E570200A. Aurora Leigh (New York, 1857).
The New Englander, February 1857, pp. 159–161.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 24, 274–275.
We would prelude this notice, by affirming, that we believe a woman can write poetry, and are not accustomed to prejudge her productions with a denial of her capacity in the noblest efforts. It is now many years, since we were sharply criticized for asserting that Mrs. Hemans rivaled the most tuneful bards in the melodious rhythm of her verses; but the criticism did not alter our conviction. Mrs. Browning labors, as we think, under unnecessary apprehension that her poem will not be properly estimated, because she is a woman. Her tone rises at places almost into a shrewish bitterness, when railing at the intolerance of the other sex, who think that the female mind is only capable of pretty stanzas, but could never compose an epic. The surest method of destroying such a prejudice is to create the poem, and then wait till death, in silent patience, as blind Milton did, for the verdict of the future.
Our first acquaintance with this poet, was a publication entitled, “The drama of Exile, and other poems,” which we undertook to read aloud to a gentle and loving listener, when leisure was a larger property than it has been of late. We were surprised by the splendor of metaphors, and the vigorous thought which flashed in meteoric glare, but must confess that there was a firmament behind, dark beyond our comprehension; and while we read we mused and considered, and gave over in despair, as if we had seen a blazing fireball, shooting athwart a cloudy sky at midnight, and followed with a deeper blackness, and a sense of profound grandeur—if we had only eyes to pierce the darkness, or there had shone out constellations. Since then, we have only known of Mrs. Browning by certain beautiful Christian hymns, not devoid of mysticism, but worthy of fame, and elevating the sentiment of the devout believer in the New Testament. When we opened this poem, it was like unclasping a volume of the Sybil, hardly knowing what to expect. Our attention was arrested by the simplicity of the introduction, and we were soon engrossed in the tale of feelings and incidents which belong to our common humanity. The story is the narrative of an orphan girl of genius, who educated by a maiden aunt, was again thrown on the world in budding womanhood, by the sudden demise of her rigid protectress. She rejects her cousin Romney Leigh; and their several fortunes, until they finally meet and wed in Italy, constitute the plot of the poem. Mrs. Browning weaves upon this thread, vivid descriptions of English character and circumstances, and selects from every passion of the human heart for her colors. The woman of [p. 160→] fashion and the woman of vilest habit are brought together; while the noblest and meanest emotions which stir the soul are depicted in action. The poem contains choice word-pictures, that Shakespeare himself might not blush to own, and sarcasm that Juvenal would have admired.
But underneath this, the writer attempts to solve the problem of earthly life, and its duty in connection with social evils. The heroine, Aurora, is the artist, representing the ideal; Romney is the philanthropist, the reformer, representing the practical; and their wedlock is the explanation of the harmony between these spiritual agencies, when each learns to rest content in patient service, trusting the good Lord to make their toil effectual. In portions of the poem, we became involved in the labyrinth which perplexed us in the earlier production; and we confess our inability to perceive the exact sense of some discussions, although we venture the remark with timidity, as a female friend assured us that it was very plain, and that she understood it all, and found it truthful.
We suggest that for a sincere believer in the Gospel of Christ, Mrs. Browning does not attach enough importance to the divine energy of this religion, operating upon and through the human soul; wherein the real harmony of these opposite principles is discovered, and in whose service the love of the true, and the salvation of the needy and abandoned, are perfectly blended.
The limits of a notice preclude extended quotations, but we must give the reader a glimpse of some of the lesser beauties in this noble production. Listen to the yearning of a woman’s soul, in this sweet passage:
I might have been a common woman now,
And happier, less known and less left alone;
Perhaps a better woman after all,—
With chubby children hanging on my neck
To keep me low and wise. Ah! me, the vines
That bear such fruit, are proud to stoop with it,
The palm stands upright in a realm of sand.
The delicate accuracy of this picture is worthy of a Flemish artist:
I dared to rest, or wander,—like a rest
Made sweeter for the step upon the grass,—
And view the ground’s most gentle dimplement,
(As if God’s finger touched but did not press
In making England)! Such an up and down
Of verdure,—nothing too much up or down,
A ripple of land; such little hills, the sky
Can stoop to tenderly, and the wheat fields climb; [p. 161→]
Such nooks of valleys, lined with orchises,
Fed full of noises by invisible streams;
And open pastures, where you scarcely tell
White daisies from white dew,—at intervals
The mythic oaks and elm trees standing-out
Self-poised upon their prodigy of shade;—
I thought my father’s land was worthy too
Of being my Shakespeare’s.
The ring of a sublime truth vibrates in these lines, as the tone of a cathedral bell summoning to worship.
Get leave to work
In this world,—’tis the best you get at all;
For God, in cursing, gives us better gifts
Than men in benediction. God says, “Sweat
For foreheads;” men say “crowns,” and so we are crowned,—
Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle of steel
Which snaps with a secret spring. Get work; get work;
Be sure ’tis better than what you work to get.
One other extract must suffice, which breathes the Christian love for the forsaken:—
“Poor child,”
He said, with such a pity in his voice,
It soothed her more than her own tears,—poor child!
’Tis simple that betrayal by mother’s love
Should bring despair of God’s too. Yet be taught
He’s better to us than many mothers are,
And children cannot wander beyond reach
Of the sweep of his white raiment. Touch and hold,
And if you weep still, weep where John was laid
While Jesus loved him.”
We need not urge our readers, after this glimpse, to read the entire poem. The American reprint is issued by an arrangement between the publishers and the author; and we hope that her expressed wish will protect them against rival editions. Mrs. Browning stands in the first rank of living poets.
Reviewed:
Aurora Leigh (EBB), New York: C.S. Francis & Co., 1857.
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