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[page 128, continued:]
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ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.*
THIS is a very pretty
little volume,
neatly printed,
handsomely bound, embracing some two hundred pages sixteen-mo. and
introduced
to the public, somewhat unnecessarily, in a preface by Dr. Rufus W.
Griswold.
In this preface we find some few memoranda of the personal authoress,
with
some critical opinions in relation to her poems. The memoranda are
meagre.
A much more interesting account of Mrs. Smith is given by Mr. John
Neal,
and was included by Mr. John Keese in the introduction to a former
collection
of her works. The critical opinions may as well be here quoted, at
least
in part. Dr. Griswold says:
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Seeking expression, yet
shrinking from notoriety,
and with a full share of that respect for a just fame and appreciation
which belongs to every high-toned mind, yet oppressed by its shadow
when
circumstance is the impelling motive of publication, the writings of
Mrs.
Smith might well be supposed to betray great inequality; still in her
many
contributions to the magazines, it is remarkable how few of her pieces
display the usual carelessness and haste of magazine articles. As an
essayist
especially, while graceful and lively, she is compact and vigorous;
while
through poems, essays, tales, and criticisms, (for her industrious pen
seems
equally skilful and happy in each of these departments of literature,)
through all her manifold writings, indeed, there runs the same
beautiful
vein of philosophy, viz: — that truth and goodness of themselves impart
a holy light to the mind which gives it a power far above mere
intellectuality;
that the highest order of human intelligence springs from the moral and
not the reasoning faculties. . . . . . Mrs. Smith's most popular poem
is "The Acorn," which, though inferior in high inspiration to "The
Sinless
Child," is by many preferred for its happy play of fancy and proper
finish.
Her sonnets, of which she has written many, have not yet been as much
admired
as the "April Rain," "The Brook," and other fugitive pieces, which we
find
in many popular collections. |
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"The Sinless Child" was originally
published in the
"Southern Literary Messenger," where it at once attracted much
attention [page 129:] from the novelty of its
conception and
the general grace and purity of its style. Undoubtedly it is one of the
most original of American poems — surpassed in this respect, we think,
only by Maria del Occidente's "Bride of Seven." Of course, we speak
merely
of long poems. We have had in this country many brief fugitive pieces
far
excelling in this most important point (originality) either "The Bride
of Seven" or "The Sinless Child" — far excelling, indeed, any
transatlantic
poems. After all, it is chiefly in works of what is absurdly termed
"sustained
effort" that we fall in any material respect behind our progenitors.
"The Sinless Child" is quite long,
including more
than two hundred stanzas, generally of eight lines. The metre
throughout
is iambic tetrameter, alternating with trimeter — in other words, lines
of four iambuses alternate with lines of three. The variations from
this
order are rare. The design of the poem is very imperfectly made out.
The
conception is much better than the execution. "A simple cottage maiden,
Eva, given to the world in the widowhood of one parent and the angelic
existence of the other, . . . . . is found from her birth to be as
meek
and gentle as are those pale flowers that look imploringly upon us. .
. . She is gifted with the power of interpreting the beautiful
mysteries
of our earth. . . . . For her the song of the bird is not merely the
gushing
forth of a nature too full of blessedness to be silent . . . . the
humblest
plant, the simplest insect, is each alive with truth. . . . . She sees
the
world not merely with mortal eyes, but looks within to the pure
internal
life of which the outward is but a type," etc., etc. These passages are
taken from the Argument prefixed to Part I. The general thesis of the
poetess
may, perhaps, be stated as the demonstration that the superior wisdom
is
moral rather than intellectual; but it may be doubted whether her
subject
was ever precisely apparent to herself. In a word, she seems to have
vacillated
between several conceptions — the only very definite idea being that
of extreme beauty and purity in a child. At one time we fancy her, for
example, attempting to show that the condition of absolute sanctity is
one through which mortality may know all things and hold converse with
the angels; at another we suppose it her purpose to "create" (in
critical
language) an entirely novel being, a something that is neither [page
130:] angel nor mortal, nor yet fairy in the ordinary sense
— in a word, an original ens. Besides these two prominent
fancies,
however, there are various others which seem continually flitting in
and
out of the poet's vision, so that her whole work has an indeterminate
air.
Of this she apparently becomes conscious towards the conclusion, and in
the final stanza endeavors to remedy the difficulty by summing up her
design —
The sinless child, with mission
high,
Awhile to earth was given,
To show us that our world should be
The vestibule of heaven.
Did we but in the holy light
Of truth and goodness rise,
We might communion hold with God
And spirits from the skies. |
The conduct of the narrative is scarcely more
determinate
— if, indeed, "The Sinless Child" can be said to include a narrative at
all. The poem is occupied in its first part with a description of the
child,
her saintly character, her lone wanderings, the lessons she deduces
from
all animal and vegetable things, and her communings with the angels. We
have then discussions with her mother, who is made to introduce
episodical
tales, one of "Old Richard," another called "The Defrauded Heart," (a
tale
of a miser,) and another entitled "The Stepmother." Towards the end of
the poem a lover, Alfred Linne, is brought upon the scene. He has been
reckless and sinful, but is reclaimed by the heavenly nature of Eva. He
finds her sleeping in a forest. At this point occur some of the finest
and most characteristic passages of the poem.
Unwonted thought, unwonted calm
Upon his spirit fell;
For he unwittingly had sought
Young Eva's hallowed dell,
And breathed that atmosphere of love,
Around her path that grew:
That evil from her steps repelled
The good unto her drew. |
Mem. — The last quatrain of this
stanza would
have been more readily comprehended if punctuated and written thus —
And breathed that atmosphere of love
Around her path that grew —
That evil from her steps repelled —
That good unto her drew. [page 131:] |
We may as well observe here, too, that although
neatly
printed, the volume abounds in typographical errors that very
frequently
mar the sense — as at page 66, for example, where come (near
the
bottom) is improperly used for came, and scorching
(second
line from the top) is substituted for searching. We proceed
with
Alfred's discovery of Eva in the wood.
Now Eva opes her child-like eyes
And lifts her tranquil head;
And Albert, like a guilty thing,
Had from her presence fled.
But Eva marked his troubled brow,
His sad and thoughtful eyes,
As if they sought yet shrank to hold
Their converse with the skies. |
Communion with the skies — would have
been far
better. It seems
strange to us that any one should have overlooked the word.
And all her kindly nature stirred,
She prayed him to remain;
Well conscious that the pure have power
To balm much human pain.
There mingled too, as in a dream,
About brave Albert Linne,
A real and ideal form
Her soul had formed within. |
We give the punctuation here as we find it; — it is
incorrect throughout, interfering materially with a proper
understanding
of the passage. There should be a comma after "And" in the first line,
a comma in place of the semicolon at the end of the second line, no
point
at the end of the third line, a comma after "mingled," and none after
"form."
These seeming minutiæ are of real importance; but we
refer
to them, in the case of "The Sinless Child," because here the aggregate
of this species of minor error is unusually remarkable. Of course it is
the proof-reader or editor, and not Mrs. Smith, who is to blame.
Her trusting hand fair Eva laid
In that of Albert Linne,
And for one trembling moment turned
Her gentle thoughts within.
Deep tenderness was in the glance
That rested on his face,
As if her woman-heart had found
Its own abiding-place. [page 132:]
And evermore to him it seemed
Her voice more liquid grew —
'Dear youth, thy soul and mine are one;
One source their being drew!
And they must mingle evermore —
Thy thoughts of love and me
Will, as a light, thy footsteps guide
To life and mystery."
There was a sadness in her tone,
But love unfathomed deep;
As from the centre of the soul
Where the divine may sleep;
Prophetic was the tone and look,
And Albert's noble heart
Sank with a strange foreboding dread
Lest Eva should depart.
And when she bent her timid eyes
As she beside him knelt,
The pressure of her sinless lips
Upon his brow he felt,
And all of earth and all of sin
Fled from her sainted side;
She, the pure virgin of the soul,
Ordained young Albert's bride. |
It would, perhaps, have been out of keeping with the
more obvious plan of the poem to make Eva really the bride of Albert.
She
does not wed him, but dies tranquilly in bed, soon after the spiritual
union in the forest. "Eva," says the Argument of Part VII., "hath
fulfilled
her destiny. Material things can no farther minister to the growth of
her
spirit. That waking of the soul to its own deep mysteries — its oneness
with another — has been accomplished. A human soul is perfected." At
this
point the poem may be said to have its conclusion.
In looking back at its general plan,
we cannot fail
to see traces of high poetic capacity. The first point to be commended
is the reach or aim of the poetess. She is evidently discontented with
the bald routine of common-place themes, and originality has been with
her a principal object. In all cases of fictitious composition
it
should be the first object — by which we do not mean to say
that
it can ever be considered as the most important. But, ceteris
paribus,
every class of fiction is the better for originality; every writer is
false
to his own interest if he fails to avail himself, at the outset, of the
effect which is certainly and invariably derivable from the great
element, novelty. [page 133:]
The execution of "The Sinless Child"
is, as we have
already said, inferior to its conception — that is, to its conception
as
it floated, rather than steadily existed, in the brain of the
authoress.
She enables us to see that she has very narrowly missed one of
those
happy "creations" which now and then immortalize the poet. With a good
deal more of deliberate thought before putting pen to paper, with a
good
deal more of the constructive ability, and with more rigorous
discipline
in the minor merits of style, and of what is termed in the
school-prospectuses,
composition, Mrs. Smith would have made of "The Sinless Child" one of
the
best, if not the very best of American poems. While speaking of the
execution,
or, more properly, the conduct of the work, we may as well mention,
first,
the obviousness with which the stories introduced by Eva's mother are
interpolated,
or episodical; it is permitted every reader to see that they have no
natural
connexion with the true theme; and, indeed, there can be no doubt that
they were written long before the main narrative was projected. In the
second place, we must allude to the artificiality of the Arguments,
or introductory prose passages, prefacing each Part of the poem. Mrs.
Smith
had no sounder reason for employing them than Milton and the rest of
the
epicists have employed them before. If it be said that they are
necessary
for the proper comprehension of a poem, we reply that this is saying
nothing
for them, but merely much against the poem which demands them
as
a necessity. Every work of art should contain within itself all that is
required for its own comprehension. An "argument" is but another form
of
the "This is an ox" subjoined to the portrait of an animal with horns.
But in making these objections to the management of "The Sinless
Child,"
we must not be understood as insisting upon them as at all material, in
view of the lofty merit of originality — a merit which pervades and
invigorates
the whole work, and which, in our opinion, at least, is far, very far
more
than sufficient to compensate for every inartisticality of
construction.
A work of art may be admirably constructed, and yet be null as regards
every essentiality of that truest art which is but the happiest
development
of nature; but no work of art can embody within itself a proper originality
without giving the plainest manifestations of the creative spirit, or,
in more common [page 134:] parlance, of genius
in its author. The originality of "The Sinless Child" would cover a
multitude
of greater defects than Mrs. Smith ever committed, and must forever
entitle
it to the admiration and respect of every competent critic.
As regards detached passages, we
think that the episode
of "The Stepmother" may be fairly cited as the best in the poem
You speak of Hobert's second wife, a
lofty dame
and bold;
I like not her forbidding air, and forehead high and cold.
The orphans have no cause for grief; she dare not give it now,
Though nothing but a ghostly fear her heart of pride could bow.
One night the boy his mother called; they heard him
weeping say,
"Sweet mother, kiss poor Eddy's cheek and wipe his tears away."
Red grew the lady's brow with rage, and yet she feels a strife
Of anger and of terror, too, at thought of that dead wife.
Wild roars the wind; the lights burn blue; the
watch-dog howls with fear;
Loud neighs the steed from out the stall. What form is gliding near?
No latch is raised, no step is heard, but a phantom fills the space
—
A sheeted spectre from the dead, with cold and leaden face.
What boots it that no other eye beheld the shade
appear?
The guilty lady's guilty soul beheld it plain and clear.
It slowly glides within the room and sadly looks around,
And, stooping, kissed her daughter's cheek with lips that gave no
sound.
Then softly on the step-dame's arm she laid a
death-cold hand,
Yet it hath scorched within the flesh like to a burning brand;
And gliding on with noiseless foot, o'er winding stair and hall,
She nears the chamber where is heard her infant's trembling call.
She smoothed the pillow where he lay, she warmly
tucked the bed,
She wiped his tears and stroked the curls that clustered round his
head.
The child, caressed, unknowing fear, hath nestled him to rest;
The mother folds her wings beside — the mother from the blest! |
The metre of this episode has been altered from its
original form, and, we think, improved by the alteration. Formerly, in
place of four lines of seven iambuses, the stanza consisted of eight
lines
— a line of four iambuses alternating with one of three — a more
ordinary
and artificial, therefore a less desirable arrangement. In the three
last
quatrains there is an awkward vacillation between the present and
perfect
tenses, as in the words "beheld," "glides," "kissed," "laid," "hath
scorched,"
"smoothed," "wiped," "hath nestled," "folds." These petty objections,
of
course, will by no means interfere with the reader's appreciation of
the
episode, with his admiration of its pathos, its delicacy and its grace
— we had almost forgotten to say of its pure and high imagination. [page
135:]
We proceed to cull from "The Sinless
Child," a few
brief but happy passages at random.
Gentle she was and full of love,
With voice exceeding sweet,
And eyes of dove-like tenderness
Where joy and sadness meet.
——
——— with calm and tranquil eye
That turned instinctively to seek
The blueness of the sky.
——
Bright missals from angelic throngs
In every bye-way left —
How were the earth of glory shorn
Were it of flowers bereft!
——
And wheresoe'er the weary heart
Turns in its dim despair,
The meek-eyed blossom upward looks,
Inviting it to prayer.
The very winds were hushed to peace
Within the quiet dell,
Or murmured through the rustling bough
Like breathings of a shell.
——
The mystery of life;
Its many hopes, its many fears,
Its sorrow and its strife —
A spirit to behold in all
To guide, admonish, cheer —
Forever, in all time and place,
To feel an angel near.
——
I may not scorn the spirit's rights,
For I have seen it rise,
All written o'er with thought, thought, thought,
As with a thousand eyes!
——
And there are things that blight the soul
As with a mildew blight,
And in the temple of the Lord
Put out the blessed light. |
It is in the point of passages such as
these,
in their vigor, terseness and novelty, combined with exquisite
delicacy,
that the more obvious merit of the poem consists. A thousand such quotable
paragraphs are interspersed through the work, and of themselves would
be
sufficient to insure its popularity. But we repeat that a far loftier
excellence
lies perdu amid the minor deficiencies of "The Sinless Child." [page
136:]
The other poems of the volume are, as
entire compositions,
nearer perfection, but, in general, have less of the true poetical
element.
"The Acorn" is perfect as regards its construction — although, to be
sure,
the design is so simple that it could scarcely be marred in its
execution.
The idea is the old one of detailing the progress of a plant from its
germ
to its maturity, with the uses and general vicissitudes to which it is
subjected. In this case of the acorn the vicissitudes are well
imagined,
and the execution is more skilfully managed — is more definite,
vigorous
and pronounced, than in the longer poem. The chief of the minor
objections
is to the rhythm, which is imperfect, vacillating awkwardly between
iambuses
and anapæsts, after such fashion that it is impossible to decide
whether the rhythm in itself — that is, whether the general intention
is
anapæstical or iambic. Anapæsts introduced, for the relief
of monotone, into an iambic rhythm, are not only admissible but
commendable,
if not absolutely demanded; but in this case they prevail to such an
extent
as to overpower the iambic intention, thus rendering the whole
versification
difficult of comprehension. We give, by way of example, a stanza with
the
scanning divisions and quntities [[quantities]]:
They came | with gifts | that should
life |
bestow; |
The dew | and the li | ving air — |
The bane | that should work | its dead | ly wo, |
The lit | tle men | had there; |
In the gray | moss cup | was the mil | dew brought, |
The worm | in a rose- | leaf rolled
And ma | ny things | with destuc | tion fraught |
That its doom | were quick | ly told. | |
Here iambuses and anapæsts are so nearly
balanced
that the ear hesitates to receive the rhythm as either anapæstic
or iambic, that is, it hesitates to receive it as anything at all. A
rhythm
should always be distinctly marked by its first foot — that is to say,
if the design is iambic, we should commence with an unmistakeable
iambus,
and proceed with this foot until the ear gets fairly accustomed to it
before
we attempt variation; for which, indeed, there is no necessity
unless
for the relief of monotone. When the rhythm is in this manner
thoroughly
recognized, we may sparingly vary with anapæsts (or, if the
rhythm
be trochaic, [page 137:] with dactyls). Spondees,
still
more sparingly, as absolute discords, may be also introduced either in
an iambic or trochaic rhythm. In common with a very large majority of
American,
and, indeed, of European poets, Mrs. Smith seems to be totally
unacquainted
with the principles of versification — by which, of course, we mean its
rationale. Of technical rules on the subject
there are rather
more than enough in our prosodies, and from these abundant rules are
deduced
the abundant blunders of our poets. There is not a prosody in existence
which is worth the paper on which it is printed.
Of the miscellaneous poems included
in the volume
before us, we greatly prefer "The Summons Answered." It has more of power,
more of genuine imagination than anything written by its author. It is
a story of three "bacchanals," who, on their way from the scene of
their
revelry, are arrested by the beckoning of a white hand from the
partially
unclosing door of a tomb. One of the party obeys the summons. It is the
tomb of his wife. We quote the two concluding stanzas.
This restless life with its little
fears,
Its hopes that fade so soon,
With its yearning tenderness and tears,
And the burning agony that sears —
The sun gone down at noon —
The spirit crushed to its prison wall,
Mindless of all beside —
This young Richard saw, and felt it all —
Well might the dead abide!
The crimson light in the east is high,
The hoar-frost coldly gleams,
And Richard chilled to the heart well-nigh,
Hath raised his wildered and bloodshot eye
From that long night of dreams.
He shudders to think of the reckless band
And the fearful oath he swore —
But most he thinks of the clay-cold hand,
That opened the old tomb door. |
With the quotation of these really noble passages —
noble, because full of the truest poetic energy — we take leave of the
fair authoress. She is entitled, beyond doubt, to all, and perhaps to
much
more than the commendation she has received. Her faults are among the
peccadilloes,
and her merits among the sterling excellencies of the muse. |
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