the work-shops and the fields-he engrafted on the army a new noblesse, which soon became more insupportable than the ancient one, because it had neither the same antiquity nor the same prestige; he levied arbitrary taxes-he desired that in the whole empire there should be but one voice

lar illusion which attached itself to the blood of kings-sovereignty, majesty, and power. He raised the people in their own esteem, by showing to them kings, descended from kings, at the foot of a king who had sprung from the people. He so overwhelmed hereditary monarchs, by placing them in juxtaposition with himself-he so-his voice; and but one law, his will. The oppressed them with his own greatness, that, in taking them one by one, all these kings and all these emperors, and bringing them beside himself, that they were scarcely perceivable, so small and obscure did they become by the comparison with this Colossus. But let us listen to what the severe voice of history will pronounce against him:

capital, the cities, the armies, the fleets, the palaces, the museums, the magistrates, the citizens, became his capital, his cities, his armies, his fleets, his palaces, his museums, his magistrates, and his subjects. He drew the nation out to conflict and to battle, where we have nothing left remarkable save the insolence of our victories, our corpses, He dethroned the sovereignty of the and our gold. In fine, after having besieged people. The emperor of the French re- the forts of Cadiz-after having in his hands. public, he became a despot-he threw the the keys of Lisbon, of Madrid, of Vienna, of weight of his sword into the scales of the Berlin, of Naples, and of Rome-after havlaw he incarcerated individual liberty in ing made the pavement of Moscow tremble his state prisons-he stifled the liberty of under the wheels of his artillery, he left the press, by the gags of the censorship France less great than he found herhe violated trial by jury-he trampled un- bleeding with her wounds, dismantled of der his feet the tribunals, the legislative her fortresses, naked, impoverished, and bodies, and the senate-he depopulated humiliated.

From Tait's Magazine.

FEMALE AUTHORS.-No. III.-MRS. SHELLEY.

BY GEORGE GILFILLAN.

MUCH as we hear of Schools of Authors, | school, again, supposes a similar mode of there has, properly speaking, been but one training. But how different the erratic in British Literature-at least, within this education of Coleridge, from the slow, century. There was never, for example, solemn, silent degrees by which, without any such thing as a Lake school. A school noise of hammer or edge-tool, arose, like supposes certain conditions and circumstances which are not to be found among the poets referred to. It supposes, first of all, a common master. Now, the Lake poets had no common master, either among themselves or others. They owned allegiance neither to Shakspeare, nor Milton, nor Wordsworth. Each stood near, but each stood alone, like the stars composing one of the constellations. A school, again, implies a common creed. But we have no evidence, external or internal that, though the poetical diction of the Lakers bore a certain resemblance, that their poetical creed was identical. Indeed, we are yet to learn that Southey had, of any depth or definitude, a poetical creed at all.

the ancient temple, the majestic structure of Wordsworth's mind! A school, besides, implies such strong and striking resemblances as shall serve to overpower the specific differences between the writers who compose it. But we are mistaken if the dissimilarities between Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey be not as great as the points in which they agree. Take, for example, the one quality of speculative intellect. That, in the mind of Coleridge, was restless, discontented, and daring-in Wordsworth, still, collected, brooding perpetually over narrow but profound depths-in Southey, almost totally quiescent. The term Lake School, in short, applied at first in derision, Ahas been retained, principally because it is

convenient-nay, suggests a pleasing image, masque of Christianity? Cloaking the and gives both the public and the critics leading principle of our religion, its disinglimpses, that do make them less for-terested benevolence, under a copy of the lorn," of the blue peaks of Helvellyn and features of Helvetius and Volney, he went Skiddaw, and of the blue waters of Derwent a mumming with it in the train of the phiand Windermere. losophers of the Revolution. But when he The Cockney school was, if possible, a approached the domain of actual life and misnomer more absurd-striving, as it did, of the human affections, the ugly disguise in vain to include, within one term, three dropped, and his fictions we hesitate not to spirits so essentially distinct as Hazlitt, characterize as among the noblest illustraKeats, and Leigh Hunt-the first a stern tions of the Sermon on the Mount. But to metaphysician, who had fallen into a hope- the public they seemed the reiterations of less passion for poetry; the second, the exploded and dangerous errors such a load purest specimen of the ideal a ball of of prejudice and prepossession had been susbeautiful foam, (6 cut off from the water," pended to their author's skirts. And now, and not adopted by the air; the third, a the excitement of danger and disgust having fine tricksy medium between the poet and passed away from his theories, interest in the wit, half a sylph and half an Ariel, the works which propounded them has also now hovering round a lady's curl, and now subsidzd. "Caleb Williams," once chastirring the fiery tresses of the Sun-aracterized by Hannah More as a cunning fairy fluctuating link, connecting Pope with and popular preparation of the poison Shelley. We need not be at pains to cut which the Political Justice had contained out into little stars the Blackwood constel- in a cruder form, and thereby branded as lation, or dwell on the differences between dangerous, is now forgotten, we suspect, by a Wilson, a Lockhart, and a James Hogg. all but a very select class of circulating One school, however, there has appeared library readers. "St. Leon," "Fleetwithin the last fifty years, answering to all wood," "Mandeville," and "Cloudesley," the characteristics we have enumerated, with all their varied merits, never attracted namely, the Godwin school, who, by a attention, except through the reflex intecommon master-the old man eloquent rest and terror excited by their author's himself a common philosophical as well former works. Thus political excitement as poetical belief, common training, that of has been at once a raising and a ruining warfare with society, and many specific re- influence to the writings of a great English semblances in manner and style, are pro- author-ruining, we mean, at present-for claimed to be one. This cluster includes the shade of neglect has yet to be created the names of William Godwin, Mary which can permanently conceal their sterWollstonecroft, Brockden Brown of Ameri- ling and imperishable worth. After the ca, Shelley, and Mrs. Shelley. majority of the writings of Dickens have perished-after one-half of Bulwer's, and one-fourth of Scott's novels have been forgotten-shall many reflective spirits be found following the fugitive steps of Caleb Williams, or standing by the grave of Marguerite de Damville, or of Bethlem Gabor, as they do well to be angry even unto death. If sincerity, simplicity, depth of thought, purity of sentiment, and power of genius can secure immortality to any productions, it is to the fictions of Godwin.

Old Godwin scarcely got justice in this Magazine from Mr. De Quincey. Slow, cumbrous, elephantine as he was, there was always a fine spirit animating his most lumpish movements. He was never contemptible-often common-place, indeed, but often great. There was much in him of the German cast of mind-the same painful and plodding diligence, added to high imaginative qualities. His great merit at the time and his great error, as it proved afterwards-lay in wedding a partial philosophic system with the universal truth of fiction. Hence the element which made the public drunk with his merits at first rendered them oblivious afterwards. So dangerous it is to connect fiction (the finer alias of truth) with any dogma or mythus less perishable than the theogony of Homer, or the Catholicism of Cervantes. After all, what was the theory of Godwin, but the

Mary Wollstonecroft-since we saw her countenance prefixed to her husband's Memoir-a face so sweet, so spiritual, so far withdrawn from earthly thoughts, steeped in an enthusiasm so genuine-we have ceased to wonder at the passionate attachment of Southey, Fuseli, and Godwin to the gifted being who bore it. It is the most feminine countenance we ever saw in picture. The "Rights of Women" seem in it melted

down into one deliquium of love. Fuseli | forth into the wilderness, where they found once, when asked if he believed in the im- peace and oblivion. A self-exiled Byron mortality of the soul, replied in language or Landor is rather to be envied; for though rather too rough to be quoted verbatim, "I"how can your wanderer escape from his don't know if you have a soul, but I am own shadow?" yet it is much if that shasure that I have." We are certain that he dow sweep forests and cataracts, fall large believed in the existence of at least one at morning or evening upon Alps and Apother immortal spirit-that of the owner of penines, or swell into the Demon of the the still, serene, and rapt countenance on Brockan. In this case misery takes a which he hopelessly doted. It is curious prouder, loftier shape, and mounts a burnthat on the first meeting of Godwin and his ing throne. But a man like Brockden future wife, they "interdespised "-they Brown, forced to carry his incommunicable recoiled from each other, like two enemies sorrow into the press and thick of human suddenly meeting on the street, and it re- society, nay, to coin it into the means of quired much after-intercourse to reconcile procuring daily bread, he is the true hero, them, and ultimately to create that passion even though he should fall in the struggle. which led to their union. To carry one's misery to market, and sell - Mary Wollstonecroft shone most in conver- it to the highest bidder, what a necessity sation. From this to composition she seemed for a proud and sensitive spirit! Assuredly, to descend as from a throne. Coleridge de- Brown was a brave struggler, if not a sucscribes her meeting and extinguishing some cessful one. Amid poverty, neglect, nonof Godwin's objections to her arguments appreciation, hard labor, and the thousand with a light, easy, playful air. Her fan niaiseries of the crude country which Amewas a very falchion in debate. Her works rica then was, he retained his integrity; History of the French Revolution," he wrote on at what Godwin calls his "Wanderer of Norway," "Rights of Wo-"story books;" he sought inspiration men," &c.—have all perished. Her own from his own gloomy woods and silent career was chequered and unhappy-her fields; and his works appear, amid what end was premature-she died in childbed are called "standard novels," like tall of Mrs. Shelley (like the sun going down to wind-swept American pines amid shrubbery reveal the evening star); but her name and brush-wood. His name, after his unshall live as that of a deep majestical and timely death (at the age of thirty-nine), high-souled woman-the Madame Roland was returned upon his ungrateful country of England-and who could, as well as she, have paused on her way to the scaffold, and wished for a pen to "record the strange thoughts that were arising in her mind." Peace to her ashes! How consoling to think that those who in life were restless and unhappy, sleep the sleep of death as soundly as others-nay, seem to sleep more soundly-to be hushed by a softer lullaby, and surrounded by a profounder peace, than the ordinary tenants of the grave. Yes, sweeter, deeper, and longer is the repose of the truant child, after his day of wandering is over, and the night of his rest is come.

from Britain, where his writings first attained eminent distinction, while even yet Americans, generally, prefer the adventure and bustle of Cooper to the stern Dantelike simplicity, the philosophical spirit, and the harrowing and ghost-like interest Brown.

Of Shelley, having spoken so often, what more can we say? He seems to us as though the most beautiful of beings had been struck blind. Mr. De Quincey, in unconscious plagiarism from another, compares him to a lunatic angel." But per

66

haps his disease might be better denominated Another "Wanderer o'er Eternity" was blindness. It was not because he saw falsely, Brockden Brown, the Godwin of America. but, as if seeing and delaying to worship And worse for him, he was a wanderer, not the glory of Christ and his religion, that from, but among men. For Cain of old, it delay was punished by a swift and sudden was a relief to go forth from his species into darkness. Imagine the Apollo Belvedere, the virgin empty earth. The builders of animated and fleshed, all his dream-like the Tower of Babel must have rejoiced as loveliness of form retained, but his eyes rethey saw the summit of their abortive build-maining shut! Thus blind and beautiful ing sinking down in the level plain; they fled from it as a stony silent satire on their baffled ambition, and as a memorial of the confusion of their speech-it scourged them

stood Shelley on his pedestal, or went wandering, an inspired sleep-walker, among his fellows, who, alas, not seeing his melancholy plight, struck and spurned, instead

clean, as if washed by the near sea-sandy hillocks rising behind and westward, the river, like an inland lake, stretching around Dundee, with its fine harbor and its surmounting Law, which, in its turn, is surmounted by the far blue shapes of the gi

of gently and soothingly trying to lead him | sweet and sinless reverie, among its cliffs. into the right path. We still think, not- The place is, to us, familiar. It possesses withstanding Mr. De Quincey's eloquent some fine features-a bold promontory strictures in reply, that if pity and kind- crowned with an ancient castle jutting far hearted expostulation had been employed, out into the Tay, which here broadens into they might have had the effect, if not of an arm of the ocean- —a beach, in part smooth weaning him from his errors, at least of with sand, and in part paved with pebbles modifying his expressions and feelings-if-cottages lying artlessly along the shore, not of opening his eyes, at least of rendering him more patient and hopeful under his eclipse. What but a partial clouding of his mind could have prompted such a question as he asked upon the following occasion? Haydon, the painter, met him once at a large dinner party in London. Dur-gantic Stuicknachroan and Benvoirlich. ing the course of the entertainment, a thin, cracked, shrieking voice was heard from the one end of the table, “ you don't believe, do you, Mr. Haydon, in that execrable thing, Christianity?" The voice was poor Shelley's, who could not be at rest with any new acquaintance till he ascertained his impressions on that one topic.

Poets, perhaps all men, best understand themselves. Thus no word so true has been spoken of Shelley, as where he says of himself, that "an adamantine veil was built up between his mind and heart." His intellect led him in one direction-the true impulses of his heart in another. The one was with Spinoza-the other with John. The controversy raged between them like fire, and even at death was not decided. We rejoice, in contrast with the brutal treatment he met with while living, to notice the tenderness which the most evangelical periodicals (witness the present number of the North British Review), extend to the memory of this most sincere, spiritual, and unearthly of modern men. It is to us a proud reflection, that for at least seventeen years our opinion of him has remained unaltered.

It is not at all to be wondered at, that two such spirits as Shelley and Mary Godwin, when they met, should become instantly attached. On his own doctrine of a state of pre-existence, we might say that the marriage had been determined long before, while yet the souls were waiting in the great antenatal antechamber! They met at last like two drops of water-like two flames of fire-like two beautiful clouds which have crossed the moon, the sky and all its stars, to hold their midnight assignation over a favorite and lonely river. Mary Godwin was an enthusiast from her childhood. She passed, by her own account, part of her youth at Broughty Ferry, in

Did the bay of Spezzia ever suggest to Mrs. Shelley's mind the features of the Scottish scene? That scene, seen so often, seldom fails to bring before us her image-the child, and soon to be the bride, of genius. Was she ever, like Mirza, overheard in her soliloquies, and did she bear the shame, accordingly, in blushes which still rekindle at the recollection? Did the rude fishermen of the place deem her wondrous wise, or did they deem her mad, with her wandering eye, her rapt and gleaming countenance, her light step moving to the music of her maiden meditation? The smooth sand retains no trace of her young feet-to the present race she is altogether unknown; but we have more than once seen the man, and the lover of genius, turn round and look at the spot, with warmer interest, and with brightening eye, as we told them that she had been there.

We have spoken of Mrs. Shelley's similarity in genius to her husband--we by no means think her his equal. She has not his subtlety, swiftness, wealth of imagination, and is never caught up (like Ezekiel by his lock of hair) into the same rushing whirlwind of inspiration. She has much, however, of his imaginative and of his speculative qualities-her tendency, like his, is to the romantic, the ethereal, and the terrible. The tie detaining her, as well as him, to the earth, is slender-her protest against society is his, copied out in a fine female hand--her style is carefully and successfully modelled upon his-she bears, in brief, to him, the resemblance which Laone did to Laon, which Astarte did to Manfred. Perhaps, indeed, intercourse with a being so peculiar, that those who came in contact with, either withdrew from him in hatred, or fell into the current of his being, vanquished and enthralled, has somewhat affected the originality, and narrowed the extent of her own genius. In