Improvisatrice,' &c. 3 vols. London. 1831. Colburn & Bentley.1
We were always of opinion that Miss Landon's poetry failed in giving a
just estimate of Miss Landon's powers.
Glowing with imagery, radiant with bright words, seductive with fond fancies, Full of carving strange and sweet,All made out of the carver's brain,For a lady's chamber meet,—2 space between stanzaspicturesque, arabesque, and romanesque, it yet lacked vigour and
variety—often abounded in carelessness, and dealt too much in the superficial. It
bore too great a resemblance to Thalaba's
palace in the desert, a structure that Mr. Canning probably had in his mind when he said of all splendid but
unsubstantial creations, "they rose in the mists of the morning, but dissolved in
the
noonday sun."3 Sand often contains gold, yet sand makes a sorry
foundation, and we have often wished that L.
E. L. would dig till she reached the rock. So far from agreeing with the
objections brought by many grave and corporate critics against the superabundance
of
"Love" in her verses, we have wished for more that could really deserve the
name,—taking leave to think that the sparkling sentiment which has idleness and
self-will for its parents, and an impersonation of moonlight and a serenade for
bridemaids, bore passing small resemblance to intense yet rational feeling; real,
yet
not ungovernable energy of soul. Again, without going the length of other "robustious
periwigged"4 objections raised against her landscape drawing, we
have ventured to wish her on more familiar terms with lady Nature; and, finally, as
she has undoubtedly founded a poetic school, we have unfeignedly wished that she
would whip some dozen of her scholars. The faults of an original may be merged in
the
light of his beauties; but the faults of a copyist call for the wet sponge of
annihilation. What made us think that Miss
Landon possessed "powers that she had never used," were occasional lines and
passages manifesting, not merely thought, but a capacity for speculating upon
thought—a deeper looking into man's heart and destiny—and loftier aspirations after
all "that is very far off," than might beseem troubadours and improvisatrici.
'Erinna,' notwithstanding its incorrect versification, proved that
there was iron in the rose; the 'Lines on Life,' breathed wisdom born
of tears and nursed of truth; whilst the majority of her later poems have proved her
in possession not only of the genii of the lamp, but of the master of the genii; not
only of fancy, that builds with gold and gems, but of truth and thought, that bring
the living spirit to inhabit. In that most convenient of places—somewhere, we remember to have read an apologue, which,
as not inapplicable, we shall narrate. When the Queen of Sheba went to prove King
Solomon with hard questions, she appeared one day before him with two wreaths of
flowers, the one natural, the other artificial, but both so apparently alike as to
render her request that he would distinguish them at a distance somewhat difficult
of
performance. The wisest of men and best of botanists was puzzled—but, observing a
bee
outside one of the palace windows, he ordered its admission and watched is movements.
The little honey merchant was neither to be deceived nor allured by the bright hues
of the artificial wreath, but guided the monarch's decision by settling instantly
on
one really composed of the roses of Sharon and the lilies of the valley. Would that
all poets allowed a bee (sympathy) to discern for them the difference between the
false and true—Miss Landon has done so
of late, and if her verses have not glittered quite so much with diamond dust, or
exhaled so much of the spice islands, the absence has been well supplied by fresh
dews and natural brightness. It is a flower-garden beside a fairy tale.
But it was to the prose work intended to proceed from her pen that we looked with
most expectation, as the test, trial, and, if the truth must be told, triumph of Miss Landon, and of our own particular
opinion of her mind. The work is here; we have read it with as much attention as if
it had been theology, and as much excitement as if it had been treason. To call it
a
novel is incorrect; plot, incident, and narrative of all kinds, would go into a nut,
or, to be literally correct, into a walnut-shell. Let not lover of history and
mystery, no demander of event and catastrophe, no old-fashioned believer in its being
equally the duty of governments to put down plots, and of novelists to purvey them—no
person who reads a book merely to know what happens in it, sit down to
'Romance and Reality.' If they inquire of us, "who or what is the
Romance?"—"who or what is the Reality?" we cannot answer, for the very primitive
reason of not knowing. Those who care little about story, or who can wait for it till
the third volume, will find real and delightful occupation in its pages. The correct
title of the work would have been 'Maxims and Characters'—for it is
composed of essays, criticisms, sketches of life, portraits living and dead, opinions
on manners, descriptions of feeling, all served up with so much wit that the
authoress might never have been sad,—with so much poetic and moral feeling that she
might never have been gay. Perused as a work of fiction, it is too desultory and
incorrect to be satisfactory; it must be read as a brilliant, and sometimes profound
commentary on the life of this "century of crowds"—as the result of keen and varied
observation and reflection: in this view we cannot but esteem it a remarkable
evidence of talent. We ask the poetry of the authoress, where, till now, dwelt the
brave good sense—the sarcasm bitter with medicine, not poison—the remarks that,
beginning in levity, die off into reflection—the persiflage that is only a feint to conceal love of the beautiful and longing
after the true? and the 'Improvisatrice,' the
'Troubadour,' and the 'Venetian Bracelet,'
answer—"Where?" How much there is that poetry cannot or must not convey. As the
Ettrick Shepherd5 says, "Blessings on
the man who first invented sleep"6 —so we say, "Honour to the patriarchs, who undoubtedly all wrote in prose!"
But for 'Romance and Reality' in prose, half our island might never have awoke from
their dream that L. E. L., was an
avatar of blue eyes, flaxen ringlets, and a susceptible heart! The counter
conviction, that her genius is infinitely more like an arrow, barbed at one end and
feathered at the other, will dismay a thousand fancies, the cherished growth of
albums and sixteen. Take for example the following outline of a domestic day and a
domestic savage; we are heathens if they would not be recognized at the foot of the
Pyramids.
Monday and two o'clock found Emily in Harley Street, rather sooner than she was
expected, as was evident from that silken rustle which marks a female retreat. A
discreet visitor on such occasions advances straight to the window or the glass:
Emily did the latter; and five minutes of contemplation ascertained the fact that
her capote7 would endure a slight tendency to the left. She then took a seat
on the hard, or, as they say of hounds, the hide-bound sofa—the five minutes
lengthened into twenty, and she sought for amusement at a most literary-looking
table. Alas! she had read the novels—for treatises she had no taste—and two German
volumes, and three Latin, together with a scientific journal, gave her a cold
chill. While thus employed, a red-faced, loud-voiced servant girl threw open the
door, and howled, 'If you please, ma'am, Master Adolphus has thrown the Library of
Entertaining Knowledge at Master Alfred's head, because he tore the Catechism of
Conchology;' but before Miss Arundel could express her regret at such
misapplication of knowledge, the girl had vanished in all the dismay of a
mistake.
At last Mrs. Smithson appeared. 'My dear Emily, you have waited—I forgot to tell
you that I devote the early part of the day to the dear children—I never allow my
literary and domestic duties to interfere: you cannot commence the important
business of education too soon, and I am but just emerged from the study.'
This was a little at variance both with servant's appearance and her own laboured
toilette, whose want of neatness was the result of hurry and bad taste, not of
after-disorganisation. It is amazing how oppressive is the[Page 794] cleverness
of some people, as if it were quite a duty in you to be clever too—or, as I once
heard a little child say, 'Oh, mamma, I always speak to Mrs. S. in such dictionary
words!'
'Slowly and sadly' did the morning pass. Alas! for the victim of friendship, whom
sentiment or silliness seduces into passing a long day! The upright sitting on the
repulsive sofa—the mental exhaustion in searching after topics of conversation,
which, like the breeze in Byron's
description of a calm, 'come not'—the gossip that, out of sheer desperation,
darkens into scandal; if ever friends or feelings are sacrificed under temptation
too strong to be resisted, it is in the conversational pauses of a long day; and
worst of all, a long day between people who have scarcely an idea or an
acquaintance in common, for the one to be exchanged, or the other
abused—communication or condemnation equally out of the question. Mrs. Smithson
secretly pitied herself for wasting her colloquial powers on that social
non-entity, a young lady; and Miss Arundel was somewhat bewildered by the march of
her former friend's intellect. Divers of those elegant harmonies, which make
musical the flight of time in London, verified the old rhyme, that Come what may,Time and the tide wear through the roughest day.8 space between stanzas
The muffin-boy announced three o'clock—the pot-boy clanking his empty pewter was
symptomatic of four—the bellman tolling the knell of the post announced five—and,
at length, a heavy hard-hearted rap proclaimed the return of Mr. Smithson; a gruff
voice was hear in the passage—a ponderous step on the stairs—the door and his
boots creaked, and in came the author of the treatise on bats and beetles,
followed by a blue-coated, nankeen-trousered young man, whose countenance and
curls united that happy mixture of carmine and charcoal which constitute the
Apollo of a Compton Street counter.9 Mr. Smithson was equally sullen and
solemn-looking, with a mouth made only to swear, and a brow to scowl—a tyrant in a
small way—one who would be arbitrary about a hash, and obstinate respecting an
oyster—one of those tempers which, like a domestic east wind, 'sparks neither man
nor beast,' from the unhappy footman that he cursed, to the unlucky dog that he
kicked.
A minute specimen of humanity, in a livery like a jealous lover's, of 'green and
yellow melancholy,' announced dinner. Mr. Smithson stalked up to Emily, Mr.
Perkins simpered up to the hostess, and they entered a dismal-looking parlour,
whose brick-red walls and ditto curtains were scantily lighted by a single lamp,
though it was of the last new patent—to which a dim fire, in its first stage of
infant weakness, gave small assistance.
Mr. Smithson, who, as member of a public office, thought that church and state
ought to be supported,—which support he conceived to consist in strict adherence
to certain forms,—muttered something which sounded much more like a growl than a
grace, and dinner commenced.
At the top was a cod's shoulders and head, whose intellectual faculties were
rather over much developed; and at the bottom was soup called Mulligatawny—some
indefinite mixture of curry powder and duck's feet, the first spoonful of which
called from its master a look of thunder and lightning up the table. To this
succeeded a couple of most cadaverous fowls, a huge haunch of mutton, raw and red
enough even for an Abyssinian, flanked by rissoles and oyster patties, which had
evidently, like Tom Tough,10 seen 'a
deal of service:' these were followed by some sort of nameless pudding—and so much
for the luxury of a family dinner, which is enough to make one beg next time to be
treated as a stranger.
Conversation there was none—Mr. Smithson kindly sparing the lungs of his friends,
at the expense of his own. First, the fire was sworn at—then, the draught from the
door—then, the poor little footboy was encouraged by the pleasant intelligence
that he was the stupidest blockhead in the world. Mr. Perkins sat preserving his
silence and his simper: and to the lady of the house it was evidently quite matter
of habit—a sort of accompaniment she would almost have missed.
The truth is, Mr. Smithson had just married some twenty years too late—with his
habits, like his features, quite set, and both in a harsh mould. Young Lady!
looking out for an establishment—mediating on the delights of a house of your
own—two maids and a man, over whom you are set in absolute authority—do anything
rather than marry a confirmed bachelor—venture on one who has been successful with
seven succeeding wives, with ten small children ready made to order—walk off with
some tall youth, who considers a wife and a razor definitive signs of his growth
and his sense; but shun the establishment of a bachelor who has hung a pendulum
between temptation and prudence till the age of——; but of all subjects, age is the
one on which it is most invidious to descant.
The cloth was removed, and sudden commotion filled the passage: At once there rose so wild a yellWithin that dark and narrow dell,&c. &c. &c.11 space between stanzasand in came Master Adolphus and Master Alfred in full cry, having disputed
by the way which was to go first—also a baby, eloquent as infancy usually is, and,
like most youthful orators, more easily heard than understood. The boys quartered
themselves on the unfortunate strangers; and Mrs. Smithson took the infant, which
Emily duly declared was the sweetest little creature she had ever seen. On going
up stairs, Emily found Mlle. Hyacinthe shivering—for, with the usual inhumanity of
friends, there was no fire; and it was one of those wet, miserable evenings,
gratis copies distributed by November through the year. i. 123.
Certainly, reading the two first volumes of 'Romance and Reality' is
exceedingly like reading a volume of Horace
Walpole's Letters (only that the names and news are newer), or, if
acquainted with literary London, like passing an evening with half your acquaintance.
In this respect the book answers to a magazine, saves postage, and, if carried on
extensively, might do away with the necessity of newspapers. On this topic we commend
the authoress to the fatherly care of that most delightful person, Dr. Folliott,
whose opinions, as found in 'Crotchet Castle,'12 we here transcribe:—
Mr. Eavesdrop.—Me Sir! What have I done, Sir, that I
am to be poisoned, Sir?
The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—Sir, you have published a
character of your facetious friend, the Rev. Dr. F., wherein you have sketched off
me: me, Sir, even to my nose and wig. What business have the public with my nose
and wig?
Mr. E.—Sir, it is all good-humoured: all in bonhommie: all friendly and complimentary.
Rev. Dr. F.—Sir, you have been very unfacetious. You
have dished me up like a savory omelette, to gratify the appetite of the reading
rabble for gossip. The next time, Sir, I will respond with the argumentum baculinum. Print that, Sir: put it on
record as a promise of the Rev. Dr. F. which shall be most faithfully kept with an
exemplary bamboo.
Mr. E.—Your cloth protects you, Sir.
Rev. Dr. F.—My bamboo shall protect me, Sir.
Mr. Crotchet.—Doctor, Doctor, you are growing too
polemical.
Rev. Dr. F.—Sir, my blood boils. What business have
the public with my nose and wig?"
L. E. L.'s "takings" are for the most
part "friendly and complimentary"—nevertheless, some are so caustic, that, unless
she
omits them in a second edition, it might be well to publish a literary copy of the
advertisement to Rowland's Kalydor,13 particularly that part which states its soothing qualities
for "gentlemen whose chins are tender after shaving." Against her second edition,
too, or, rather against her next work, we would remind her, that what has been said
of bagpipe music may be said of witticisms where too numerous—"the one half would
sound better for the other half not being heard." The first volume is as full of
points as a packet of needles, and, as the writer says of some one's attitude, fails
of being easy by being elaborate. This over-abundance of repartees, similes, and
epigrams, becomes tiresome to the dull, and teazing to the quick; makes wit look too
like hard work, and the author too much resemble a vivacious juggler—a Katerfelto, with his hair on endAt his own wonders, wondering for his bread.14 space between stanzas We think we dare read this riddle: to be natural, earnest, and quietly
dignified, even as an author, requires no less moral courage than to be so in daily
life. Ridicule is society's fear of God, and entertainment its "pearl of great
price."15 An author of the beau monde puts
wit in his first volume to purchase leave to throw heart, truth, and sentiment into
his last. Miss Landon's third volume is
exempt from all the faults of the two others; there is no want of story, which is
so
concentrated in its pages, that, with a little introduction, and the entire smother
of the Higgs' family, it might be printed separately, a perfectly true, pure,
pleasant specimen of fiction. It is effective, without effect being strained after,
and contains passages full of power, beauty, and simplicity. The epigrammatic style
is dropped; the narrative flows sweetly yet sadly along; and the history of the grave
and noble Beatrice—of the self-will and repentings of the less firmly strung Emily,
would redeem an Almack's of young ladies, and "a wilderness of monkeys."16 We give a specimen from this part of the work:—
No one person in a thousand is capable of a real passion—that intense and
overwhelming feeling, before which all others sink into nothingness. It asks for
head and heart—now, many are deficient in both. Idleness and vanity cause, in nine
cases out of ten, that state of excitement which is called being in love. I have
heard some even talk of their disappointments, as if such a word could be used in
the plural. To be crossed in love, forsooth—why, such a heart could bear as many
crosses as a raspberry tart.
But Beatrice loved with all the vividness of unwasted and unworn feeling, and with
all the confidence of youth. Proud, earnest, and enthusiastic, passion was touched
with all the poetry of her own nature. Her lover was the idol, invested by her
ardent imagination with all humanity's 'highest attributes.' Undegraded by the
ideas of flirtation, vanity, interest, or establishment, her love was as simple as
it was beautiful. Her life had passed in solitude, but it had been the solitude of
both refinement and exertion. She was unworldly, but not untaught. She had read
extensively and variously. Much of her reading had been of a kind unusual to
either her sex or age; but she had loved to talk[Page 795] with her father on
the subjects which engaged him; and the investigations which were to analyze the
state of mankind, and the theories which were to ameliorate it, became to her
matters of attraction, because they were also those of affection.
Natural scenery has no influence on the character till associated with human
feelings: the poet repays his inspiration by the interest he flings round the
objects which inspired it. Beatrice had early learnt this association of nature
with humanity. She was as well acquainted with the English literature and language
as with her own; and the melancholy and reflective character of its poetry suited
well a young spirit early broken by sorrow, and left, moreover, to entire
loneliness. The danger of a youth so spent was, that the mind would become too
ideal—that mornings, passed with some favourite volume by the dropping fountain,
or beneath the shadowy ilex, would induce habits of romantic dreaming, utterly at
variance with the stern necessities of life.
But Beatrice had been forced into a wholesome course of active exertion. Obliged
to think and to act for herself—to have others dependent on her efforts—to know
that each day brought its employment, her mind strengthened with its discipline.
The duties that excited also invigorated. The keen feeling, the delicate taste,
were accustomed to subjection, and romance refined, without weakening.
* * * *
Beatrice was grave; silent, except when much interested; reserved, save when under
the influence of some strong feeling; with manners whose refinement was that of
inherently pure taste, and much mental cultivation, touched, too, with the native
grace inseparable from the very beautiful: self-possessed, from self-reliance, and
with a stately bearing, which—call it prejudice, or pride, or dignity—spoke the
consciousness of high descent, and an unquestioned superiority. The pride of birth
is a noble feeling.
Lorraine, on the contrary, was animated—more likely to be amused than excited—with
a general expression of indifference not easily roused to interest. His manners
had that fine polish only to be given by society, and that of the best. His
thoughts and feelings were kept in the back-ground—not from native reserve, but
from fear of raillery—that suspicion of our hearers which is one of the first
lessons taught in the world. His habits were luxurious—hers were simple; he was
witty and sarcastic—she scarcely understood the meaning of ridicule; his rules of
action were many—as those rules must be on which the judgments of others are to
operate—hers were only those of right and wrong. A whole life spent in society
inevitably refers its action to the general opinion. Beatrice, as yet, looked not
beyond the action itself.
* * * *
Some slight chance usually rivets the attention; it did so now. On one of the
tablets were inscribed various names of an apparently large family, the dates of
the different deaths singularly near to each other. Emily felt as if her own
solitary situation had never weighted upon her thoughts till now. 'Many are kind
to me, but none care for me.' Youth with its affection an impulse and a delight,
judges others by itself, and exaggerates its claims.
Strange it is that people (unless in the way of ostentation) never value the
blessings they possess. But if life has a happiness over which the primeval curse
has passed and harmed not, it is the early and long-enduring affection of blood
and habit. The passion which concentrates its strength and beauty upon one, is a
rich and terrible stake, the end whereof is death;—the living light of existence
is burnt out in an hour—and what remains? The dust and the darkness. But the love
which is born in childhood—an instinct deepening into a principle—retains to the
end something of the freshness belonging to the hour of its birth: the amusement
partaken—the trifling quarrel made up—the sorrows shared together—the punishment
in which all were involved—the plans for the future, so fairytale-like and so
false, in which all indulged: so true it is that love's slightest links are its
strongest!
There is something inexpressibly touching in the story of Ishmael, the youth who
was sent into the wilderness of life with his bow and his arrow, 'his hand against
every man, and every man's hand against him.' Even in our crowded, busy, and
social world, on how many is this doom pronounced! What love makes allowances like
household love?—what takes an interest in small sorrows and small successes like
household love? God forgive those (and I would not even say forgive, were not
Divine mercy illimitable,) who turn the household alter to a place of strife!
Domestic dissension is the sacrilege of the heart. iii. 89-117.
With these extracts we close 'Romance and Reality'—trusting, nay,
believing, that Miss Landon's next
prose work will exhibit all the merits of this, matured, and all its faults avoided.
To conceive some whole in a strain of high mood,
consecrated by high purpose, and crowned with high reward, is not more than she is
capable of—not more than she ought to effect:— Shadows of beauty,Shadows of power,Rise to your duty—This is the hour.17 space between stanzas