Characteristics of the Genius and Writings of L. E. L./L. E. L.’s Last Writings
L. E. L.'s Last Writings.
We cannot bring our observations to a close without briefly noticing the latest writings of L. E. L., viz., those papers published since her death, in the second volume of Mr. Blanchard's interesting memorials. The first of these is her tragedy completed just before her departure from England. This is founded on the character and career of Castruccio Castrucani, the patriot of Lucca. We are not competent to judge of its professional capabilities as an acting drama, though surely, in many of its scenes, it must gratify the taste, and in all its sentiments interest the sympathies, of a worthy British audience. As a work of art, it certainly commands admiration. The fine and well-sustained characters, with the exquisitely-adapted circumstances of action, the dramatic situations and effects, the noble strain of thought, the vigorous expression of that thought, the concentration of interest in Castruccio, and yet the unflagging sympathy attracted by every circumstance connected with him,—each scene in fact bearing upon and linked with the final interest of the whole tragedy;—such characteristics as these must secure its rightful place among the highest dramatic productions of the age. As an intellectual work, it is manifestly superior to many of L. E. L.'s own former poems. Not only is it gemmed with the pearls of fancy, but richly strewn with the cultured harvest of thought. Language, style and sentiment are alike vigorous and impressive. Its moral tone is earnest, truthful, and, in the best sense of the word, high-minded. No petty, mean motives, no selfish, unworthy ends, disfigure the conduct of the hero; but he is throughout distinguished by a true patriot's disinterested love for his country, and chivalrous devotedness to its welfare;—a noble example of one who esteemed no sacrifice of personal ease, feeling or interest, too costly to offer on the altar of the public good,—one who leaves on the mind the certain conviction that patriotism is indeed something more than a name, whenever it finds a shrine in such characters as Castruccio Castrucani.
A series of papers, on several of the female characters in Sir Walter Scott's works, were sent over from Cape Coast Castle. Not only are these papers invested with the deep interest of being the depositories of some of their gifted writer's latest recorded sentiments, but their own intrinsic value, derived both from their intellectual and moral tone of thought and feeling, increases even the above-mentioned mournful charm. They are, indeed, what could be wished for the author's own sake;—they are what might be gladly accepted as earnests of the innate and growing strength of her mental character,*[1] left to its own resources and solitude of thought; they are also evidences of the gradual inclination of her moral judgment to a higher standard of right and wrong, both in feeling and conduct, than is to be learned amid the sophistries of the world, or than is required for success in the gay lists of mere fashionable literature.
In reading over these comments on the creations of another, one must be struck with the pervading influence of a predominant characteristic of L. E. L.'s mind,—an extensive knowledge of human nature, with a keen perception of individual character. Here, also, is strongly evinced her peculiar facility of originating the ideal even from the actual, of fusing and blending the fine gold of thought and sentiment with the coarser metal of circumstance and fortune.
Thus the clandestine attachment in the history of Julia Mannering, which quickly yields to her inherent good feeling and sense of propriety, gives rise to the important sentiment: "Deception is always an evil, but in youth—youth whose very faults should be open-hearted and impetuous—it lays the foundation of the worst possible faults of character." We hail with grateful sympathy the gentle apology that is made for the occasional caprice of Monkbarns, whose disappointment and regret have closed all the avenues of warmer affections,—who has suffered too much to risk such suffering again,—yet whose kindness peeps out in spite of indulged humorous oddities and a system of callousness. This we are reminded is a true picture: “How often, among our acquaintance, have we met some individual whose crabbed temper has provoked our irritability, or whose peculiarities have awakened our mirth! Could we look into the early history of that individual, and trace the causes that have led sorrow to mask itself with eccentricity, we should feel only wonder and pity: but the waters of life are for ever flowing onwards, and little trace do they bear of what clouds have darkened or reddened the waves below as they floated by." Again, the history of Diana Vernon, whose purity and loftiness of character has been formed by hardships and difficulties, elicits some just and beautiful reflections on the trials and temptations of various kinds which they must encounter whose lot it is to struggle with the world: "How often," is the forcible concluding remark, "will the right and the expedient contend together, while the faults of others seem to justify our own, and the low but distinct voice within us be half lost while listening to the sophistry of temptation justifying itself by example! Yet how many nobly support the trial, while they have learned of difficulties to use the mental strength which overcomes them, and have been taught by errors to rely more decidedly on the instinctive sense of right, which at once shrinks from their admission!" Applying this truth to the history of Diana Vernon, "what," it is asked, "were to her the difficulties around her path, but as so many steps towards forming a character high-minded, steadfast, generous and true,—a lovely and lonely flower over which the rough winds have passed, leaving behind only the strength taught by resistance, and keeping fresh the fairness, blessing even the earth with its sweet and healthy presence."
As the character of Rebecca, the Jewess, "stands pre-eminent amid Scott's finest conceptions," so does it kindle into their truest eloquence the thoughts and feelings of L. E. L. "If there be one thing," she observes, "which redeems our fallen nature, which attests that its origin was from heaven, and its early home in paradise, it is the generous sympathy that, even in the most hardened and worldly, warms in the presence of the good and the beautiful. There must have been, even in those whose course has darkened into crime, an innocent and hopeful time; and the light of that hour, however perverted and shadowed, is never quite extinguished. Enough remains to kindle, if but for a moment, the electric admiration, whose flash, like the lightning, is from above.****We are tempted, and we fall; we lack resolution to act upon the promptings of our better and inward self; the wings of our nobler aspirations melt in the heat of exertion; the dust of the highway chokes our finer breathing; and if at any time we pause and commune with ourselves, alas! what do we find ourselves to be?—low, weak, selfish and old; how different from what we once hoped to be! But nature is never quite subdued to what she works in: and hence the homage, that is of love, rises to that which is above us—to beauty and to truth."
Many valuable truths and fine moral lessons does L. E. L. beautifully suggest to our minds from her own impression of Scott's interesting narrative of the Jewess. "The characteristic of Rebecca is high mindedness born of self-reliance. From a very infant she must have been a 'being breathing thoughtful breath.'*** From her infancy she must have learnt to be alone. Solitude, which enervates the weak, feeds and invigorates the strong, mind. Skilled in the art of healing, she knew the delight of usefulness; and she learnt to pity, because familiar with suffering. No one, not even the most careless, can stand beside the bed of sickness and death without learning their sad and solemn lessons. Within her home she was surrounded by luxury, and that refinement which is the poetry of riches; but she knew that Danger stood at the threshold, and that Fear was the unbidden guest who peered through their silken hangings.***History offers no picture more extraordinary than the condition of the Jews during the middle ages. Their torture and their destruction was deemed an acceptable sacrifice to that Saviour who was born of their race, and whose Sermon on the Mount taught no lessons save those of peace and love. When Madame Roland went to execution, she turned towards the statue of that power, then adored with such false worship, and exclaimed, 'Oh, Liberty! what crimes are wrought in thy name!' The Christian might say the same of his faith; but different, indeed, is the religion which is of God and that which is of man!"
Rebecca is left to suffer from an unhappy attachment; but her nobleness of character forsakes her not. L. E. L. reminds us, in a concluding remark of touching beauty, that care for her father's old age, kindliness to the poor and the suffering, and the workings of a mind strong in endurance, would bring tranquillity, if not happiness, till the hand might be pressed to the subdued heart without crying "Peace, peace, where was no peace."
In the comment on the history of Marmion’s Constance, having referred to the low and degrading estimate of women by the classic writers of antiquity, L. E. L. observes: "But Christianity brought its own heaven to the things of earth: every passion was refined, and every affection exalted. Only under the purifying influence of that inward world to which it gave light could sentiment have had its birth; and sentiment is the tenth Muse and fourth Grace of modern poetry."
How much of discriminating judgment and deep thought are embodied in the following sentences! "In the description of Constance there is that strong perception of the actual, which is Scott's most marked characteristic. He paints her exactly what in all probability she would have been: he works out the severe lesson of retribution and degradation.**
"It is the strangest problem of humanity,–one too for which the closest investigation can never quite account,—to trace the progress by which innocence becomes guilt, and how those who formerly trembled to think of crime are led on to commit that at which they once shuddered. The man the most steeped in wickedness must have had his innocent and his happy moments; a child, he must have played in the sunshine with spirits as light as the golden curls that toss on the wind. His little hands must have been clasped in prayer at his mother's knee; he must, during some moment of youth's generous warmth, have pitied human suffering, and wondered how man's blood could ever be shed by man; and if this holds good of man, how much more so of woman! But that it is one of those stern truths which experience forces us to know, we never could believe in murder as a feminine crime."****"We can trace the degradation of Constance step by step; we see how the timid has grown hardened—the resolute reckless—and the affectionate only passionate. Constant contact with coarser natures has seared the finer perceptions, and the sense of right and wrong is deadened by hardship, suffering and evil communion. The character so formed is worked upon by the most fearful passion which can agitate the human heart, that which is strong as death and cruel as the grave—the passion of jealousy.***Scott deprecates censure on him who
'died a gallant knight
With sword in hand for England's right;'
still more might we deprecate it for her who died in 'Holy Isle'. The morality of pity is deeper and truer than that of censure. The sweetest and best qualities of our nature may be turned to evil by the strong force of circumstance and temptation.***Remorse, unattended by repentance, always works for evil,—it adds bitterness and anger to error."
But we must pass on to the one portrait of deepest interest in the whole series—Jeannie Deans. We thus distinguish it, partly for its own sake, for the fine moral lesson it embodies, and partly for its association with a personal characteristic of L. E. L.,—a characteristic which essentially belongs to an enlarged and generous mind, viz., openness to conviction, with a candid acknowledgment of error. It is the ignorant and narrow mind, with its short sighted and one-sided view of things, that is ever the blinded slave of prejudice, and the obstinate assertor of its own infallibility. The enlightened and expanded mind, on the contrary, as it proceeds on its ever-widening way, sees how much more knowledge there is to be acquired than was at first deemed to exist, and consequently how often previously-formed opinions must stand corrected by sources of judgment continually opening up in its progress; and while the intellect in such a nature is quick to discern its own errors, the heart is equally prompt to confess the wrong and acknowledge the right. Thus was it with Miss Landon. Not the least arrogance ever marked her expressed opinions, although sometimes, in the excitement of conversation, she would throw out sentiments which she found after reflection or further information would not defend; then with the utmost frankness was the former assertion immediately retracted. Of this her comment on Jeannie Deans is a delightful exemplification. The whole passage is peculiarly interesting. After observing, that "although we are continually hearing of evil in the world, yet how should we be startled to find crime had been committed by one dear to our inmost hearts! What a moral revolution would such a discovery produce! how weak we should find ourselves under such a trial! how soon we should begin to disconnect the offender and the offence! then for the first time we should begin to understand the full force of temptation, and to allow for its fearful strength; and should we not begin to excuse what had never before seemed capable of palliation? Jeannie Deans's refusal to save her sister—so young, so beloved, so helpless,—at the expense of perjury, has always seemed to me the noblest effort in which principle was ever sustained by religion. How well I remember (at such a distance from England I may perhaps be pardoned for clinging to every recollection of the past) a discussion between some friends and myself, as to whether Jeannie Deans should have saved her sister's life—even with a lie, I am afraid, I rather argued—and for a great right do a little wrong—that, to save one whom I loved, I must have committed the sin of perjury, and said, 'On my soul be the guilt:' that, if even to refuse a slight favour was painful, who could bear to say 'No!' when on that 'no!' hung a fellow-creature's life—that fellow creature most tenderly beloved! But I was in error that worst error, which cloaks itself in a good intention, and would fain appear only an amiable weakness".
How truthfully and impressively, too, does L. E. L. account for the moral sublime of Jeannie Deans's conduct! "She could not have laid the sin of perjury upon her soul: she had been brought up with the fear of God before her eyes: she could not—dared not—take His name in vain. Many a still and solemn Sabbath, by the lingering light of the sunset sky, or with the shadow of the lamp falling around his grey hairs, must she have heard her father read the tale of how Ananias and Sapphira his wife were struck dead with a lie upon their lips;—dared she go and do likewise? To her the court of justice with its solemnities, and the awful appeal of its oath, must have seemed like a mighty temple. It was impossible that she could call upon that Book, which from the earliest infancy had been the object of her deepest reverence, to witness to the untruth. Yet with what more than Roman fortitude she prepares herself for suffering, toil, danger,—anything, so that she may but save her young sister! With what perfect simplicity she perseveres even unto the end! The kindness she meets with takes her by surprise; and worldly fortune leaves her the same kind, affectionate, and right-minded creature. Well may it be said that Jeannie Deans is a heroine in the highest and best sense of the word.***Scott seems to have delighted in scorning the usual accessories of interest, and yet how strongly is the interest excited!—it is the very triumph of common sense and rigid principle.
'We recognize
A grandeur in the beating of her heart,'
though that heart beat neither for love, fame, nor ambition."
We must linger yet a moment over the last poems of L. E. L. One of these, written just before her departure from England, was addressed to a long proved and invaluable friend,—one who, while appreciating her genius with the warmth of a judicious admirer, watched over her welfare with the care of a tender mother. The friendship of this lady and her family was indeed esteemed by Miss Landon as one of her greatest blessings. They were friends whose deep and true interest shone with the light of sympathy for years around her life-path. By them she was understood in all her varying moods. To them, in changing circumstances, prosperous or perplexing, she turned from the factitious throng of outward flatterers, and found in hearts that knew no guile, and voices that never breathed unkindness, the relief and support she required. Their homes were the green and sunny spots where her spirit sought for rest, when worn in the crowded highways of the world. Their generous kindness and protecting care were around her during the last few months she dwelt in her native land, securing her comfort, shielding her from anxiety, and brightening with the sunshine of long-tried affection the wings of Hope already spread for the far-off golden shore. Truly do they, the disinterested and faithful-hearted, possess in the memory of these things their own rich reward! Such friendships, in sooth, like the tree cast into the waters of Marah, may gently infuse sweetness and calm through the sometimes bitter and troubled current of a literary life. A stanza or two from this poem will show how this was verified in the present instance:
- ****
- ****
"How often shall I think of thee
In many a future scene!
How can affection ever be
To me what thine has been!
How many words scarce noticed now
Will rise upon my heart,
Touched with a deeper tenderness
When we are far apart!
- ****
- ****
I met thee when my childish thoughts
Were fresh from childhood's hours;—
That pleasant April time of life,
Half fancies and half flowers.
Since then how many a change and shade,
In life's web have been wrought!—
Change has in every feeling been,
And change in every thought.
But there has been no change in thee
Since to thy feet I came,
In joy or sorrow's confidence,
And still thou art the same.
Farewell! my own beloved friend,
A few years soon pass by;—
And the heart makes its own sweet home
Beneath a stranger sky;—
A home of old remembrances,
Where old affections dwell;
While Hope that looks to other days,
Soothes even this farewell."
******
How abiding were these feelings is touchingly evinced in the yearning tenderness of the two poems written during her voyage to Cape Coast, and which are the last recorded melodies of the Poet's heart and memory. Most vividly did home associations rise on her mind as, gazing on the polar star, she breathed the impassioned wish,
**"Oh! would to me were given
A power upon thy light;
What words upon our English heaven
Thy loving rays should writel!
Kind messages of love and hope
Upon thy rays should be;
Thy shining orbit would have scope
Scarcely enough for me!"
And, again, in her picture of "Night at Sea," how are her vivid descriptions linked with her deep emotions! how does the feeling of present loneliness, blending with the fond remembrances of absent friends, appeal to our dearest sympathies!—
*****
*****
"The very stars are strangers as I catch them
Athwart the shadowy sails that swell above;
I cannot hope that other eyes will watch them
At the same moment with a mutual love.
They shine not there as here they now are shining,
The very hours are changed—ah! do ye sleep?
O'er each lone pillow midnight is declining;—
May some kind dream at least my image keep!
My friends, my absent friends!
Do you think of me as I think of you?
*****
*****
Bearing upon its wings the hues of morning,
Up springs the flying fish, like life's false joy,
Which of the sunshine asks that frail adorning
Whose very light is fated to destroy!
Ah! so doth genius on its rainbow pinion,
Spring from the depths of an unkindly world;
So spring sweet fancies from the heart's dominion,—
Too soon in death the scorched-up wing is furled.
My friends, my absent friends!
Whate'er I see is linked with thoughts of you.
*****
*****
Sunshine is ever cheerful, when the morning
Wakens the world with cloud-dispelling eyes;
The spirits mount to glad endeavour, scorning
What toil upon a path so sunny lies.
Sunshine and hope are comrades, and their weather
Calls into life an energy like spring's;
But memory and moonlight go together,
Reflected by the light that either brings.
My friends, my absent friends!
Do you think of me then? I think of you."
Long will these poems of truthful affection and earnest appeal linger on the heart's memory of all who knew and loved their author. To those who had not that privilege, they will yet possess the charm of poetic beauty, wrought from the suggestive influences of the outward world upon the Poet's inmost soul. The interest of moral feeling also pervades these verses, in their revealings of the depths of kindliness and grateful attachment that blended with the high intellectual powers of L. E. L.
- ↑ * Of the progressive change in her mental tastes and habits of thought, L. E. L. herself remarks, in comparing her former with her present perusal of Scott's works: "I can remember I devoured the story keenly, dwelt on all that partook of sentiment, and never questioned the depth of any remark. I now find I take chief interest in what brings out character,**and am every now and then tempted to analyze the truth of a deduction. I think more over what I am reading, and delight more in connecting the world of fiction with that of reality."—Blanchard's life of L. E. L., vol. ii.