ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. www THIS accomplished and popular author was born in a pleasant country town about twelve miles from the city of Portland, in Maine. Descended on her father's side from Thomas Prince, one of the early Puritan governors of the Plymouth colony, and claiming through the Oakeses, on her mother's side, the same early identification with the first European planters of our soil, Mrs. OAKES-SMITH may readily be supposed to have that characteristic which is so rarely found among us, Americanism; and her writings in their department may be regarded as the genuine expres-phy, viz.: that truth and goodness of themsion of an American mind. Mrs. Oakes-Smith might well be supposed to betray great inequality; still in her many contributions to the magazines, it is remarkable how few of her pieces display the usual carelessness and haste of magazine articles. As an essayist especially, while graceful and lively, she is compact and vigorous; while through poems, essays, tales, and criticisms, (for her industrious pen seems equally skilful and happy in each of these depatments of literature,) through all her manifold writings, indeed, there runs the same beautiful vein of philoso At the early age of sixteen, Miss Prince was married to Mr. Seba Smith, at that time editor of the leading political journal of his native state, and since then well known to his countrymen as the original "Jack Downing," whose great popularity has been attested by a score of imitators. The embarrassed affairs of Mr. Smith (who, himself a poet, partook with a poet's sanguineness of temper in that noted attempt to settle the wild lands of Maine, which proved so disastrous a speculation to some of the wealthiest families of the state) first impelled Mrs. Oakes-Smith to take up her pen to aid in the support of her children. She had before that period, indeed, given utterance to her poetic sensibilities in several anonymous pieces, which are still much admired. But a shrinking and sensitive modesty forbade her appearing as an author; and though, in her altered circumstances, when she found that her talents might be made available, she did not hesitate, like a true woman, to sacrifice feeling to duty, yet some of her most beautiful prose writings still continue to appear under nommes des plumes, with which her truly feminine spirit avoids identification. Seeking expression, yet shrinking from notoriety; and with a full share of that respect for a just fame and appreciation which belongs to every high-toned mind, yet oppressed by its shadow when circumstance is the impelling motive of publication, the writings of 12 selves impart a holy light to the mind, which gives it a power far above mere intellectuality; that the highest order of human intelligence springs from the moral and not the reasoning faculties. One of her most popular poems is The Acorn, which, though inferior in high inspiration to The Sinless Child, is by many preferred for its happy play of fancy and proper finish. Her sonnets, of which she has written many, have not been as much admired as The April Rain, The Brook, and other fugitive pieces, which we find in many popular collections. I doubt, indeed, whether they will ever attain the popularity of these " unconsidered trifles," though they indicate concentrated poetical power of a very high, possibly of the very highest order. however, with The Sinless Child. taste will often captivate the uncultivated many; works of mere taste as often delight the cultivated few; but works of genius appeal to the universal mind. Not so, Works of bad The simplicity of diction, and pervading beauty and elevation of thought, which are the chief characteristics of The Sinless Child, bring it undoubtedly within the last category. And why do such writings seize at once on the feelings of every class? Wherein lies this power of genius to wake a response in society? Is it the force of a high will, fusing feeble natures, and stamping them for the moment with an impress of its own? or is it that in every heart, unless thoroughly cor 177 rupted by the world-in every mind, unless completely encrusted by cant, there lurks an inward sense of the simple, the beautiful, and the true; an instinctive perception of excellence which is both more unerring and more universal than that of mere intellect. Such is the cheering view of humanity enforced in The Sinless Child, and the reception of it is evidence of the truth of the doctrine it so finely shadows forth. "It is a work," says a discriminating critic, "which demands more in its composition than mere imagination or intellect could supply ;" and I may add that the writer, in unconsciously picturing the actual graces of her own mind, has made an irresistible appeal to the ideal of soul-loveliness in the minds of her readers. She comes before us like the florist in Arabian story, whose magic vase produced a plant of such simple, yet perfect beauty, that the multitude. were in raptures from the familiar field associations of childhood which it called forth, while the skill of the learned alone detected the unique rarity of the enchanting flower. An analysis of The Sinless Child will not be attempted here, but a few passages are quoted to exhibit its graceful play of fancy and the pure vein of poetical sentiment by which it is pervaded. And first, the episode of the Step-Mother: You speak of Hobert's second wife, I like not her forbiding air, And forehead high and cold. Of anger and of terror too, יין At thought of that dead wife. Wild roars the wind, the lights burn blue, The watch-dog howls with fear; Loud neighs the steed from out the stall: No latch is raised, no step is heard, It slowly glides within the room, With lips that gave no sound! She laid a death-cold hand, Like to a burning brand; O'er winding stair and hall, Her infant's trembling call. She warmly tucked the bed, The mother from the blest! It is commonly difficult to select from a poem of which the parts make one harmonious whole; but the history of The Sinless Child is illustrated all through with cabinet picseparated from their series than when com tures which are scarcely less effective when bined, and the reader will be gratified with a few of those which best exhibit the author's manner and feeling: GUARDIAN ANGELS. With downy pinion they enfold The heart surcharged with wo, That sacred gift, a tear- And sympathy may fail: Yet all becomes a discipline, To lure us to the sky; And agony to weep: Away, on heavenward wing; The blending earth and heavenThe love more earnest in its glow Where much has been forgiven! FIELD ELVES. The tender violets bent in smiles To scent the evening sky. They kissed the rose in love and mirth, A shower of pearly dust they brought, A host flew round the mowing field, They gemmed each leaf and quivering spear And bathed the stately forest tree Till his robe was fresh and new. For oft her mother sought the child MIDSUMMER. Tis the summer prime, when the noiseless air In perfumed chalice lies, And the bee goes by with a lazy hum, Beneath the sleeping skies: When the brook is low, and the ripples bright, As down the stream they go, The pebbles are dry on the upper side, And dark and wet below. The tree that stood where the soil's athirst, And the mulleins first appear, Hath a dry and rusty-colored bark, And its leaves are curled and sere; To the juicy leaf the grasshopper clings, FLOWERS. Each tiny leaf became a scroll A lesson that around the heart How were the earth of glory shorn, They tremble on the Alpine height; The meek-eyed blossom upward looks, INFANT SLUMBER. A holy smile was on her lip Whenever sleep was there; She slept, as sleeps the blossom, hushed Recently Mrs. Smith has turned her attention to the field which next to the epic is highest in the domain of literary art, and it is anticipated by those who have examined her tragedies that her success as a dramatic poet will secure for her a fame not promised by any of her previous achievements. The Roman Tribute, in five acts, refers to a familiar period in the history of Constantinople when Theodosius saved the city from being sacked by paying its price to the victorious Attila; and the subject suggests some admirable contrasts of rude integrity with treacherous courtesy, of pagan piety with the craft of a nominal Christianity, still pervaded by heathen prejudice while uncontrolled by heathen principle. The play opens with the spectacle of the frivolous monarch jesting with his court at their uncouth enemies, and exulting at the happy thought of buying them off with money. Then appears Anthemius, who had been absent, raising levies for the defence of the city, indignant at the cowardly peace which makes the Roman tributary to the Hun, and—a soldier, a statesman, and a patriot - he determines to retrieve the national honor. Perplexed as to the best means of doing this, he sees that the whole government must be recast. Hitherto Theodosius and his sister had between them sustained its administration, with Anthemius as prime minister. The princess had conceived for him an attachment, and would have thrown herself and the purple into his arms; but he has no sympathy with her passion, and is intent only upon the emancipation of the em pire by placing her alone in possession of the crown, and sacrificing Eudocia, the wife of Theodosius, who is rapidly growing in the popular favor. Outraged as a woman and a queen, Pulcheria offers to adjust state affairs by marrying the barbarian Attila, and Anthemius seemingly accedes to the plan, resolving to destroy the Hun at the bridal. But Attila rejects the proposal, and his answer is thus reported by Anthemius to his mistress: The Hun strade up and down his tent, and swore The plan was worthy Attila himself Then laid his finger to his brow, and, thus- But she, like Attila, loves pomp and power- Anthemius, influenced entirely by considerations of a public nature, at first resolves upon the destruction of Eudocia, but disgusted with the masculine energy and cruel craft of Pulcheria, as well as subdued by the gentler virtues of the suffering queen, tries to save her life and place her upon the throne. He is persevering in the one purpose of saving the empire, and to accomplish this, proceeds to the camp of Attila, with the design of slaying him in the midst of his followers; but the plot is betrayed by Helena, who trembles for the life of her lover Manlius, the friend and companion of Anthemius; and disappointed here, he next Wine not from tusk of boar, or horn of deer, Att. (scornfully.) A fair picture, proud Roman- With hollow faith-men, curled and perfumed! Ant. Attila, we have fallen upon evil times: Listen! In that rude wooden home of thine [hound There's not the meanest serf would wrong his By mixing poison with his food-there's notAtt. No, by the eternal gods! thou'rt worthy, Roman, to be one of us. Ant. (waving his hand.) The most useless, the most old and outworn beast [Dashes the cup from him and draws his moord, If thou 'rt God's Fate, show thy credentials now! There is a striking and not unnatural contrast in the character of the two queens. Pulcheria is haughty, revengeful, intelligent, and imaginative. Remorseless in the pursuit of an object, and unflinching in the most daring action, she is yet so much a woman as to love passionately-almost tenderlyand when evil follows her policy, haunted in secret by shapes of conscience, which, to her excited and powerful imagination, take tangible forms and beset her path, she meditates the death of Eudocia : It seemed I heard a dirge, a sound of wo- EUDOCIA enters, unobserved, and pronounces her name softly resolves that he shall die at the banquet Ay, thus it is, that we in our poor pride [me! prepared by the court, ostensibly in honor of the barbarian king, but in reality to poison him. The generous nature of Anthemius is touched by the hardy simplicity and truthful magnanimity of the rude warrior, and he dashes the poisoned chalice aside and dares him to single combat, in which the brave and patriotic minister is killed. The following extract gives a portion of the last Scene: Anthemius. Bear with me: we have fallen upon Attila, thou art a soldier, bred in the camp- Ant. I do believe them true, and strong, and bold. By our earth-serving senses are beguiled; And answers with a smile, for he believes [EUDOCIA retires. Pul. She is gone, and with her my good angel. Fearful to sacrifice Eudocia at once, she entangles her in the meshes of court craft till she is finally destroyed, and Pulcheria lives to enjoy her state alone. Eudocia is the reverse of the empress, gentle, affectionate, and trustful; the force of her character is evolved solely through her tenderness for her child. Beloved by Theodosius, she is disgusted at his imbecile sensuality, while her graces have won upon the barbarian heart of Bleda, the brother of Attila, who would gladly win her to himself and usurp the throne. Eudocia is a woman, but one steady in her devotion to duty. Through this partiality of Bleda, Pulcheria is able to work the downfall of the queen. She has gone to the house of her father, Leontius, who is a philosopher, where Bleda has also gone to learn the usages and philosophy of a more polite people. Here he is taken ill, and Eudocia, partly in waywardness and partly in admiration for his character, insists upon playing the leech. Pulcheria brings Theodosius, who finds her kneeling by the couch. She is thrown into prison; thence she escapes to the chamber of her husband, designing to kill him in revenge for her wrongs, but, overcome with pity, she turns away, and dies of overwrought grief in the arms of Anthemius, who has tried in vain to save her. The following is a part of her interview with Bleda: Eud. Perchance the priest would best become thy case. But thou, all passionless, cold, and serene- Ble. A priest! I do abhor the murmuring tribe. Thine air bespeaks thee gentle as thy sex: Art thou not one of those, once sacred held As priestess of a shrine? The ancient gods Whom our forefathers worshipped in their strength, It is not well to spurn: if such art thou, A secret will be held most sacred by thee. Eud. Nay, mistake me not. Ble. Thou needst not fear; I do respect thine Eud. It is enough; thy leech is unknown to thee. Ble. (starting and taking hold of her veil.) By the gods that voice! [office. Eud. (aside.) Thanks, thanks, for words so high. Ble. I am sick of love-love of a dame Whose dovelike eyes have robbed me of all rest. The world is in the market, and all bid: Then why not Bleda, urged less by pride than love? I would become a Christian; the meanest knigl.t Who doth her service, should his office yield To me a prince, might I but win one smile. The fair Eudocia[talkest treason! Eud. (starting.) Lift not thy aspect there; thou Ble. (aside.) She listens. I can hear the beating This can not, must not be a dream! [of her heart; [To EUDOCIA.] Eudocia loathes the sensual, weak Eud. Our art is learned by dames of gentle blood, Who sit with patient toil and lips contract, If so they may relieve one human pang. The ghastly wound appals us not, nor yet The raging fury of the moonstruck brain; Not wrinkled hags are we, with corded veins, Croaking with spells the midnight watches through, But some are fair as she, the vestal mother. Ble. And such art thou, might I but cast aside This envious veil; thy voice is crystalline, Like water moss-incrusted in its flow! [befit ling, dotard Emperor of Rome: she should cast the bondage off, And for herself and child assure the reins. [bence. Eud. (aside.) I can not lift my knees, or I would [To BLEDA.] Thy tale-I must away. Eud. I will hear thee, prince-such tale as may A woman's ear. Ble. 'Tis told: I love Eudocia! and thouEud. Thy words are madness! [Aside.] And yet they steal Like dew into the parched bud, and lure Ble. (aside.) Now, Bleda, shape thy speech: Power and love both urge thee to the goal! [To EUDOCIA.] I have made my way with trusty sword and shield, Nor falsehood known-there is no other crime. Ble. Eudocia must be saved, and who but Bleda Will lift a finger for the rescue ? [dead! Eud. Nothing can be done; she and Rome are Ble. Is human will so impotent and vain? Shall we see the wolf with fang upon the lamb, Nor stir to aid? the vulture tear the dove, And we forbear the shaft? No, by the fates! Eud. (faintly.) Such are God's children: 'tis their doom, my lord. Ble. And we are made avengers of their doom. [EUDOCIA points to a ring on the finger of the Prince, Such ills admit of no redemption--none! Behold this circlet: lightly worn as 'tis, It hath not failed to leave its scar behind. We can not raze the traces of the past; Heal up the jagged wound, and leave no seam; Tread down the burning ploughshare with our feet, And feel ourselves unscathed: it is our doom, And we by patient sufferance keep our souls. Then follows the surprise of the court, in which she defends herself with gentle dignity, but is disgraced and imprisoned. Pulcheria visits her and leaves a dagger, and the rooms ajar; and she proceeds to the chamber of Theodosius, determined to revenge her wrongs: Eud. The stillness of this room is most terrible! I wish that he would move. [She lifts the dagger and approaches the couch Oh, the long, long, eternal sleep! He stirs! now- [She turns any |