how this prolific cause of evil acts on the human race, it is necessary not only to look to the draining, sweeping, and cleaning of streets, courts, and closes, but to enter the houses, and attend to the "conditions of existence" of their inmates, in the lowest and most unhealthy portions of all our great towns. When we do this, we find that, in all those houses which are the chief seats of epidemic disease, there are congregated together in small and dirty rooms such masses of destitute human beings, usually ill-clothed and inadequately protected from cold, that it is mere mockery to speak of improving the atmosphere of their rooms, especially during the night, by any appliances to the streets or courts from which they are entered, or even by any means of ventilation to which, at least in cold weather, the inmates will submit.

It is even in vain that we issue directions for the cleansing of the rooms, or regulations, in the case of lodging-houses, for limiting the number of persons to be taken into them, or that we form model lodging-houses, in which a certain number of persons may be decently accommodated. All such measures have a good effect on a certain number of the people; but those among whom the epidemic diseases are always found making most progress have no means of availing themselves of these advantages: they can no more pay for clean or well-aired rooms than they could pay for any of the luxuries of civilised life. "Their state of destitution binds them firmly to one description of locality," and forces them to congregate together in masses, necessarily implying such a contamination of the atmosphere in which they live, as no such measures can counteract for six hours.

Now, if we inquire further into the history of the inhabitants who live crowded together in this miserable way, we shall find, no doubt, a certain number, in every great town, in whom this state of destitution is the result of disease, death of relations, or personal profligacy; and of the best means to be adopted to limit the evils resulting from these causes, we do not propose to speak at present, only observing that they may be and are met much more effectually in some countries and some towns than in others. But we maintain, also, with perfect confidence, from much personal observation and many inquiries, that at this moment, in all the great towns of this country, the most numerous class of the destitute poor, among whom epidemic diseases prevail – from whom they extend to other ranks of society, and by whose illness or death their families become a burden on all other ranks – are not more profligate or less deserving of compassion and assistance than the great body of our labouring classes, and have no distinctive peculiarity but this, that they are Irish.2 Many of them have had possession of bits of land, others have been labourers, or are families of labourers: they have formed part of that enormous immigration of human beings, from Ireland to Britain, which has been going on for many years, which has given Irish labourers to all our public works, has formed an Irish quarter in every one of our great towns, and has impressed all the promoters of our schemes of philanthropy with the intimate conviction, that "if we would cut off the sources of mendicity and misery, we must first cut off Ireland;" i. e., looking on the Irish as fellow-subjects, if we wish to perform towards them, or towards all who suffer in common with them, the great Christian duty of charity, we must endeavour to ascertain and counteract, in Ireland itself, whatever causes have swelled that flood of poverty and destitution which has been so prolific of evils to us.