every fibre of my heart. The world stood still when I thought of him; it
moved heavily at best, with one whose very constitution seemed to mark
her out for misery. But I will not dwell on the passion I too fondly
nursed. One only refuge had I on earth; I could not resolutely desolate
the scene my fancy flew to, when worldly cares, when a knowledge of
mankind, which my circumstances forced on me, rendered every other
insipid. I was afraid of the unmarked vacuity of common life; yet, though
I supinely indulged myself in fairy-land, when I ought to have been more
actively employed, virtue was still the first mover of my actions; she
dressed my love in such enchanting colours, and spread the net I could
never break. Our corresponding feelings confounded our very souls; and
in many conversations we almost intuitively discerned each other's
sentiments; the heart opened itself, not chilled by reserve, nor afraid
of misconstruction. But, if virtue inspired love, love gave new energy to
virtue, and absorbed every selfish passion. Never did even a wish escape
me, that my lover should not fulfil the hard duties which fate had
imposed on him. I only dissembled with him in one particular; I
endeavoured to soften his wife's too conspicuous follies, and extenuated
her failings in an indirect manner. To this I was prompted by a loftiness
of spirit; I should have broken the band of life, had I ceased to respect
myself. But I will hasten to an important change in my circumstances.
My mother, who had concealed the real state of her affairs from me, was
now impelled to make me her confident, that I might assist to discharge
her mighty debt of gratitude. The merchant, my more than father, had
privately assisted her: but a fatal civil-war reduced his large property
to a bare competency; and an inflammation in his eyes, that arose from a
cold he had caught at a wreck, which he watched during a stormy night to
keep off the lawless colliers, almost deprived him of sight. His life had
been spent in society, and he scarcely knew how to fill the void; for his
spirit would not allow him to mix with his former equals as an humble
companion; he who had been treated with uncommon respect, could not brook
their insulting pity. From the resource of solitude, reading, the
complaint in his eyes cut him off, and he became our constant visitor.
Actuated by the sincerest affection, I used to read to him, and he
mistook my tenderness for love. How could I undeceive him, when every
circumstance frowned on him! Too soon I found that I was his only
comfort; I, who rejected his hand when fortune smiled, could not now
second her blow; and, in a moment of enthusiastic gratitude and tender
compassion, I offered him my hand.--It was received with pleasure;
transport was not made for his soul; nor did he discover that nature had
separated us, by making me alive to such different sensations. My mother
was to live with us, and I dwelt on this circumstance to banish cruel
recollections, when the bent bow returned to its former state.
With a bursting heart and a firm voice, I named the day when I was to
seal my promise. It came, in spite of my regret; I had been previously
preparing myself for the awful ceremony, and answered the solemn question
with a resolute tone, that would silence the dictates of my heart; it was
a forced, unvaried one; had nature modulated it, my secret would have
escaped. My active spirit was painfully on the watch to repress every
tender emotion. The joy in my venerable parent's countenance, the
tenderness of my husband, as he conducted me home, for I really had a
sincere affection for him, the gratulations of my mind, when I thought
that this sacrifice was heroic, all tended to deceive me; but the joy of
victory over the resigned, pallid look of my lover, haunted my
imagination, and fixed itself in the centre of my brain.--Still I
imagined, that his spirit was near me, that he only felt sorrow for my
loss, and without complaint resigned me to my duty.
I was left alone a moment; my two elbows rested on a table to support my
chin. Ten thousand thoughts darted with astonishing velocity through my
mind. My eyes were dry; I was on the brink of madness. At this moment a
strange association was made by my imagination; I thought of Gallileo,
who when he left the inquisition, looked upwards, and cried out, "Yet it
moves." A shower of tears, like the refreshing drops of heaven, relieved
my parched sockets; they fell disregarded on the table; and, stamping
with my foot, in an agony I exclaimed, "Yet I love." My husband entered
before I had calmed these tumultuous emotions, and tenderly took my
hand. I snatched it from him; grief and surprise were marked on his
countenance; I hastily stretched it out again. My heart smote me, and I
removed the transient mist by an unfeigned endeavour to please him.
A few months after, my mind grew calmer; and, if a treacherous
imagination, if feelings many accidents revived, sometimes plunged me
into melancholy, I often repeated with steady conviction, that virtue was
not an empty name, and that, in following the dictates of duty, I had not
bidden adieu to content.
In the course of a few years, the dear object of my fondest affection,
said farewel, in dying accents. Thus left alone, my grief became dear;
and I did not feel solitary, because I thought I might, without a crime,
indulge a passion, that grew more ardent than ever when my imagination
only presented him to my view, and restored my former activity of soul
which the late calm had rendered torpid. I seemed to find myself again,
to find the eccentric warmth that gave me identity of character. Reason
had governed my conduct, but could not change my nature; this voluptuous
sorrow was superior to every gratification of sense, and death more
firmly united our hearts.
Alive to every human affection, I smoothed my mothers passage to
eternity, and so often gave my husband sincere proofs of affection, he
never supposed that I was actuated by a more fervent attachment. My
melancholy, my uneven spirits, he attributed to my extreme sensibility,
and loved me the better for possessing qualities he could not
comprehend.
At the close of a summer's day, some years after, I wandered with
careless steps over a pathless common; various anxieties had rendered the
hours which the sun had enlightened heavy; sober evening came on; I
wished to still "my mind, and woo lone quiet in her silent walk." The
scene accorded with my feelings; it was wild and grand; and the spreading
twilight had almost confounded the distant sea with the barren, blue
hills that melted from my sight. I sat down on a rising ground; the rays
of the departing sun illumined the horizon, but so indistinctly, that I
anticipated their total extinction. The death of Nature led me to a still
more interesting subject, that came home to my bosom, the death of him I
loved. A village-bell was tolling; I listened, and thought of the moment
when I heard his interrupted breath, and felt the agonizing fear, that
the same sound would never more reach my ears, and that the intelligence
glanced from my eyes, would no more be felt. The spoiler had seized his
prey; the sun was fled, what was this world to me! I wandered to another,
where death and darkness could not enter; I pursued the sun beyond the
mountains, and the soul escaped from this vale of tears. My reflections
were tinged with melancholy, but they were sublime.--I grasped a mighty
whole, and smiled on the king of terrors; the tie which bound me to my
friends he could not break; the same mysterious knot united me to the
source of all goodness and happiness. I had seen the divinity reflected
in a face I loved; I had read immortal characters displayed on a human
countenance, and forgot myself whilst I gazed. I could not think of
immortality, without recollecting the ecstacy I felt, when my heart first
whispered to me that I was beloved; and again did I feel the sacred tie
of mutual affection; fervently I prayed to the father of mercies; and
rejoiced that he could see every turn of a heart, whose movements I could
not perfectly understand. My passion seemed a pledge of immortality; I
did not wish to hide it from the all-searching eye of heaven. Where
indeed could I go from his presence? and, whilst it was dear to me,
though darkness might reign during the night of life, joy would come when
I awoke to life everlasting.
I now turned my step towards home, when the appearance of a girl, who
stood weeping on the common, attracted my attention. I accosted her, and
soon heard her simple tale; that her father was gone to sea, and her
mother sick in bed. I followed her to their little dwelling, and relieved
the sick wretch. I then again sought my own abode; but death did not now
haunt my fancy. Contriving to give the poor creature I had left more
effectual relief, I reached my own garden-gate very weary, and rested on
it.--Recollecting the turns of my mind during the walk, I exclaimed,
Surely life may thus be enlivened by active benevolence, and the sleep of
death, like that I am now disposed to fall into, may be sweet!
My life was now unmarked by any extraordinary change, and a few days ago
I entered this cavern; for through it every mortal must pass; and here I
have discovered, that I neglected many opportunities of being useful,
whilst I fostered a devouring flame. Remorse has not reached me, because
I firmly adhered to my principles, and I have also discovered that I saw
through a false medium. Worthy as the mortal was I adored, I should not
long have loved him with the ardour I did, had fate united us, and broken
the delusion the imagination so artfully wove. His virtues, as they now
do, would have extorted my esteem; but he who formed the human soul, only
can fill it, and the chief happiness of an immortal being must arise from
the same source as its existence. Earthly love leads to heavenly, and
prepares us for a more exalted state; if it does not change its nature,
and destroy itself, by trampling on the virtue, that constitutes its
essence, and allies us to the Deity.
ON
POETRY,
AND
OUR RELISH FOR THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE.
ON
POETRY, &c.
A TASTE for rural scenes, in the present state of society, appears to be
very often an artificial sentiment, rather inspired by poetry and
romances, than a real perception of the beauties of nature. But, as it is
reckoned a proof of refined taste to praise the calm pleasures which the
country affords, the theme is never exhausted. Yet it may be made a
question, whether this romantic kind of declamation, has much effect on
the conduct of those, who leave, for a season, the crowded cities in
which they were bred.
I have been led to these reflections, by observing, when I have resided
for any length of time in the country, how few people seem to contemplate
nature with their own eyes. I have "brushed the dew away" in the morning;
but, pacing over the printless grass, I have wondered that, in such
delightful situations, the sun was allowed to rise in solitary majesty,
whilst my eyes alone hailed its beautifying beams. The webs of the
evening have still been spread across the hedged path, unless some
labouring man, trudging to work, disturbed the fairy structure; yet, in
spite of this supineness, when I joined the social circle, every tongue
rang changes on the pleasures of the country.
Having frequently had occasion to make the same observation, I was led to
endeavour, in one of my solitary rambles, to trace the cause, and
likewise to enquire why the poetry written in the infancy of society, is
most natural: which, strictly speaking (for _natural_ is a very
indefinite expression) is merely to say, that it is the transcript of
immediate sensations, in all their native wildness and simplicity, when
fancy, awakened by the sight of interesting objects, was most actively at
work. At such moments, sensibility quickly furnishes similes, and the
sublimated spirits combine images, which rising spontaneously, it is not
necessary coldly to ransack the understanding or memory, till the
laborious efforts of judgment exclude present sensations, and damp the
fire of enthusiasm.
The effusions of a vigorous mind, will ever tell us how far the
understanding has been enlarged by thought, and stored with knowledge.
The richness of the soil even appears on the surface; and the result of
profound thinking, often mixing, with playful grace, in the reveries of
the poet, smoothly incorporates with the ebullitions of animal spirits,
when the finely fashioned nerve vibrates acutely with rapture, or when,
relaxed by soft melancholy, a pleasing languor prompts the long-drawn
sigh, and feeds the slowly falling tear.
The poet, the man of strong feelings, gives us only an image of his mind,
when he was actually alone, conversing with himself, and marking the
impression which nature had made on his own heart.--If, at this sacred
moment, the idea of some departed friend, some tender recollection when
the soul was most alive to tenderness, intruded unawares into his
thoughts, the sorrow which it produced is artlessly, yet poetically
expressed--and who can avoid sympathizing?
Love to man leads to devotion--grand and sublime images strike the
imagination--God is seen in every floating cloud, and comes from the
misty mountain to receive the noblest homage of an intelligent
creature--praise. How solemn is the moment, when all affections and
remembrances fade before the sublime admiration which the wisdom and
goodness of God inspires, when he is worshipped in a _temple not made
with hands_, and the world seems to contain only the mind that formed,
and the mind that contemplates it! These are not the weak responses of
ceremonial devotion; nor, to express them, would the poet need another
poet's aid: his heart burns within him, and he speaks the language of
truth and nature with resistless energy.
Inequalities, of course, are observable in his effusions; and a less
vigorous fancy, with more taste, would have produced more elegance and
uniformity; but, as passages are softened or expunged during the cooler
moments of reflection, the understanding is gratified at the expence of
those involuntary sensations, which, like the beauteous tints of an
evening sky, are so evanescent, that they melt into new forms before they
can be analyzed. For however eloquently we may boast of our reason, man
must often be delighted he cannot tell why, or his blunt feelings are not
made to relish the beauties which nature, poetry, or any of the imitative
arts, afford.
The imagery of the ancients seems naturally to have been borrowed from
surrounding objects and their mythology. When a hero is to be transported
from one place to another, across pathless wastes, is any vehicle so
natural, as one of the fleecy clouds on which the poet has often gazed,
scarcely conscious that he wished to make it his chariot? Again, when
nature seems to present obstacles to his progress at almost every step,
when the tangled forest and steep mountain stand as barriers, to pass
over which the mind longs for supernatural aid; an interposing deity, who
walks on the waves, and rules the storm, severely felt in the first
attempts to cultivate a country, will receive from the impassioned fancy
"a local habitation and a name."
It would be a philosophical enquiry, and throw some light on the history
of the human mind, to trace, as far as our information will allow us to
trace, the spontaneous feelings and ideas which have produced the images
that now frequently appear unnatural, because they are remote; and
disgusting, because they have been servilely copied by poets, whose
habits of thinking, and views of nature must have been different; for,
though the understanding seldom disturbs the current of our present
feelings, without dissipating the gay clouds which fancy has been
embracing, yet it silently gives the colour to the whole tenour of them,
and the dream is over, when truth is grossly violated, or images
introduced, selected from books, and not from local manners or popular
prejudices.
In a more advanced state of civilization, a poet is rather the creature
of art, than of nature. The books that he reads in his youth, become a
hot-bed in which artificial fruits are produced, beautiful to the common
eye, though they want the true hue and flavour. His images do not arise
from sensations; they are copies; and, like the works of the painters who
copy ancient statues when they draw men and women of their own times, we
acknowledge that the features are fine, and the proportions just; yet
they are men of stone; insipid figures, that never convey to the mind the
idea of a portrait taken from life, where the soul gives spirit and
homogeneity to the whole. The silken wings of fancy are shrivelled by
rules; and a desire of attaining elegance of diction, occasions an
attention to words, incompatible with sublime, impassioned thoughts.
A boy of abilities, who has been taught the structure of verse at school,
and been roused by emulation to compose rhymes whilst he was reading
works of genius, may, by practice, produce pretty verses, and even become
what is often termed an elegant poet: yet his readers, without knowing
what to find fault with, do not find themselves warmly interested. In the
works of the poets who fasten on their affections, they see grosser
faults, and the very images which shock their taste in the modern; still
they do not appear as puerile or extrinsic in one as the
other.--Why?--because they did not appear so to the author.
It may sound paradoxical, after observing that those productions want
vigour, that are merely the work of imitation, in which the understanding
has violently directed, if not extinguished, the blaze of fancy, to
assert, that, though genius be only another word for exquisite
sensibility, the first observers of nature, the true poets, exercised
their understanding much more than their imitators. But they exercised it
to discriminate things, whilst their followers were busy to borrow
sentiments and arrange words.
Boys who have received a classical education, load their memory with
words, and the correspondent ideas are perhaps never distinctly
comprehended. As a proof of this assertion, I must observe, that I have
known many young people who could write tolerably smooth verses, and
string epithets prettily together, when their prose themes showed the
barrenness of their minds, and how superficial the cultivation must have
been, which their understanding had received.
Dr. Johnson, I know, has given a definition of genius, which would
overturn my reasoning, if I were to admit it.--He imagines, that _a
strong mind, accidentally led to some particular study_ in which it
excels, is a genius.--Not to stop to investigate the causes which
produced this happy _strength_ of mind, experience seems to prove, that
those minds have appeared most vigorous, that have pursued a study, after
nature had discovered a bent; for it would be absurd to suppose, that a
slight impression made on the weak faculties of a boy, is the fiat of
fate, and not to be effaced by any succeeding impression, or unexpected
difficulty. Dr. Johnson in fact, appears sometimes to be of the same
opinion (how consistently I shall not now enquire), especially when he
observes, "that Thomson looked on nature with the eye which she only
gives to a poet."
But, though it should be allowed that books may produce some poets, I
fear they will never be the poets who charm our cares to sleep, or extort
admiration. They may diffuse taste, and polish the language; but I am
inclined to conclude that they will seldom rouse the passions, or amend
the heart.
And, to return to the first subject of discussion, the reason why most
people are more interested by a scene described by a poet, than by a
view of nature, probably arises from the want of a lively imagination.
The poet contracts the prospect, and, selecting the most picturesque part
in his _camera_, the judgment is directed, and the whole force of the
languid faculty turned towards the objects which excited the most
forcible emotions in the poet's heart; the reader consequently feels the
enlivened description, though he was not able to receive a first
impression from the operations of his own mind.
Besides, it may be further observed, that gross minds are only to be
moved by forcible representations. To rouse the thoughtless, objects must
be presented, calculated to produce tumultuous emotions; the
unsubstantial, picturesque forms which a contemplative man gazes on, and
often follows with ardour till he is mocked by a glimpse of unattainable
excellence, appear to them the light vapours of a dreaming enthusiast,
who gives up the substance for the shadow. It is not within that they
seek amusement; their eyes are seldom turned on themselves; consequently
their emotions, though sometimes fervid, are always transient, and the
nicer perceptions which distinguish the man of genuine taste, are not
felt, or make such a slight impression as scarcely to excite any
pleasurable sensations. Is it surprising then that they are often
overlooked, even by those who are delighted by the same images
concentrated by the poet?
But even this numerous class is exceeded, by witlings, who, anxious to
appear to have wit and taste, do not allow their understandings or
feelings any liberty; for, instead of cultivating their faculties and
reflecting on their operations, they are busy collecting prejudices; and
are predetermined to admire what the suffrage of time announces as
excellent, not to store up a fund of amusement for themselves, but to
enable them to talk.
These hints will assist the reader to trace some of the causes why the
beauties of nature are not forcibly felt, when civilization, or rather
luxury, has made considerable advances--those calm sensations are not
sufficiently lively to serve as a relaxation to the voluptuary, or even
to the moderate pursuer of artificial pleasures. In the present state of
society, the understanding must bring back the feelings to nature, or the
sensibility must have such native strength, as rather to be whetted than
destroyed by the strong exercises of passion.
That the most valuable things are liable to the greatest perversion, is
however as trite as true:--for the same sensibility, or quickness of
senses, which makes a man relish the tranquil scenes of nature, when
sensation, rather than reason, imparts delight, frequently makes a
libertine of him, by leading him to prefer the sensual tumult of love a
little refined by sentiment, to the calm pleasures of affectionate
friendship, in whose sober satisfactions, reason, mixing her
tranquillizing convictions, whispers, that content, not happiness, is the
reward of virtue in this world.
HINTS.
[_Chiefly designed to have been incorporated in the Second Part of the_
Vindication of the Rights of Woman.]
HINTS.
1.
INDOLENCE is the source of nervous complaints, and a whole host of cares.
This devil might say that his name was legion.
2.
It should be one of the employments of women of fortune, to visit
hospitals, and superintend the conduct of inferiors.
3.
It is generally supposed, that the imagination of women is particularly
active, and leads them astray. Why then do we seek by education only to
exercise their imagination and feeling, till the understanding, grown
rigid by disuse, is unable to exercise itself--and the superfluous
nourishment the imagination and feeling have received, renders the former
romantic, and the latter weak?
4.
Few men have risen to any great eminence in learning, who have not
received something like a regular education. Why are women expected to
surmount difficulties that men are not equal to?
5.
Nothing can be more absurd than the ridicule of the critic, that the
heroine of his mock-tragedy was in love with the very man whom she ought
least to have loved; he could not have given a better reason. How can
passion gain strength any other way? In Otaheite, love cannot be known,
where the obstacles to irritate an indiscriminate appetite, and sublimate
the simple sensations of desire till they mount to passion, are never
known. There a man or woman cannot love the very person they ought not to
have loved--nor does jealousy ever fan the flame.
6.