"Not the author of 'Gates Ajar,' listening in her pleasant dreams to heavenly pianos, ever drew half so near to the celestial regions, or looked into them with half so disillusionized gaze as the Grecian thought of the time of Homer."
"Not the author of 'Gates Ajar,' listening in her pleasant dreams to heavenly pianos, ever drew half so near to the celestial regions, or looked into them with half so disillusionized gaze as the Grecian thought of the time of Homer."
Of Mary Grew Mrs. Moulton gave this pen-picture:
"We saw a woman not young, save with the youth of the immortals; not beautiful, save with the beauty of the spirit; but sweet and gentle, with a placid, earnest face. Her own faith is so assured that she appeals fearlessly to the faith of others; her nature so religious that her religion seems a fact and not a question."
"We saw a woman not young, save with the youth of the immortals; not beautiful, save with the beauty of the spirit; but sweet and gentle, with a placid, earnest face. Her own faith is so assured that she appeals fearlessly to the faith of others; her nature so religious that her religion seems a fact and not a question."
Another Boston institution of which Mrs. Moulton wrote in herTribuneletters was the New England Woman's Club. "Here," she declared, "Mrs. Howe reads essays and poems in advance of their publication; Abby May's wit flashes keen; Mrs. Cheney gives lovely talks on art; and Kate Field, with the voice which is music, reads her first lecture." She records how Emerson sends to the club-tea a poem; how Whittier is sometimes a guest; how Miss Alcott tells an inimitable story; and how on May 23, 1870, was celebrated the birthday of Margaret Fuller, who for a quarter of a century had been beyond the count of space and time. On this occasion the Rev. James Freeman Clarke presided, and among the papers was a poem by Mrs. Howe of which Mrs. Moulton quotes the closing stanza:
It was in connection with a meeting of the Woman's Club that a guest invited from New York wrote for a journal of that city an account of the gathering in which is this description:
"There too was Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, looking for all the world like one ofher own stories, tender and yet strong, the child-like curving of the mouth and chin in such contrast with the tender, almost sad eyes and well-developed brow covered with its masses of waving light hair."
"There too was Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, looking for all the world like one ofher own stories, tender and yet strong, the child-like curving of the mouth and chin in such contrast with the tender, almost sad eyes and well-developed brow covered with its masses of waving light hair."
Bret Harte, then in the height of his fame, wrote to Mrs. Moulton in regard to herTribuneletters, and told her that "it is woman's privilege to assert her capacity as a critic without sacrificing her charm as a woman." Many of her criticisms were richly worth preservation, did space allow. Of Walt Whitman she said:
"With his theories I do not always agree; they seem to me fitter for a larger, more sincere, less complex time than ours; but there is no sham and no affectation, either in the man or in his verse. I could not tell how strong was the impression of sincerity and large-heartedness which he made on me."
"With his theories I do not always agree; they seem to me fitter for a larger, more sincere, less complex time than ours; but there is no sham and no affectation, either in the man or in his verse. I could not tell how strong was the impression of sincerity and large-heartedness which he made on me."
A new volume of poems by Lowell appeared, and in her comment she wrote:
"Wordsworth was notably great in only a few poems, and Coleridge, and Keats, and Shelley come under the same limitations. Mr. Lowell is thus not alone in being at times forsaken by his good genius.... If he does notfurnish us with a great amount of poetry of the highest order, it is the simple truth to say that in his best he has no rival, excepting Emerson, among American poets. When he is inspired, the key to nature and to man is in his hand, and he becomes the interpreter of both, commanding the secrets of one as truly as he interprets the interior life of the other."
"Wordsworth was notably great in only a few poems, and Coleridge, and Keats, and Shelley come under the same limitations. Mr. Lowell is thus not alone in being at times forsaken by his good genius.... If he does notfurnish us with a great amount of poetry of the highest order, it is the simple truth to say that in his best he has no rival, excepting Emerson, among American poets. When he is inspired, the key to nature and to man is in his hand, and he becomes the interpreter of both, commanding the secrets of one as truly as he interprets the interior life of the other."
All this newspaper work did not interfere with the steady production of work less ephemeral. Poems and stories succeeded one another in almost unbroken succession. The fecundity of Mrs. Moulton's mind was by no means the least surprising of the good gifts with which nature had endowed her. In all the leading American magazines her name held a place recognized and familiar. What was apparently her first contribution to theAtlantic Monthly, a poem called "May-Flowers," caught the popular fancy and became a general favorite. The exquisite closing stanza was especially praised by those whose approbation was best worth winning:
Longfellow commended her perfection of form and the lyric spontaneity of her verse and Whittier urged her to collect and publish her poems in a volume.
Various letters of interest during these years from and to Mrs. Moulton are as follows:
Mr. Whittier to Mrs. MoultonAmesbury, 3d, 8th month, 1870.Dear Mrs. Moulton: I am greatly disappointed in not meeting the benediction of thy face when I called last month; but I shall seek it again sometime. It just occurs to me that I may yet have the pleasure of seeing thee under my roof at Amesbury. We have so many friends in common that I feel as if I knew thee through them.How much I thank thee for thy kind note. It reaches me at a time when its generous appreciation is very welcome and grateful.Believe me very truly thy friend,John G. Whittier.
Mr. Whittier to Mrs. Moulton
Amesbury, 3d, 8th month, 1870.
Dear Mrs. Moulton: I am greatly disappointed in not meeting the benediction of thy face when I called last month; but I shall seek it again sometime. It just occurs to me that I may yet have the pleasure of seeing thee under my roof at Amesbury. We have so many friends in common that I feel as if I knew thee through them.
How much I thank thee for thy kind note. It reaches me at a time when its generous appreciation is very welcome and grateful.
Believe me very truly thy friend,
John G. Whittier.
William Winter to Mrs. MoultonStaten Island, N.Y.November 8, 1875.Dear Mrs. Moulton: I accept with pleasure and gratitude your very kind and sympathetic letter,—seeing beneath its delicate and cordial words the sincere heart of a comrade in literature, and the regard of a nature kindred with my own. I wish I could think that your praise is deserved. It has often seemed to me of late that there is no cheer in my newspaper work.... I am aware, however, that the sympathy of a bright mind and a tender heart and the approval of a delicate taste are not won without some sort of merit, and so I venture to find in your most genial and spontaneous letter a ray of encouragement. You will scarcely know how grateful this is to me at this time. I thank you and I shall not forget that you were thoughtful and delicately kind.To-day I have received a copy of Stedman's poems, which I want to read again with great care. A man who has missed poetic fame himself may find great satisfaction in the success of his friend, and I do feel exceedingly glad in the recognition that has come to Stedman. Your article on the book in theTribunewas excellent.Faithfully yours,William Winter.
William Winter to Mrs. Moulton
Staten Island, N.Y.November 8, 1875.
Dear Mrs. Moulton: I accept with pleasure and gratitude your very kind and sympathetic letter,—seeing beneath its delicate and cordial words the sincere heart of a comrade in literature, and the regard of a nature kindred with my own. I wish I could think that your praise is deserved. It has often seemed to me of late that there is no cheer in my newspaper work.... I am aware, however, that the sympathy of a bright mind and a tender heart and the approval of a delicate taste are not won without some sort of merit, and so I venture to find in your most genial and spontaneous letter a ray of encouragement. You will scarcely know how grateful this is to me at this time. I thank you and I shall not forget that you were thoughtful and delicately kind.
To-day I have received a copy of Stedman's poems, which I want to read again with great care. A man who has missed poetic fame himself may find great satisfaction in the success of his friend, and I do feel exceedingly glad in the recognition that has come to Stedman. Your article on the book in theTribunewas excellent.
Faithfully yours,
William Winter.
Mrs. Moulton to Mr. Stedman"When you say it depends on me whether I will be looked upon as a real judicial authority by people of culture throughout the land, you fire me with ambition, but my springing flame is quenched by the realization that I am not cultured enough to rely on my judgment as a certainty, a finality, and that while I may feel that my intuitions are keen, they are apt to be warped by my strong emotions. I'll try. A very few persons are really my public, and I think how my letters will strike them, rather than how the world will receive them. I wonder how you will like my review of...? Much of the book is 'splendidly null,'—perfect enough in execution, but without that subtle something that sets the heart-chords quivering, and fills the eyes with tender dew; that subtle minor chord of being, to which we are all kin, by virtue of our own pain...."
Mrs. Moulton to Mr. Stedman
"When you say it depends on me whether I will be looked upon as a real judicial authority by people of culture throughout the land, you fire me with ambition, but my springing flame is quenched by the realization that I am not cultured enough to rely on my judgment as a certainty, a finality, and that while I may feel that my intuitions are keen, they are apt to be warped by my strong emotions. I'll try. A very few persons are really my public, and I think how my letters will strike them, rather than how the world will receive them. I wonder how you will like my review of...? Much of the book is 'splendidly null,'—perfect enough in execution, but without that subtle something that sets the heart-chords quivering, and fills the eyes with tender dew; that subtle minor chord of being, to which we are all kin, by virtue of our own pain...."
Mrs. Moulton to Mr. Stedman"... I am impatient to see your article on Browning. I am so struck by your calling him the greatest of love poets. I, too, have often thought something like that of him. If 'The Statue and the Bust' means anything, itmeans that Browning thought the Duke and the Lady were fools to let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.' But,au contraire, I think 'Pippa Passes' gives one the impression that he considers illegal love a great sin and the natural temptation to still greater sins. Don't you think so? I wish I could have a talk on social questions with you, for I think your ideas are more fixed, more developed in thought and less chaotic than mine...."
Mrs. Moulton to Mr. Stedman
"... I am impatient to see your article on Browning. I am so struck by your calling him the greatest of love poets. I, too, have often thought something like that of him. If 'The Statue and the Bust' means anything, itmeans that Browning thought the Duke and the Lady were fools to let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.' But,au contraire, I think 'Pippa Passes' gives one the impression that he considers illegal love a great sin and the natural temptation to still greater sins. Don't you think so? I wish I could have a talk on social questions with you, for I think your ideas are more fixed, more developed in thought and less chaotic than mine...."
Mr. Whittier to Mrs. MoultonAmesbury, 11th month, 9th, 1874.My dear friend Louise Chandler Moulton: I thank thee from my heart for thy letter. I think some good angel must have prompted it, for it reached me when I needed it; needed to know that my words had not been quite in vain. And to know that they have been comfort or strength to thee is a cause for deep thankfulness. I do not put a very high estimate upon my writings, in a merely literary point of view, but it has been my earnest wish that they might at least help the world a little. I read thy notice of my book in theTribune, in connection with Dr. Holmes' last volume, and while very grateful for thy praise, I was saddened by a feeling that I did not fully deserve it. In fact, I fear the world hastreated me far better than I had any reason to expect; and I have been blessed with dear friends, whose love is about me like an atmosphere.I have read the little poem enclosed in thy letter with a feeling of tenderest sympathy. God help us! The loneliness of life, under even the best circumstances, becomes at times appalling to contemplate. We are all fearfully alone; no one human soul can fully know another, and an infinite sigh for sympathy is perpetually going up from the heart of humanity. But doubtless this very longing is the pledge and prophecy and guarantee of an immortal destination. Perfect content is stagnation and ultimate death.Why does thee not publish thy poems? Everywhere I meet people who have been deeply moved by them.Thy letter dates from Pomfret, and I direct there to thee. I was in that place once so long ago that thee must have been a mere child. I rode over its rocky hills, bare in the chill December, with the late William H. Burleigh. I think it must be charming in summer and autumn. But something in thy poems and in thy letter leads me to infer that thy sojourn there has not been a happy one. Of course I do not speak of unalloyed happiness,for that can only come of entire exemption from sin and weakness. A passage which I have been reading this morning from Thomas à Kempis has so spoken to my heart that I venture to transcribe it:"What thou canst not amend in thyself or others, bear with patience until God ordaineth otherwise. When comfort is taken away do not presently despair. Stand with an even mind, resigned to the will of God, whatever may befall; for after winter cometh the summer, after the dark night the day shineth; and after the storm cometh a great calm."Believe me always gratefully thy friend,John G. Whittier.
Mr. Whittier to Mrs. Moulton
Amesbury, 11th month, 9th, 1874.
My dear friend Louise Chandler Moulton: I thank thee from my heart for thy letter. I think some good angel must have prompted it, for it reached me when I needed it; needed to know that my words had not been quite in vain. And to know that they have been comfort or strength to thee is a cause for deep thankfulness. I do not put a very high estimate upon my writings, in a merely literary point of view, but it has been my earnest wish that they might at least help the world a little. I read thy notice of my book in theTribune, in connection with Dr. Holmes' last volume, and while very grateful for thy praise, I was saddened by a feeling that I did not fully deserve it. In fact, I fear the world hastreated me far better than I had any reason to expect; and I have been blessed with dear friends, whose love is about me like an atmosphere.
I have read the little poem enclosed in thy letter with a feeling of tenderest sympathy. God help us! The loneliness of life, under even the best circumstances, becomes at times appalling to contemplate. We are all fearfully alone; no one human soul can fully know another, and an infinite sigh for sympathy is perpetually going up from the heart of humanity. But doubtless this very longing is the pledge and prophecy and guarantee of an immortal destination. Perfect content is stagnation and ultimate death.
Why does thee not publish thy poems? Everywhere I meet people who have been deeply moved by them.
Thy letter dates from Pomfret, and I direct there to thee. I was in that place once so long ago that thee must have been a mere child. I rode over its rocky hills, bare in the chill December, with the late William H. Burleigh. I think it must be charming in summer and autumn. But something in thy poems and in thy letter leads me to infer that thy sojourn there has not been a happy one. Of course I do not speak of unalloyed happiness,for that can only come of entire exemption from sin and weakness. A passage which I have been reading this morning from Thomas à Kempis has so spoken to my heart that I venture to transcribe it:
"What thou canst not amend in thyself or others, bear with patience until God ordaineth otherwise. When comfort is taken away do not presently despair. Stand with an even mind, resigned to the will of God, whatever may befall; for after winter cometh the summer, after the dark night the day shineth; and after the storm cometh a great calm."
Believe me always gratefully thy friend,
John G. Whittier.
Religious questions, with which Mrs. Moulton was always deeply concerned, come often into her letters. To Mr. Stedman she writes:
"I have been curiously interested of late about a band of 'Sanctificationists,' who believe Christ meant it when He said, He can save from all sin. So they reason that, trusting in His own words, they can be saved from sin now and here. There is about them a peace and serenity, a sweetness and light, a joy in believing, that is unmistakable. They do livehappier lives than others. I cannot believe, somehow, in this 'cleansing blood,' yet, seeing these people, I feel that I lose a great deal by not believing in it. Oh, if one only knew the truth! Reason rejects, it seems to me, the orthodox dogmas, but what is one to do with the argument of holier lives?"
"I have been curiously interested of late about a band of 'Sanctificationists,' who believe Christ meant it when He said, He can save from all sin. So they reason that, trusting in His own words, they can be saved from sin now and here. There is about them a peace and serenity, a sweetness and light, a joy in believing, that is unmistakable. They do livehappier lives than others. I cannot believe, somehow, in this 'cleansing blood,' yet, seeing these people, I feel that I lose a great deal by not believing in it. Oh, if one only knew the truth! Reason rejects, it seems to me, the orthodox dogmas, but what is one to do with the argument of holier lives?"
Unconsciously Mrs. Moulton was echoing Emerson's lines,
To the late sixties belongs a little incident which illustrates well Mrs. Moulton's attitude toward society. She was fond of social life, but it was in her interest always secondary to the intellectual. During a visit to New York, she was one evening just dressed for a festivity which she was to attend with her hostess, when the card of Horace Greeley was brought to her. She went down at once, and Mr. Greeley, who probably would not have noted any difference between a ball-gown and a negligé did not in the least appreciate that she was evidently dressed for a social function. When her hostess came to call her, Mrs. Moulton signalled that she was to be left, and passed the evening in conversation so interesting and so animatedthat Mr. Greeley remained until an unusually late hour. Just as he was leaving he seemed to become dimly conscious that her costume was especially elaborate, and he inquired innocently:
"But were you not going somewhere to-night?"
"One does not go 'somewhere,'" she returned, "at the expense of missing a conversation with Mr. Greeley."
In 1873 Mrs. Moulton published a volume for young folk entitled "Bed-Time Stories." It was issued by Roberts Brothers, who from this time until the dissolution of the firm in 1898, after the death of Mr. Niles, remained her publishers. The success of the book was immediate, and so great that the title was repeated in "More Bed-Time Stories," brought out in the year following. The first volume was dedicated to her daughter in these graceful lines:
Of the second series of "Bed-Time Stories" George H. Ripley wrote in theTribune:
"The entire absence of all the visible signs of art in the composition of these delightful stories betrays a rare degree of artistic culture which knows how to conceal itself, or a singular natural bent to graceful and picturesque expression. Perhaps both of these conditions best explain the secret of their felicitous construction, and their fidelity to nature. The best fruits of sweet womanly wisdom she deems not too good for the entertainment of the young souls with whom she cherishes such a cordial sympathy, and whom she so graciously attracts by the silvery music of her song, which lacks no quality of poetry but the external form.... They inculcate no high-flown moral, but inspire the noblest sentiments. There is no preaching in their appeals, but they offer a perpetualincentive to all that is lovely and good in character."
"The entire absence of all the visible signs of art in the composition of these delightful stories betrays a rare degree of artistic culture which knows how to conceal itself, or a singular natural bent to graceful and picturesque expression. Perhaps both of these conditions best explain the secret of their felicitous construction, and their fidelity to nature. The best fruits of sweet womanly wisdom she deems not too good for the entertainment of the young souls with whom she cherishes such a cordial sympathy, and whom she so graciously attracts by the silvery music of her song, which lacks no quality of poetry but the external form.... They inculcate no high-flown moral, but inspire the noblest sentiments. There is no preaching in their appeals, but they offer a perpetualincentive to all that is lovely and good in character."
An equal success attended the collection of stories for older readers which Mrs. Moulton brought out a year later under the title, "Some Women's Hearts." This contained all the stories written since the appearance of "My Third Book" which she thought worthy of preservation, and may be said to represent her best in this order of fiction. Professor Moses Coit Tyler said of them: "Mrs. Moulton has the incommunicable tact of the story-teller"; commented on their freedom from all padding, and commended their complete unity. The instinct for literary form which was so strikingly conspicuous in her verse showed itself in these stories by the excellence of arrangement and proportion, the sincerity and earnestness which made the tales vital. She had by this time outgrown the rather sentimental fashions of the gift-book period of American letters, and her conscientious and careful criticism of the work of others had resulted in a power of self-criticism which was admirable in its results. "My best reward," she said in after years, "has been the friendships that my slight work has won for me"; but by the time she wasforty she had won a place in American letters such as had been held by only two or three other women, and before her was the reputation which she was to win abroad, such as no woman of her country had ever attained before.
MRS. MOULTON made her first visit to Europe in January, 1876. She remained abroad for nearly two years. From that date until the summer of 1907, inclusive, she passed every summer but two on the other side of the Atlantic. London became her second home. Her circle of friends, not only in England but on the Continent, became very wide. Her poems were published in England, and she was accorded in London society a place of distinction such as had not before been given to any American woman of letters. She enjoyed her social opportunities; but she prized most the number of sincere and interesting friendships which resulted from them. It is not difficultto understand how her charm and kindliness won those she met, or how her friendliness and sympathy endeared her to all who came to know her well.
Mrs. Moulton's first glimpse of London was simply what could be had in a brief pause on her way to Paris. She was, however, present in the House of Lords when the Queen opened Parliament in person for the first time after the death of the Prince Consort. She stayed but a few days in Paris, and then hastened on to Rome. Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford thus describes this first visit to the Immortal City:
"Paris over, came Rome, and twelve weeks of raptures and ruins, of churches and galleries, old palaces and almond-trees in flower, the light upon the Alban Hills, the kindly, gracious Roman society, all like a dream from which might come awaking. Certainly no one was ever made to feel the ancient spell, or to enjoy its beauty more than this sensitive, sympathetic, and impressible spirit. Stiff Protestant as she is, she was touched to tears by the benignant old pope's blessing; and she abandoned herself to the carnival, as much a child as 'the noblest Roman of them all.'"
"Paris over, came Rome, and twelve weeks of raptures and ruins, of churches and galleries, old palaces and almond-trees in flower, the light upon the Alban Hills, the kindly, gracious Roman society, all like a dream from which might come awaking. Certainly no one was ever made to feel the ancient spell, or to enjoy its beauty more than this sensitive, sympathetic, and impressible spirit. Stiff Protestant as she is, she was touched to tears by the benignant old pope's blessing; and she abandoned herself to the carnival, as much a child as 'the noblest Roman of them all.'"
Mrs. Moulton entered into the artistic life of Rome with characteristic ardor. She knew many artists, and became an especial friend of Story's, a visitor at his studio, and an admirer of his sculpture.
"I had greatly liked many of his poems," she said later, "and I was curious to see if his poems in marble equalled them. I was more than charmed with his work; and I suppose I said something which revealed my enthusiasm, for I remember the smile—half of pleasure, half of amusement—with which he looked at me. He said: 'You don't seem to feel quite as an old friend of mine from Boston felt, when he went through my studio, and, at least, I showed him the best I had. We are all vain, you know; and I suppose I expected a little praise, but my legal friend shook his head. "Ah, William," he said, "you might have been a great lawyer like your father; you had it in you; but you chose to stay on here and pinch mud!"' Another American sculptor whom Rome delighted to honor is Mr. Richard S. Greenough, whose 'Circe' has more fascination for me than almost anything else in modern art; but my acquaintance with him came later. I had a letter of introduction to William andMary Howitt from Whittier; they made me feel myself a welcome guest."
"I had greatly liked many of his poems," she said later, "and I was curious to see if his poems in marble equalled them. I was more than charmed with his work; and I suppose I said something which revealed my enthusiasm, for I remember the smile—half of pleasure, half of amusement—with which he looked at me. He said: 'You don't seem to feel quite as an old friend of mine from Boston felt, when he went through my studio, and, at least, I showed him the best I had. We are all vain, you know; and I suppose I expected a little praise, but my legal friend shook his head. "Ah, William," he said, "you might have been a great lawyer like your father; you had it in you; but you chose to stay on here and pinch mud!"' Another American sculptor whom Rome delighted to honor is Mr. Richard S. Greenough, whose 'Circe' has more fascination for me than almost anything else in modern art; but my acquaintance with him came later. I had a letter of introduction to William andMary Howitt from Whittier; they made me feel myself a welcome guest."
She was interested also in the work of a young sculptor who had then lately arrived in Rome, Franklin Simmons; and of him she told this incident:
"Mr. Simmons had almost completed a statue, for which he had received an order from one of the States, had spent a great deal of time and money, when a conception came to him higher than his original idea. Without hesitation he sacrificed his time, his labor, and his marble—no small loss this—and began again. It was an act of simple heroism, of which not every one would have been capable; and there is little doubt that a man who unites to his talent a criticism so unsparing, and a spirit so conscientious, will do work well worthy the attention of the world."
"Mr. Simmons had almost completed a statue, for which he had received an order from one of the States, had spent a great deal of time and money, when a conception came to him higher than his original idea. Without hesitation he sacrificed his time, his labor, and his marble—no small loss this—and began again. It was an act of simple heroism, of which not every one would have been capable; and there is little doubt that a man who unites to his talent a criticism so unsparing, and a spirit so conscientious, will do work well worthy the attention of the world."
Mrs. Moulton's real introduction to London did not come this year, but in the summer of 1877, when a breakfast was given in her honor by Lord Houghton (Richard Monckton Milnes), at which the guests included Browning, Swinburne, George Eliot, Jean Ingelow, Gustave Doré, and others of only less distinction. The breakfast was followed by a receptionat which, in the society phrase, the guest of honor met everybody.
Of this breakfast an amusing reminiscence has been given by Mrs. Moulton herself:
"Shortly after I came into the room, Lord Houghton, whose voice was very low, brought a gentleman up to me whose name I failed to hear. My fellow-guest had a pleasant face, and was dressed in gray; he sat down beside me, and talked in a lively way on everyday topics until Lord Houghton came to take me in to table. Opposite to us sat Miss Milnes, now Lady Fitzgerald, between two gentlemen, one of whom was the man in gray. Presently Lord Houghton asked me if I thought Browning looked like his pictures. 'Browning?' I asked. 'Where is he?' 'Why, there, sitting beside my daughter,' he replied. But, as there were two gentlemen sitting beside Miss Milnes, I sat during the remainder of the breakfast with a divided mind, wondering which of these two men was Browning. After going back to the drawing-room my friend in gray again came and sat beside me, so I plucked up courage and said, 'I understand Mr. Browning is here; will you kindly tell me which he is?' He looked half puzzled, half amused, for amoment; then he called out to some one standing near, 'Look here, Mrs. Moulton wants to know which one of us is Browning.C'est moi!' he added with a gay gesture; and this is how my friendship with the author of 'Pippa Passes' began."
"Shortly after I came into the room, Lord Houghton, whose voice was very low, brought a gentleman up to me whose name I failed to hear. My fellow-guest had a pleasant face, and was dressed in gray; he sat down beside me, and talked in a lively way on everyday topics until Lord Houghton came to take me in to table. Opposite to us sat Miss Milnes, now Lady Fitzgerald, between two gentlemen, one of whom was the man in gray. Presently Lord Houghton asked me if I thought Browning looked like his pictures. 'Browning?' I asked. 'Where is he?' 'Why, there, sitting beside my daughter,' he replied. But, as there were two gentlemen sitting beside Miss Milnes, I sat during the remainder of the breakfast with a divided mind, wondering which of these two men was Browning. After going back to the drawing-room my friend in gray again came and sat beside me, so I plucked up courage and said, 'I understand Mr. Browning is here; will you kindly tell me which he is?' He looked half puzzled, half amused, for amoment; then he called out to some one standing near, 'Look here, Mrs. Moulton wants to know which one of us is Browning.C'est moi!' he added with a gay gesture; and this is how my friendship with the author of 'Pippa Passes' began."
This introduction may be said to have "placed" Mrs. Moulton in English literary society, and there was hardly a person of intellectual distinction in London whom she did not meet. She came to know the Rossettis, William Sharp, Theodore Watts (later known as Watts-Dunton), Herbert E. Clarke, Mrs. W.K. Clifford, A. Mary F. Robinson (afterward Mme. Darmesteter), Olive Schreiner, Lewis Morris, William Bell Scott, the Hon. Roden Noel, Iza Duffus Hardy, Aubrey de Vere, the Marstons, father and son, and in short almost every writer worth knowing. She came, indeed, to belong almost as completely to the London literary world as to that of America.
Philip Bourke Marston, the blind poet, whose friend and biographer she in time became, she first met on the first day of July of this year. She has recorded the meeting:
"It was just six weeks before his twenty-sixth birthday. He was tall, slight, and, inspite of his blindness, graceful. He seemed to me young-looking even for his twenty-six years. He had a noble and beautiful forehead. His brown eyes were perfect in shape, and even in color, save for a dimness like a white mist that obscured the pupil, but which you perceived only when you were quite near to him. His hair and beard were dark brown, with warm glints of chestnut; and the color came and went in his cheeks as in those of a sensitive girl. His face was singularly refined, but his lips were full and pleasure-loving, and suggested dumbly how cruel must be the limitations of blindness to a nature hungry for love and for beauty. I had been greatly interested, before seeing him, in his poems, and to meet him was a memorable delight."He and the sister, who was his inseparable companion, soon became my close friends, and with them both this friendship lasted till the end."
"It was just six weeks before his twenty-sixth birthday. He was tall, slight, and, inspite of his blindness, graceful. He seemed to me young-looking even for his twenty-six years. He had a noble and beautiful forehead. His brown eyes were perfect in shape, and even in color, save for a dimness like a white mist that obscured the pupil, but which you perceived only when you were quite near to him. His hair and beard were dark brown, with warm glints of chestnut; and the color came and went in his cheeks as in those of a sensitive girl. His face was singularly refined, but his lips were full and pleasure-loving, and suggested dumbly how cruel must be the limitations of blindness to a nature hungry for love and for beauty. I had been greatly interested, before seeing him, in his poems, and to meet him was a memorable delight.
"He and the sister, who was his inseparable companion, soon became my close friends, and with them both this friendship lasted till the end."
The poetry of Swinburne had for her a fascination from the first, and she was attracted also by the personality of the poet. Writing an article upon a new volume of his, she submitted the copy to him before publishing it in theAthenæum. His acknowledgment was as follows:
Mr. Swinburne to Mrs. MoultonDecember19, 1877.Dear Madame: I am sincerely obliged for the kindness and courtesy to which I am indebted for the sight of the MS. herewith returned. Of course my only feeling of hesitation as to the terms in which I ought to acknowledge and answer the application which accompanied it arises merely from a sense of delicacy in seeming to accept, if not thereby to endorse, an estimate altogether too flattering to the self-esteem of its object.But even at the risk of vanity or self-complacency, I will simply express my gratitude for your too favourable opinion, and my grateful sense of the delicacy and thoughtfulness which has permitted me a sight of the yet unprinted pages which convey it.Yours sincerely,Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Mr. Swinburne to Mrs. Moulton
December19, 1877.
Dear Madame: I am sincerely obliged for the kindness and courtesy to which I am indebted for the sight of the MS. herewith returned. Of course my only feeling of hesitation as to the terms in which I ought to acknowledge and answer the application which accompanied it arises merely from a sense of delicacy in seeming to accept, if not thereby to endorse, an estimate altogether too flattering to the self-esteem of its object.
But even at the risk of vanity or self-complacency, I will simply express my gratitude for your too favourable opinion, and my grateful sense of the delicacy and thoughtfulness which has permitted me a sight of the yet unprinted pages which convey it.
Yours sincerely,
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Leaving London in August, 1876, Mrs. Moulton went with Kate Field to visit Lawrence Hutton and his mother, who had a house for the summer in Scotland. In September, in company with Dr. Westland Marston, his son and daughter, and Miss Hardy, she made a visit to Étretat. The place andthe company made a combination altogether delightful. An entry in her diary for this time, of which the date is merely "Midnight of September 1," records her enthusiasm.
"I want to remember this evening which has been so beautiful. I had worked all day to six o'clock dinner, after which I sat and talked awhile with Cecily and Iza, and then took a long moonlight walk with them and Dr. Marston. I think I never saw such a wonderful sky. The blue of it was so intensely blue and great masses of white clouds, hurried and driven on by the wind, met each other and retreated and put on all sorts of fantastic shapes, while among them the moon walked, visible sometimes, and at others hiding her pale face behind some veiled prophet of a cloud, who was mocking the fair night with the gloom of his presence. I never saw such grand effects."We climbed a long hill, and from thence we looked down on little Étretat lying below us, with the lights in its many windows, and the sea tossing beyond it white with spray and with moonlight. The trees were quivering at the whispers of a low wind, and still above all the clouds held strange conclave, keepingup their swift march and counter-march. All this time Dr. Marston talked as we sauntered on, and talked superbly. I think the electricity in the air inspired him. He talked of the soul's destiny, of immortality, and expressed, with matchless eloquence, that strong-winged faith which bears him on toward that end that will be, he feels sure, the new life's beginning. From time to time he interrupted himself to point out something that we might not else have seen,—some wonderful phantom of moonlight, some cottage-lamp shining at the end of a long lane, some Rembrandt contrast of light and shade."We walked far, but I knew no weariness. I could have walked on forever watching that strange and fitful sky, and listening to such talk as I have seldom heard. Here is an affluent poet, who affords to scatter his riches broadcast, and does not save them all for his printed pages. We went home at last and sat for a while in Dr. Marston's house, and then Philip and Cecily and I went down to the long terrace overlooking the sea, and sat for an hour or more to watch the moonlight on the breaking waves. How happy we were, that little while! We talked of the fitful clouds, the wild, hurrying sea, the white, sweet moon. Then something brought backto me visions of the white statues at Rome, and I tried to show them how fair these old gods stood in my memory. Ah! shall I ever forget this so lovely night? The strange, changeful, wind-swept sky, the waves swollen with the passion of yesterday's storm, marching in like a strong army upon the shore and overwhelming it. Behind us the casino, with its many lights, and down there between the moonlight and the sea, we three who did not know each other three months ago but hold each other so closely now."Nothing can ever take from me the fitful splendor, the wild rhythm, the divine mystery of this happy night. I can always close my eyes and see again sea and sky and dear faces; hear again the waves break on this wild coast of Normandy, with the passion of their immortal pain and longing."
"I want to remember this evening which has been so beautiful. I had worked all day to six o'clock dinner, after which I sat and talked awhile with Cecily and Iza, and then took a long moonlight walk with them and Dr. Marston. I think I never saw such a wonderful sky. The blue of it was so intensely blue and great masses of white clouds, hurried and driven on by the wind, met each other and retreated and put on all sorts of fantastic shapes, while among them the moon walked, visible sometimes, and at others hiding her pale face behind some veiled prophet of a cloud, who was mocking the fair night with the gloom of his presence. I never saw such grand effects.
"We climbed a long hill, and from thence we looked down on little Étretat lying below us, with the lights in its many windows, and the sea tossing beyond it white with spray and with moonlight. The trees were quivering at the whispers of a low wind, and still above all the clouds held strange conclave, keepingup their swift march and counter-march. All this time Dr. Marston talked as we sauntered on, and talked superbly. I think the electricity in the air inspired him. He talked of the soul's destiny, of immortality, and expressed, with matchless eloquence, that strong-winged faith which bears him on toward that end that will be, he feels sure, the new life's beginning. From time to time he interrupted himself to point out something that we might not else have seen,—some wonderful phantom of moonlight, some cottage-lamp shining at the end of a long lane, some Rembrandt contrast of light and shade.
"We walked far, but I knew no weariness. I could have walked on forever watching that strange and fitful sky, and listening to such talk as I have seldom heard. Here is an affluent poet, who affords to scatter his riches broadcast, and does not save them all for his printed pages. We went home at last and sat for a while in Dr. Marston's house, and then Philip and Cecily and I went down to the long terrace overlooking the sea, and sat for an hour or more to watch the moonlight on the breaking waves. How happy we were, that little while! We talked of the fitful clouds, the wild, hurrying sea, the white, sweet moon. Then something brought backto me visions of the white statues at Rome, and I tried to show them how fair these old gods stood in my memory. Ah! shall I ever forget this so lovely night? The strange, changeful, wind-swept sky, the waves swollen with the passion of yesterday's storm, marching in like a strong army upon the shore and overwhelming it. Behind us the casino, with its many lights, and down there between the moonlight and the sea, we three who did not know each other three months ago but hold each other so closely now.
"Nothing can ever take from me the fitful splendor, the wild rhythm, the divine mystery of this happy night. I can always close my eyes and see again sea and sky and dear faces; hear again the waves break on this wild coast of Normandy, with the passion of their immortal pain and longing."
This stay in Étretat was further commemorated in her poem of that title. Dr. Marston, too, felt the spell of the place and company, and addressed to her this sonnet:
THE EMBALMING OF A DAY.
Tuesday: September 11: 1877. To Louise.
The succeeding winter Mrs. Moulton passed in Paris. Here as in London she met many of the most interesting people of the day. With Stéphane Mallarmé especially she formed a close friendship, and through him she came to know the chief men of the group called at that time the "Décadents" of which he was the leader. Mallarmé was at this time professor of English in a French college, and his use of that language afforded Mrs. Moulton some amusement. "He always addressed me in the third person," she related, "and he made three syllables of 'themselves.' He spoke of useless things as 'unuseful.' He was, however, a great comfort and pleasure to me, and I saw a great deal of him and of his wife that winter. I used to dine with them at their famous Tuesdays, and meet the adoring throng that came in after dinner. Often he and Madame Mallarmé would saunter withme about the streets of Paris. It was then that I first made acquaintance with the French dolls,—those wonderful creations which can bow and courtesy and speak, and are so much better than humans that they always do the thing they should. Whenever we came to a window where one of these lovely creatures awaited us, I used to insist upon stopping to make her dollship's acquaintance, until I fear the Mallarmés really believed that these dolls were the most alluring things in life to me. But the winter,—crowded for me with the deepest interests and delights in meeting the noted men of letters and many of the greatest artists, and of studying that new movement in art, Impressionism, which was destined to be so revolutionary in its influence,—at last this wonderful winter came to an end, and I was about to cross the Channel once more. Full of kindly regrets came Monsieur and Madame Mallarmé to pay me a parting call. 'We have wishéd,' began the poet, mustering his best English in compliment to the occasion, 'Madame and I have wishéd to make to Madame Moulton a souvenir for the good-bye, and we have thought much, we have consideréd the preference beautiful of Madame, so refinéd; and we do reflect that as Madame is pleaséd toso graciously the dolls of Paris like, we have wishéd to a doll present her. Will Madame do us the pleasure great to come out and choose with us a doll,très jolie, that may have the pleasure to please her?'"
It would be a pleasure to record that Mrs. Moulton accepted the gift. The doll presented by the leader of the Symbolists would have been not only historic, but it might have been regarded as signifying in the language of symbolism things unutterable; but she could only say: "Oh, no; please. I should be laughed at. Please let it be something else." And the guests retired pensive, to return next day with a handsome Japanese cabinet as their offering. "And I have pined ever since," Mrs. Moulton added smilingly, when she told the story, "for the Mallarmé doll that might have been mine."
In 1877 the Macmillans brought out Mrs. Moulton's first volume of poems under the title "Swallow Flights," the name being taken from Tennyson's well known lines:
The American edition, which followed soon after from the house of Roberts Brothers,was entitled simply "Poems." The success of the book was a surprise to the author. Professor William Minto wrote in theExaminer:
"We do not, indeed, know where to find, among the works of English poetesses, the same self-controlled fulness of expression with the same depth and tenderness of simple feeling.... 'One Dread' might have been penned by Sir Philip Sidney."
"We do not, indeed, know where to find, among the works of English poetesses, the same self-controlled fulness of expression with the same depth and tenderness of simple feeling.... 'One Dread' might have been penned by Sir Philip Sidney."
TheAthenæum, always chary of overpraise, declared:
"It is not too much to say of these poems that they exhibit delicate and rare beauty, marked originality, and perfection of style. What is still better, they impress us with a sense of subtle and vivid imagination, and that spontaneous feeling which is the essence of lyrical poetry.... A poem called 'The House of Death' is a fine example of the writer's best style. It paints briefly, but with ghostly fidelity, the doomed house, which stands blind and voiceless amid the light and laughter of summer. The lines which we print in italics show a depth of suggestion and a power of epithet which it would be difficult to surpass.
"It is not too much to say of these poems that they exhibit delicate and rare beauty, marked originality, and perfection of style. What is still better, they impress us with a sense of subtle and vivid imagination, and that spontaneous feeling which is the essence of lyrical poetry.... A poem called 'The House of Death' is a fine example of the writer's best style. It paints briefly, but with ghostly fidelity, the doomed house, which stands blind and voiceless amid the light and laughter of summer. The lines which we print in italics show a depth of suggestion and a power of epithet which it would be difficult to surpass.
"THE HOUSE OF DEATH
Philip Bourke Marston wrote a long review of the volume inThe Academy, London, in the course of which he admirably summarized the merits of the work when he said:
"The distinguishing qualities of these poems are extreme directness and concentration of utterance, unvarying harmony between thought and expression, and a happy freedom from that costly elaboration of style so much in vogue.... Yet, while thus free from elaboration, Mrs. Moulton's style displays rare felicity of epithet.... The poetical faculty of the writer is in no way more strongly evinced than by the subtlety and suggestiveness of her ideas."
"The distinguishing qualities of these poems are extreme directness and concentration of utterance, unvarying harmony between thought and expression, and a happy freedom from that costly elaboration of style so much in vogue.... Yet, while thus free from elaboration, Mrs. Moulton's style displays rare felicity of epithet.... The poetical faculty of the writer is in no way more strongly evinced than by the subtlety and suggestiveness of her ideas."
The reviewers of note on both sides of the Atlantic were unanimous in their praise. In a time of æsthetic imitation she came as an absolutely natural singer. She gave the effect of the sudden note of a thrush heard through a chorus of mocking-birds and piping bullfinches. She was able to put herself into her work and yet to keep her poetry free from self-consciousness; and to be at once spontaneous and impassioned is given to few writers of verse. When such a power belongs to an author the verse becomes poetry.
Mrs. Moulton had already come to regard Robert Browning as, in her own phrase, "king of contemporary poets." She sent tohim a copy of "Swallow Flights," with a timid, graceful note asking for his generosity. In his acknowledgment he said:
Mr. Browning to Mrs. Moulton19 Warwick Crescent, W.February 24, '78.My dear Mrs. Moulton: Thank you for the copy of the poems. They need no generosity.... I close it only when needs I must at page the last, with music in my ears and flowers before my eyes, and not without thoughts across the brain. Pray continue your "flights," and be assured of the sympathetic observation ofYours truly,Robert Browning.
Mr. Browning to Mrs. Moulton
19 Warwick Crescent, W.February 24, '78.
My dear Mrs. Moulton: Thank you for the copy of the poems. They need no generosity.... I close it only when needs I must at page the last, with music in my ears and flowers before my eyes, and not without thoughts across the brain. Pray continue your "flights," and be assured of the sympathetic observation of
Yours truly,
Robert Browning.
Browning letter[Enlarge]Facsimile of a Letter fromRobert BrowningPage 96
Browning letter
[Enlarge]
Facsimile of a Letter fromRobert Browning
Page 96
In acknowledgment of a copy of "In the Garden of Dreams" William Winter wrote:
Mr. Winter to Mrs. Moulton"It is a beautiful book, Louise, and the spirit of it is tender, dreamlike and sorrowful.... The pathos of it affects me strongly. Life appeals more strongly to you than the pageantry. There is more fancy in your poems and more alacrity and variety of thought, but the quality that impresses me is feeling. Iam not a critic, but somehow I must feel that I know a good thing when I see it, and I am sure that no one but a true artist in poetry could have written those stanzas called 'Now and Then.' The music has been running in my mind for days and days,"And had you loved me then, my dear.I think you are very kind to remember me and to send such a lovely offering to me at Christmas. God bless you! and may this new year be happy for you, and the harbinger of many happier years to follow."
Mr. Winter to Mrs. Moulton
"It is a beautiful book, Louise, and the spirit of it is tender, dreamlike and sorrowful.... The pathos of it affects me strongly. Life appeals more strongly to you than the pageantry. There is more fancy in your poems and more alacrity and variety of thought, but the quality that impresses me is feeling. Iam not a critic, but somehow I must feel that I know a good thing when I see it, and I am sure that no one but a true artist in poetry could have written those stanzas called 'Now and Then.' The music has been running in my mind for days and days,
"And had you loved me then, my dear.
I think you are very kind to remember me and to send such a lovely offering to me at Christmas. God bless you! and may this new year be happy for you, and the harbinger of many happier years to follow."
Some years later the Scotch critic, Professor Meiklejohn, sent to Mrs. Moulton a series of comments which he had made while reading "Swallow Flights," "in the intervals of that fearful kind of business called Examination;" and some of these may be quoted before the book is passed for other matters.
"The word 'waiting' in the line'White moons made beautiful the waiting night,'is full of emotional and imaginative memory."In 'A Painted Fan' the line'The soft, south wind of memory blows,'is another instance of a perfect poetical thought, perfectly expressed."Two lines of an unforgettable beauty are'The flowers and love stole sweetness from the sun;The short, sweet lives of summer things are done.'"And a line Shelley himself might have been proud to own is'No bird-note quivers on the frosty air.'"The lines'He must, who would give life,Be lord of death:'and'Shall a life which found no sunIn death find God?'express musically a mystic thought."The sonnet 'In Time to Come' is one of astonishing crescendo. The lines'And you sit silent in the silent place, ...You will be weary then for the dead days,And mindful of their sweet and bitter ways,Though passion into memory shall have grown.'"This is very poetry of very poetry. You must look for your poetic brethren among the noble lyrists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Your insight, your subtlety, your delicacy, your music, are hardly matched,and certainly not surpassed, by Herrick or Campion or Carew or Herbert or Vaughan."
"The word 'waiting' in the line
'White moons made beautiful the waiting night,'
is full of emotional and imaginative memory.
"In 'A Painted Fan' the line
'The soft, south wind of memory blows,'
is another instance of a perfect poetical thought, perfectly expressed.
"Two lines of an unforgettable beauty are
"And a line Shelley himself might have been proud to own is
'No bird-note quivers on the frosty air.'
"The lines
and
express musically a mystic thought.
"The sonnet 'In Time to Come' is one of astonishing crescendo. The lines
"This is very poetry of very poetry. You must look for your poetic brethren among the noble lyrists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Your insight, your subtlety, your delicacy, your music, are hardly matched,and certainly not surpassed, by Herrick or Campion or Carew or Herbert or Vaughan."
The success of this first volume of poems naturally contributed not a little toward establishing Mrs. Moulton firmly in the place she had won already in the literary society of London. Among other celebrities she met at this time Lady Wilde, who, as the poet "Speranza" in theDublin Nationin 1848 had been a figure really heroic, and who was by no means disinclined to magnify her own virtues. Taking Mrs. Moulton to task as a poet of mere emotion, Lady Wilde said to her reprovingly: "You're full of your own feelin's, me dear; but when I was young and your age, too, only the Woes of Nations got utterance in me pomes."
Mrs. Moulton heard Cardinal Newman and Mr. Spurgeon. Of them she wrote: