# Characteristics of the Genius and Writings of L. E. L./Concluding Remarks

Concluding Remarks:
L. E. L.'s Knowledge of the World, and Representations of Human Life.
The Extracts we have interspersed through these Essays, though necessarily few and detached, are, we trust, sufficient proofs of the truth of our own imperfect observations, founded on a careful analysis of L. E. L.'s Poetical and Prose writings. They will also afford evidence, where such may be needed, of her rich dower of genius, and its varied manifestations. From the whole survey arises the conviction, that the distinguishing feature of her works is the extensive knowledge of human nature, whether in its more ideal forms, or in its ordinary developments of everyday life and character. The chambers of imagery in her own mind were evidently peopled with the varied creations that spring from and bear the impress of life's vicissitudes—of fiery trial, or wearying endurance—of the heart's deep emotions, with the soul's lofty aspirings and immortal hopes. These, transferred to her pages of thoughtful beauty, come home to our sympathies, and present some congenial object suited to almost every varying mood of an intelligent and sensitive spirit.
If we might be allowed here to make a personal allusion, we should say, that this knowledge of human nature and life was peculiarly conspicuous in Miss Landon's own social character. When her genius folded its wings, and walked forth in the usual garb of society, that genius might be still recognized in the courteous and nicely-fitting compliment, the piquant remark, the brilliant repartee, and sometimes ​in the full flow of eloquence. By her graceful and kindly politeness, her ready wit, the almost intuitive tact with which she adapted her varied conversational powers to the peculiar dispositions, personal tastes and interests of those with whom the chances of society might bring her into contact;—all this being expressed with an irresistible fascination of manner very gratifying to the feelings of the individuals concerned, and by which she invariably became the centre and charm of every circle graced with her presence.* It will be said, ​ perhaps, this was owing, in conjunction with her attractive talents, to her knowledge of the world, rather than to any philosophical views of human nature. What is knowledge of the world but knowledge of the human mind in some of its most striking aspects, brought out by actual circumstances? True politeness itself has also been defined as "the knowledge of the human mind directing general benevolence." It is thus the art of giving pleasure, by raising such ideas and feelings in the minds of others as will afford the most pleasure, and averting as much as possible every idea which may lead to pain. It implies, therefore, a fine knowledge of the natural series of thoughts; and this foresight, acquired by attentive observation of the various characters of mankind, in a long intercourse with society, is the true knowledge ​of the world. "He who knows the world must have studied the mind of man. He is a practical philosopher, and therefore a speculative one also, since he must have founded his rules of action on certain principles,—the results of his own observation and reflection."*
As we have seen that this practical knowledge was exemplified in Miss Landon's social character, so likewise is the philosophical knowledge which it implies manifested in her writings.
But some will contend that L. E. L. does not give a correct view of human nature; she sets (to use a quaint phrase from the critique already quoted) "man’s worst foot foremost;" she forsakes the sunny, and lingers only on the dark, side of life.
We have already considered this objection at some length; yet, as it involves some important principles, a few additional remarks may be offered.
We say, then, bring all L. E. L.'s representations to the proof. Let the most keen-sighted observation of the external world,—let the deepest scrutiny of man's inner being,—bring the result of their researches to the judgment of calm reflection—of sound reason—and we believe that Truth will give its verdict on the author's side.
What, then, it will be asked, is there no such thing as happiness in the world? Read these works thoughtfully, and what is the reply? Affection, intellect, pleasure, prosperity, the generally acknowledged elements and sources of earthly happiness, are pourtrayed in their richest colouring; and yet weariness, dissatisfaction, sadness and suffering, track them so nearly, blend with them so ​closely, that the very atmosphere of life is darkened by these gathering clouds.
But this, it may again be urged, is an exaggerated picture, sketched by a poet's fancy, and shadowed by a poet's morbid feeling.
The wisest of men who had experimentally tried every possible source of gratification, and that, too, in the highest degree and widest latitude, turned from all, to record his conviction, attested by the seal of inspired truth—"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!"
Ask the votary of Pleasure if he be happy? He will confess he is weary—weary of himself, and weary of the time that must elapse between one scene of excitement and another;—and then weary of the very scene for which he had craved.
Ask the Prosperous man if he be happy? He will tell you of anxious nights and toilsome days,—of ever-growing restlessness, and of ever-increasing dissatisfaction.
Ascend a step higher, and ask the individuals to whom Affection has become a world,—who have made one fellow-being the lode-star, the centre of their soul,—if they be happy? They will turn pale, as they tell you of the fear of separation, of the dread of losing the object who has become as the very life of their life.
Or go on to the lofty Intellectual natures who hold alone dominion far above their kind,—who would fain believe, and make others believe, that their imaginings and pursuits are self-sufficing,—if they be happy? Appeal to such an one,—not in the regal hour of inspiration, when his spirit evokes to minister around its throne all lovely and glorious forms,—not in the hour of gentler musing, when his whole being seems like a surgeless lake in its rich and radiant repose,—not when he is enchanted ​by the syren song of Fame alluring him on and yet on by its spirit-stirring tones,—but in the hour of visionless solitude—of mental exhaustion—in the hour of stern retrospection—of fearful foreboding—when the nothingness of the world and the world's pursuits—the nothingness of what he himself has pursued and idolized—is forced upon his startled conviction,—in the hour of disgust with the frivolity of his fellow-creatures, and his own unworthy littleness in ministering to the folly which he despises,—in the hour when his inmost soul yearns for companionship, for confidence, for sympathy, for affection—when he keenly feels that his minstrel's crown is entwined with thorns;—then appeal to such an one for the reality of his happiness. He will tell you that the few and feverish hours of intellectual excitement but ill compensate for the increased sensitiveness of nerves unsheathed, as it were, by his own mind's workings,–for the languid pulses of reaction wearied by his too long-sustained efforts,—that his loftiest imaginings place him not above the reach of the cruel shafts of envy and malevolence,—that his deep feelings shield him not from the impertinence of the curious—the sheers of the ignorant—the coldness of the unappreciating,—all of which evils enter as iron into his soul. He will tell you that his wasted gifts and neglected responsibilities haunt his dying hour as so many ministers of vengeance.
It is thus, we believe, that experience would verify the truths of what are frequently termed Miss Landon's melancholy views of the world. Admitting their truth, however, there is one other admission necessary, that all her gloomy representations belong to human nature in its unchanged state, destitute of the light of Christianity to brighten and ​bless. Her views and estimate of life, with its affections and pursuits, are correct, inasmuch as she represents life unsanctified by religion,—affections whose element is earthliness, and pursuits unredeemed by the hope and prospect of eternity. And we know that a far higher Authority than any human voice has warned us, that temporal happiness consists only of evanescent pleasures and flattering anticipations, which, if not absolutely delusive, if occasionally partially realized, are yet not connected vitally and permanently with our inmost being. We are taught, ay, and often made to feel, by bitter experience, that all which claims the name of enjoyment is only a glittering tracery on the sands of our present position, which the next wave of time may sweep for ever from our sight. Desirous as we may be to shrink from hearing these truths, they may not the less be verified in our own life's history.
L. E. L. has chiefly shown us what the world is at its best estate, without Christian principle; how could she then faithfully represent it otherwise than as melancholy, destitute of the joy-giving, healing and perpetuating influences of the leaves of the Tree of Life, without which, the very next moment may turn each source of pleasure into a cause of misery. How beautifully and instructively might she have given in contrast what life becomes when it is guided and governed, elevated and blessed, by true religion! Of this we have a few glimpses in one or two of her characters,—in the hallowed influence which is represented as comforting and strengthening Beatrice under all her dangers and duties, as supporting Francesca in all her varied trials, and as enabling Constance Courtenaye calmly to die in peace and hope through that divine belief whose trust is immortal, and to which the Bible had been her guide.
​ L. E. L.'s own words have told us that "nothing more truly proves that life is but a trial than the pleasures which depart, the sense of enjoyment which deadens, and the disappointments which spring up at every step in our pilgrimage. Could life preserve its illusions, who would be fit to die? Vanity of vanities is written on this side of the grave but that we may more clearly discern that on the other shines the hope of immortality." *
From her high intellectual eminence might L. E. L. have turned yet more frequently from the darkly-shadowed landscape of worldliness, to a region bright with immortal hope, fresh as with the gales of paradise, and serene as the crystal firmament. For life has a brightness which no cloud can dim, when life's scenes, characters and pursuits reflect—as the mountain heights the morning rays—the beams of the Sun of Righteousness.
We have often thought how impressively and beautifully L. E. L. would have delineated life under this aspect. How would the characters thus hallowed rise in dignity, usefulness and happiness!—how would all circumstances call forth the noble self-denial, the generous sacrifice, the voluntary assistance!—how would trials be represented as patiently endured, blessings as thankfully enjoyed!—how would all the aspirations of the soul be moulded into beneficial influences, and the poet's dying hour become irradiated with thankfulness, and a hope full of immortality!
Truly the principles and destinies which Christianity unfolds are worthy of being depicted by the noblest intellect, and of filling the sympathies of the most expanded heart; for "Wisdom, in that she is conversant with God, magnifieth her nobility."
​ Let not religion be spoken of as melancholy; for how can that be a melancholy influence, which, while it elevates, satisfies every power, and breathes into every deep and true enjoyment the breath of immortal life! Existence, destitute of this influence, must be indeed necessarily and essentially melancholy; but admit religion, and you admit what will raise and brighten human nature with all its powers and susceptibilities, its deepest sources of interest and its dearest objects of affection.
Admit religion as the guide of life, and it will gently lead through ways of pleasantness and paths of peace, amid green pastures and beside still waters. Admit religion to the intellectual dominion, and it will give to literature a depth of interest, while heightening its grace and splendor; it will pervade the spirit with the influences of the wisdom that cometh from above; it will open up, in bright perspective, visions of glory and loveliness far surpassing what the unenlightened mind of man could otherwise conceive; and it will clear and strengthen the eye of faith to look beyond the dim horizon of earthly renown, to heaven's star-wrought firmament, where the gifted among men who have rightly used their talents shall shine in eternal honour.
Admit religion into the heart, and it will deepen and strengthen every right feeling and affection, expand and refine every sympathy, while it will wrap around the objects of our soul's love the imperishable heaven-woven mantle of the future's hope, preserving them through all the vicissitudes of this life, until we meet them in our Father's home on high.
Religion, indeed, does not promise exemption from the ordinary lot of existence, but it offers, amid all ​changing circumstances, an unfailing refuge. If the waves of life's troubled ocean be sometimes tempest-tossed, there yet rise around us, in the wide waste, isles of sunny richness and sweet repose,—
"Where silverly the echoes run,—
Thy will be done! Thy will be done!"
If the shadows of earthly sorrow may sometimes deepen into midnight gloom, to the Christian there ever ariseth light in darkness, for he sees already dawning above the horizon the bright and morning star which shall guide him to the regions of cloudless and everlasting day.
Religion can alone fill the heart here with a peace which, as the world cannot give, so neither can it take away, and prepare its possessor for that future state where there is a fulness of joy,—for that divine inheritance where there are pleasures for evermore.
Such, then, are the prospects of life when religion is there; and such, therefore, are the rightful contrasts to the opposite pictures of life as destitute of Christian principle.
Would that L. E. L.'s own gifted hand had also embodied some of these contrasts! Alas! the silver cord of her life has been too early loosed,—the golden bowl of her rich imaginings is broken at the fountain,—the daughter of music is brought low, and the sweet voice of her soul's eloquence is hushed in death!
With far different feelings must we close this part of our essay to those which dictated the parting good wishes of the former. At that time the genius of L. E. L. was shedding its full light on the literary world, and years of happiness seemed before her. A few short months, and suddenly, as the departing ​splendor of the sun from eastern skies which know no twilight, has her life's sun gone down while it was yet day.
How often, gently and mournfully, in the lonely hour, or amid the circles once graced by her living presence, will the evening breeze waft from ocean solitudes the last recorded strains of her spirit's music!—
"Do ye think of me, my friends! do ye think of me?"
—while, as often, borne on the wing of bright remembrance to the far-off golden shore, our hearts will mourn beside the lonely grave of the lamented L. E. L., and to her touching appeal will indeed earnestly, though sadly respond—
We mourn for thee, we mourn for thee,
Daughter of Genius, crownéd Queen of Song!
Poet's and woman's birthright did belong
Alike to thee; the empire of the mind,
With the heart's gentler sway, thy power combined.
Farewell, oh, mournfully farewell!
We think of thee, we think of thee,
The richly-dowered in genius-haunted home,
Where radiant visions ministering would come;
While thou didst win from all some charmed reply,
Tuned to the soul's most touching melody.
Farewell, oh, mournfully farewell!
We think of thee, we think of thee,
In lighted halls, at social evening-tide,
When thou of those fair circles wert the pride;
As summer lightning, playing 'mid the clouds,
Thy wit illumined Fashion's dullest crowds.
And now, farewell,—alas, farewell!
We think of thee, we think of thee,
Bright monarch, in thy spirit's regal mood,
When round thy throne Thought rolled its sparkling flood,
Gay with Imagination's sunny beam,
Or darklier touched by Sadness' moonlight gleam.
Farewell, oh, mournfully farewell!
We think of thee, we think of thee,
Sweet Ladye, in dear Friendship's genial hours,
When, like refreshing dew, that gems the lovely flowers,
Thy kindness gave new grace to every deed and word,
Calling fresh fragrance from each treasured hoard.
Farewell to thee,—alas, farewell!
We think of thee, we think of thee;
Thy brow the minstrel's crown might well adorn,
Tho' oft for woman’s heart it bears a thorn;
So to thy sight while fairest prospects glowed,
Wert thou not doomed to tread a painful road?
Farewell, now gently fare thee well!
We think of thee, we think of thee,
When Hope's white flag, a flatterer, to beguile,
Waved o'er the bark that bore from us thy smile;
Thine, who then veiled thy glowing light of fame
In the soft shade of trusting woman's claim.
Farewell, oh, mournfully farewell!
We think of thee, we think of thee,—
Ay, sadly think of thy brief exile state;
Thou, thou art gone, thy place left desolate.
Oh! Africa, would that your golden shore,
Our lost, our radiant treasure might restore!
Bright one, farewell,—alas, farewell!
We'll think of thee, we'll think of thee;
Thou hast a shrine in every beauteous thought
And feeling deep within thy Pages wrought;
Thou hast a home in Friendship's fond regret;
Bright Star, on memory's sky thou ne'er shalt set!
Farewell, oh, sadly fare thee well!
THE END.
* ↑ * After all, perhaps, little can one judge of real character from the superficial view only which general society presents, least of all of such beings as L. E. L. Perhaps if twenty persons who had spent the same evening with her had been asked their opinion, each would have given a different one. Her society-character did in truth resemble the disputed colour of the chamelion, changing its hues with the changeful lights around. In all her varying moods, however, there was an obvious regard to the feelings of others, so that prejudice itself was disarmed, and indifference won over to admiration. That her real nature should sometimes have been misunderstood, is not to be wondered at. The ancient philosophers possessed an outer and inner philosophy, the one for their own refined and cultivated understandings, the other for the obtuser perceptions of the multitude. Is there not, in like manner, belonging to the genius-gifted few, an outer and inner character, the relative proportions and consequent development of which depend on the individual's natural and intellectual temperament, and on the varying circumstances by which it is necessarily influenced? Not that such persons seek beneath a mask to impose upon others. Their manner and its interpretation, to the wise and appreciating, are, under all changes, perfectly intelligible. But not more likely were the uninitiated to understand the refined mysteries and subtle distinctions of the inner doctrines of ancient philosophy, than are now the frivolous, worldly-minded and cold-hearted of our species to comprehend the lofty thoughts and deep feelings of superior natures. Therefore it is necessary, before mixing in the crowd, for genius to veil the earnest brow, the kindling eye, the soul-fraught expression, beneath the measured smiles of courtesy and the ready common-places of conventional politeness. Besides, this may be necessary also for the individual's own sake. "There is," observes L. E. L. "in mental exertion an absolute necessity for reaction.***To this may be ascribed the difference that often exists between the writings and the conversations of genius. In the first is embodied the moral truth of their being worked out by strong belief and deep feeling; the other contains all that is sceptical and careless,—it is the glitter of the waters when not at rest. The thousand paradoxes that spring up are thrown off for amusement and for relief, and recklessly flung aside by the utterer, who never means them to be taken as the creed of his real sentiments, or of his more earnest thoughts." As akin to these reflections occurs to us a conversational remark of L. E. L. One evening she observed to us, in connexion with this very subject: "It ever seems so strange to me that people should mistake the semblance of excessive cheerfulness, when it is assumed only as a mask to conceal the real features of the wearer. When mirth takes a sarcastic form, it always gives me an idea of the speaker's own internal wretchedness; for when does the foam mantle highest on the wave and sparkle brightest in the sunshine?—is it not when that wave is passing over the jagged rock, and the rugged stone lurking beneath?"
* ↑ * Dr. T. Brown.
* ↑ * Francesca Carrara, vol.i. p.203.