Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 64, No. 398, December 1848
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But if she loved in nature, pre-eminently, the beautiful and the serene – or what she could represent as such to her imagination – it was otherwise with human life. Here the stream of thought ran always in the shade, reflecting in a thousand shapes the sadness which had overshadowed her own existence. Yet her sadness was without bitterness or impatience – it was a resigned and Christian melancholy; and if the spirit of man is represented as tossed from disappointment to disappointment, there is always a brighter and serener world behind, to receive the wanderer at last. She writes Songs for Summer Hours, and the first is devoted to Death! and a beautiful chant it is. Death is also in Arcadia; and the first thing we meet with in the land of summer is the marble tomb with the "Et in Arcadia Ego." One might be excused for applying to herself her own charming song, —
A WANDERING FEMALE SINGERThou hast loved and thou hast suffered!Unto feeling deep and strong,Thou hast trembled like a harp's frail string —I know it by thy song!Thou hast loved – it may be vainly —But well – oh! but too well —Thou hast suffered all that woman's heartMay bear – but must not tell.Thou hast wept and thou hast parted,Thou hast been forsaken long;Thou hast watch'd for steps that came not back —I know it by thy song!By its fond and plaintive lingeringOn each word of grief so long,Oh! thou hast loved and suffered much —I know it by thy song!But with this mournful spirit we have no quarrel. It is, as we have said, without a grain of bitterness; it loves to associate itself with all things beautiful in nature; it makes the rose its emblem. It does so in the following lines to
THE SHADOW OF A FLOWER'Twas a dream of olden days,That Art, by some strange power,The visionary form could raiseFrom the ashes of a flower:That a shadow of the rose,By its own meek beauty bowed,Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose,Like pictures in a cloud. . . . . .A fair, yet mournful thing!For the glory of the bloomThat a flush around it shed,And the soul within, the rich perfume,Where were they? – fled, all fled!Naught but the dim, faint lineTo speak of vanished hours —Memory! what are joys of thine?Shadows of buried flowers!We should be disposed to dwell entirely on the shorter pieces of Mrs Hemans, but this would hardly be just. There is one of her more ambitious efforts which, at all events, seems to demand a word from us. The Vespers of Palermo is not perhaps the most popular, even of her longer productions – it is certainly written in what is just now the most unpopular form – yet it appears to us one of the most vigorous efforts of her genius. It has this advantage too – it can be happily alluded to without the necessity of detailing the plot – always a wearisome thing, to both the critic, and the reader: every body knows the real tragedy of the Sicilian Vespers. The drama is unpopular as a form of composition, because the written play is still considered as a production, the chief object of which is missed if it is not acted; and the acting of plays is going into desuetude. When the acting of tragedies shall be entirely laid aside, (as it bids fair to be,) – that is, as an ordinary amusement of the more refined and cultivated classes of society – and the drama shall become merely a class of literature, like all others, for private perusal – then its popularity, as a form of composition, will probably revive. For there is one order of poetry – and that the more severe and manly – which seems almost to require this form. When an author, careless of description, or not called to it by his genius, is exclusively bent on portraying character and passion, and those deeper opinions and reflections which passion stirs from the recesses of the human mind, the drama seems the only form natural for him to employ.
The opinion we have ventured to express on the inevitable decease of the acting drama – of tragic representations – as a general amusement of an age increasing in refinement, will probably subject us, in certain quarters, to an indignant reproof. Shakspeare, and the legitimate drama! seems, with some, to have all the sacredness of a national cause. Shakspeare, by all means – Shakspeare for ever! eternally! – only we would rather read him – if we could creep up there – with little Felicia Browne, in the apple-tree. Shakspeare supports the stage – so far as it remains supported – not the stage Shakspeare. And can he support it long? Consider what sort of amusement it is which tragic representation affords – for of comedy we say nothing – consider that it must either thrill us with emotions of a most violent order, (which the civilised man in general avoids), or it becomes one of the saddest platitudes in the world. Your savage can support prolonged ennui, and delights in excitement approaching to madness; your civilised man can tolerate neither one nor the other. Now your tragedy deals largely in both. It knows no medium. Every body has felt that, whether owing to the actor or the poet, the moment the interest of the piece is no longer at its height, it becomes intolerable. You are to be either moved beyond all self-control, which is not very desirable, or you are to sit in lamentable sufferance. In short, you are to be driven out of your senses, one way or the other. Depend upon it, it is a species of amusement which, however associated with great names – though Garrick acted, and Dr Johnson looked on – is destined, like the bull-fights of Spain, or the gladiatorial combats of old Rome, to fall before the advancing spirit of civilisation.
But to Mrs Hemans' Vespers of Palermo. It was not the natural bent of genius which led her to the selection of the dramatic form; and when we become thoroughly acquainted with her temperament, and the feelings she loved to indulge, we are rather surprised that she performed the task she undertook with so much spirit, and so large a measure of success, than that she falls short in some parts of her performance. Nothing can be better conceived, or more admirably sustained, than the character of Raimond de Procida. The elder Procida, and the dark revengeful Montalba, are not so successfully treated. We feel that she has designed these figures with sufficient propriety, but she has not animated them; she could not draw from within those fierce emotions which were to infuse life into them. The effort to sympathise, even in imagination, with such characters, was a violence to her nature. The noble and virtuous heroism of the younger Procida was, on the contrary, no other than the overflow of her own genuine feeling. Few modern dramas present more spirit-stirring scenes, than those in which Raimond takes the leading part. Two of those we would particularly mention – one when, on joining the patriot-conspirators, and learning the mode in which they intended to free their country, he refuses, even for so great an object, to stain his soul with assassination and murder; and the other, where, towards the close of the piece, he is imprisoned by the more successful conspirators – is condemned to die for imputed treachery to their cause, and hears that the battle for his country, for which his spirit had so longed, is going forward. We cannot refrain from making a quotation from both these parts of the drama. We shall take the liberty of omitting some lines, in order to compress our extracts.
The conspirators have met, and proclaimed their intended scheme —
Sicilians. Be it so!If one amongst us stay the avenging steelFor love or pity, be his doom as theirs!Pledge we our faith to this.Raim. (rushing forward indignantly.) Our faith to this!No! I but dreamt I heard it: Can it be?My countrymen, my father! – Is it thusThat freedom should be won? – Awake! – awakeTo loftier thoughts! – Lift up, exultingly,On the crowned heights, and to the sweeping winds,Your glorious banner! – Let your trumpet's blastMake the tombs thrill with echoes! Call aloud,Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bearThe stranger's yoke no longer! – What is heWho carries on his practised lip a smile,Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waitsTill the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings?That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from,And our blood curdle at – ay, yours and mine —A murderer! Heard ye? – Shall that name with oursGo down to after days?Mont. I tell thee, youth,Our souls are parched with agonising thirst,Which must be quenched though death were in the draught:We must have vengeance, for our foes have leftNo other joy unblighted.Pro. O, my son!The time has passed for such high dreams as thine:Thou knowest not whom we deal with. We must meetFalsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge.And, for our names – whate'er the deeds by whichWe burst our bondage – is it not enoughThat, in the chronicle of days to come,We, through a bright "For ever," shall be calledThe men who saved their country.Raim. Many a landHath bowed beneath the yoke, and then arisen,As a strong lion rending silken bonds,And on the open field, before high heaven,Won such majestic vengeance as hath madeIts name a power on earth.Mon. Away! when thou dost standOn this fair earth as doth a blasted tree,Which the warm sun revives not, then returnStrong in thy desolation; but till then,Thou art not for our purpose; – we have needOf more unshrinking hearts.Raim. Montalba! know,I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voiceMight yet have power among you, I would say,Associates, leaders, be avenged! but yetAs knights, as warriors!Mon. Peace! Have we not borneTh'indelible taint of contumely and chains?We are not knights and warriors: Our bright crestsHave been defiled and trampled to the earth.Boy! we are slaves – and our revenge shall beDeep as a slave's disgrace.Raim. Why, then, farewell:I leave you to your counsels. What proud hopesThis hour hath blighted! – yet, whate'er betide,It is a noble privilege to look upFearless in heaven's bright face – and this is mine,And shall be still. [Exit.Our other extract is from a later scene in the drama, which we think very happily conceived. Raimond, accused of treachery, and condemned to die by his own father, is in chains and in prison. The day of his execution has arrived, but the Sicilians are called on to give battle before their gates; he is left alone, respited, or rather forgotten, for the present. His alternation of feeling, as he at first attempts to respond to the consolations of the priest Anselmo, and then, on hearing of the battle that is being fought for his country, breaks out into all that ardent love of glory, which was the main passion of his soul, is very admirably expressed.
Ans. But thou, my son!Is thy young spirit mastered, and preparedFor nature's fearful and mysterious change?Raim. Ay, father! of my brief remaining taskThe least part is to die! And yet the cupOf life still mantled brightly to my lips,Crowned with that sparkling bubble, whose proud nameIs – glory! Oh! my soul from boyhood's mornHath nursed such mighty dreams! It was my hopeTo leave a name, whose echo from the abyssOf time should rise, and float upon the windsInto the far hereafter; there to beA trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb,Murmuring – Awake, Arise! But this is past!Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shameTo sleep forgotten in the dust; but now,Oh God! the undying record of my graveWill be – Here sleeps a traitor! One whose crimeWas – to deem brave men might find nobler weaponsThan the cold murderer's dagger!Ans. O my son!Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst not changeThy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams will hangThe avenging shadows, which the blood-stained soulDoth conjure from the dead!Raim. Thou'rt right. I would not.Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart,Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spiritInto that still and passive fortitudeWhich is but learned from suffering. Would the hourTo hush these passionate throbbings were at hand!Ans. It will not be to-day. The foe hath reachedOur gates, and all Palermo's youth, and allHer warrior men, are marshalled and gone forth.Thy father leads them on.Raim. (starting up.) They are gone forth!my father leads them on!All – all Palermo's youth! No! one is left,Shut out from glory's race! They are gone forth!Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad —It burns upon the air! The joyous windsAre tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foamOf battle's roaring billows! On my sightThe vision bursts – it maddens! 'tis the flash,The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloudOf rushing arrows, and the broad full blazeOf helmets in the sun! Such things areEven now – and I am here!Ans. Alas, be calm!To the same grave ye press – thou that dost pineBeneath a weight of chains, and they that ruleThe fortunes of the fight.Raim. Ay, thou canst feelThe calm thou wouldst impart, for unto theeAll men alike, the warrior and the slave,Seem, as thou say'st, but pilgrims, pressing onTo the same bourne.Vittoria, who had taken a leading part in the conspiracy, now rushes in, bringing the intelligence that the Sicilians are worsted – are in flight. Procida still strives —
But all in vain! The few that breast the storm,With Guido and Montalba, by his side,Fight but for graves upon the battle-field.Raim. And I am here! Shall there be power, O God!In the roused energies of fierce despair.To burst my heart – and not to rend my chains?Vittoria, however, gives orders for his release, and he rushes forth to the field, where he turns the tide of battle, and earns that glorious death he sighed for.
The failure of the play at Covent Garden theatre was attributed, amongst the friends of the authoress, to the indifferent acting of the lady who performed the part of Constance. In justice to the actress, we must confess she had a most difficult part to deal with. There is not a single speech set down for Constance, which, we think, the most skilful recitation could make effective. The failure of Mrs Hemans, in this part of the drama, is not very easily accounted for. Constance is a gentle, affectionate spirit, in love with the younger Procida, and the unfortunate cause of the suspicion that falls upon him of being a traitor. It is a character which, in her lyrical effusions, she would have beautifully portrayed. But we suppose that the exclusion from her favourite haunts of nature – the inability of investing the grief of her heroine in her accustomed associations of woods, and fields, and flowers – the confinement of her imagination to what would be suitable to the boards of a theatre – embarrassed and cramped her powers. Certain it is, she seems quite at a loss here to express a strain of feeling which, on other occasions, she has poured out with singular fluency and force. Constance has no other manner of exhibiting her distress but swooning or dreaming, or thinking she must have been dreaming, and recovering herself to the remembrance of what no mortal so situated could ever have forgotten – the most common, and, to our taste, one of the most unfortunate expedients that dramatists and novelists have recourse to. We are loath to quote any thing half so uninteresting as instances of this practice; we shall content ourselves with giving, in a note below, two brief passages to exemplify what we mean.1
It ought to be borne in remembrance, however, that the Vespers of Palermo, although not the "first" with respect to publication, was the first written of Mrs Hemans' dramatic works. It was produced in solitude, and away from the bustle of theatres, and, be it also confessed, probably with a very scanty knowledge of what stage-representation required. Indeed, the result proved this to be the case. The Siege of Valencia, written on a different principle, although probably even less adapted for stage representation, possesses loftier claims as a composition, and, as a poem, is decidedly superior. Its pervading fault consists in its being pitched on too high a key. All the characters talk in heroics – every sentiment is strained to the utmost; and the prevailing tone of the author's mind characterises the whole. We do not say that it is deficient in nature – it overflows alike with power and tenderness; but its nature is too high for the common purposes of humanity. The wild, stern enthusiasm of the priest – the inflexibility of the father – the wavering of the mother between duty and affection – the heroic devotion of the gentle Ximena, are all well brought out; but there is a want of individuality – the want of that, without which elaboration for the theatre is vain, and with which, compositions of very inferior merit often attract attention, and secure it.
Passing over Sebastian of Portugal, and the two or three sketches in the Scenes and Hymns of Life, as of minor importance, De Chatillon is the only other regular drama that Mrs Hemans subsequently attempted. Unfortunately for her, the Vespers, although long prior in point of composition, had not been brought out when the Siege of Valencia was written; and, consequently, she could not benefit by the fate and failure which was destined for that drama. This is much to be lamented, for De Chatillon, as a play, far exceeds either in power and interest. The redundancies in imagery and description, the painting instead of acting, which were the weaker side of its precursors, were here corrected. It is unfortunate that it wanted the benefit of her last corrections, as it was not published till some years after her death, and from the first rough draft – the amended one, which had been made from it, having been unfortunately lost. But, imperfect in many respects as it may be found to be, it is beyond compare the best and most successful composition of the author in this department. Without stripping her language of that richness and poetic grace which characterises her genius, or condescending to a single passage of mean baldness, so commonly mistaken by many modern dramatists as essentially necessary to the truth of dialogue, she has in this attempt preserved adherence to reality, amid scenes allied to romance; brevity and effect, in situations strongly alluring to amplification; and, in her delineation of some of the strongest as well as the finest emotions of the heart, she has exhibited a knowledge of nature's workings, remarkable alike for minuteness and truth.
When we consider the doubtful success which attended the only drama of Mrs Hemans which was brought out, we cannot wonder that she latterly abandoned this species of writing, and confined herself to what she must have felt as much more accordant with her own impulses. The most laboured of all her writings was The Forest Sanctuary, and it would appear that, in her own estimation, it was considered her best. Not so we. It has many passages of exquisite description, and it breathes throughout an exalted spirit; but withal it is monotonous in sentiment, and possesses not the human interest which ought to have attached to it, as a tale of suffering. To us The Last Constantine, which appears to have attracted much less attention, is in many respects a finer and better poem. Few things, indeed, in our literature, can be quoted as more perfect than the picture of heroic and Christian courage, which, amid the ruins of his empire, sustained the last of the Cæsars. The weight of the argument is sustained throughout. The reader feels as if breathing a finer and purer atmosphere, above the low mists and vapours of common humanity; and he rises from the perusal of the poem alike with an admiration of its hero and its author.
The Last Constantine may be considered as the concluding great effort of Mrs Hemans, in what of her writings may be said to belong to the classical school. She seems here first to have felt her own power, and, leaving precept and example, and the leading-strings of her predecessors, to have allowed her muse to soar adventurously forth. The Tales and Historic Scenes, the Sceptic, Dartmoor, and Modern Greece, are all shaped according to the same model – the classical. The study of modern German poetry, and of Wordsworth, changed, while it expanded, her views; and the Forest Sanctuary seems to have been composed with great elaboration, doubtless, while in this transition state. In matter it is too flimsy and etherial for a tale of life; it has too much sentiment and too little action. But some things in it it would be difficult to rival. The scenery of Southern America is painted with a gorgeousness which reminds us of the Isle of Palms and its fairy bowers; and the death and burial at sea is imbued with a serene and soul-subduing beauty.
Diminishing space warns us to betake ourselves again to the lyrics and shorter pieces, where so much poetry "of purest ray serene" lies scattered. Of these we prefer such as are apparently the expressions of spontaneous feelings of her own to those which are built upon some tale or legend. It happens too, unfortunately, that in the latter case we have first to read the legend or fable in prose, and then to read it again in verse. This gives something of weariness to the Lays of Many Lands. Still less fortunate, we think, is the practice Mrs Hemans indulges in of ushering in a poem of her own by a long quotation – a favourite stanza, perhaps – of some celebrated poet. We may possibly read the favourite stanza twice, and feel reluctant to proceed further. For instance, she quotes the beautiful and well-known passage from Childe Harold upon the spring, ending with —
I turned from all she brought to all she could not bring;
and on another occasion, that general favourite, beginning —
And slight, withal, may be the things which bring;
and then proceeds to enlarge upon the same sentiments. Her own strain that follows is good – but not so good. Is it wise to provoke the comparison? – and does it not give a certain frivolity, and the air of a mere exercise, to the verse which only repeats, and modifies, and varies, so to speak, the melody that has been already given? Or if the quotation set out with is looked on as a mere prelude, is it good policy to run the risk of the prelude being more interesting than the strain itself? The beautiful passage from Southey —
They sin who tell us love can die, &c.,
is too long to be quoted as merely a key-note to what is to follow, and is too good to be easily surpassed.
But this is a trifling remark, and hardly deserving of even the little space we have given to it. It is more worthy of observation, that Mrs Hemans, a reader and admirer of German poetry, contrived to draw a deep inspiration from this noble literature, without any disturbance to her principles of taste. A careful perusal of her works, by one acquainted with the lyrical poetry of Germany, will prove how well and how wisely she had studied that poetry – drawing from it just that deeper spirit of reflection which would harmonise with her own mind, without being tempted to imitate what, either in thought or in manner, would have been foreign to her nature.