But Mrs. Norton, like her gifted sister, possesses one quality which distinguishes her above all other writers, in this or in any tongue—we mean in giving utterance to, what is emphatically, _the poetry of woman_. In this they resemble no cotemporary, unless it is Miss Landon. Women have written poetry before, but if it had been shewn to a stranger, he could not have told from which sex it sprung. It is not so with the poetry of these two gifted females. Every line betrays the woman—each verse breathes the tender, the melting, the peculiar eloquence of the sex. Scarcely a page, moreover, occurs in the writings of either, which does not bear testimony to woman’s suffering and worth. Yes! while it is the fashion to sneer at the purity of woman’s heart, and while a pack of literary debauchees are libelling our mothers and our sisters unopposed, from the ranks of that insulted sex have risen up defenders of its innocence, to shame the heartless slanderers to silence. Hear in what eloquent numbers Mrs. Norton vindicates her sex: “Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise, And what they do or suffer men record; But the long sacrifice of woman’s days Passes without a thought—without a word; And many a holy struggle for the sake Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill’d— _For which the anxious mind must watch and wake,_ _And the strong feelings of the heart be still’d_,— Goes by unheeded as the summer wind, And leaves no memory and no trace behind! Yet it may be more lofty courage dwells In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate, Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells, Warmed by the fight, or cheer’d through high debate: The soldier dies surrounded;—_could he live_ _Alone to suffer, and alone to strive?_ Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom Shows deeper honor than a common tomb! _Who sleep within?_ Aye! who? Not woman, we can answer for it. God bless her who has written thus. The wretches who would rob the sex of their purity of heart, and their uncomplaining endurance of suffering, deserve to die, uncheered by woman’s nurture, unwept by woman’s tenderness. Such beings are not men: they are scarcely even brutes: they are _aliquid monstri_, monsters in part. But again: