Privacy may boast of its heroes and heroism that a public scene cannot display. We look in the wrong place for truly great characters; we seek them in high stations, but seldom find them there. Magnanimity, like eloquence, is often found where we least expect it. There are more heroical actions occurring every day in the retirement of private life than are to be seen on the great public stage of the world. There is more of fortitude exhibited, more of patience in suffering, more true benevolence, a nobler charity, a wider and wiser generosity, deeper affection, and higher aims than the mind of a mere worldling can conceive. The reason is plain. The greatest intellects seek repose from vain struggles of ambition and inefficient plans of improvement. The gravest business of life, rightly viewed, is a mere farce, and those pleasing labors and endearing adversities, that make up a private life of contented trial and consequent happiness, are in fact higher and of more real importance. Domestic life is the only field for a certain class of virtues, by no means the least in value. These are of the softer and milder kind, amiable and attractive. Home is the school of the affections, as the world affords the test of the will and intellect. In that embowered valley bloom the sweet flowers of heart's-ease and contented joy. The life of Wordsworth might be proposed as a model to the author who loves letters rather than a literary reputation, who prefers fame to fashion-not only to the poet but to the humblest prose writer, do we propose it. His fine maxim should be engraven on the heart of every true student" Plain living, and high thinking." De Quincy, who published his recollections of the late poets some years since, in Tait's Magazine, has described the life of the Mil tonic Bard, as simple to frugality. He resided in a small cottage with his wife and sister; his guest was conducted into the largest room in the house, smaller than an ordinary bed room, and which had another occupant, Wordsworth's eldest boy. The common sitting room was half parlor and half kitchen. The great poet, like a good man, a lover of simple pleasures, delighted in his kettle's "faint undersong." His library was very small within doors, but without, what immense folios were his daily reading—the grand mountain scenery of his neighborhood. Nature is Wordsworth's library, or at least wisest commentator. Were he never so rich he could possess no pictures like the landscape around him. Even his friend, the fine painter, Sir George Beaumont, might only copy this original. And for company, what more needed he, to whom grand thoughts in rich abundance came flocking at his call; who possessed such an admirable sister and so excellent a wife. Southey was but a few hours' journey distant. Coleridge was sometimes his guest. There too came Hazlitt and Charles Lamb, and there ever abided guardian angels of the poet, the spirits of humanity and philosophy, in strict alliance with the Genius of Poesy! None but a poor spirited fool ever esteemed a man the less for his poverty, and pity, in such cases, is insult. The compassion is a glozing apology for the indulgence of purse pride, the meanest form of Satan's favorite sin, and which he must heartily despise. He who devotes a life to letters cannot expect wealth: competency is the most he can look for, a thorough education, in its widest sense, for his children, and a comfortable, though confined maintenance for those dearest to him and least fitted to struggle with misfortune. A fair example and an honorable fame is a richer legacy than a large fortune without either. Most fortunate he, who can unite all. But the spirit of study is adverse to the spirit of accumulation. A man with one idea, and that of money-making, can hardly fail, from one dollar, of realizing a million. But a man of many ideas, of a comprehensive spirit, and of aspiring views, can never contract his manly mind to the circumference of a store or factory. In his fixed and awful gaze at the wonders of creation, or in his rapt ecstasy at the celestial harmony of poesy, opportunities of profit will slip by, the golden moments of barter escape. His purse is lighter, it must be confessed; but he has gained a richer accession of fancies and feelings than the world can give or take away. VIII. CHAPTER ON SOME OLD AND LATER ENGLISH SONNETS. THE Sonnet is of Italian origin, and was first imported into England from that country by the Earl of Surrey, "that renowned lord, Th' old English glory bravely that restor❜d, as Drayton enthusiastically writes. Originally a pupil of Petrarch, he left the metaphysical style of his master for a more gallant and courtly manner. He was "the bright particular star" of the court of Henry VIII., as Sidney was of that of Elizabeth, and resembled his famous successor in that dangerous post of favorite in more than one trait of his character. Like him he was an accomplished gentleman, a graceful poet, an elegant scholar, and a gallant knight. Like him he chanted soft, amorous lays to his chosen fair, and has immortalized the source of his inspiration in strains of melting beauty. Surrey is the first classic English poet (we place Chaucer at the head of the romantic school, before the era of Spenser and Shakspeare); and he was the first writer of English sonnets. He is said to have been the introducer of blank verse into our poetry. For these two gifts to our literature, if for none others, we should hold his reputation in honorable remembrance. We recollect no one sonnet of surpassing beauty (Mrs. Jameson, in her Loves of the Poets, has culled the finest lines): they will bear no comparison with succeeding pieces in the same department. And as we wish to secure space for certain fine specimens of Sidney, Shakspeare, Drummond, and Milton, we must not encumber our page with any but the choicest productions of the Muse. We pass then to the all-accomplished Sidney. His sonnets are chiefly "vain and amatorious," yet full of “wit and worth." We agree heartily in Lamb's admiration for them, as well as for their admirable author, deprecating entirely the carping and illiberal spirit in which Hazlitt criticized them. The acutest and most eloquent English critic of this century was sometimes prejudiced and occasionally partial. We find him so here. For delicacy, fancy, and purity of feeling, Sidney is the finest of English writers of the Sonnet, He is certainly less weighty and grand than Milton, less pathetic than Drummond, far less copious and rich than Wordsworth, yet in the graceful union of the Poet and Lover surpassing all. He is here, as in his life and actions, the Knight "sans peur et sans reproche." Stella, the goddess of his idolatry, was at once his mistress and his muse; anciently, a very frequent combination of characters. We know not, but believe the Sonnets of Sidney are little known. This, and the intrinsie beauty of the poem, must serve to excuse us for the following extract: Because I oft in dark abstracted guise |