These volumes, from the pen of Miss Barrett, would be a remarkable
publication at any time; but, in the present dearth of poetical genius,
their appearance is doubly welcome; their claims on our consideration
are doubly strong; and we cannot allow ourselves to pass them over
without some detailed notice of their contents. In spite of many
blemishes in point of execution, this lady's poems have left a very
favourable impression on our mind. If the poetess does not always
command our unqualified approbation, we are at all times disposed to
bend in reverence before the deep-hearted and highly accomplished
woman--a woman, whose powers appear to us to extend over a wider and
profounder range of thought and feeling, than ever before fell within
the intellectual compass of any of the softer sex.
If we might venture to divine this lady's moral and intellectual
character from the general tone of her writings, we should say, that
never did woman's mind dwell more habitually among the thoughts of a
solemn experience--never was woman's genius impressed more profoundly
with the earnestness of life, or sanctified more purely by the
overshadowing awfulness of death. She aspires to write as she has lived;
and certainly her poetry opens up many glimpses into the history of a
pure and profound heart which has felt and suffered much. At the same
time, a reflective cast of intellect lifts her feelings into a higher
and calmer region than that of ordinary sorrow. There are certain
delicate and felicitous peculiarities in the constitution of her
sensibilities, which frequently impart a rare and subtle originality to
emotions which are as old, and as widely diffused, as the primeval
curse. The spirit of her poetry appears to us to be eminently religious;
not because we think her very successful when she deals directly with
the mysteries of divine truth, but because she makes us feel, even when
handling the least sacred subjects, that we are in the presence of a
heart which, in its purity, sees God. In the writings of such a woman,
there must be much which is calculated to be a blessing and a benefit to
mankind. If her genius always found a suitable exponent in her style,
she would stand unrivaled, we think, among the poetesses of England.
But whether it be that Miss Barrett is afraid of degrading poetry to the
low rank of an _accomplishment_--whether it be that she has some
peculiar theory of her own on the subject of language, and on the mode
in which poetical emotions may be most felicitously expressed--whether
it be that nature has denied her the possession of a sound critical
judgment, or that she refuses to exercise it in the moment of
inspiration--whether it be that she considers the habit of pure and
polished composition an attainment of very secondary importance--or
whether it be that she has allowed herself to be infected by the
prevailing mannerisms of the day--certain it is, that there is a large
proportion of her poetry in which she has failed to add the graces of
good style and of careful versification to her other excellent
acquirements. That she can write pure English, and that she frequently
does so, is undeniable. In some of the extracts which we shall give, we
believe that the language could scarcely be improved. But we are
constrained to say, that her compositions are very often disfigured by
strained or slovenly modes of phraseology, which greatly detract from
their impressiveness, and which must materially injure the reputation of
their authoress, by turning away many hearts from the homage which they
otherwise would most willingly have rendered to her exalted genius.
Miss Barrett is a classical scholar. She surely knows that the great
works in which she delights have earned the epithet of _classical_, and
come recommended to the reverence of all mankind, solely in virtue of
the scrupulous propriety of their language; and because they are fitted
to serve as models of style to all succeeding generations. The purity of
their diction, and nothing else, has been their passport to immortality.
We cannot but lament that Miss Barrett has not provided more surely for
her future fame, by turning to their best account the lessons which the
masterpieces of antiquity are especially commissioned to teach.
Let it not be thought that we would counsel Miss Barrett, or any one
else, to propose these works to themselves as direct objects of
imitation. Far from it. Such directions would be very vague and
unmeaning, and might lead to the commission of the very errors which
they aimed at preventing. The words "purity and propriety of diction"
are themselves very vague words. Let us say, then, that a style which
goes at once to the point, which is felt to _get through business_, and
which carries with it no affectation, either real or apparent, is always
a good style; and that no other style is good. This is the quality which
may be generalized from the works of the great authors of all ages, as
the prime characteristic of all good writing. Their style is always
pregnant with a working activity--it impresses us with the feeling that
real work is done here. We fear not to say that Milton himself owes much
of his reputation to the peremptory and business-like vigour of his
style. He never beats about the bush--he never employs language which a
plain man would not have employed--if he could. The sublimity of
"Paradise Lost" is supported throughout by the direct force of its
language--language the most elaborate, but also the most to the point,
and the least fantastical, that ever fell from human lips. There are
difficulties to encounter in the abstract conception of the poem. The
naked argument does not at first recommend itself to our understanding.
It is not till we have vanquished those difficulties,--in which step we
are mainly assisted by the unparalleled execution of the work,--that all
our sympathies gravitate towards the mysterious theme.
Now if it be true that it requires all the force of a thoroughly
practical style to reconcile our affections to such remote and obscure
conceptions as the fall of man, the war of the rebellious angels, &c.,
it is peculiarly unfortunate that Miss Barrett, in her opening poem,
entitled a "Drama of Exile," should have ventured to tread on Miltonic
ground. For, while our feelings are naturally disposed to fly off at a
tangent from the vague and impalpable conceptions which form the staple
of her poem, the dreamy and unpractical character of her style makes
them fly still further from the subject. The force of her language is
not sufficient to bind down and rivet our sympathies to the theme; and
the lyrical portions of the drama, in particular, are so inarticulate,
that we are compelled to pronounce this composition--partial to it as
its authoress is--the least successful of her works.
But it is our wish to do full justice to Miss Barrett's extraordinary
merits, and to convey to our readers a favourable impression of her
powers; and therefore we shall say no more at present about the "Drama
of Exile," but shall turn our attention to some of the fairer and less
questionable manifestations of her genius. We shall commence with her
sonnets; for these appear to us to be by far the most finished of her
compositions in point of style; and in depth and purity of sentiment, we
think that they surpass any thing she has ever written, with the
exception of the poem entitled "Bertha in the Lane," which we shall
quote hereafter. As our first specimen, we select one which she entitles