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Reviews.
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THE DRAMA OF
EXILE,
AND OTHER POEMS. By Elizabeth Barrett
Barrett,
Author of "The Seraphim," and other Poems. New York: Henry G. Langley.
(Concluded.)
MISS BARRETT
has need only of real self-interest in her subjects, to do
justice
to her subjects and to herself. On the other hand, "A Rhapsody of
Life's
Progress," although gleaming with cold corruscations, is the least
meritorious,
because the most philosophical, effusion of the whole: — this, we say,
in
flat contradiction of the "spoudiotaton kai philosophikotaton
genos" of
Aristotle. "The Cry of the Human" is singularly effective, not more
from
the vigour and ghastly passion of its thought, than from the
artistically-conceived arabesquerie of its rhythm. "The Cry of
the Children," similar,
although superior
in tone and handling, is full of a nervous unflinching energy — a
horror
sublime in its simplicity — of which a far greater than Dante might
have
been proud. "Bertha in the Lane," a rich ballad, very singularly
excepted
from the wholesale commendation of the "Democratic Review," as "perhaps
not one of the best," and designated by Blackwood, on the contrary, as
"decidedly the finest poem of the collection," is not the very
best, we think, only because mere pathos, however
exquisite, cannot
be ranked with the loftiest exhibitions of the ideal. Of "Lady
Geraldine's
Courtship," the magazine last quoted observes that "some pith is put
forth
in its passionate parts." We will not pause to examine the delicacy or
lucidity of the metaphor embraced in the "putting forth of
some
pith;" but unless by "some pith" itself, is intended the utmost
conceivable
intensity and vigour, then the critic is merely damning with faint
praise.
With the exception of Tennyson's "Locksley Hall," we have never perused
a poem combining so much of the fiercest passion with so much of the
most
ethereal fancy, as the "Lady Geraldine's Courtship," of Miss Barrett.
We
are forced to admit, however, that the latter work is a very palpable
imitation
of the former, which it surpasses in plot or rather in thesis, as much
as it falls below it in artistical management, and a certain calm
energy — lustrous
and indomitable — such as we might imagine in a broad river of molten
gold.
It is in the "Lady Geraldine" that
the critic of
Blackwood is again put at fault in the comprehension of a couple of
passages.
He confesses his inability "to make out the construction of the words,
'all that spirits pure and ardent are cast out of love and reverence,
because
chancing not to hold.' " There are comparatively few American
school-boys
who could not parse it. The prosaic construction would run thus: — "all
that (wealth understood) because chancing not to
hold which, (or
on account of not holding which) all pure and ardent spirits are cast
out
of love and reverence." The "which" is involved in the relative pronoun
"that" — the second word of the sentence. All that we know is, that
Miss
Barrett is right: — here is a parallel phrase, meaning — "all [column
2:] that (which) we know," etc. The fact is, that the
accusation
of imperfect grammar would have been more safely, if more generally,
urged:
in descending to particular exceptions, the reviewer has been doing
little
more than exposing himself at all points.
Turning aside, however, from grammar,
he declares
his incapacity to fathom the meaning of
She has halls and she has castles, and the
resonant steam-eagles
Follow far on the directing of her floating dove-like
hand —
With a thunderous vapour trailing underneath the starry vigils,
So to mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of her land.
Now it must be understood that he is profoundly
serious
in his declaration — he really does not apprehend the thought
designed — and
he is even more than profoundly serious, too in intending these his own
comments upon his own stolidity for wit: — "We thought that
steam-coaches
generally followed the directing of no hand except the stoker's, but it,
certainly,
is always much liker [[sic]] a raven than a dove." After this,
who
shall question the infallibility of Christopher North? We presume there
are very few of our readers who will not easily appreciate the
richly
imaginative conception of the poetess: — The Lady Geraldine is
supposed
to be standing in her own door, (positively not on the top of
an
engine), and thence pointing, "with her floating dove-like hand," to
the
lines of vapour, from the "resonant steam-eagles," that designate upon
the "blasted heaven," the remote boundaries of her domain. — But,
perhaps,
we are guilty of a very gross absurdity ourselves, in commenting at
all upon the whimsicalities of a reviewer who can deliberately select
for
special animadversion the second of the four verses we here copy:
"Eyes, he said, now throbbing through me! are ye eyes
that did undo
me?
Shining eyes like antique jewels set in Parian
statue-stone
!
Underneath that calm white forehead are ye ever burning torrid
O'er the desolate sand desert of my heart and life undone?"
The ghost of the Great Frederic
might, to be sure,
quote at us, in his own Latin, his favorite adage, "De gustibus non est
disputandus;" — but, when we take into consideration the
moral
designed,
the weirdness of effect intended, and the historical adaptation of the
fact alluded to, in the line italicized, (a fact of which it is by no
means
impossible that the critic is ignorant), we cannot refrain from
expressing
our conviction — and we here express it in the teeth of the
whole
horde of the Ambrosianians — that from the entire range of poetical
literature
there shall not, in a century, be produced a more sonorous — a more
vigorous
verse — a juster — a nobler — a more ideal — a more magnificent image —
than
this very image, in this very verse, which the most noted magazine of
Europe
has so especially and so contemptuously condemned.
"The Lady Geraldine" is, we think,
the only poem
of its author which is not deficient, considered as an artistical
whole.
Her constructive ability, as we have already suggested, is either not
very
remarkable, or has never been properly brought into play: — in truth,
her
genius is too impetuous for the minuter technicalities of that
elaborate Art
so needful in the building up of pyramids for immortality. This
deficiency,
then — if there be any such — is her chief weakness. Her other foibles,
although
some of them are, in fact, glaring, glare, nevertheless, to no very
material
ill purpose. There are none which she will not readily dismiss [page
18:]
in her future works. She retains them now, perhaps, because unaware of
their existence.
Her affectations are unquestionably
many, and generally
inexcusable. We may, perhaps, tolerate such words as "ble," "chrysm,"
"nympholeptic,"
"oenomel," and "chrysopras" — they have at least the merit either
of
distinct
meaning, or of terse and sonorous expression; — but what can be well
said
in defence of the unnecessary nonsense of "'ware" for "aware," — of
"bide,"
for "abide" — of " 'gins," for "begins" — of " 'las," for "alas" — of
"oftly,"
"ofter," and "oftest," for "often," "more often," and "most often" — or
of "erelong" in the sense of "long ago"? That there is authority for
the mere words proves nothing; those who employed them in their day
would
not employ them if writing nom. Although we grant, too, that
the
poetess is very usually Homeric in her compounds, there is no
intelligibility
of construction, and therefore no force of meaning in "dew-pallid,"
"pale-passioned,"
and "silver-solemn." Neither have we any partiality for "crave" or
"supreme,"
or "lament"; and while upon this topic, we may as well observe that
there
are few readers who do anything but laugh or stare, at such phrases as
"L. E. L.'s Last Questio" — "The Cry of the Human" — "Leaning from my
Human" — "Heaven
assist the human" — "the full sense of your mortal" — "a grave for your
divine" — "falling
off from our created" — "he sends this gage for thy pity's counting"
—
they
could not press their futures on the present of her courtesy — or
"could
another fairer lack to thee, lack to thee?" There are few, at the same
time, who do not feel disposed to weep outright, when they hear of such
things as "Hope withdrawing her peradventure" — "spirits dealing in
pathos
of antithesis" — "angels in antagonism to God and his reflex
beatitudes" — "songs
of glories ruffling down doorways" — God's possibles" — and
"rules of
Mandom."
We have already said, however, that mere quaintness within
reasonable
limit, is not only not to be regarded as affectation, but has
its
proper artistic uses in aiding a fantastic effect. We quote, from the
lines
"To my dog Flush," amplification:
Leap! thy broad tail waves a light!
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes!
Leap! those tasselled ears of shine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine,
Down their golden inches!
And again — from the song of a tree-spirit, in the "Drama
of Exile:"
The Divine impulsion cleaves
In dim movements to the leaves
Dropt and lifted, drops and lifted,
In the sun-light greenly sifted, —
In the sun-light and the moon-light
Greenly sifted through the trees.
Ever wave the Eden trees,
In the night-light and the noon-light,
With a ruffling of green branches,
Shaded off to resonances,
Never stirred by rain or breeze.
The thoughts, here, belong to the highest order of
poetry, it they could
not have been wrought into effective expression, without the
instrumentality
of those repetitions — those unusual phrases — in a word, those quaintnesses,
which
it has been too long the fashion to censure, indiscriminately, under
the
one general head of "affectation." No true poet will fail to be
enraptured
with the two extracts above quoted — but we believe there are few who
would
not find a difficulty m reconciling the psychal impossibility of
refraining
from admiration, with the too-hastily attained mental conviction that,
critically, there is nothing to admire.
Occasionally, we meet in Miss Barrett's poems a certain far-fetchedness
of
imagery, which is reprehensible m the extreme. What, for example, are
we
to think of
Now he hears the angel voices
Folding silence in the room? —
undoubtedly, that it is nonsense, and no more; or of
How the silence round you shivers
While our voices through it go? —
again, unquestionably, that it is nonsense, and nothing
beyond.
: Sometimes we are startled by knotty paradoxes; and it
is nat acquitting
their perpetrator of all blame on their account to admit that, in some
instances, they are susceptible of [column 2:] solution It is
really difficult
to discover anything for approbation, in enigmas such as
That bright impassive, passive angel-hood,
or —
The silence of my heart is full of sound.
At long intervals, we are annoyed by specimens of repulsive imagery,
as where the children cry:
How long, O cruel nation,
Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart —
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation? etc.
Now and then, too, we are confounded by a pure platitude
as when Eve
exclaims:
Leave us not
In agony beyond what we can bear,
And in abasement below thunder mark!
or, when the Saviour is made to say:
So, at last,
He shall look round on you with lids too straight
To hold the grateful tears.
"Strait" was, no doubt, intended, but does not
materially elevate, although
it slightly elucidates, the thought. A very remarkable passage is that,
also, wherein Eve bids the infant voices
Hear the steep generations, how they
fall
Adown the visionary stairs of Time,
Like supernatural thunders — far yet near,
Sowing their fiery echoes through the hills!
Here, saying nothing of the affectation in "adown;" not
alluding to
the insoluble paradox of "far yet near;" not mentioning the
inconsistent
metaphor involved in the "sowing of fiery echoes;" adverting
but
slightly to the misusage of "like," in place of "as," and to the
impropriety
of making any thing like thunder, which has never been known
to
fall at all; merely hinting, too, at the misapplication of "steep," to
the nations,'' instead of to the "stairs" — a perversion in no degree
to
be justified by the fact that so preposterous a figure synecdoche
exists in the school books; — letting these things is, for the present,
we shall still find it difficult to understand how Miss Barrett should
have been led to think the principal idea itself — the abstract
idea — the
idea of tumbling down stairs in any shape, or under any
circumstances, — either
a poetical or a decorous conception. And yet we have seen this very
passage
quoted as "sublime," by a critic who seems to take it for granted, as a
general rule, that Nat-Leeism is the loftiest order of literary merit.
That the lines very narrowly missed sublimity, we grant; that
they
came within a step of it, we admit; — but, unhappily, the step is that one
step
which, time out of mind, has intervened between the sublime and the
ridiculous.
So true is this, that any person — that even with a very partial
modification
of the imagery — a modification that shall not interfere with its
richly
spiritual tone — may elevate the quotation into
unexceptionability.
For example: and we offer it with profound deference —
Hear the far generations — how they crash,
From crag to crag, down the precipitous Time,
In multitudinous thunders that upstartle,
Aghast, the echoes from their cavernous lairs
In the visionary hills!
We have no doubt that our version has its faults — but it
has, at least,
the merit of consistency. Not only is a mountain mote poetical than a
pair
of stairs; but echoes are more appropriately typified as wild beasts
than
as seeds; and echoes and wild beasts agree better with a mountain than
does a pair of stairs with the sowing of seeds — even
admitting
that
these seeds be seeds of fire, and be sown broadcast "among the hills,''
by a steep generation while in the act of tumbling down the
stairs — that
is to say, of coming down the stairs in too violent a hurry to be
capable
of sowing the seeds as accurately as all seeds should be sown; nor is
the
matter rendered any better for Miss Barrett, even if the construction
of
her sentence is to be understood as implying that the fiery seeds were
sown, not immediately by the steep generations that tumbled down the
stairs,
but immediately, through the intervention of the "supernatural
thunders"
that were occasioned by the "steep generations" that tumbled
down
the stairs.
The poetess is not unfrequently guilty of repeating
herself. [page 19:]
The "thunder cloud veined by lightning" appears, for instance, on pages
34 of the first, and 228 of the second volume The "silver clash of
wings"
is heard at pages 53 of the first, and 269 of the second; and angel
tears
are discovered to be falling as well at page 17, as at the conclusion
of
"The Drama of Exile." Steam, too, in the shape of Death's White Horse,
comes upon the ground, both at page 244 of the first and 179 of the
second
volume — and there are multitudinous other repetitions both of phrase
and
idea — but it is the excessive reiteration of pet words which
is,
perhaps, the most obtrusive of the minor errors of the poet.
"Chrystalline,"
"Apocalypse," "foregone," "evangel," " 'ware," "throb," "level,"
"loss,"
and the musical term "minor," are forever upon her lips. The chief
favorites,
however, are "down" and "leaning," which are echoed and re-echoed not
only ad
infinitum, but in every whimsical variation of import. As Miss
Barrett
certainly cannot be aware of the extent of this mannerism, we will
venture
to call her attention to a few — comparatively a very few examples.
Pealing down the depths of Godhead —
And smiling down the stars —
Smiling down, as Venus down the waves —
Smiling down the steep world very purely —
Down the purple of this chamber —
Moving down the hidden depths of loving —
Cold the sun shines down the door —
Which brought angels down our talk —
Let your souls behind you lean gently moved —
But angels leaning from the golden seats —
And melancholy leaning out of heaven —
And I know the heavens are leaning down —
Then over the casement she leaneth —
Forbear that dream, too near to heaven it leaned
Thou, O sapient angel, leanest o'er —
Shapes of brightness overleap thee —
They are leaning their young heads —
Out of heaven shall o'er you lean —
While my spirit leans and reaches —
Leaning from my human —
When it leans out on the air —
etc. etc. etc.
In the matter of grammar, upon which the Edinburgh
critic insists so
pertinaciously, the author of "The Drama of Exile" seems to us even
peculiarly
without fault. The nature of her studies has, no doubt, imbued her with
a very delicate instinct of constructive accuracy. The occasional use
of
phrases so questionable as "from whence" and the far-fetchedness and
involution
of which we have already spoken, are the only noticeable blemishes of
an
exceedingly chaste, vigorous and comprehensive style. <>
In her inattention to rhythm, Mrs. Barrett is guilty of an error that
might have been fatal to her fame — that would have been fatal
to
any reputation less solidly founded than her own. We do not allude, so
particularly, to her multiplicity of inadmissible rhymes. We would
wish,
to be sure, that she had not thought proper to couple Eden and
succeeding — glories
and floorwise — burning and morning — thither and aether —
enclose me and
across me — misdoers and flowers — centre and winter — guerdon and
pardon — conquer
and anchor — desert and unmeasured — atoms and fathoms — opal and
people — glory
and doorway — trumpet and accompted — taming and overcame him — coming
and
woman — is and trees — off and sun-proof — eagles and vigils — nature
and
satire — poems
and interflowings — certes and virtues — pardon and burden — thereat
and
great — children
and bewildering — mortal and turtle — moonshine and sunshine. It would
have
been better, we say, if such apologies for rhymes as these had been
rejected.
But deficiencies of rhythm are more serious. In some cases it
is
nearly impossible to determine what metre is intended. "The Cry of the
Children" cannot be scanned: we never saw so poor a specimen
of
verse. In imitating the rhythm of "Locksley Hall," the poetess has
preserved with accuracy (so
far as mere syllables are concerned) the forcible line of seven
trochees
with a final caesura. The ''double rhymes" have only the force of a
single
long syllable ca sure; but the natural rhythmical division, occurring
at
the close of the fourth trochee, should never be forced to occur, as
Miss
Barrett constantly forces it, in the middle of a word, or of an
indivisible
phrase. If it do so occur, we must sacrifice, in perusal, either the
sense
or the rhythm. If she will consider, too, that this line of seven
trochees
and a ca sure, is nothing more than two lines written in one — a line
of
four trochees succeeded by one of three trochees and a caesura — she
will
at once see how unwise she has been in composing her poem in quatrains
of the long line with alternate rhymes, instead immediate ones, as in
the
case of [column 2:] "Locksley Hall." The result is, that the
ear, expecting
the rhymes before they occur, does not appreciate them when they do.
These
points, however, will be best exemplified by transcribing one of the
quatrains
in its natural arrangement. That actually employed is
addressed
only to the eye.
Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird
In among its forest brothers
Far too strong for it, then, drooping,
Bowed her face upon her hands —
And I spake out wildly, fiercely,
Brutal truths of her and others!
I, she planted in the desert,
Swathed her 'wind-like, with my sands.
Here it will be seen that there is a paucity of rhyme,
and that it is
expected at closes where it does not occur. In fact, we consider the
eight
lines as two independent quatrains, (which they are), then we find them
entirely
rhymeless. Now so unhappy are these metrical defects — of so much
importance
do we take them to be, that we do not hesitate in declaring the general
inferiority of the poem to its prototype to be altogether chargeable to
them. With equal rhythm "Lady Geraldine" had been
far — very far
the superior poem. Inefficient rhythm is inefficient poetical
expression;
and expression, in poetry, — what is ti? — what
is it not? No one
living
can better answer these queries than Miss Barrett.
We conclude our comments upon her versification, by
quoting (we will
not say whence — from what one of her poems) — a few verses without the
linear
division as it appears ai the book. There are many readers who would
never
suspect the passage to be intended for metre at all. — "Ay! — and
sometimes,
on the hill-side, while we sat down on the gowans, with the forest
green
behind us, and its shadow cast before, and the river running under,
and,
across it from the rowens a partridge whirring near us till we felt the
air it bore — there, obedient to her praying, did I read
aloud the
poems
made by Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own — read
the
pastoral parts of Spenser — or the subtle interflowings found in
Petrarch's
sonnets; — here's the book! — the leaf is folded down!"
With this extract we make an end of our fault-finding —
end now, shall
we speak, equally in detail, of the beauties of this book?
Alas!
here, indeed, do we feel the impotence of the pen. We have already said
that the supreme excellence of the poetess whose works we review, is
made
up of the multitudinous sums of a world of lofty merits. It is the
multiplicity —
it is the aggregation — which excites our most profound
enthusiasm,
and enforces our most earnest respect. But unless we had space to
extract
three fourths of the volumes, how could we convey this aggregation by
specimens?
We might quote, to be sure, an example of keen insight into our psychal
nature, such as this:
I fell flooded with a Dark,
In the silence of a swoon —
When I rose, still cold and stark,
There was night, — I saw the moon:
And the stars, each in its place,
And the May-blooms on the grass,
Seemed to wonder what I was.
And I walked as if apart
From myself when I could stand —
And I pitied my own heart,
As if I held it in my hand
Somewhat coldly, — with a sense
Of fulfilled benevolence.
Or we might copy an instance of the purest and most
imagination, such
as this:
So, young muser, I sat listening
To my Fancy's wildest word —
On a sudden, through the glistening
Leaves around, a little stirred,
Came a sound, a sense of music, which was rather felt than heard.
Softly, finely, it inwound me —
From the world it shut me in —
Like a fountain falling round me
Which with silver waters thin,
Holds a little marble Naiad sitting smilingly within.
Or, again, we might extract a specimen of wild Dantesque
vigor, such
as this — in combination with a pathos never excelled:
Ay! be silent — let them hear each other breathing
For a moment, mouth to mouth —
Let them touch each others' hands in a fresh wreathing
Of their tender human youth!
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion
Is not all the life God fashions or reveals —
Let them prove their inward souls against the notion
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!
Or, still again, we might give a passage embodying the [page
20:] most
elevated sentiment, most tersely and musically thus expressed:
And since, Prince Albert, men have called thy spirit
high and rare,
And true to truth, and brave for truth, as some at Augsburg were
—
We charge thee by thy lofty thoughts and by thy poet mind.
Which not by glory or degree takes measure of mankind,
Esteem that wedded hand less dear for sceptre than for ring
And hold her uncrowned womanhood to be the royal thing!
These passages, we say, and a hundred similar ones,
exemplifying particular
excellences, might be displayed, and we should still fail, as
lamentably
as the skolastikos with his brick, in conveying an idea of the
vast totality. By no individual stars can we present the
constellatory
radiance of
the book. — To the book, then, with implicit confidence we
appeal.
That Miss Barrett has done more, in poetry, than any
woman, living or
dead, will scarcely be questioned: — that she has surpassed all her
poetical
contemporaries of either sex (with a single exception) is our
deliberate
opinion — not idly entertained, we think, nor founded on any visionary
basis.
It may not be uninteresting, therefore, in closing this examination of
her claims, to determine in what manner she holds poetical relation
with
these contemporaries, or with her immediate predecessors, and
especially
with the great exception Which we have alluded, — if at all.
If ever mortal "wreaked his thoughts upon expression" it
was Shelley.
If ever poet sang (as a bird sings) — impulsively — earnestly — with
utter
abandonment — to himself solely — and for the mere joy of his own
song — that
poet was the author of the Sensitive Plant. Of Art — beyond that which
is
the inalienable instinct of Genius — he either had little or disdained
all.
He really disdained that Rule which is the emation from Law,
because
his own soul was law in itself. His rhapsodies are but the rough
notes — the
stenographic memoranda of poems — memoranda which, because they were
all-sufficient
for his own intelligence, he cared not to be at the trouble of
transcribing
in full for mankind. In his whole life he wrought not thoroughly out a
single conception. For this reason it is that he is the most fatiguing
of poets. Yet he wearies in having done too little, rather than too
much;
what is in him the diffuseness of one idea, is the conglomerate
concision
of many; — and this concision it is which renders obscure. With such a
man,
to imitate was out of the question; it would have answered no
purpose — for
he spoke to his own alone , which would have comprehended no alien
tongue; — he
was, therefore, profoundly original. His quaintness arose from
intuitive
perception of that truth to which Lord Verulam alone has given distinct
voice: — "There is no exquisite beauty which has not some strangeness
in
its proportion." But whether obscure, original, or quaint, he was at
all
times sincere. He had no affectations.
From the ruins of Shelley there sprang into existence,
affronting the
Heavens, a tottering and fantastic pagoda, in which the salient angles,
tipped with mad jangling bells, were the idiosyncratic faults of
the great original — faults which cannot be called such in view of his
purposes,
but which are monstrous when we regard his works as addressed to
mankind.
A "school" arose — if that absurd term must still be employed — a
school — a
system of rules — upon the basis of the Shelley who had none. Young men
innumerable, dazzled with the glare and bewildered with the bizarrerie
of
the divine lightning that flickered through the clouds of the
Prometheus,
had no trouble whatever in heaping up imitative vapors, but, for the
lightning,
were content, perforce, with its spectrum, in which the bizarrerie
appeared
without the fire. Nor were great and mature minds unimpressed by the
contemplation
of a greater and more mature; and thus gradually were interwoven into
this
school of all Lawlessness — of obscurity, quaintness, exaggeration —
the
misplaced didacticism of Wordsworth, and the even more preposterously
anomalous
metaphysicianism of Coleridge. Matters were now fast verging to their
worst,
and at length, in Tennyson, poetic inconsistency attained its extreme.
But it was precisely this extreme (for the greatest error and the
greatest
truth are scarcely two points in a circle) — it was this extreme which,
following the law of all extremes, wrought in him — in Tennyson — a
natural
and inevitable revulsion, leading him first to contemn and secondly to
investigate his early manner, and, finally, to win now from its
magnificent
elements the truest and purest of all poetical styles. But not even yet
is the process complete; and for this reason in part, but chiefly on
account
of the mere fortuitousness of that mental and moral combination which
shall
unite in one person (if ever it shall) the Shelleyan abandon,
the Tennysonian [column 2:] poetic sense, the most profound
instinct of
Art, and the sternest Will properly to blend and vigorously to control
all; — chiefly, we say, because such combination of antagonisms must be
purely fortuitous, has the world never in the noblest of the poems of
which
it is possible that it may be put in possession.
And yet Miss Barrett has narrowly missed the fulfilment
of these conditions.
Her poetic inspiration is the highest — we can conceive nothing more
august.
Her sense of Art is pure itself, but has been contaminated by pedantic
study of false models — a study which has the more easily led her
astray,
because she placed an undue value upon it as rare — as alien to her
character
of woman. The accident of having been long secluded by ill health from
the world has effected, moreover, in her behalf, what an innate
recklessness
did for Shelley — has imparted to her, if not precisely that abandon
to
which I have referred, at least a something that stands well in its
stead — a
comparative independence of men and opinions with which she did not
come
personally in contact — a happy audacity of thought and expression
never
before known in one of her sex. It is, however, this same accident of
ill
health, perhaps, which has invalidated her original Will — diverted her
from proper individuality of purpose — and seduced her in the sin of
imitation.
Thus, what she might have done we cannot altogether determine. What she
has actually accomplished is before us. With Tennyson's works beside
her,
and a keen appreciation of them in her soul — appreciation too keen to
be
discriminative; — with an imagination even more vigorous than his,
although
somewhat less ethereally delicate; with inferior art and more feeble
volition;
she has written poems such as he could not write, but such as
he,
under her conditions of ill health and seclusion, would
have
written during the epoch of his pupildom in that school which
arose
out of Shelley, and from which, over a disgustful gulf of utter
incongruity
and absurdity, lit only by miasmatic flashes, into the broad open
meadows
of Natural Art and Divine Genius, he — Tennyson — is at once the bridge
and
the transition. |
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