No. 79.

THE works of British women have now taken up, not by courtesy but by right, a full and conspicuous place in our literature. They constitute, indeed, an elegant library in themselves; and there is hardly a department in science, in philosophy, in morals, in politics, in the belles lettres, in fiction, or in the fine arts, but has been occupied, and ably occupied, by a lady. Time would fail us to enumerate all the illustrious names which have already started to the recollection of the reader. We mean not even to attempt such an enumeration, but merely to make a few preliminary remarks on the general characteristics of female authorship, and then to select a few of those who are either more distinguished, or of whom we are more competent or willing to speak.

Female authorship is, if not a great, certainly a fine fact. It proclaims a high state of cultivation on the part of the many, which has thus flowered out into composition in the case of the few. It exhibits an extension and a refinement of that element of female influence which in the private intercourse of society has been productive of such blessed effects; it mingles with the harsh tone of general literature, 'as the lute pierceth through the cymbal's clash;' it blends with it a vein of delicate discrimination, of keen and close observation, of mild charity, and of pure morality; gives it a healthy and a happy tone-the tone of the fireside; it is in the chamber of our literature a quiet and lovely presence, by its very gentleness overawing as well as refining and beautifying it all.

One principal characteristic of female writing in our age is its sterling sense. It is told of Coleridge that he was accustomed to consult a female friend on all important emergencies, placing implicit confidence in her first instinctive suggestions; if she proceeded to add her reasons he checked her immediately-Leave these, madam, to me to find out.' We find this rare and valuable sense-this short-hand reasoning, finely exemplified in our lady authors producing, even in the absence of original genius, or of profound penetration, or of wide experience, a sense of perfect security as we follow their gentle guidance. Indeed, on all questions affecting proprieties, decorums, dignities, what we would call the ethics of sentimentalism, minor as well as major morals, their verdict may be considered oracular and without appeal. But we dare not say that we consider them entitled to speak with equal authority on those higher and deeper questions where not instinct nor heart, but severe and tried intellect, is qualified to return the responses. We remark, too, in the writings of females a tone of greater generosity than in those of men; they are more candid and amiable in their judg

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ments of men, and things, and books. Commend us to female critics! They are not eternally consumed by the desire of being witty, astute, and severe; of carping at what they could not equal; of hewing down what they could not have built up. The principle-nil admirare-is none of theirs; and whether it be that a sneer disfigures their beautiful lips, it is seldom seen upon them. And in correspondence with this it is rather curious that your worst critics are persons who dislike the sex, and whom the sex dislikemusty, fusty, old bachelors, like Gifford; or pedantic prigs like certain autocrats of the press of the present day. Ladies, on the other hand, are seldom severe judges of any thing except each other's dress and deportment; and in defect of profound principles, they are helped out by that fine instinctive sense of theirs, which partakes of the genial nature, and indeed verges on genius itself. But not to weary our readers with these general remarks, we mention but one more, that our female authors may be called the natural guardians of our morality and our faith. Wordsword, in the unpublished part of the 'Recluse,' describes himself in dream, meeting an Arab mounted on a dromedary riding at full speed, and ever and anon fearfully reverting his eyes toward some object in the distance. He accosts him, and learns that a second deluge is at hand, and that he has got in charge, to bury beyond its reach, two things-the most valuable on earth-the shell of the bard and the elements of Euclid; and off he rides, with the swift waters of the world in chase.' And so, were a direr deluge to pass over the earth, and threaten to engulph the morality and the religion of our fathers, we can tell where they may be buried-but where they will be safe-in the depths of the female intellect, and of the female heart-an intellect, the essence of which is worship; a heart, the element of which is love. They, we repeat, are the natural guardians of morality and faith. Unhired disinterested, spontaneous, is the aid they give to the blessed cause; leaning, indeed, in their lovely weakness, on the worship of sorrow,' they at the same time prop it up, through the wide and holy influences which they wield. Man, it has been proudly prophesied, shall one day cease to be a religious animal, but it may be predicted in return, that woman never shall, never can, cease to be a religious being. And as the religious faith of woman is profounder, so we have always thought that her religious understanding is more correct than that of man. Her piety is not that of dogmas, it is no fierce and foul polemic flame; it is that of the fancy, the feelings, the wonderstricken soul, and the loving heart; often it is not even a conscious emotion at all, but in the words of Wordsworth, she lies in

'Abraham's bosom all the year,

And God is with her when she knows it not."