opportunities of criticism; his separate works, disquisitions upon their probable dates; or his Essays, upon their teachings. Tertullian is a fruitful theme. But we have only desired to trace out, if possible, the workings of a mind so remarkable as his. His power arises much from his intense zeal. His narrowness, his individuality, but add to it. A strong mind and a powerful intellect, as well-trained and amply furnished as his, are not, necessarily, narrow, nor properly broad. It is a separate quality of mind, that supplies sympathy, which constitutes breadth of character. His mind was narrowed by this want of sympathy, by inability to comprehend anything beyond its own sphere of likes and dislikes. The truth is indeed narrow, but only by reason of its singleness. But the mind that would truly receive it, must be capacious. It must have broad sympathies, it must have candor. Truth is as simple, and as severely beautiful, as a statue. The mind that contains it, must be spacious enough to permit its faculties to pass around it, and view its beauties and excellencies with the lights and shadows that the windows of successive years admit. How few minds there are, that can do this! Tertullian's talents were very high; and he had capacity sufficient to set off his powerful talents. But he saw only the simplicity of Truth, and no more. He could not understand how other men could lay hold of it differently from himself; and he was fanatical enough to endeavor to bend all minds, over whom he could gain any influence, into his own grooves of thought. He would have all men, by all means, Christians; he would gladly give his life to effect this; but then, they must be Tertullianic, not Catholic Christians. ART. III.-LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. Letters of Life. By L. H. SIGOURNEY. New York :-D. Appleton & Co. 1866. THE last year has removed from earth one of the most remarkable women of the nineteenth century. The name of Sigourney has become a part of American literature, well known and appreciated in Europe, and a household word in our own country. There exists between the life and writings of this noble woman, a harmony so beautiful, that the very contemplation of their unison seems to elevate and gladden the spirit. Her biography, like her books, will teach the young to improve with diligence their intellectual faculties; to venerate their parents, to study the great Author of Nature in His works, and to consecrate to His service the best years of earthly existence; it will teach the middle-aged to perform the labors, and endure the trials of life's meridian with energy and fortitude; and the advanced in years, to exhibit in life's pensive evening, that cheerful resignation which may well be called "the beauty of holiness." "To do good, and to communicate," was the mission of Lydia Sigourney in this world of sin, suffering, and ignorance, and faithfully did she perform this double mission. Many of her sex have been examples in well-doing, others have been ready to communicate good thoughts by their writings, but here are the two missions eminently combined. And may we not say in respect to her, "many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all." A little more than a year since was noticed, in the American Quarterly Church Review, the new edition of Mrs. Sigourney's "Past Meridian." The revision of that work was, we believe, her last important literary labor. On the 10th of June, 1865, after a few weeks decline, she gradually sank to her rest. True, she was advanced in years, but her affections had not been touched, nor her genius chilled by the frost of time; age had not even dimmed her sight; she read and wrote with "un spectacled eyes," as she, with expressions of thankfulness, informed her correspondents. Her chirography, as appears in a letter to the writer, dated a few short weeks before her death, retained its beautiful and decided character, and might be favorably compared with that of 1828, the date of the beginning of a correspondence, continued at intervals, until within a few weeks of her death, but with additional frequency and interest during the later years of her life. Having admitted our friendship for Mrs. Sigourney, we may be suspected of a blind partiality for her writings, and for this reason incompetent to judge of their real merits. We know that there have been severe criticisms on her style, as tautological and inflated, or flat and prosaic; we have heard those who had literary pretensions say, they could never feel an interest in her writings; that her poetry was prosaic, and her prose too poetical. We confess that we have not taken upon ourselves the censorship of the works of Mrs. Sigourney. For such an office we could have no heart; but we would the rather hold up the beauty of her life, character and writings, for imitation and admiration. A painter, in delineating a beautiful landscape, selects its best points. There may be objects within his circle of vision, which do not harmonize with the general effect, and such he passes by. In the fifty-six published volumes of Mrs. Sigourney, and contributions to three hundred different Periodicals, besides numberless fugitive pieces, it cannot be supposed there are no failures. How many of Scott's pages painfully indicate that his wearied genius had folded her wing and refused to answer to his call! It is only mediocrity which can always keep the even tenor of its level course. "Yes," and some caviller may say, "Mrs. Sigourney is among that number, and her writings are all in much the same strain; very good in respect to morality, and of a religious character, but she had not genius of a high order." Let us look into some of her works, for a refutation of such stereotyped criticisms. The "Letters of Life," (her Autobiography,) which have been recently issued, was written to be published after her death. It was, probably, commenced many years since, and bears marks of having rela tion to the early and middle period of her life, rather than her later years. The Autobiography is finished by her only child, Mrs. Russell, who, with much pathos, beautifully portrays the closing scenes of her sainted mother's earthly existence. As a mere literary production, we are not to consider the volume before us but as affording an index to her life and labors. "My literary course," she says, "has been a happy one. It commenced in impulse, and was continued from habit. Two principles it has ever kept in view,-not to interfere with the discharge of womanly duty, and to aim at being an instrument for good." In 1815, Mrs. Sigourney's first book, "Moral pieces in Prose and Verse," was published in Hartford, Conn. We had then, in our country, few literary women, and we well remember that the announcement of this book, from the pen of a young girl, Lydia Huntley, had a powerful influence upon the mind of one a few years her junior, who, for the first time, thought of the possibility that she, too, might write a book. Of this work, the author says :— "Much favor was shown to this rather juvenile production; partly, perhaps, from courtesy to the sex, but principally, that though its literary pretensions might be slender, its moral and religious tone was accepted as a redeeming quality." Mr. Daniel Wadsworth, her generous patron, the first encourager of her literary tastes, "delighted," so she says, "in drawing a solitary mind from obscurity, into a freer atmosphere and brighter sunbeam." Those who would like to trace Mrs. Sigourney's literary course in the order of her different publications, are referred to her "Letters of Life." In looking over her works, with a view to critical examination, we are led to select "Pocahontas," one of her longer poems, published in 1841. We do not consider this as superior to much that she has written, but as a fair specimen of her genius and versification. A visit to "the ruins of the Church at Jamestown, where the princess Pocahontas, the first convert from the heathen tribe, received the Rite of Baptism in the first temple consecrated to God in the Western Wilderness," suggested to the author the subject of the poem, which opens "Clime of the West! that slumbering long and deep, There is a peculiarity in the Spenserian stanza, which would have embarrassed one who was trying to write poetry. The author was nature's poet. In her childhood, after having been laid to rest, by her mother's care, she lay awake, repeating her own verses. They were not simple and childlike, but large words came in, evincing, even then, the taste for polysyllables and stately expressions, which mark her writings. "It is more easy for me to write poetry than prose," she said to a friend; and this friend well remembers, when favored with a visit from Mrs. Sigourney, standing unobserved by the open door of her chamber, and contemplating her while composing, as she afterwards learned, a poem on the "Visit of a delegation of Indians to the Tomb of Washington." Could a portrait have been taken at that moment, it would show the classical head somewhat inclined, the fair cheek glowing with inspiration, the eyes for the moment upturned, as if to catch a fleeting idea. For some minutes the observer watched for a pause in the composition, but there was none,-the pen moved on steadily and without interruption; without erasing a line or word. This, to one who, when moved to attempt poetry, had been obliged to think, to change, and to correct, was a convincing proof that some are born poets, and can do, without effort, what others, who would be poets, can never perform. But to return to "Pocahontas." From the measure of the verse, and peculiarity of style, we are reminded of Campbell's "Gertrude of Wyoming," which Scott calls, "condensed, polished, and labored." Campbell did indeed labor, painfully, on his poem; hence the paucity of his productions. The author |