JANE TAYLOR.*

THE poetry of Miss Taylor always reminds me of Cow-per's; and in the character of their minds there was a striking similarity, as any one must have noticed, who has read the "Memoirs and Correspondence" of each of these gifted, good, and gentle beings. Miss Taylor possessed, like Cowper, a vein of playful humor, that often gave point and vividness to the most sombre sentiment, and usually animated the strains she sung for children; but still, there was often over her fancy, as over his, a deep shade of pensiveness, "morbid humility," she somewhere calls it, - and no phrase could better express the state of feeling which frequently oppressed her heart. The kind and soothing domestic influences which were always around her path in life, prevented the sad and despairing tone of her mind from ever acquiring the predominance, so as to unfit her for her duties; in this respect she was much more favored than the bard of Olney. But we are inclined to think that, had she met with severe trials and misfortunes, the character of her poetry would have been more elevated, and her language more glowing. The retiring sensitiveness of her disposition kept down, usually, that energy of thought and eleva

* There is an American edition, in three volumes, of the writings of Miss Taylor, to which is prefixed her "Memoirs and Correspondence."

tion of sentiment, which, from a few specimens of her later writings, she seemed gifted to sustain, could she only have been incited to the effort.

Miss Taylor was born in London, September, 1783. She was the second daughter of the Rev. Mr. Taylor, of Ongar; and her mother was, late in life, a writer of considerable celebrity. Her father, however, was not ordained a clergyman till Jane was nearly thirteen years of age. He was by profession an engraver, and taught both his daughters the art, as a means of independence. Jane excelled in drawing; her delicate taste and fine genius particularly fitted her to appreciate the beautiful in nature; but she never succeeded to satisfy herself in the productions of the graver. The education of Jane was almost entirely conducted at home, by her excellent and sensible parents; and she constantly, in her letters, dwells on the happiness of this endearing domestic intercourse. Her first effort at rhyme was made at the early age of ten years; and throughout her youth the predominance of the poetical feeling is evident, but her timidity constantly checked the natural propensity. It was not till 1804 that she ventured to appear in print. From that period till her decease, which occurred in 1824, she was more or less occupied in literary pursuits. Her prose writings, under the title of "Contributions of Q. Q. to a Periodical," are too well known to need description; and the simple story of hers, entitled "Display," has acquired a popularity which few regular twovolumed novels ever attained. But it is in her familiar "Correspondence," that the real beauty and brightness of her genius and intellect are best comprehended. Pure as the first Snow-drop of spring was her fancy, and there is a child-like simplicity in her feelings, that makes the reader of her unstudied effusions love her at once. Her piety was deep and most humble: diffidence was usually in all things the prevailing mood of her mind; and this often clouded her religious enjoyment. But she triumphed in the closing

scene; those "unreal fears were, in a great measure, removed, and she went down to the "cold dark grave" with that firm trust in her Redeemer which disarmed death of its terrors.

"Pure spirits should not pass unmourned;

This earth is poor without them. But a view
Of better climes broke on her, and her soul
Rose o'er its stricken tent with outspread wing
Of seraph rapture."

Ask the good housewife, mid her bustling maids,
If ne'er the world her humbler sphere invades.
But if, (unconscious of its secret sway,)

She own it not, her eager looks betray.

Yes, there you find it, spite of locks and bars,
Hid in the store-room with her jams and jars;
It gilds her china, in her cupboard shines,
Works at the vent-peg of her homemade wines,
Each varied dainty to her board supplies,
And comes up smoking in her Christmas pies.

The charms of mental converse some may fear.

Who scruple not to lend a ready ear

To kitchen tales, of scandal, strife, and love,

Which make the maid and mistress hand and glove;
And ever deem the sin and danger less,

Merely for being in a vulger dress.

Thus the world haunts, in forms of varied kind,
The intellectual and the grovelling mind;

Now, sparkling in the muse's fair attire,
Now, red and busy at the kitchen fire.
And were you called to give a casting voice,
One to select, from such a meagre choice,
Deciding which life's purpose most mistook -
Would you not say,—the worldly-minded cook?
Not intellectual vanity to flatter;

-Simply, that mind precedence claims of matter.

And she, whose nobler course is seen to shine, At once, with human knowledge and divine; Who, mental culture and domestic rites In close and graceful amity unites; Striving to hold them in their proper place, Not interfering with her heavenly race; Whose constant aim it is, and fervent prayer, On earthly ground to breathe celestial air;— Still, she could witness how the world betrays, Steals softly in by unsuspected ways, Her yielding soul from heavenly converse bears, And holds her captive in its silken snares. Could she not tell the trifles, that are brought To rival heaven, and drive it from her thought? Her heart (unconscious of the flowery trap) Caught in the sprigs upon a baby's cap; Thence disengaged, its freedom boasts awhile, Till taken captive by the baby's smile.

But oh, how mournful when resistance fails, The conflict slackens, and the foe prevails! For instance-yonder matron, who appears Softly descending in the vale of years; And yet, with health, and constant care bestowed, Still comely, embonpoint and à la mode. Once, in her youthful days, her heart was warm; At least her feelings wore devotion's form;

And ever since, to quell the rising doubt,
She makes that grain of godliness eke out.
With comfort still, the distant day she sees,
When grief or terror brought her to her knees;
When Christian friends rejoiced at what she told,
And bade her welcome to the Church's fold.
There still she rests, her words, her forms the same;
There holds profession's lamp without the flame;
Her Sabbaths come and go, with even pace;
Year after year, you find her in her place,
And still no change apparent, saving that
Of time and fashion, in her face and hat.
She stands or kneels as usual, hears and sings;
Goes home and dines, and talks of other things;
Enjoys her comforts with as strong a gout
As if they were not fading from her view;
And still is telling what she means to do:
Talks of events that happen to befall,
Not like a stranger, passing from it all,
But eager, anxious in their issue still,
Hoping this will not be, or that it will;
Getting, enjoying, all that can be had;
Amused with trifles, and at trifles sad:
While hope still whispers in her willing ears,
"Soul, thou hast goods laid up for many years."
A few, brief words her character portray-
-This world contents her, if she might but stay.
When true and fervent pilgrims round her press,
She inly wishes that their zeal were less.
Their works of love, their spirit, faith, and prayers,
Their calm indifference to the world's affairs,
Reproach her deadness, and she fain, for one,
Would call their zeal and ardor overdone.

But what her thought is-what her hope and stay, In moments of reflection, who shall say ? -Time does not slacken,-nay, he speeds his pace,