not trace the motives of conduct very deeply, or attempt to teach principles of moral duty, yet there is much in her sprightly and warm sketches of simple nature which draws the heart to love the Author of all this beauty; and much in her kind and contented philosophy to promote love and good feelings. She is a philanthropist, for she joys in the happiness of others— a patriot, for she draws the people to feel the beauties and blessings which surround the most lowly lot in that "land of proud names and high heroic deeds.”

Well, we must go back to her poesy: that is our present subject. "Rienzi" has placed Miss Mitford in a high rank as a dramatic poet. It has many powerful passages, and shows a bold fancy, and refined and ingenious taste, in its construction and management. There is, also, that gentleness and simplicity in the character of Claudia, and those home descriptions and feelings, which reveal the intelligent observer of nature and of the heart. As a historic legend it is sustained with great talent; but this kind of invention, which gathers and combines the pomp of fictitious circumstance around real events and actual personages, we do not consider the loftiest attribute of genius. Minds of the highest order have a creative power, so to speak, compounded of imagination and reason, which can form its legend from the world within the soul. The "Count Basil" of Joanna Baillie, compared with 'Rienzi," will illustrate our meaning. The genius of Mary Mitford is like the fairy skill which can transmute "chucky stones" into diamonds: there is a genius which does not need the aid of stones, but can think diamonds.

But if we do not place Mary Mitford among the very highest talent, we consider her one of the brightest living ornaments of female literature. Her descrip

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tions of rural and domestic life are patterns of sentiment and style, which we commend, not for imitation, as that is never well, but for study and admiration, to our young ladies. And then her own example is a pattern. She is no longer a very young lady, but retains the cheerfulness and dispenses around her the happiness of youth. She resides with her father, who is vicar of Reading, in shire, and manages the domestic duties of lady of the parsonage with the same ease and grace with which she pursues her distinguished literary career.

SELECTIONS FROM "RIENZI."

HOME AND LOVE.

Rie. CLAUDIA-nay, start not! Thou art sad to-day; I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids— A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied Quick tongue and nimble finger. Mute, and pale As marble, those unseeing eyes were fixed On vacant air; and that fair brow was bent As sternly, as if the rude stranger, Thought, Age-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless Thought, Had knocked at thy young giddy brain. Cla. Nay, father,

Mock not thine own poor Claudia.

Rie. Claudia used

To bear a merry heart with that clear voice,
Prattling; and that light busy foot, astir
In her small housewifery, the blithest bee
That ever wrought in hive.

Cla. Oh! mine old home!

Rie. What ails thee, lady-bird?

Cla. Mine own dear home!

Father, I love not this new state; these halls,

Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids,
Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home!

My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle
Woven round the casement; and the cedar by,
Shading the sun; my garden overgrown
With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields;
My pretty snow-white doves; my kindest nurse;
And old Camillo.-Oh! mine own dear home!

Rie. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old fond nurse,
And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves,
Thy myrtles, flowers, and cedars; a whole province
Laid in a garden an' thou wilt. My Claudia,
Hast thou not learnt thy power? Ask orient gems,
Diamonds, and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought
By cunning goldsmiths; sigh for rarest birds,
Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers to flit
Around thy stately bower; and, at thy wish,
The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo!
Thou shalt have nobler servants,-emperors, kings,
Electors, princes! Not a bachelor

In Christendom but would right proudly kneel
To my fair daughter.

Cla. Oh! mine own dear home!

Rie. Wilt have a list to choose from? Listen, sweet!

If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle,

'And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall?

And if, at eventide, they heard not oft

A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice,
Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song
O'erwhelmed the quivering instrument; and then
A world of whispers, mixed with low response,

Sweet, short, and broken as divided strains

Of nightingales.

Cla. Oh, father! father! [Runs to him, and falls upon his neck.]

Rie. Well!

Dost love him, Claudia?

Cla. Father!

Rie. Dost thou love

Young Angelo? Yes? Saidst thou yes? That heart—
That throbbing heart of thine, keeps such a coil,
I cannot hear thy words. He is returned

To Rome; he left thee on mine errand, dear one;
And now-is there no casement myrtle-wreathed,
No cedar in our courts, to shade to-night
The lover's song?

Cla. Oh, father! father!

Rie. Now,

Back to thy maidens, with a lightened heart,
Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first
In Rome, as thou art fairest; never princess
Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower
As thou. Young Angelo hath chosen his mate
From out an eagle's nest.

Cla. Alas! alas!

I tremble at the height. Whene'er I think
Of the hot barons, of the fickle people,

And the inconstancy of power, I tremble
For thee, dear father.

Rie. Tremble! let them tremble.

I am their master, Claudia, whom they scorned,
Endured, protected.-Sweet, go dream of love!
I am their master, Claudia.

CLAUDIA PLEADING FOR HER HUSBAND.

Cla. [Without.] Father! father!

Rie. Guard the door!

Be sure ye give not way.
Cla. [Without.] Father!
Rie. To see

Her looks! her tears!

Enter CLAUDIA hastily.

Cla. Who dares to stop me? Father!

[Rushes into the arms of Rienzi.

Rie. I bade ye guard the entrance.
Cla. Against me!

Ye must have men and gates of steel, to bar
Claudia from her dear father. Where is he?
They said he was with you-he-thou know'st
Whom I would say. I heard ye loud. I thought
I heard ye; but perchance, the dizzying throb
Of my poor temples-Where is he? I see

No corse-an' he were dead-Oh, no, no, no!
Thou couldst not, wouldst not! say he lives.
Rie. As yet

He lives.

Cla. Oh! blessings on thy heart, dear father!
Blessings on thy kind heart! When shall I see him?
Is he in prison? Fear hath made me weak,
And wordless as a child. Oh! send for him.-

Thou hast pardoned him;-didst thou not say
Thou hadst pardoned him?

Rie. No.

Cla. Oh, thou hast! thou hast!

but now

This is the dalliance thou wast wont to hold
When I have craved some girlish boon,- —a bird,
A flower, a moonlight walk; but now I ask thee
Life, more than life.

Rie. My Claudia!

Thou hast pardoned him?

Cla. Ay! I am thine own Claudia, whose first word Was father! These are the same hands that clung