true picture of the business that is to be done. There is in these letters, as I have said above, a silence still more significant of Oliver to us than any speech they have. Dimly we discover features of an intelligence, and soul of a man, greater than any speech. The intelligence that can, with full satisfaction to itself, come out in eloquent speaking, in musical singing, is, after all, a small intelligence. He that works and does some poem, not he that merely says one, is worthy of the name of poet. Cromwell, emblem of the dumb English, is interesting to me by the very inadequacy of his speech. Heroic insight, valor and belief, without words,-how noble is it in comparison to eloquent words without heroic insight! THE ENGLISH PURITANS. The same. I will venture to give the reader two little pieces of advice, which, if his experience resemble mine, may prove furthersome to him in this inquiry: they include the essence of all that I have discovered respecting it. The first is, by no means to credit the wide-spread report that these seventeenth-century Puritans were superstitious, crackbrained persons; given up to enthusiasm, the most part of them; the minor ruling part being cunning men, who knew how to assume the dialect of the others, and thereby, as skilful Machiavels, to dupe them. This is a wide-spread report; but an untrue one. I advise my reader to try precisely the opposite hypothesis. To consider that his fathers, who had thought about this world very seriously indeed, and with very considerable thinking faculty indeed, were not quite so far behindhand in their conclusions respecting it. That actually their "enthusiasms," if well seen into, were not foolish but wise. That Machiavelism, Cant, Official Jargon, whereby a man speaks openly what he does not mean, were, surprising as it may seem, much rarer then than they have ever since been. Really and truly it may in a manner be said, Cant, Parliamentary and other Jargon, were still to invent in this world. O Heavens, one could weep at the contrast! Cant was not fashionable at all; that stupendous invention of "Speech for the purpose of concealing Thought" was not yet made. A man wagging the tongue of him, as if it were the clapper of a bell to be rung for economic purposes, and not so much as attempting to convey any inner thought, if thought he have, of the matter talked of,-would at that date have awakened all the horror in men's minds, which at all dates, and at this date, too, is due to him. The accursed thing! No man as yet dared to do it; all men believing that God would judge them. In the History of the Civil War far and wide, I have not fallen in with one such phenomenon. The use of the human tongue was then other than it now is. I counsel the reader to leave all that of Cant, Dupery, Machiavelism, and so forth, decisively lying at the threshold. He will be wise to believe that these Puritans do mean what they say, and to try unimpeded if he can discover what that is. Gradually a very stupendous phenomenon may rise on his astonished eye. A practical world based on belief in God;-such as many centuries had seen before, but as never any century since has been privileged to see. It was the last glimpse of it in our world, this of English Puritanism: very great, very glorious; tragical enough to all thinking hearts that look on it from these days of ours. My second advice is, not to imagine that it was Constitution, "Liberty of the people to tax themselves," privilege of Parliament, triennial or annual Parliaments, or any modification of these sublime privileges, now waxing somewhat faint in our admirations, that mainly animated our Cromwells, Pyms, and Hampdens, to the heroic efforts we still admire in retrospect. Not these very measurable "Privileges," but a far other and deeper, which could not be measured; of which these, and all grand social improvements whatsoever, are the corollary. Our ancient Puritan Reformers were, as all Reformers that will ever much benefit this Earth are always, inspired by a Heavenly Purpose. To see God's own law, then universally acknowledged for complete as it stood in the holy Written Book, made good in this world; to see this, or the true unwearied aim and struggle towards this: it was a thing worth living for and dying for! Eternal Justice; that God's Will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven: corollaries enough will flow from that, if that be there; if that be not there, no corollary good for much will flow. The same. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. THE facts in the life of ELIZABETH BARRETT, one of the most distinguished of the female poets of England, which have come to our knowledge, are very few. Up to her marriage with Robert Browning, (himself no mean poet,) in November, 1846, she went very little into society. Since that time she has resided with her husband in Florence, and is now (1853) about forty-two years of age. Mrs. Browning's publications are as follow: "Essay on Mind, a Poem;" "Prometheus Bound, and Miscellaneous Poems;" "The Seraphim, and other Poems;" "Collected Poems," in two volumes; "A Drama of Exile, and other Poems," two volumes. Mrs. Browning has been styled "the learned poetess of the day,—familiar with Homer, and Eschylus, and Sophocles, and to the musings of Tempe she has added the inspirations of Christianity." This is readily granted, and yet we cannot say that her poetry, as a whole, deeply interests us. With the exception of some few pieces, it takes no permanent hold upon the heart, simply because it is addressed more to the reason than to the feelings or affections. The following, we think, are some of her best pieces-pieces of the most simplicity and feeling, if they do not, so well as some others, illustrate her general style. THE PET-NAME. I have a name, a little name, Though I write books, it will be read And afterwards, when I am dead, Whoever chanceth it to call, May chance your smile to win;— My brother gave that name to me No shade was on us then, save one And through the word our laugh did run Nay, do not smile! I hear in it I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, And voices-which to name me, aye To some I never more can say In heaven these drops of weeping! My name to me a sadness wears- Now God be thank'd for these thick tears, Now God be thank'd for years inwrought Now God be thank'd for every thought Earth may imbitter, not remove The love divinely given: And e'en that mortal grief shall prove And lead us nearer Heaven! THE SLEEP. Of all the thoughts of God that are Along the Psalmist's music deep- What would we give to our beloved? The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep- The monarch's crown to light the brows?— "He giveth His beloved sleep." What do we give to our beloved? The whole earth blasted for our sake! "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep: But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber, when O earth, so full of dreary noises! Though on its slope men toil and reap; More softly than the dew is shed, "He giveth His beloved sleep." In such a rest his heart to keep; That sees through tears the juggler's leap- Who "giveth His beloved sleep!" And friends!-dear friends!-when it shall be Let me, most loving of you all, COWPER'S GRAVE. It is a place where poets crown'd O poets! from a maniac's tongue And now, what time ye all may read How discord on the music fell, And darkness on the glory And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds And wandering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face, Because so broken-hearted. He shall be strong to sanctify The poet's high vocation, And bow the meekest Christian down |