Characteristics of the Genius and Writings of L. E. L./Remarks on the moral Tendency of her Genius
Remarks on the Moral Tendency of L. E. L.'s Genius.
Before closing this imperfect sketch, there are two points of view in which we would place L. E. L.'s works, the one regarding those works as a woman's productions, the other marking their tendency.
The spirit of Miss Landon's writings is essentially feminine in all that blends tenderness, delicacy and devotedness of feeling. We have previously considered the frequent introduction of love, and therefore need only further observe, that it is a love which only a woman could depict in its truthfulness, self denial and disinterestedness. If in any instance it is wrought up to a higher intensity of feeling, of feeling leading to crime, then, too, does womanly propriety, combined with a delicate and correct judgment, manifest all rightful indignation against evil. There is not a more remarkable instance of this than in the striking portraiture of Amenaïde, in "The Venetian Bracelet;" a poem which, though, as a whole, we like the least of L. E. L.'s, is, perhaps, one of the most valuable as a study, for its concentration of power and emotion, for its working out of character, and fathoming the depths of passion.
Amenaïde is the chief subject of this poem, and a fearful character does she present. In the first pure confiding of her affection, when, as a peasant girl, she pledged herself to return the love of her affianced husband, whose heart she believed equally hers; in her gladness, when she learned her accession to unbounded wealth, and her reinstatement in her ancestral dignities,—a gladness inspired by the thought that she would be now a more fitting bride for the Count Leoni; in the upspringing fount of happiness, when told of his return from foreign travel; in her exultation at the thought of meeting him the first time, surrounded by all the accessories of rank and fortune, which he did not expect; in the self-sacrificing idea of telling him she valued them only for his sake;—in all this we have a bright picture of woman's confiding, entire, and generously-devoted love. But a dark shadow is stealing over the sunny hues, and in the bitter misery of the first knowledge that Leoni had been faithless; in the intense pride of veiling her emotion from the scorn or pity of others; in the terrible and sudden hatred with which she looked on his fair bride, her unconscious rival; in the dire purpose of revenge; in the terrible conflict with herself during the progress and accomplishment of her plans, during that fearful solitude of crime which, happily, few can imagine; and who can paint?—in the waking up of remorse after the murder; and then in the reckless self-abandonment with which she seeks to save the life of Leoni, who has been condemned to die, on suspicion of the crime of which she was the instrument; and, last of all, in her own self-inflicted death, we have indeed a most powerfully-wrought combination of evil passions, and setting forth of their attendant misery.
There is so much in our gradual acquaintance with Amenaïde to interest our sympathies, that at first we are inclined to think, if she should not prove what we hope, we shall yet be able to justify her conduct: there is so much to admire, that we shall not be able to condemn. What is the impression with which we leave her? Is it not with an utter shrinking of spirit from the fearful development of her deep-folded iniquity; from the withering aspect of her character, where intellectual beauty and moral deformity are so strikingly blended? We turn at once with instinctive disgust from the grosser embodyings of evil, abhorrent in their undisguised loathsomeness as the haggard forms and hideous heads of serpent-haired furies, and hence learn little of the essential guilt and overwhelming consequences of iniquity. But in this portraiture we read a high moral lesson; we look on it only to feel in our inmost being an ever widening recoil from the evil of one indulged sin, which can so weave a curse around all that was else lovely in the character. It is like gazing, till we are well nigh petrified with horror, on the sculptured head of Medusa, whose features are indeed faultlessly chiselled, while over them seems to hover a supernatural grace, but on whose marble brow one serpent darting out its sting of death, tells that a demon is there, and for ever enthroned for the misery and ruin of its victim.
Another portrait of equal truth, and yet greater beauty, is that of Amenaïde in "The Vow of the Peacock." There is not in the whole compass of modern poetry a character more lovely in itself or more touchingly wrought, than that of this high-souled yet gentle and devoted orphan. From our first introduction to her, as a sweet thoughtful child, whose chief happiness was her intense affection for her cousin and guardian, Count Leoni, valuing his smiles far before all the toys with which he sought to please her; through the growing consciousness that she really loved him with the true love of woman, united with the quick perception that his affection for her was only that of a parent for a child, of a brother for a younger sister; through all the fresh deep misery of knowing that he was beloved by another, and that other loved by him again; through all the pure, noble, disinterested and self-sacrificing feelings which prompted her to devote every energy to the comfort and happiness of her unconscious rival, till the last sacrifice was completed, and she had saved Leoni's life at the price of her own; through all this, we feel Amenaide to be one of the sweetest portraitures ever sketched of woman's character, as developed in her affections.
Among the lovely descriptions, the profound knowledge of the human heart, and the truthful sentiments which fill this poem, there are two especial points of interest; the one is where Leoni's love for Irene is represented as felt and understood by Amenaide, from innate consciousness of her own heart's experience; she herself loved: how could she mistake the presence or absence of love in others?
Then, too, her self-devotedness; no revenge mingled with her thoughts of Irene; it was enough that she was loved by Leoni; her happiness was now identified with his, and must be promoted. Men have represented a Constance bowing her pride to follow the train of a Marmion; and a Kaled forgetting all else to soothe the caprices of a Lara; with a hundred similar instances. Their conception of woman's generosity reaching no further than to suppose it capable of leading them to follow the fortunes of the beloved objects, a devotedness which would be repaid by their constant presence. It remained for a woman's heart to conceive, and a woman's hand to embody a yet higher standard of unselfish affection and devotedness. Disguised as a page, Amenaïde follows the young queen amid the dangers of war, not to enjoy Leoni's society, but to minister to the comfort and happiness of Leoni's future bride; and finally saves the Count from an assassin's hand by receiving the death-blow in her own heart. Such is one among many portraits of "woman actuated by an attachment as intense as it was true, as pure as it was deep."
Every production that tends in the present age of lowered feeling and bad taste to refine the one and elevate the other, must be valuable. Especially is Poetry valuable on this account. It is a moral impossibility for genuine poetic feeling to coexist with coarseness of mind and vulgarity of habits: whatever be the station in life, once admit the Spirit of Poetry, and you admit an influence which will soften, refine and exalt. It will perhaps be said that some contrary facts go to disprove this assertion; but wherever such facts exist, they rather testify, that although the intellect of poetry might have sparkled in the sentiment, the soul of poetry did not inspire the feeling. The mechanism is little worth if the vital power be wanting; the body is but a mockery, if the living spirit be absent.
Again: Every production that tends in this age of selfishness and expediency to expand the heart, to dignify the character, to raise the hopes of society to a better order of things than the wearying round of heartless ceremonies, of bustling love of gain, of disgusting self-indulgence; such productions must have a moral value far beyond the consideration of their mere marketable price.
"Oh never had the poet's lute a hope,
An aim so glorious, as it now may have
In this our social state, where petty cares
And mercenary interests only look
Upon the present's littleness, and shrink
From the bold future, and the stately past;
Where the smooth surface of society
Is polished by deceit, and the warm heart
With all its kind affections' early flow,
Flung back upon itself, forgets to beat,
At least for others;—’tis the poet's gift
To melt these frozen waters into tears
By sympathy with sorrows not our own,
By waking memory with those mournful notes
Whose music is the thoughts of early years,
When truth was on the lip, and feelings wore
The sweetness and the freshness of their morn."
Miscellaneous Poems. Venetian Bracelet, p. 251.
It is the poet's aim to awaken our sympathies, to remind us that—
"We do too little feel each other's pain,
We do too much relax the social chain
That binds us to each other; slight the care
There is for grief in which we have no share."
Golden Violet, p. 197.
—to strengthen the mind and refresh the heart by bringing before us thoughts—
"That waken some more lofty mood
Than dwelleth with the common-place of life."
—and to elevate and dignify our nature by pointing out the highest sources of instruction and happiness:—
"Not with the world to teach us, may we learn
The Spirit's noblest lessons. Hope and Faith
Are stars that shine amid the far-off heaven,
Dimmed and obscured by vapours from below;
Impatient selfishness, and shrewd distrust,
Are taught us in the common ways of life;
Dust is beneath our feet, and at our side
The coarse and mean, the false and the unjust;
And constant contact makes us grow too like
The things we daily struggle with and scorn.
Only by looking up can we see Heaven."
Ethel Churchill, vol. ii.
But why should we multiply instances? We think no careful reader can rise from the perusal of L. E. L.'s works, without having his intellectual taste refined, his ideas increased, his sentiments as a patriot, philosopher and moral being called forth by the eloquent voice of the charmer, often charming so wisely.
All Christian hearts who desire the increase of God's kingdom will respond to the sentiments of the following beautiful poem, a poem which nobly illustrates the chief end of our holy faith, the salvation of the world by the diffusion of the Gospel:—
The Missionary.
It is a glorious task to seek
Where misery droops the patient head;
Where tears are on the widow's cheek,
Where weeps the mourner o'er the dead.
These are the moments when the heart
Turns from a world no longer dear;
These are the moments to impart
The only hope still constant here.
That hope is present in our land,
For many a sacred shrine is there;
Time-honoured old cathedrals stand;
Each village has its house of prayer,
O'er all the realm one creed is spread,
One name adored, one altar known;
If souls there be in doubt or dread,
Alas! the darkness is their own.
The priest whose heart is in his toil
Hath here a task of hope and love;
He dwells upon his native soil,
He has his native sky above.
Not so beneath this foreign sky;
Not so upon this burning strand;
Where yonder giant temples lie,* [1]
The miracles of mortal hand;
Mighty and beautiful, but given
To idols of a creed profane;
That cast the shade of earth on heaven,
By fancies monstrous, vile and vain.
The votary here must half unlearn
The accents of his mother-tongue;
Must dwell 'mid strangers, and must earn
Fruits from a soil reluctant wrung.
His words on hardened hearts must fall,
Hardened till God's appointed hour;
Yet he must wait and watch o'er all
Till hope grows faith and prayer has power.
And many a grave neglected lies,
Where sleep the soldiers of the Lord;
Who perished 'neath the sultry skies,
Where first they preached that sacred word.
But not in vain—their toil was blest;
Life's dearest hope by them was won
A blessing is upon their rest,
And on the work which they begun.
Yon city,† [2] where our purer creed
Was as a thing unnamed, unknown,
Has now a sense of deeper need,
Has now a place of prayer its own.
And many a darkened mind has light,
And many a stony heart has tears;
The morning breaking o'er that night
So long upon those godless spheres.
Our prayers be with them—we who know
The value of a soul to save,
Must pray for those who seek to show
The Heathen hope beyond the grave.
Drawing-room Scrap Book, 1834.
The following lines on Clarkson will interest the Philanthropist, for their glowing and truthful eloquence.
1
Not to the many doth the earth
Owe what she hath of good;
The many would not stir life's depths,
And could not if they would.
It is some individual mind
That moves the common cause:
To single efforts England owes
Her knowledge, faith and laws.
2.
Too much by small low interests bound,
We track our selfish way,
Careless if hope to-day still takes
Its tone from yesterday.
We look upon our daily path,
We do not look beyond,
Forgetful of the brotherhood
In nature's mighty bond.
3.
England, how glorious thine estate!
How lovely thine array!
Thou art the throned Island Queen,
Whom land and sea obey.
Responsible is power, and owns
The holiest debt on earth;
A strict account it owes that Heaven
From whence it had its birth.
4.
Can such be rendered up by thee?
Does neither guilt nor shame
Guilt to redress—shame to efface
Shade thy imperial name?
Thou who dost ask for wealth and rule
Wherever rolls the sea,
O! Island Queen, how rests the claim
That millions have on thee!
5.
And yet what grievous wrong is wrought,
Unnoticed and unknown,
Until some noble one stands forth,
And makes that wrong his own!
So stood he forth who first denounced
The slave trade's cursed gain;
Such call upon the human heart
Was never made in vain.
6.
For generous impulses and strong
Within our nature lie;
Pity and love, and sympathy,
May sleep, but never die.
Thousands, awakened to the sense,
Have never since that time
Ceased to appeal to God and man
Against the work of crime.
7.
The meanest hut that ever stood
Is yet a human home;
Why to a low and humble roof
Should the despoiler come.
Grant they are ignorant and weak,
We were ourselves the same;
If they are children, let them have
A child's imploring claim.
8.
The husband parted from the wife,
The mother from the child;
Thousands within a single year
From land and home exiled.
For what? To labour without hope,
Beneath a foreign sky;
To gather up unrighteous wealth;
To droop, decline and die!
9.
Such wrong is darkly visited;
The masters have their part;
For theirs had been the blinded eye,
And theirs the hardened heart.
Evil may spring unchecked
Within the mortal soul;
If such plague-spot be not removed,
It must corrupt the whole.
10.
The future doth avenge the past:
Now, for thy future's sake,
Oh! England for the guilty part
A deep atonement make.
The slave is given to thy charge,
He hopes from thee alone;
And thou for every soul so given
Must answer with thine own.
The character of L. E. L.'s mind affords a most interesting study to the mental philosopher.*[3] The great versatility of her talents, the spontaneous upspringing (for we can deem it nothing less) of her thoughts might afford a conclusive answer to the question so often discussed as to the existence of an original essential difference between mind and mind. Genius—who shall define? It seems, as a whole, inscrutable and innate as that mysterious spirit, of which it is, wherever it exists, the most mysterious part; but that it is a natural gift, not an acquired power, there is sufficient demonstration. If it be said that circumstances affect character; granting that they do, would not the same circumstances affect two or more individuals differently? If this be true, must not that different affection be occasioned by some originally different and innate susceptibility in the persons thus affected? And if this original dissimilarity be admitted in one instance, must it not in many and all? It has been well asked, "If circumstances make the mind, why did not the Elizabethean age produce two Shakspeares? Why did not the convulsed struggles, the fiery spirit of the times embody more than one Satan, inspire more than one Milton?"
Let L. E. L. have been placed in any situation, however unfavourable to the development of her powers, still her inspired genius would, it must, have shone forth. Place another individual in L. E. L.'s exact position, would the result be similar? Experience ought to make common sense laugh at the question. We no more believe that education, or want of education, or circumstances of trial or prosperity, however similar in their allotment, will destroy the individual distinctions of different minds, and reduce them to one average standard, than that the same regimen will give the same features to different persons.
The few artificial defects or redundancies, rhythmical errors, and occasional verbal inaccuracies, sometimes apparent in the productions of genius, are spots on the surface rather than ingrained faults, and as such we leave them to the candor of the reader, without any additional comment.
Our closing words flow from the heart's most genial mood. Remembering gratefully all the enjoyment with which the genius of L. E. L. has for us brightened many solitary hours, and infused a deeper charm through social pleasures, we would gather up all the noblest thoughts of our mind, all the kindliest feelings of our soul, to give earnestness to the prayer for Heaven's best and future blessings to rest upon one the most gifted children of Genius, one of England's brightest daughters. And thus, sweet Ladye, for the present, fare you well!
- ↑ * Cave of Elephanta.
- ↑ † Cawnpore, where the devoted Henry Martyn laboured for some months, and formed a congregation of 800 souls.
- ↑ * Manner, though not an invariable criterion of the mental character, is yet frequently tinged with the mind's prevailing hue, and thus becomes a visible sign of the internal being. One feature of Miss Landon's manner seemed peculiarly connected with her intellectual existence. This was a graceful quickness in every movement; so accordant with that rapidity of thought which is the especial attribute of genius. No one could doubt L. E. L.'s possession of genius who had ever seen her under its influence. Every thing seemed accomplished by her without effort. Her thoughts appeared to spring up spontaneously on any proposed subject; so that her literary tasks were completed with a facility and quickness that to slower minds wore almost the aspect of intuition. In truth she could say,
"I but call
My trusty spirits, and they come."In her conversation too there was the like ease, the like rapidity of transition, together with a correspondent quickness of utterance, as if her beautiful thoughts were glad to escape into expression. Her observations, however brilliant and deep, never seemed laboured, but arose fast and brightly, unrestricted, except by the prevailing mood of the speaker's mind, or perchance the occasions which by a look or word called them into being. How vividly does memory recal her lovely morning room, with its sweet garden prospect; its birds and flowers; its books and works of art;—all arranged with exquisite taste: while the softened light stealing through the overhanging verandah, gave a somewhat shadowy impression to the whole, rendering it a fitting scene for communion with a high priestess of poetry!
There L. E. L. often read to us—frequently her own poems. Her style of reading was peculiar,—a kind of recitative,—more poetical than musical, derived rather from the soul than from the ear; but giving the fullest effect to every variation of thought, feeling and character. She became for the time a literal improvisatrice; and you listened entranced to the earnest yet varying intonations of her voice, as if it were pouring from her soul, in all their first freshness, the beautiful creations of which she was the previous originator.