Byron tells us (and says he can give his authority for the anecdote) that Wordsworth spoke very scornfully, even of his old friend Southey's genius, and once exclaimed "After all, I would not give five shillings for all that Southey has ever written." Wordsworth has publicly praised the great Scottish peasant, but there was a true simplicity, and a manly clearness and directness in all Burns's productions, which make Wordsworth's artificial theory of the natural so supremely ridiculous, that I cannot believe he has any real and cordial regard for poems so unlike his own. In one of Mrs. Hemans's letters, she tells us that on asking Wordsworth if Carlyle had not overrated the celebrated war-song of "Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled," he replied-" I am delighted to hear you put the question ;-overrated?-trash-stuff-miserable inanity! without a thought-without an image!" He then recited the piece "in a tone of unutterable scorn, and concluded with a Da Capo of wretched stuff!' R.-Oh! you must not measure too nicely the hasty critical sayings of literary men, in moments of irritation. Mrs. Hemans, in more than one of her letters, expresses herself charmed with Carlyle's critique on Burns, though she may have thought that he overrated the particular poem alluded to. Here is one of her passages on the subject before she knew who the critic was. I have been delighted with the paper on Burns, which you were kind enough to lend me: I think the writer has gone further into the heart of the mystery than any other, because he, almost the first of all, has approached his subject with a deep reverence for genius, but a still deeper for truth; all the rest have seemed only anxious to make good the attack or the defence. And there is a feeling, too, of the still small music of humanity throughout, which bears upon the heart a conviction full of power that it is listening to the voice of a brother. I wonder who the writer is; he certainly gives us a great deal of what Boswell, I think, calls 'bark and steel for the mind.' I, at least, found it in several passages; but I fear that a woman's mind never can be able, and never was found, to attain that power of sufficiency to itself, which seems to be somewhere or other amongst the rocks of a man's. L.-I like that concluding sentence-it is a frank and im S portant confession, from one of the most gifted women of the age. H.-I do not know that I can view it in quite the same light. Had Joanna Baillie or Mrs. Somerville made such a confession, it would have been more to the purpose. Mrs. Heman's intellect, with all its excellence, was still feminine, and had far more grace than strength. R.-Critics are too apt to associate feebleness with polish, and strength with coarseness. I believe if Mrs. Hemans's verses had been less graceful, many critics would have thought them more powerful. I am tempted to read to you a letter from Walter Savage Landor, which not only does great honor to Mrs. Hemans, but to some other lady authors of the day. As to the compliment to our friend D. L. R. you may be certain that he appreciates it as he ought to do. MY DEAR SIR, Bath, Feb. 5. I receive at this instant your most valuable present.* No volume contains so much of sound, of sensitive, and of generous criticism. How many are there who would turn into ridicule the word sensitive, applied to criticism? But there never was true criticism without that faculty, on any of the higher works of the human mind. I never had the happiness to know Mrs. Hemans, and the extracts I had seen from her poems were only sufficient to prove that no poet, not Dryden himself, had ever made the rhymed couplet so harmonious. But, when I had resolved to read all her volumes, I found, to my amazement, two poems which alone would place her far above her contemporaries in sublime pathos -I mean Casa Bianca and Ivan. We have no poet now living, or living lately, who unites the two great requisites of poetry-imagination and energy. Southey had the first, and wanted the second; Byron had the second, and wanted the first. But he has written one poem of surpassing beauty, in which the line recurs, A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. I do not believe that there ever was an age in which so many good poets (I dare not say excellent) were contemporary. There are three or four women, at the very least, who have written much better poetry than Sappho's The Literary Leaves, the two volumes bound in one. of which we certainly have the best. There is a night-scene in a novel of Mrs. Norton's, incomparably superior to the foolishly vaunted peptis οινον, φερεις αιγα, φερεις ματερι παιδα. But in these matters you can teach the world more than I can. I shall read your book over again with fresh pleasure, not because I think any of its beauties has escaped me, or that I have forgotten any, but because I now am honored by the friendship of so judicious, so honorable, and so independ ant a man. Believe me, my dear Sir, your very obliged. D. L. Richardson, Esq. Greenfield House, Jersey. W. S. LANDOR. L.-A very characteristic and interesting letter. But I do not quite agree with the writer in his estimate of Mrs. Hemans's couplet measure. As to Mrs. Norton's novel, I do not know its name, or to which of her prose fictions he alludes, and indeed I never fell in with any of them. R.—Mrs. Hemans's verses are always musical. Perhaps you have never read Casa Bianca. It is a truly spirited and pathetic production. After Landor's praise of it, you may like to hear it read. CASA BIANCA. [Young Casa Bianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post, (in the battle of the Nile,) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.] The boy stood on the burning deck, The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form. The flames rolled on-he would not go, That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud-"say, Father, say! He knew not that the chieftain lay "Speak, Father!" once again he cried, And but the booming shots replied, Upon his brow he felt their breath, And looked from that lone post of death, In still, yet brave despair. And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder sound The boy-oh! where was he? With fragments strewed the sea With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part But the noblest thing that perished there, L.-These are fine verses certainly. Mrs. Hemans has written many poems of more pretension, but none with so much simplicity and power. Her poems are generally too artificial stately and ornate for my taste. I prefer Joanna Baillie to all other British Poetesses. Though a little too plain and prosaic at times, she has always some substance in her compositions. I allude particularly to her dramatic verse. Her Plays on the Passions are wonderful productions for a female pen, they are not always merely masculine and energetic. She sometimes strews flowers in the reader's way, that are as fresh and delicate as those of poets who are fonder of fanciful illustrations. How beautiful is her description of a solitary cloud As if an angel in his upward flight Had left his mantle floating in mid-air. R.-I forgot to mention just now, that in Chorley's memorials of Mrs. Hemans, there is a letter of hers to Mr. G. F. Richardson, the translator of Korner and author of Poetic Hours. The concluding paragraph will not be understood by the general reader. I need not tell either of you, that G. F. R. is no relation of D. L. R. Here is the paragraph I will not apologise to you, for the mistake respecting your name, which has had the agreeable consequence of introducing to me your own elegant 'Poetic Hours.' Allow me to assure you, Dear Sir, of the pleasure I should have in seeing you here, should any thing induce you to visit this country; and believe me to be, very truly, Rhyllon, St. Asaph, July 25, 1827. Your much obliged, FELICIA HEMANS. Mr. Jerdan, editor of the London Literary Gazette, when sparring with the editor of the London Weekly Review, had inserted a letter in the Gazette, to which he attached Mr. G. F. Richardson's signature: that letter expressed a hope, that G. F. R. might never be mistaken for D. L. R. Well-G. F. R. immediately wrote to the editor of the London Weekly Review, to disclaim the letter attributed to him. Here is part of what he said. The truth is, I never wrote such a letter at all, and Mr. Jerdan must have got it up as one of those jokes which, like ill-contrusted fire-works, sometimes go off to the injury of the inventor. To convince you of the accuracy of my statements, I can assure you I have been constantly mistaken for Mr. D. L. R. Mrs. Hemans, in the first letter I received from her, says, "You must not suppose me unacquainted with your former publications; many beautiful sonnets bearing your name, and quoted in various reviews and periodical works have become known to me." The Monthly Magazine of Feb. 1826 evidently mistook me for him, and Mr. Lupton Relfe actually sent me 'Friendship's Offering' intended for my name-sake. For the opinions I have expressed of Mr. D. L. R's. poetical talents, which I really much admire, though the advertising has caused me some trouble in asserting my own identity, I |