'Thorn-tangled and wild,

And o'er rocks is my path;
Oh! am I the child

Of God's favour or wrath?
At times I feel riven-
So shatter'd, so drear-
And then, as if heaven
Were opening to cheer.

'The lark trills her note
Unseen and on high;
The eagle will float
Alone in the sky.
Just so is my being;
I pour out my lay
Unseen and unseeing,
And hover, as they.

'Right up tow'rds the sun
I soar, tempest-tost;
And bliss has been won

Where peace has been lost.
Yet I grow calm, and care
Dies away at its birth,
As I bathe in the air

That's untainted by earth.

'Let the war-cries of life
Ring loud as they will,
Through the thick of the strife,
You must follow me still.
The shame you must bear,

Ay, make it your own;
And the crown you must wear
As if born to a throne.

'If your soul is thus steel'd, Self-sustained, self-possess'd, Unable to yield,

And yet able to rest;
Come to me-no shrinking—

I'll live on for you

But if you stay thinking
One moment-Adieu.'

We have gradually wandered from our parallel; but we must return to it, if only to mention one more difference, the most decided of the whole. Some gifted and many commonplace women, feeling or thinking themselves fitted for a wider field of exertion than is ordinarily held compatible with the appropriate virtues of their sex, have murmured, or railed in good set terms, at the alleged injustice of the restraints imposed on it; and Madame Dudevant, not satisfied with assuming a masculine name, and displaying (it must be owned) a masculine strength of understanding, has occasionally adopted the garb, together with a few of the distinctive habits, of the stronger sex. The statuette by which she is best known throughout Europe, represents her standing in an easy, independent attitude, attired in pantaloons and a frock coat. Madame HahnHahn, on the contrary, is thoroughly feminine in all her tastes, habits, feelings, and modes of thought-in her weakness as well as in her strength; nor does she appear to have made up her mind that women are qualified to contend for the greater prizes in art, science, and philosophy. For example:

"Without pleasure in that which has been undertaken in good earnest, without devotion to it, satisfaction in it, triumph with it-nothing great was ever yet accomplished; and what is the quintessence of these feelings except inspiration? What else is the pulse of their life? Inspiration is the electric shock which runs through the chain of existence; and history shows that it is only received by men."

"Only by men?" interrupted Faustine " and the prophetesses of the Hebrews! and the Roman matrons who

laughed at death? and the priestesses of the Germanic tribes! and the heroines of Saragossa."

"I except the mere impulse. When a woman's heart is touched, when it is moved by love-be it for an individual, for her country, or for her God-then the electric spark is communicated, and the fire of inspiration flames up. But even then, woman desires no more than to suffer and die for what she loves. No woman was ever excited to the creating, controlling, world-lifting point: no, never; that is, never by inspiration. By intrigue, by caprice-likely enough; she amuses herself with these occasionally. But it never yet entered the mind of woman to make her lover immortal, like Petrarch's Laura and Dante's Beatrice. They do not even master art; much less science. That woman remains to be born who is capable of interesting herself for an abstract idea, to the extent of enduring chains and torture for its sake, like Galileo with his e pur si muove. We cannot so much as form a notion of a female Socrates.' (Faustine, p. 149.)

There is no getting over the fact that no woman has ever attained the highest rank in any branch of art, science, or literature;-not even in music or painting, where neither masculine education nor physical strength can be deemed essential. There are no female Raphaels or Michael Angelos; no female Handels, Beethovens, or Mozarts. Madame Hahn-Hahn does not even maintain the superiority of her sex in matters of the heart.

"Under ordinary circumstances," said Faustine, "we may be superior to men in tact and fineness of perception; but when a man loves-and this happens oftener than women are willing to allow-he enfolds the beloved one like a sensitive plant, and feels sooner, stronger, every dawning

emotion, every shade of feeling, every growing thorn of disagreement, every swelling bud of happiness. But then he must love in good earnest "' (p. 177).

Enough has been said to distinguish Madame HahnHahn from her celebrated contemporary; and the course of the parallel has naturally led us to state the leading qualities of her style. We may now, therefore, proceed to a more detailed examination of her books; but it is only fair to say, that their great charm consists in the succession of skilful touches by which characters are developed, and in the incidental topics or allusions by which attention is kept up. She seems to have followed the advice given by Mr. Merryman to the poet in the prologue to Faust.' 'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Everyone lives it-to not many is it known-and seize it where you will, it is interesting.' She scatters about so many traits of sensibility, so many poetic fancies, so much suggestive speculation on the subjects which come home to every one who has mixed in society; that, though few of them, taken individually, may be very profound or original, a highly pleasing impression is produced— somewhat resembling that (to borrow one of her own similes) produced by the Milky Way upon the 6 eye. The collective mass forms a luminous streak, every single minute point of which is a star; but no Orion, no Sirius, overpoweringly attracts the view.' She is just the sort of writer who must be read, and read carefully by a qualified reader, to be appreciated.

'Gräfin Faustine,' the third on our list, is the book in which Madame Hahn-Hahn first put forth her full

6

strength, and displayed her peculiar qualities. It is marked by more unity of purpose and compactness of plot, than Aus der Gesellschaft' or 'Der Rechte;' which, short as they are, are more than half made up of episodical narratives or detached scenes. It has also been said, and is currently believed, that Gräfin Faustine,' and Ida, Gräfin Hahn-Hahn, are one and the same person.

6

The opening scene is laid at Dresden, on the terrace overlooking the river, where several young men are lounging and chatting, one fine afternoon in June. It was too early for the female promenaders.

'It was consequently the more remarkable that a woman, apparently belonging to the higher class, was seated on a bench, with her back towards the pavilion, undisturbed by the talking of the men, or the noise of the children. But it struck no one. She must therefore be somebody whom every one knew and no one minded. She was sketching diligently. A servant stood statue-like by her side, holding a parasol, so that neither a dazzling ray of light, nor the quivering shade of the leaves, might fall on the hand, eye, or paper, of his lady. Her large dark eye flew with keen quick glances hither and thither between the drawing and the landscape; and the delicate hand, relieved from the glove for the sake of greater fineness of touch, and careless of exposure to the air, skilfully followed the glance. She was completely buried in her occupation.'

The group of loungers were joined by one of their companions, and a stranger, Count Mario Mengen, who had just been appointed Secretary of Embassy at Dresden—a distinguished-looking man in the prime of life.