Post by moira on Jul 14, 2008 21:59:35 GMT 2
Charlotte Turner Smith (1749-1806)
One of the great poets of the 18th century. If
Wordswoth be the father of romanticism in poetry,
she's the mother, and she stayed true to her
radical/revolutionary convictions, only altered
them to take in new bitter experience.
Three political poems: [/size]
Fragment Descriptive of the Miseries of War
To a wild mountain, whose bare summit hides
Its broken eminence in clouds; whose steeps
Are dark with woods; where the receding rocks
Are worn with torrents of dissolving snow;
A Wretched woman, pale and breathless, flies,
And, gazing round her, listens to the sound
Of hostile footsteps:--No! they die away--
Nor noise remains, but of the cataract,
Or surly breeze of night, that mutters low
Among the thickets, where she trembling seeks
A temporary shelter--clasping close
To her quick-throbbing heart her sleeping child . . . (1797)
* * *
Sonnet 46:
Written at Penshurst, in autumn 1788
Ye towers sublime! deserted now and drear!
Ye woods! deep sighing to the hollow blast,
The musing wanderer loves to linger near,
While History points to all your glories past:
And startling from their haunts the timid deer,
To trace the walks obscured by matted fern,
Which Waller's soothing lyre were wont to hear,
But where now clamours the discordant hern!
The spoiling hand of Time may overturn
These lofty battlements, and quite deface
The fading canvas whence we love to learn
Sydney's keen look, and Sacharissa's grace;
But fame and beauty still defy decay,
Saved by the historic page -- the poet's tender lay!
* * *
This one first appeared in her novel, The Young Philosopher:
Sonnet LVII: To dependence
Dependence! heavy, heavy are thy chains,
And happier they who from the dangerous sea,
Or the dark mine, procure with ceaseless pains
An hard-earn'd pittance -- than who trust to thee!
More blest the hind, who from his bed of flock
Starts -- when the birds of morn their summons give,
And waken'd by the lark -- 'the shepherd's clock,'
Lives but to labour -- labouring but to live.
More noble than the sycophant, whose art
Must heap with taudry flowers thy hated shrine;
I envy not the meed thou canst impart
To crown _his_ service -- while, tho' Pride combine
With Fraud to crush me -- my unfetter'd heart
Still to the Mountain's Nymph may offer mine.
* * *
Two on the moon (from Elegiac Sonnets):
Sonnet 4: To the Moon
Queen of the silver bow! by thy pale beam,
Alone and pensive, I delight to stray,
And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.
And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think - fair planet of the night,
That in thy orb, the wretched may have rest:
The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
Released by death - to thy benignant sphere
And the sad children of Despair and Woe
Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene,
Poor wearied pilgrim - in this toiling scene.
* * *
Sonnet 54
Written September 1791, during a remarkable thunderstorm ...
What awful pageants crowd the evening sky!
The low horizon gathering vapours shroud;
Sudden, from many a deep-embattled cloud
Terrific thunders burst, and lightenings fly <
While in serenest azure, beaming high,
Night¹s regent, of her calm pavilion proud,
Gilds the dark shadows that beneath her lie,
Unvex'd by all their conflicts fierce and loud.
So, in unsullied dignity elate,
A spirit conscious of superior worth,
In placid elevation firmly great,
Scorns the vain cares that give Contention birth;
And blest with peace above the shocks of Fate.
* * *
River Arun Sonnets:
(from Elegiac Sonnets)
Sonnet 5: To the South Downs
Ah! hills belov'd! -- where once a happy child,
Your beechen shades, "your turf, your flowers among,"*
I wove your bluebells into garlands wild,
And woke your echoes with my artless song.
Ah! hills belov'd -- your turf, your flowers remain;
But can they peace to this sad bosom restore;
For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain,
And teach a breaking heart to throb no more?
And you, Aruna! -- in the vale below,
As to the sea your limpid waves you bear,
Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow,
To drink a long oblivion to my care?
Ah! no! -- when all, e'en Hope's last ray is gone,
There's no oblivion -- but in death alone!
[1784]
*"Whose turf, whose shades, whose flowers among." Gray
[Thomas Gray, "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College," line 8]
* * *
Sonnet 26 To the River Arun
On thy wild banks, by frequent torrents worn,
No glittering fanes, or marble domes appear,
Yet shall the mournful muse thy course adorn,
And still to her thy rustic waves be dear.
For with the infant Otway lingering here,
Of early woes she bade her votary dream,
While thy low murmurs soothed his pensive ear,
And still the poet -- consecrates the stream.
Beneath the oak and birch that fringe thy side,
The first born violets of the year shall spring,
And in thy hazels, bending o'er the tide,
The earliest Nightingale delight to sing:
While kindred spirits, pitying, shall relate
Thy Otways sorrows, and lament his fate!
* * *
Sonnet 30 To the River Arun
Be the proud Thames of trade the busy mart!
Arun! to thee will other Praise belong;
Dear to the lover's, and the mourner's heart,
And ever sacred to the sons of song!
Thy banks romantic hopeless Love shall seek.
Where o or rhe rocks rhe mantling bindwith flaunts;
And Sorrow's drooping form and faded check
Choose on thy willow'd shore her lonely haunts!
Banks! which inspired thy Otway's plaintive strain!
Wilds! -- whose lorn echoes learn'd the deeper tone
Of Collins' powerful shell! yet once again
Another poet -- Hayley is thine own!
Thy Classic stream anew shall hear a lay,
Bright as its waves, and various as its way!
* * *
Sonnet 32 To melancholy
Written on the banks of the Arun, October 1785
When latest Autumn spreads her evening veil,
And the grev mists from these dim waves arise,
I love to listen to the hollow sighs,
Thro the half-leafless wood that breathes the gale:
For at such hours the shadowy phantom pale,
Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eye;
Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies,
As of night-wanderers, who their woes bewail!
Here, by his native stream, at such an hour,
Pity's own Otway I methinks could meet,
And hear his deep sighs swell the sadden'd wind!
O Melancholy! -- such thy magic power,
That to the soul these dreams are often sweet,
And soothe the pensive visionary mind!
* * *
Sonnet 33 To the naiad of the Arun
Go, rural Naiad! wind thy stream along
Thro' woods and wilds: then seek the ocean caves
Where sea-nymphs meet their coral rocks among,
To boast the various honors of their waves!
'Tis but a little, o'er thy shallow tide,
That toiling trade her burden'd vessel leads;
But laurels grow luxuriant on thy side,
And letters live along thy classic meads.
Lo! where 'mid British bards thy natives shine!
And now another poet helps to raise
Thy glory high -- the poet of the MINE!*
Whose brilliant talents are his smallest praise:
And who, to all that genius can impart,
Adds the cool head, and the unblemish'd heart!
*John Sargent, who published "The Mine" in 1785 (Curran's note)
* * *
Sonnet 45: On leaving a part of Sussex
Farewel, Aruna! -- on whose varied shore
My early vows were paid to Nature's shrine,
When thoughtless joy, and infant hope were mine,
And whose lorn stream has heard me since deplore
Too many sorrows! Sighing I resign
Thy solitary beauties -- and no more
Or on thy rocks, or in thy woods recline,
Or on the heath, by moonlight lingering, pore
On air-drawn phantoms -- While in Fancy's ear
As in the evening wind thy murmurs swell,
The Enthusiast of the Lyre who wander'd here,
Seems yet to strike his visionary shell,
Of power to call forth Pity's tenderest tear,
Or wake wild Phrenzy -- from her hideous cell!
Yet more:
Sonnet 54:
Written September 1791, during a remarkable thunder storm,
in which the moon was perfectly clear, while the tempest gathered
in various directions near the earth
What awful pageants crowd the evening sky!
The low horizon gathering vapours shroud;
Sudden, from many a deep-embattled cloud
Terrific thunders burst, and lightenings fly --
While in serenest azure, beaming high,
Night's regent, of her calm pavilion proud,
Gilds the dark shadows that beneath her lie,
Unvex'd by all their conflicts fierce and loud.
-- So, in unsullied dignity elate,
A spirit conscious of superior worth,
In placid elevation firmly great,
Scorns the vain cares that give Contention birth;
And blest with peace above the shocks of Fate,
Smiles at the tumult of the troubled earth.
* * *
On Otway, a tragic dramatist
On thy wild banks, by frequent torrents torn
No glittering fanes, or marble domes appear,
Yet shall the mournful Muse thy course adorn,
And still to her thy rustic waves be dear.
For with the infant Otway, lingering here,
Of early woes she bade her votary dream
While thy low murmurs sooth'd his pensive ear,
And still the poet Beneath the oak and birch that fringe thy side,
The first-born violets of the year shall spring;
And in thy hazles, bending o'er the tide,
The earliest nightingale delight to sing:
While kindred spirits, pitying, shall relate
Thy Otway's sorrows, and lament his fate!
* * *
To a Nightingale
Poor melancholy bird---that all night long
Tell'st to the Moon, thy tale of tender woe;
>From what sad cause can such sweet sorrow flow,
And whence this mournful melody of song?
Thy poet's musing fancy would translate
What mean the sounds that swell thy little breast,
When still at dewy eve thou leav'st thy nest,
Thus to the listening night to sing thy fate!
Pale Sorrow's victims wert thou once among,
Tho' now releas'd in woodlands wild to rove?
Say---hast thou felt from friends some cruel wrong,
Or diedst thou---martyr of disastrous love?
Ah! songstress sad! that such my lot might be,
To sigh and sing at liberty---like thee!
* * *
Sonnet XLVII: To Fancy
Thee, Queen of Shadows! -- shall I still invoke,
Still love the scenes thy sportive pencil drew,
When on mine eyes the early radiance broke
Which shew'd the beauteous rather than the true!
Alas! long since those glowing tints are dead,
And now 'tis thine in darkest hues to dress
The spot where pale Experience hangs her head
O'er the sad grave of murder'd Happiness!
Thro' thy false medium, then, no longer view'd,
May fancied pain and fancied pleasure fly,
And I, as from me all thy dreams depart,
Be to my wayward destiny subdued:
Nor seek perfection with a poet's eye,
Nor suffer anguish with a poet's heart!
[/i], in print by Broadview). She wrote a good long poem in the blank verse mode later favored by Wordsworth (The Emigrants), and also in a Miltonic-Wordsworthian style (Beachy Head), and short lyrics and sonnets throughout her life which she scattered in her novels. She was much grieved by the death of a daughter. Her children were due an inheritance from her husband's father; the complexity and exploitation of the case (corruption) has reminded many people of Bleak House. She blamed the lawyers for her children (sons and daughters) never getting what she thought was their due opportunity in life. Her relationship with her sister (who wrote a short biography of her and also children's books) was one of the sustaining ones of her life.
Charlotte Turner Smith stands out among late 18th century writers both for the quality and originality of what she wrote; as a novelist she is at times equal to Jane Austen in psychological, moral penetration and narrative interest.
She was the eldest daughter of Nicholas Turner, a gentlemen in Sussex, by AnnaTowers; after her mother's death she was brought up by an aunt and educated at school in Chichester and Kensington; her father encouraged her first attempts at poetry, some of which she published; but after his second marriage he lost interest in her, and he and her aunt married her off in 1765 at age 15 to one Benjamin Smith, the 21-year old son of Richard Smith, a wealthy West Indian merchant and director of the East India Company. This marriage destroyed her life; he was violent and abusive, alcoholic, openly unfaithful, a prodigal spender and gambler; it is hard to understand how she had 12 children with him during the 13 years she endured him, which included spells in broken-down isolated mansions in France, flights from creditors and periods in debtors' prison with by his side; although he continued to take money from her until her death, she and her children did live separately from him after 1788.
Smith's Elegiac Sonnets were thought extraordinary; they represented a new personal voice, and influenced Wordsworth; they brought her into the radical reformists English societies of the 1790's: she knew Thomas Paine, William Blake, important publishers and other women poets of the period, e.g. Helena Maria Williams whose poems are good and whose Letters from France still interesting and important to historians. But Smith could not support herself by poetry and embarked on a long series of novels, some of which are extremely good (Old Manor House and Desmond
Her poetry is deeply melancholy; it is one of reverie over the landscape, filled with images drawn from her own experience and her social conscience. Much of the poetry of this period is written in this mood. There is a problem with the use of vague cliched language; while she was attacked for revealing much of her personal circumstances (she attacked her lawyers, referred to her children and to obliquely to her husband), in fact she couldn't get herself to use words which really captured the reality of what she had endured. So like Scott in some ways through fiction she expressed herself more penetratingly or realistically.
I'll add that since then I've read more of her novels and find others very good: about the counter revolution in France, The Banished Man, the above Young Philosopher (in print by University of Kentucky Press), and especially Ethelinde, or the Recluse of the Lake. Broadview Press recently brought out Celestina by Lorraine Fletcher who wrote a very good biography. Smith's first text was a remarkably passionate translation of Manon Lescaut; she then translated and adapted a series of court cases which had been turned into narratives in France. These she called The Romance of Real Life. The kind of familial betrayals, murders, internecine sex that are found here look forward to De Sade's more conventional fictions (he does have a couple) and 19th century gothic tales by women. She was castigated in her era for being so openly personal and telling her woes; nowadays people still apologize and try to argue she's more de-ersonalized than appears. She isn't. I see no need for apology. She made her situation real. I'm with Pope on naming names in satire.[/size][/blockquote]
Bibliography (just books, not articles and chapters of which there are many):
Curran, Stuart, ed. The Poems of Charlotte Smith. Oxford UP, 1993. (English Women Writers, 1350-1850)
Fletcher, Lorraine Charlotte Smith: A Critical Biography London: Macmillan, 1998.
Frye, Caroll Lee. Charlotte Smith. Boston: Twayne, 1996.
Ellen Moody