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gaze its glorious intellectual operations and their results,—its creations and aspirings,—its hopes and fears,—not only with poetic feeling, but with philosophic accuracy? Has not that genius led us into the interior of conventional life, and showed to us the vanity, the heartlessness, the petty strifes, the mean jealousies of the circles whose idols are outward appearances? Has it not borne us on its rainbow-coloured wings from scene to scene, from subject to subject, of nature and art, giving to each a grace and interest it knew not before; and, from apparently the most intractable sources, winning rich gems of historical association and permanent truth, being always and every where constant to the grand philosophical principle of generalization, and to the writer's favourite topic of human character? It needs only a reference to her works to prove that there is scarcely one production of her genius that might not be cited as an illustration of her extensive knowledge and diversified talents.
The last objection which we shall mention relates to the effect of L. E. L.'s poetry: this, it is said, is invariably melancholy.
Her works may indeed be read almost as a commentary on the words of the wise man, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!" Intellect, with its lofty aspirations, but comparatively feeble effects; genius, with its burning energies, surrounded by antagonist elements; emotion, pouring out its treasures on the unthankful and unreturning sands; earthly hope, ever ending in disappointment or satiety; worldly pleasure, wearing out its votary with unsatisfying dissipation; life, in short, affording no rest to the soul,—no aliment suited to the cravings of an immortal spirit. These are truths which ought to be familiarized to the mind, however the worldly or selfish
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