THE female character, with all its attributes, is infinitely shadowed in the pure waters of poetry, and its divinest beauty has been revealed but to those eyes that have worshipped

"All the uncertain imagery received Into the bosom of that steady lake."

Uncertain! So it seems ere we have gazed long on the lovely vision; but as the dream deepens, the hovering clouds, the glimpsing blue sky, and the intermingling sunshine assume a stationary splendour, and we feel how pure and how profound is the union of earth with heaven.

In the works of the great poets, we feel "how divine a thing a wo man may be made" by nature; in those of the mediocre or the small, we see how terrestrial a thing she may be made by art. Pope was something more than a mediocre poet; but though the Rape of the Lock be a fine fancy, who was ever seriously in love with Belinda? Dr Thomas Browne was something less than a mediocre poet, and who has not yawned till he could yawn no more, in reading the "Paradise of Coquettes ?" The Professor made his appeal to posterity, as the "Poet of Woman;" and with a fan in his hand! The passion of love always appeared to him in the light of a flirtation. The lover's heart was broken at a ball, to find his mistress engaged three set deep to light or heavy dragoons. Bows and curtsies of stately ceremonial, relieved by furtive squeezes of the gloved hand, and whispers addressed as much to the ear-rings as the ears, indistinctly heard in the noise of fiddles, shew how woman may be woo'd and won in a fashionable assembly; and the successful suitor is seen strutting in black satin

breeches and white silk stockings by the side of his betrothed, as they keep pointing their toes in unison towards a sedan chair. The sight is pleasant enough; but a shrewd suspicion arises that they-will split upon settlements.

'Twas a noble ambition, no doubt, to desire to be esteemed all over the wide world, "the Poet of Woman." For woman has had many poets. Wherever there has been mischief there has been woman; and mischief is the soul of poetry. But for Helen, Troy had not been taken; but for Eve, there had been no Paradise Lost.

The poet of woman must likewise, it is plain, be the poet of man-otherwise he is but the bardling of bachelors. Love is the fountain of all the passions. Bear witness,-Envy, Jealousy, Hatred, and Revenge. Shut your eyes and think for a single moment on any subject-even the national debt-and your mind's ear catches the rustle of a gown or a petticoat. All men, then, are more or less poets of women. Every heart that beats in a virile breast is scribbled over with love-verses, original or fugitive. Not a male come to the age of puberty who has not his bosom-album.

Suppose, then, that in a Series of Seventy Articles we take a survey of the Heart's-delights of the famous poets, and that we begin with Shakspeare's. We shall follow a fair guide-a lady who has immortalized her name by a work that shews throughout the finest insight into all the virtues of her sex, and the fullest and clearest conception of all the female characters Shakspeare has sketched in a few lines of light, or painted in perfect portraiture with all the hues of heaven.

And first,-Characters of the Affections. Hermione, Desdemona, Imogen, Cordelia!

The Affections! What are they? Ask your heart, when, sad or glad, it is touched by thoughts of father, mother, brother, sister, friend, lover, and in its sadness or gladness still feels a serenity as if belonging to the untroubleable regions of the skies. Well does our lady-guide say, that "characters in which the affections and the moral qualities predominate over fancy, and all that bears the name of passion, are not, when we meet with them in real life, the most striking and interesting, nor the easiest to be understood and appreciated; but they are those on which, in the long run, we repose with increasing confidence, and ever new delight.' "Beautiful and true. Fancy comes and goes like the rainbow passion like the storm-transiently beautifying or subliming the clouds of life. But affection is a permanent light, without distinction of night and day, which once risen never sets, and always in mild meridian,

peace.

Yet such characters, Mrs Jameson observes, "are not easily exhibited in the colours of poetry. The less there is of marked impression or vivid colour in a countenance or character, the more difficult to delineate it in such a manner as to captivate or interest us; but when that is done, and done to perfection, it is the miracle of poetry in painting, and of painting in poetry. Only Raffaelle and Corregio have achieved it in one case, and only Shakspeare in the other." Perhaps this is entirely true; yet we are unwilling to think so, and would rather believe that there are, comparatively, so few delightful characters of this kind in poetry and painting, because poets and painters have so seldom tried to delineate them, than that they are in themselves so very difficult of delineation in the hands of genius. One might almost be tempted to think, that, once conceived and felt, they would draw

themselves, and serenely speak or smile in gentlest fiction.

Raffaelle and Corregio excelled all other painters in such delineations; but have not other painters wrought in a congenial spirit-and sculptors too-immortalizing the spiritual beauty of the affections? And though Shakspeare and Spenser have surpassed all other mortal men in such pictures of the affections, many hundred visions may be seen gliding through the moonlight umbrage of poetry, almost perfect in their peaceful loveliness, nor unregarded with entire love.

Yet Mrs Jameson expresses herself so finely on this point, that we must quote her words. "When, by the presence or the agency of some predominant and exciting power, the feelings and affections are upturned from the depths of the heart, and flung to the surface, the painter or the poet has but to watch the workings of the passions, thus in a manner made visible, and transfer them to his page or his canvass, in colours more or less vigorous; but when all is calm without and around, to dive into the profoundest abysses of character-trace the affections where they lie hidden, like the oceansprings-wind into the most intricate convolutions of the heart-patiently unravel its most delicate fibres, and in a few peaceful touches place before us the distinct and visible result,-to do this demanded power of another and a rarer kind."

Eloquently and nobly spoken; but is this indeed the truth? Is it easier to describe storm than stillnessearthquake and eclipse than the floor and firmament of the gentle spring? Both are difficult-and perhaps to do the one well you must be ableif you choose-as well to do the other; or if that be going too far, to feel both equally, and each more intensely from the power of contrast. The workings of the passions are visible, but the painter or the poet has, we suspect, much more to do than merely" to transfer them to his page or canvass, in colours more or less vigorous;" to select, to seize, to grasp, to compound, to scatter— to make one multitudinous groan convulse the whole being of the soul -to shew by one huge heave, that the sea of sorrow is tempested, and

far beyond our sight tumbling with billows.

But let us not keep our readers any longer from Mrs Jameson's admirable expositions of Shakspeare's "Characters of the Affections." She finely and truly says, that "Imogen, Desdemona, and Hermione, are three women placed in situations nearly similar, and equally endowed with all the qualities which can render that situation striking and interesting. They are all gentle, beautiful, and innocent; all are models of conjugal submission, truth, and tenderness; and all are victims of the unfounded jealousy of their husbands. So far the parallel is close, but here the resemblance ceases; the circumstances of each situation are varied with wonderful skill, and the characters, which are as different as it is possible to imagine, conceived and discriminated with a power of truth and a delicacy of feeling yet more astonishing. Critically speaking, the character of Hermione is the most simple in point of dramatic effect that of Imogen the most varied and complex. Hermione is most distinguished by her magnanimity and her fortitude, Desdemona by her gentleness and refined grace, while Imogen combines all the best qualities of both, with others which they do not possess; consequently she is, as a character, superior to either; considered as women, I suppose the preference would depend on individual taste."

Hermione is 66 a queen, a matron, and a mother;" and all at once, in the midst of all those dignities and sanctities, her husband, Leontes, on slight grounds, believes her guilty of infidelity with his friend, Polixenes. She is thrown into a dungeon, brought to trial, defends herself nobly, and is pronounced innocent by the oracle -swoons away with grief-is supposed dead-and after many years is reconciled to her husband. Such, in few words, is the dramatic situation. The character of Hermione exhibits, says Mrs Jameson, "dignity without pride, love without passion, and tenderness without weakness." It does so indeed; and never did critic speak more truth in fewer words.

quired perhaps no rare and astonishing effort of genius, such as created a Juliet, a Miranda, or a Lady Macbeth; but to delineate such a character in the poetical form; to develope it through the medium of action and dialogue, without the aid of description; to preserve its tranquil, mild, and serious beauty, its unimpassioned dignity, and at the same time keep the strongest hold upon our sympathy and our imagination; and out of this exterior calm, produce the most profound pathos, the most vivid impression of life and inthe character of Hermione one of Shakternal power:-it is this which renders speare's masterpieces.

"Hermione is a queen, a matron, and a mother: she is good and beautiful, and royally descended. A majestic sweetness, a grand and gracious simplicity, an easy, unforced, yet dignified self-possession, are in all her deportment, and in every word she utters. She is one of those characters, of whom it has been said proverbially, that still waters run deep.' Her passions are not vehement, but in her settled mind the sources of pain or pleasure, love or resentment, are like the springs that feed the mountain lakes, impenetrable, unfathomable, and inexhaustible."

"

"To conceive a character, in which there enters so much of the negative, re

Every inch of woman in the world,
Ay, every dram of woman's flesh, is false
If she be so."

And when she is spoken of, in what language of boundless respect and devotion!" Most sacred lady," "SoWith vereign," "Dread Mistress." what feeling does she receive the first intimation of her husband's jealous suspicions?" with incredulous astonishment."

'Should a villain say soThe most replenished villain in the worldHe were as much more villain; you, my lord, Do but mistake.'

This characteristic composure of temper never forsakes her; and yet it is so delineated that the impression is that of grandeur, and never borders upon pride or coldness: it is the fortitude of a gentle but a strong mind, conscious of its own innocence. Nothing can be more affecting than her calm reply to Leontes, who, in his jealous rage, heaps insult upon insult, and accuses her before her own attendants, as no better than one of those to whom the vulgar give bold titles.'

How will this grieve you, When you shall come to clearer knowledge That you have thus published me! Gentle, my ford,

You scarce can right me thoroughly then, To say you did mistake.'

"Her mild dignity and saint-like patience, combined as they are with the strongest sense of the cruel injustice of her husband, thrill us with admiration as well as pity; and we cannot but see and feel that for Hermione to give way to tears and feminine complaints under such a blow, would be quite incompatible with the character. Thus she says of herself, as she is led to prison:

the necessity that exists for asserting and defending both.

There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable. Good, my lords, I am not prone to weeping, as our sex Commonly are; the want of which vain dew, Perchance, shall dry your pities; but I have That honourable grief lodged here, that burns Worse thantears drown. Beseech you all, my lords, With thoughts so qualified as your charities Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so The king's will be performed I'

“When she is brought to trial for supposed crimes, called on to defend herself, standing to prate and talk for life and honour,' before who please to come and hear, the sense of her ignominious situation-all its shame and all its horror press upon her, and would even crush her magnanimous spirit, but for the consciousness of her own worth and innocence, and

"If powers divine Behold our human actions, (as they do,) I doubt not, then, but innocence shall make False accusation blush, and tyranny Tremble at patience.

*

For life, I prize it As I weigh grief, which I would spare. For honour'Tis a derivative from me to mine, And only that I stand for.'

"Her earnest, eloquent justification of herself, and her lofty sense of female hopressive by that chilling despair, that connour, are rendered more affecting and imtempt for a life which has been made bit

to her through unkindness, which is betrayed in every word of her speech, though so calmly characteristic. When she enumerates the unmerited insults without asperity or reproach, yet in a tone which have been heaped upon her, it is which shows how completely the iron has entered her soul. Thus, when Leontes threatens her with death:

Sir, spare your threats: The bug which you would fright me with I seek. To me can life be no commodity: The crown and comfort of my life, your favour, I do give lost; for I do feel it gone, But know not how it went. My second joy, And first fruits of my body, from his presence I am barr'd, like one infectious. My third comfort,

Starr'd most unluckily, is from my breast,
The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth,
Haled out to murder. Myself on every post
Proclaim'd a strumpet; with immodest hatred,
The childbed privilege denied, which 'longs
To women of all fashion. Lastly, hurried
Here to this place, i' the open air, before
I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege,
Tell me what blessings I have here alive,
That I should fear to die? Therefore, proceed.
But yet hear this; mistake me not. No! life,
I prize it not a straw :-but for mine honour,
(Which I would free,) if I shall be condemn'd
Upon surmises; all proofs sleeping else,
But what your jealousies awake; I tell you,
'Tis rigour, and not law.'

On one point the character of Hermione has been considered open to criticism; and it is well with any character, either in fiction or real life, to be open to criticism but on one point. Open to criticism! Shut, as you suppose, all doors in a critic's face, and the poor prying creature may perhaps find one off the latch, or slightly ajar, or but loosely locked, or weakly bolted; and in he will prance, like a savage donkey, to bray among Christians. How, it is asked, could Hermione have obstinately enacted the recluse for sixteen years, nor been melted by her husband's Will such critics be repentance? pleased to inform us how long she should have stood out? Four years? six? eight? Shakspeare chose sixteen; and he was right in so choos

ing, had it been for no other reason than to bring to her mother's arms the prettiest of pastorals, Perdita. But he had other reasons for shewing how

"Religion hallowed that severe sojourn." And here they are, "in thoughts that breathe and words that burn." There is no such philosophical criticism in Schlegel, nor yet-so far as we know-in Goethe. Woman alone knows the heart of woman.

with which Shakspeare has portrayed him, be considered as an excuse. Hermione has been openly insulted: he to whom she gave herself, her heart, her soul, has stooped to the weakness and baseness of suspicion, has doubted her truth, has wronged her love, has sunk in her esteem, and forfeited her confidence: she has been branded with vile names; her son, her eldest hope, is dead-dead

through the false accusation which has her innocent babe, stained with illegitistuck infamy on his mother's name; and macy, disowned and rejected, has been exposed to a cruel death. Can we believe that the mere tardy acknowledgement of her innocence could make amends for wrongs and agonies such as these? or heal a heart which must have bled inwardly, consumed by that untold grief, which burns worse than tears drown?' Keeping in view the peculiar character of Hermione, such as she is delineated, is she one either to forgive hastily or forget quickly? and though she might, in her solitude, mourn over her repentant husband, would his repentance suffice to restore him at once to his place in her heart? to efface from her strong and reflecting mind the recollection of his miserable weakness? or can we fancy this high-souled woman-left childless through the injury which has been inflicted on her, widowed in heart by the unworthiness of him she loved, a spectacle of grief to all-to her husband a continual reproach and humiliation-walking through the parade of royalty in the court which had witnessed her anguish, her shame, her degradation, and her despair? Methinks that the want of feeling, nature, delicacy, and consistency, would lie in such an exhibition as this. In a mind like Hermione's, where the strength of feeling is founded in the power of thought, and where there is little of impulse or imagination, the depth, but not the tumult of the soul,'-there are but two influences which predominate over the will,-time and religion. And what then remained, but that, wounded in heart and spirit, she should retire from the world? -not to brood over her wrongs, but to study forgiveness, and wait the fulfilment of the oracle which had promised the termination of her sorrows. Thus a premature reconciliation would not only have been painfully inconsistent with the character, it would also have deprived us of that most beautiful scene, in which Hermione is discovered to her husband as the statue or image of herself. And here we have another instance of that admirable art, with which the dramatic character is fitted

"I have heard it remarked, that when she secludes herself from the world for sixteen years, during which time she is mourned as dead by her repentant husband, and is not won to relent from her resolve by his sorrow, his remorse, his constancy to her memory; such conduct, argues the critic, is unfeeling as it is inconceivable in a tender and virtuous woman. Would Imogen have done so, who is so generously ready to grant a pardon before it be asked? or Desdemona, who does not forgive because she cannot even resent? No, assuredly; but this is only another proof of the wonderful delicacy and consistency with which Shakspeare has discriminated the characters of all three. The incident of Hermione's supposed death and concealment for sixteen years, is not indeed very probable in itself, nor very likely to occur in every-day life. But besides all the probability necessary for the purposes of poetry, it has all the likelihood it can derive from the peculiar character of Hermione, who is precisely the woman who could and would have acted in this manner. In such a mind as hers, the sense of a cruel injury, inflicted by one she had loved and trusted, without awakening any violent anger, or any desire of vengeance, would sink deep -almost incurably and lastingly deep. So far she is most unlike either Imogen or Desdemona, who are portrayed as much more flexible in temper; but then the circumstances under which she is wronged are very different, and far more unpardonable. The self-created, frantic jealousy of Leontes is very distinct from that of Othello, writhing under the arts of Iago; or that of Posthumus, whose understanding has been cheated by the most damning evidence of his wife's infidelity. The jealousy which in Othello and Posthumus is an error of judgment, in Leontes is a vice of the blood: he suspects without cause, condemns without proof; he is without excuse,-unless the mixture of pride, passion, and imagination, and the predisposition to jealousy