William Watson to Mrs. MoultonDear Mrs. Moulton: One of the most generous recognitions of my early poems came from your pen. I wished then to express mygratitude. I look forward to the pleasure of making your acquaintance. I am touched by your kind sympathy, and I know that you gladden all our group of friends. It is no ordinary thanks I owe you for your generous and delightful criticism. I have to thank you, already, for my best appreciation in America. You do not know how grateful I am to the first woman in America (and almost the first human being) who gave me hearty and inspiring praise. Your poems add to my store of beautiful things, and I do not prize them the less because some of their qualities are my own despair. When your letter came, that article which I call my conscience, and which I wear less for use than for ornament, gave me no peace. Yet the outward parts of life were to blame rather than I, their victim. I had been moving, and giving the Post Office the trouble of one who inherits a wandering tendency. I hope you will permit me to call upon you when next you are in London, and I am, dear Mrs. Moulton,Sincerely yours,William Watson.
William Watson to Mrs. Moulton
Dear Mrs. Moulton: One of the most generous recognitions of my early poems came from your pen. I wished then to express mygratitude. I look forward to the pleasure of making your acquaintance. I am touched by your kind sympathy, and I know that you gladden all our group of friends. It is no ordinary thanks I owe you for your generous and delightful criticism. I have to thank you, already, for my best appreciation in America. You do not know how grateful I am to the first woman in America (and almost the first human being) who gave me hearty and inspiring praise. Your poems add to my store of beautiful things, and I do not prize them the less because some of their qualities are my own despair. When your letter came, that article which I call my conscience, and which I wear less for use than for ornament, gave me no peace. Yet the outward parts of life were to blame rather than I, their victim. I had been moving, and giving the Post Office the trouble of one who inherits a wandering tendency. I hope you will permit me to call upon you when next you are in London, and I am, dear Mrs. Moulton,
Sincerely yours,
William Watson.
To a friend Mr. Watson wrote of Mrs. Moulton: "Her letters show her absolute goodness of heart, which is worth all other human qualities put together."
Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett writes characteristically of that inner inspirer which she calls her "Fairy."
Mrs. Burnett to Mrs. Moulton"... I am so glad you like my story.... It was not I who said 'Human beings can do anything if they set their minds to it'; it was that beloved thing which has said things for me all my life. Sometimes I call it 'The Fairy,' but I think it must be a kind of splendid spirit. It is so strong, it is so good to me, and I do so love it. When I said that thing it seemed to make something waken within me. I began to say it to myself, and to believe it. Only thus could I have finished the story, and this makes me know it is true.... I have sometimes thought the thing I had to give is nearly always part of a story, some note of love, or message that rings clear. I don't ask it should be a loud note, only that some one shall hear it and remember. The fact that you have heard, makes the story a success, so far as I am concerned. As for giving, you give always. I have seen that. You give of gentleness and kindness and all things that help. Your hands are full of things to give."
Mrs. Burnett to Mrs. Moulton
"... I am so glad you like my story.... It was not I who said 'Human beings can do anything if they set their minds to it'; it was that beloved thing which has said things for me all my life. Sometimes I call it 'The Fairy,' but I think it must be a kind of splendid spirit. It is so strong, it is so good to me, and I do so love it. When I said that thing it seemed to make something waken within me. I began to say it to myself, and to believe it. Only thus could I have finished the story, and this makes me know it is true.... I have sometimes thought the thing I had to give is nearly always part of a story, some note of love, or message that rings clear. I don't ask it should be a loud note, only that some one shall hear it and remember. The fact that you have heard, makes the story a success, so far as I am concerned. As for giving, you give always. I have seen that. You give of gentleness and kindness and all things that help. Your hands are full of things to give."
Just before Mrs. Moulton's sailing in the spring of 1895 a breakfast was given to her bya group of her friends, at which the decoration was very prettily all of mountain laurel. In the centre of the table was a basket of green osiers filled with the faintly pink kalmia, and this color-scheme was carried out in the menu-cards, the embroidered centre-piece, the candle-shades, and in the Venetian glass with which the table was furnished. It is to this breakfast that Mrs. Blake alludes in the little note which follows:
Mrs. John G. Blake to Mrs. MoultonDear Mrs. Moulton: Among all the laurels which are being laid before your conquering feet, will you take my little flower of good-will and congratulations? The sonnets are exquisite, so are you always toYour affectionateM.E.B.
Mrs. John G. Blake to Mrs. Moulton
Dear Mrs. Moulton: Among all the laurels which are being laid before your conquering feet, will you take my little flower of good-will and congratulations? The sonnets are exquisite, so are you always to
Your affectionate
M.E.B.
In 1896 was published "Lazy Tours," Mrs. Moulton's most important book in prose. This volume records her impressions in her wanderings in Spain, in Southern Italy, in France, and in Switzerland. It is a delightful mosaic of bits about people and places, of glimpses of Rome, of Florence, of Paris, of the German "cures," and of pleasant experiences of all sorts. The book is dedicated to SirBruce and Lady Seton, "The well-beloved friends and frequent hosts of this lazy tourist." The dedication is as appropriate as it is pleasantly phrased, for the Setons were not only among the closest of Mrs. Moulton's English friends, but with them she had done a great deal of journeying. The book is charmingly vivid, and is a pleasant companion for the traveller in the places with which it deals. Mrs. Moulton neither was nor claimed to be an expert critic of painting and sculpture, but her artistic taste responded sensitively to what was best, and she recorded her feelings with a frank enthusiasm and a wonderful freshness.
Arlo Bates, in acknowledging a gift copy of "Lazy Tours" wrote: "I thank you for 'Lazy Tours.' It is done with a touch not only light and delicate, but strangely gentle. It is written with the experience of a woman and the enthusiasm of a girl." In another note of Mr. Bates', belonging to this time, are the remarks:
"Friendship is about the only real thing in humanity.""The few of us who, in this muse-forgotten age, still care for real poetry, are to be congratulated no less."
"Friendship is about the only real thing in humanity."
"The few of us who, in this muse-forgotten age, still care for real poetry, are to be congratulated no less."
The sculptor Greenough wrote: "Verily, your 'Lazy Tours' are a rebuke to industry, for it has woven a magic carpet, as that of the 'Arabian Nights,' only you transport the reader, in every sense of the word.... What excellent prose you poets write when you try." The critics were all agreed, and the verdict of the public endorsed that of Mrs. Moulton's friends and of the reviewers. The book had precisely that lightness of touch which is perennially charming, and which perhaps is due equally to literary expertness and to innate good taste.
The usual summer abroad, full of social experiences, followed; and then the winter in Boston with the crowded Friday receptions. A letter which belongs to this winter is full of a lightness and kindliness characteristic of the writer.
James Whitcomb Riley to Mrs. Moulton"... You, after months and months of barbarous silence, are asking me why I have not written! Well, I'll answer in my artlessness and most truthfully tell you that my last letter (and a really appealing one) meeting with no response whatever, I just had concluded that I'd win highest favor in your estimate by not writing. So I quit writing, andwent to pouting,—this latter so persistently indulged in that my previously benignant features now look as though they were being cast back on my very teeth, so to speak, by a tawdry, wavery, crinkly looking-glass in the last gasp of a boarding-house. But since your voice of yesterday, the eyes of me are lit again, and the whole face beams like radiant summer time. No wonder you continue in indifferent health. It's a judgment on you for your neglect of me. Now you'll begin to improve. And you can get into perfect health by strictly maintaining this rigorous course of writing to me. Heroic treatment, of a truth!..."
James Whitcomb Riley to Mrs. Moulton
"... You, after months and months of barbarous silence, are asking me why I have not written! Well, I'll answer in my artlessness and most truthfully tell you that my last letter (and a really appealing one) meeting with no response whatever, I just had concluded that I'd win highest favor in your estimate by not writing. So I quit writing, andwent to pouting,—this latter so persistently indulged in that my previously benignant features now look as though they were being cast back on my very teeth, so to speak, by a tawdry, wavery, crinkly looking-glass in the last gasp of a boarding-house. But since your voice of yesterday, the eyes of me are lit again, and the whole face beams like radiant summer time. No wonder you continue in indifferent health. It's a judgment on you for your neglect of me. Now you'll begin to improve. And you can get into perfect health by strictly maintaining this rigorous course of writing to me. Heroic treatment, of a truth!..."
One of the entries in the diary of the winter reads:
"Could hardly get to the Browning Society, where I read 'A Toccata of Galuppi's.' Mr. Moulton seemed interested about the reading, and I read him the 'Toccata' after dinner, and other poems. A beautiful evening."
"Could hardly get to the Browning Society, where I read 'A Toccata of Galuppi's.' Mr. Moulton seemed interested about the reading, and I read him the 'Toccata' after dinner, and other poems. A beautiful evening."
William U. MoultonWilliam U. MoultonPage 215
William U. Moulton
William U. Moulton
Page 215
Strangely enough this was Mr. Moulton's last evening of being in health. The next day he was taken ill, and on February 19, 1898, he passed into "the life more abundant." The funeral service was read by the Rev. E. Winchester Donald, rector of Trinity, and Mrs.Moulton more than once spoke of the kindness and sympathy which he showed to her at this time. She wrote in her diary: "Dr. Donald called; he is, it seems to me, a nobly good man." Her daughter was with her, and her many friends were about her. Numerous were the letters of condolence, and they were full of the genuine feeling which could be called out only by one who was herself so ready and quick to respond to the sorrows of others.
In the summer following Mr. Moulton's death Mrs. Moulton remained in America. Her life was saddened and cumbered with the cares needful in business matters, and on the last day of the year she wrote in her diary: "This sad year which is now ending—how strange a year it has been for me. Mr. Moulton died in February and changed all. I have done nothing, enjoyed nothing. With 1899 I must turn over a new leaf, or give up life and all its uses, altogether." In this mood it was natural that her predisposition to brood upon the problem of death should reassert itself. She writes to William Winter: "No,—my dread of death does not seem to me to be physical, for it is not the pain of death that I ever think of. I hate the idea of extinction, but I could reconcile myself to that; ... but what I dread most is the to-morrow of death,—the loneliness of the unclothed soul." And again: "For myself, I have an unutterable and haunting horror of going out into the dark.... I always wish I might die at the same moment with some well beloved friend, so that hand and hand we might go into the mystery."
Her literary work, however, continues. She said from time to time that she could not write, and that she should never write a line again; but the poetic instinct was strong, and asserted itself in its own time and way. In a letter to a friend she remarks in passing: "TheCenturyhas just come with my poem, 'A Rose Pressed in a Book,' and it seems to me to read pretty well." The lyric to which she modestly alludes as reading "pretty well" is beautifully characteristic of some of her choicest poetic qualities: easy and seemingly unconscious mastery of form, delicacy of touch, charming melody, and sincerity of emotion.
Always her correspondence goes on.
T.B. Aldrich to Mrs. Moulton"Some day I must get you to tell me about Andrew Lang. One night last winter as I sat reading one of his books a kind of ghost,distinct, elusive, rose before me. Out of this impression grew my 'Broken Music.'"
T.B. Aldrich to Mrs. Moulton
"Some day I must get you to tell me about Andrew Lang. One night last winter as I sat reading one of his books a kind of ghost,distinct, elusive, rose before me. Out of this impression grew my 'Broken Music.'"
In allusion to his much discussed "Modern Love," George Meredith writes:
George Meredith to Mrs. Moulton"You are like the northern tribes of the Arabs, in that what you love you love wholly and without ceasing. This poem has been more roundly abused than any other of my much-castigated troop. You help me to think that they are not born offenders, antipathetic to the human mind. Americans who first gave me a reputation for the writing of novels will perhaps ultimately take part in the admission that I can write verse. They may thus carry a reluctant consent in England, when I no longer send out my rhyming note for revision. I have been taught, at least, to set no store upon English opinion in such matters. I would thank you, but gratitude is out of place. There is a feeling hard to verbalize."
George Meredith to Mrs. Moulton
"You are like the northern tribes of the Arabs, in that what you love you love wholly and without ceasing. This poem has been more roundly abused than any other of my much-castigated troop. You help me to think that they are not born offenders, antipathetic to the human mind. Americans who first gave me a reputation for the writing of novels will perhaps ultimately take part in the admission that I can write verse. They may thus carry a reluctant consent in England, when I no longer send out my rhyming note for revision. I have been taught, at least, to set no store upon English opinion in such matters. I would thank you, but gratitude is out of place. There is a feeling hard to verbalize."
Mrs. Moulton to Lloyd Mifflin"It is five days since I received your 'Slopes of Helicon,' enriched by your kind inscription. I have been too ill to write; but I will no longer postpone the pleasure of telling youhow delighted I am to have your charming book. I have already read enough to know that the book will be an abiding pleasure. You are as delightful a lyrist as you are a sonneteer, and I could not give you higher praise. Both the sonnets and lyrics in this volume charm me.""... This morning, looking over a shelf of books that have accumulated during my absence,—as books are never forwarded to me,—I find your 'Fields of Dawn,' and also 'Lyrics,' by J.H. Mifflin, for both of which I want to thank you at once. I have a real pleasure to look forward to, for I love your sonnets. Am I right in supposing 'J.H.M.' to be your father, and that you are a poet by inheritance?...""I am sending a hurried note to tell you how entirely I agree with you about the demand for 'cheerful poetry.'""It is worth writing a book to have written the line,"Made eminent by death,in that noble poem, 'Peace to the Brave.' The poem entitled 'Herbert Spencer' makes me wonder whether you feel that assurance of the future which he certainly did not feel...."
Mrs. Moulton to Lloyd Mifflin
"It is five days since I received your 'Slopes of Helicon,' enriched by your kind inscription. I have been too ill to write; but I will no longer postpone the pleasure of telling youhow delighted I am to have your charming book. I have already read enough to know that the book will be an abiding pleasure. You are as delightful a lyrist as you are a sonneteer, and I could not give you higher praise. Both the sonnets and lyrics in this volume charm me."
"... This morning, looking over a shelf of books that have accumulated during my absence,—as books are never forwarded to me,—I find your 'Fields of Dawn,' and also 'Lyrics,' by J.H. Mifflin, for both of which I want to thank you at once. I have a real pleasure to look forward to, for I love your sonnets. Am I right in supposing 'J.H.M.' to be your father, and that you are a poet by inheritance?..."
"I am sending a hurried note to tell you how entirely I agree with you about the demand for 'cheerful poetry.'"
"It is worth writing a book to have written the line,
"Made eminent by death,
in that noble poem, 'Peace to the Brave.' The poem entitled 'Herbert Spencer' makes me wonder whether you feel that assurance of the future which he certainly did not feel...."
Lloyd Mifflin to Mrs. Moulton"... It is very uplifting, as you say in New England, to have such a genuine letter as yours. You read a book as I do, through at once. No one has said that my mind inclines to visions like Blake's, but I see visions. I used to sit and hold the pen and feel it hovering about, becoming nearer and nearer, till suddenly it came, the complete sonnet. I merely recorded it then. This was always wonderful to me. Where do they come from? Not death itself, to say nothing of our earth, can keep a born poet from writing. I can write a better poem about sunset by not seeing it...."
Lloyd Mifflin to Mrs. Moulton
"... It is very uplifting, as you say in New England, to have such a genuine letter as yours. You read a book as I do, through at once. No one has said that my mind inclines to visions like Blake's, but I see visions. I used to sit and hold the pen and feel it hovering about, becoming nearer and nearer, till suddenly it came, the complete sonnet. I merely recorded it then. This was always wonderful to me. Where do they come from? Not death itself, to say nothing of our earth, can keep a born poet from writing. I can write a better poem about sunset by not seeing it...."
James Whitcomb Riley to Mrs. Moulton"... Very slightly changing R.L.S.'s line,"This be the verse which ye grave for me,Home he is where he longed to be;and very thankful I am to be at home again. True, the mother is away, the old father, too, and a sister, and a brother; but they all seem to be here still, with the happy rest of us,—for we all believe, thank God. And you must take this for answer to your very last question, for I do feel that I know. I know likewise whyfuller assurance has been withheld from us, lest knowing that, not one of all God's children but would be hurrying to Him ere His own good time.... Always your books are near at hand. May I tell you that I think the sonnet is your true voice? Yours is the deep, strong utterance which belongs, with the soul-cry in it, as individual to yourself as Mrs. Browning's to herself. Somewhere we are to talk poetry together sometime!... Of my book, 'A Child's World,' I venture to send you Mr. Howells' printed blessing, ... so delightfully characteristic (I think) of his very happiest way of saying things. And, oh! but I am gloating over a supernal letter from the Archangel Aldrich! Truly with hurtling praise and God-speed the heavenly battlements have loosened on me...."
James Whitcomb Riley to Mrs. Moulton
"... Very slightly changing R.L.S.'s line,
and very thankful I am to be at home again. True, the mother is away, the old father, too, and a sister, and a brother; but they all seem to be here still, with the happy rest of us,—for we all believe, thank God. And you must take this for answer to your very last question, for I do feel that I know. I know likewise whyfuller assurance has been withheld from us, lest knowing that, not one of all God's children but would be hurrying to Him ere His own good time.... Always your books are near at hand. May I tell you that I think the sonnet is your true voice? Yours is the deep, strong utterance which belongs, with the soul-cry in it, as individual to yourself as Mrs. Browning's to herself. Somewhere we are to talk poetry together sometime!... Of my book, 'A Child's World,' I venture to send you Mr. Howells' printed blessing, ... so delightfully characteristic (I think) of his very happiest way of saying things. And, oh! but I am gloating over a supernal letter from the Archangel Aldrich! Truly with hurtling praise and God-speed the heavenly battlements have loosened on me...."
From the same"Has it been, and is it being, a beautiful Christmas season to you? for I have been so praying, though vexing you with no line of it in ink. And I've seen two new poems of yours, and they testify to your loyal love of this world of ours; so I know at least you can't be happier till you get to Heaven with no good word or gift forgotten, and such profusion! Since my return home I've beenmostly working on pyramids of matter accumulated since my taking to the road. But last night I was struck with a real thought, while I was off guard, so to speak. So I've gone to work on that, and I'll send you the result, if I ever overtake it.... Lor! but don't praise unexpected hit the very crazybone of vanity!"
From the same
"Has it been, and is it being, a beautiful Christmas season to you? for I have been so praying, though vexing you with no line of it in ink. And I've seen two new poems of yours, and they testify to your loyal love of this world of ours; so I know at least you can't be happier till you get to Heaven with no good word or gift forgotten, and such profusion! Since my return home I've beenmostly working on pyramids of matter accumulated since my taking to the road. But last night I was struck with a real thought, while I was off guard, so to speak. So I've gone to work on that, and I'll send you the result, if I ever overtake it.... Lor! but don't praise unexpected hit the very crazybone of vanity!"
From the same"How beautiful your new poems are! Oh, yes! Even to vaguely question your Divine Inspirer's ultimate intent!... Sometimes I even smilingly think that He has given you that haunting doubt here that your delight may be all the more ineffable a glory when you find His throne more real a fact than this first world of ours."
From the same
"How beautiful your new poems are! Oh, yes! Even to vaguely question your Divine Inspirer's ultimate intent!... Sometimes I even smilingly think that He has given you that haunting doubt here that your delight may be all the more ineffable a glory when you find His throne more real a fact than this first world of ours."
Among the pleasant friendships which came into a life whose entire texture seemed woven of friendship and song, was that with Coulson Kernahan, who, though one of the younger men of letters in England, had already made a recognized place. His warmly responsive nature made the two especially sympathetic, and they were alike in their devotion to literature. After the vanishing of the "Marston group," Mrs. Moulton's most intimate London circle came to comprise Sir Bruce andLady Seton, with whom she stayed frequently at Durham House, Mr. Kernahan, Mrs. Campbell-Praed, and Herbert E. Clarke. Mr. Kernahan's acquaintance with Mrs. Moulton began from a critique on "Swallow Flights" which he had written for theFortnightly. In it he had said:
"No one who looks upon life with earnest eyes can fail to be touched by the passionate human cry which rings from Mrs. Moulton's poems. No one whose ear is attuned to catch the wail that is to be heard in the maddest, merriest music of the violin, to whom the sound of wind and sea at midnight is like that of innumerable lamentations; no one who, in the movement of a multitude of human beings—be they marching to the bounding music of fife and drum, or hurrying to witness a meeting of the starving unemployed—no one who in all these hears something of 'the still, sad music of humanity,' can read her verses unstirred."
"No one who looks upon life with earnest eyes can fail to be touched by the passionate human cry which rings from Mrs. Moulton's poems. No one whose ear is attuned to catch the wail that is to be heard in the maddest, merriest music of the violin, to whom the sound of wind and sea at midnight is like that of innumerable lamentations; no one who, in the movement of a multitude of human beings—be they marching to the bounding music of fife and drum, or hurrying to witness a meeting of the starving unemployed—no one who in all these hears something of 'the still, sad music of humanity,' can read her verses unstirred."
Mr. Kernahan had also emphasized—Mrs. Moulton herself thought somewhat unduly—the strain of sadness in her poems; and had he known her personally at the time he wrote, he would surely not have called her "world-weary and melancholy." The pointwas one often made by critics, and has been alluded to in an earlier chapter. Partly the melancholy note was due to environment, but more to temperament. Mrs. Moulton almost at the beginning had edited a "gift-book" and the fact is significant of the literary fashions of her youth. The "annuals" and "gift-books" of the second quarter of the nineteenth century were redolent of a sort of pressed-rose sadness, a sort of faded-out reminiscence of belated Byronism; a richly passionate gloom of spirit was held to be necessary to lyric inspiration. By this convention Mrs. Moulton was undoubtedly affected, although by no means to such an extent as was Edgar Allan Poe. With her the cause of the minor cadence was chiefly a temperament which gave a sad quality to her singing as nature has put a plaintive timbre into the notes of certain birds. In writing to Mr. Kernahan about his article, she said: "I always hear the minor chords in nature's music; after the summer, the autumn; after youth, age; after life, death. I happened yesterday to close a poem:
Is it not true?" Yet she assured him that she was "often gay."
The numerous letters of Mrs. Moulton to Mr. Kernahan were intimate and full of details of business in regard to publication, with personal matters relating to friends and the like, but through them all runs a thread of comment on literature and life.
"I am simply enchanted with the new book William Morris has printed for Wilfrid Blunt, 'The Love Lyrics and Songs of Proteus.'""Yes, I did like that one line in Christina Rossetti's poem:"... half carol and half cry;but the rest of it is not good enough for her.""I have had many violets sent me this year, but far the most fragrant were a bunch left for me to-day with a card on which was written:"Since one too strange to risk intrusionWould dare rebuke, nor meet confusion,Yet fain would—failing long to meet you—With gentle words and memories greet you,Sweet Mistress of the Triolet,Admit, I pray, a violet.""I am reading, or rather rereading Rossetti's sonnet sequence, 'The House of Life.' Howunequal are the sonnets,—some of them so beautiful they fairly thrill one's soul with their charm, but others seem whimsical and far fetched. On the other hand, how glorious, how like a full chord of music is, for instance, 'The Heart's Compass,' and the sestet of 'Last Fire,' and that magnificent sonnet, 'The Dark Glass.'""I had a letter this morning from a far-off stranger who tells me that her heart keeps time to my poems.... I am expecting my beloved Mrs. Spofford to-day.... No sweeter soul than she lives on this earth.""Recently I sent a rhyme called 'A Whisper to the Moon,' toThe Independent, and in accepting it Bliss Carman writes: 'I like it, and that line"'She is thy kindred, and fickle art thou,is immense. Lines with the lyric quality of that are imperishable. Quite apart from its meaning—its cold meaning—it is poetry. It floods the heart. It carries all before it. There is no stopping it. It is like the opening of the gates of the sea. You often write such lines.' The line does not seem to me at all worth such praise, but all the same the praise pleased me. How lovely it is to havepeople single out some special phrase to care for!""Louise Guiney and I are looking over my poems together. Oh, I wish there were more variety in them. They are good (I hope and think) in form, but they are, almost all, the cry of my heart for the love that I long for, or its protest against the death that I fear. Ah, well, I can only be myself."
"I am simply enchanted with the new book William Morris has printed for Wilfrid Blunt, 'The Love Lyrics and Songs of Proteus.'"
"Yes, I did like that one line in Christina Rossetti's poem:
"... half carol and half cry;
but the rest of it is not good enough for her."
"I have had many violets sent me this year, but far the most fragrant were a bunch left for me to-day with a card on which was written:
"I am reading, or rather rereading Rossetti's sonnet sequence, 'The House of Life.' Howunequal are the sonnets,—some of them so beautiful they fairly thrill one's soul with their charm, but others seem whimsical and far fetched. On the other hand, how glorious, how like a full chord of music is, for instance, 'The Heart's Compass,' and the sestet of 'Last Fire,' and that magnificent sonnet, 'The Dark Glass.'"
"I had a letter this morning from a far-off stranger who tells me that her heart keeps time to my poems.... I am expecting my beloved Mrs. Spofford to-day.... No sweeter soul than she lives on this earth."
"Recently I sent a rhyme called 'A Whisper to the Moon,' toThe Independent, and in accepting it Bliss Carman writes: 'I like it, and that line
"'She is thy kindred, and fickle art thou,
is immense. Lines with the lyric quality of that are imperishable. Quite apart from its meaning—its cold meaning—it is poetry. It floods the heart. It carries all before it. There is no stopping it. It is like the opening of the gates of the sea. You often write such lines.' The line does not seem to me at all worth such praise, but all the same the praise pleased me. How lovely it is to havepeople single out some special phrase to care for!"
"Louise Guiney and I are looking over my poems together. Oh, I wish there were more variety in them. They are good (I hope and think) in form, but they are, almost all, the cry of my heart for the love that I long for, or its protest against the death that I fear. Ah, well, I can only be myself."
Louise Chandler MoultonLouise Chandler MoultonPage 227
Louise Chandler Moulton
Louise Chandler Moulton
Page 227
In this year appeared Mrs. Moulton's third volume of poems, "At the Wind's Will," the title being taken from Rossetti's "Wood-spurge":
Of it Mrs. Spofford said:
"Mrs. Moulton's last volume of poems, 'At the Wind's Will,' fitly crowns the literary achievement of the century. It is poetry at high-water mark. Her work exhibited in previous volumes has given her a rank among the foremost poets of the world, and much of the work in 'At the Wind's Will' exceeds in grasp and in surrender, in strength and in beauty, anything she has hitherto published."
"Mrs. Moulton's last volume of poems, 'At the Wind's Will,' fitly crowns the literary achievement of the century. It is poetry at high-water mark. Her work exhibited in previous volumes has given her a rank among the foremost poets of the world, and much of the work in 'At the Wind's Will' exceeds in grasp and in surrender, in strength and in beauty, anything she has hitherto published."
So the year wore to a close. Her last record for December in her diary reads: "Nowthis year of 1899 goes out,—a year in which I have accomplished nothing,—gone back, I fear, in every way. God grant 1900 may be better." In part this was the expression of the melancholy natural to ill health, but it was a characteristic cry from one always too likely to underrate herself. Surely the prayer was granted, for the year 1900 gave her again a spring in Rome and Florence, and was filled with rich and significant experiences.
THE diary during the early months of the year which opened the new century records as often before many kindnesses in the form of reading for various objects:
"Went in evening to read for the Rev. Mr. Shields, of South Boston.""In the evening read for the College Club. Mrs. Howe presided. The other readers were Dr. Hale, Dr. Ames, Colonel Higginson,J.T. Trowbridge, Judge Grant, and Nathan Haskell Dole.""Read for the Young Men's Christian Association. I read 'In Arcady,' 'The Name on a Door,' and 'A June Song,' of my own verses; then my paper on the Marstons, entitled 'Five Friends.' People seemed pleased."
"Went in evening to read for the Rev. Mr. Shields, of South Boston."
"In the evening read for the College Club. Mrs. Howe presided. The other readers were Dr. Hale, Dr. Ames, Colonel Higginson,J.T. Trowbridge, Judge Grant, and Nathan Haskell Dole."
"Read for the Young Men's Christian Association. I read 'In Arcady,' 'The Name on a Door,' and 'A June Song,' of my own verses; then my paper on the Marstons, entitled 'Five Friends.' People seemed pleased."
Among her numerous generous acts were to be reckoned the many times when, without regard to herself, she assisted at readings or gave a reading entirely by herself.
On February 19, the entry is:
"Two years ago this day Mr. Moulton passed out of life. It was my first thought this morning, and the sadness of it has been with me all day."
"Two years ago this day Mr. Moulton passed out of life. It was my first thought this morning, and the sadness of it has been with me all day."
Mr. Moulton had always been to her a tower of strength. Few men were more highly esteemed by those who knew him, or were more deserving of esteem. He was a man of flawless integrity and the highest sense of honor; a man of vigorous intellect, of clear and definite intellectual grasp, and of a generous and kindly nature. He was not himself fond of society, but he was proud of his wife's success, and ministered to her tastes for travel and social life. His sympathywith the literary life was genuine and strong, and his service to clean and wholesome journalism in his editorial work gave him a lasting claim upon public gratitude, had he chosen to assert it. Upon his sterling worth and fine character Mrs. Moulton had always been able to depend, and life without the consciousness of his presence in the home was a thing different and sadder.
In a letter written about this time Mrs. Moulton again touches upon the old question of social struggle:
"I agree with you as to the inanity of struggle for social prominence. How fine is the passage you quote from Emerson: 'My friends come to me unsought. The great God Himself gave them to me.' That is the way I feel. Any social struggle seems to me so little worth while. It is worth while to know the people who really interest one,—but the others! It is always climbing ladders, and there are always other ladders to climb, and one never gets to the top. And then, what will it be if there is an 'after death'? I wonder? Will there be social ambitions,—the desire to get ahead there? It almost seems as if there must be, if there is the continuity of individual existences, for whatcould change people's desires and tendencies all at once?"
"I agree with you as to the inanity of struggle for social prominence. How fine is the passage you quote from Emerson: 'My friends come to me unsought. The great God Himself gave them to me.' That is the way I feel. Any social struggle seems to me so little worth while. It is worth while to know the people who really interest one,—but the others! It is always climbing ladders, and there are always other ladders to climb, and one never gets to the top. And then, what will it be if there is an 'after death'? I wonder? Will there be social ambitions,—the desire to get ahead there? It almost seems as if there must be, if there is the continuity of individual existences, for whatcould change people's desires and tendencies all at once?"
From various letters to the friend to whom this is written, to whom she wrote often, may be put together here a few extracts. The letters were seldom dated, and it is hardly possible to tell exactly when each was written, but the exact sequence is not of importance.
"And what do you think (entre nous) I have been asked to do? To go to Cambridge, England, with a party of friends who have included Mme. Blavatsky, and they are to have some brilliant receptions given them there by the occult folk, or those interested. But I declined.""Mr. —— goes about asking every one if he has read 'The Story of My Heart,' by Jeffries, which is his latest enthusiasm. After being asked till I was ashamed of saying no, I got the book and read it, finding it the most haunting outcry of pessimism imaginable. When one has read it one feels in the midst of a Godless, hopeless world, where nature is hostile, and the animal kingdom alien, and man alone with his destiny,—a destiny that menaces and appalls him. It is a too powerful book. Jeffries makes onefeel, for the moment, that all the happy people are happy only because insensate, and are madly dancing on volcanoes.""Austin Dobson says: 'I have always admired your sonnets,—a thing I can never manage; but how you do take all Gallometry to be your province!! What are we, poor slaves to canzonets and serenades, to do next?' Very pleasant of him.""Last Saturday the Boyle O'Reilly monument was unveiled, and I was chosen to crown it with a laurel wreath. It was a wonderful occasion; and President Capen, of Tufts College, gave the most eloquent eulogy to which I ever listened.""My life is not the beautiful life you think, but it is my soul's steadfast purpose to make it all that you believe it already is. Nothing is of any real consequence save to live up to your very highest ideal. In criticism I made up my mind, long ago, that one should be like Swedenborg's angels, who sought to find the good in everything. Of course, really poor things must be condemned—or whatIthink is better—boycotted; but I do not like what is harsh, prejudiced, one-sided. I would see my possible soul's brother in every man—which all means that I am an optimist.""Can you tell me what Henry James means by his story, 'The Private Life'? Is it an allegory or what? I never saw anything so impossible to understand.""You speak of the 'close and near friendships' you have made in your few weeks in Florence,—'friendships for a lifetime.' That is delightful, only I can't make friendships with new people easily; so if I went I should not have that pleasure.""... Before I rose this morning, a special messenger came from the Secretary of the Women Writers' Club (which is giving a magnificent dinner to-night at which Mrs. Humphry Ward presides). Miss Blackburne, the 'Hon. Secretary,' had only heard of my being in London this morning, so she at once sent a messenger to invite me. She entreated me to come; said she wanted me to sit at the head of one of the tables, and preside over that table, etc., etc. She sent a most distinguished list of guests, and oh, Ididwant to go—but I felt so ill I dared not try to go, and I sent an immediate refusal. Many of the authors whom I would like to meet will be among the guests....""Here is the little screed ... about Mrs. Browning. The description was given meby an English lady who saw Mrs. Browning very often during Mrs. B.'s last visit to Rome. To her such rumors as (falsely, I am persuaded) have connected Mr. Browning's name with that of another marriage would have seemed an impossible impertinence. Indeed, when one knows—as I happen to know—that Mr. Browning was asked to furnish some letters and some data about Mrs. Browning's life for Miss Zimmern (who had been requested to write about her for the Famous Women Series of Biographies) and refused because he could not bring himself to speak in detail of the past which had been so dear, or to share the sacred letters of his wife with the public, it hardly seems that he can be contemplating the offer of the place she, his 'moon of poets,' held in his life, to another."
"And what do you think (entre nous) I have been asked to do? To go to Cambridge, England, with a party of friends who have included Mme. Blavatsky, and they are to have some brilliant receptions given them there by the occult folk, or those interested. But I declined."
"Mr. —— goes about asking every one if he has read 'The Story of My Heart,' by Jeffries, which is his latest enthusiasm. After being asked till I was ashamed of saying no, I got the book and read it, finding it the most haunting outcry of pessimism imaginable. When one has read it one feels in the midst of a Godless, hopeless world, where nature is hostile, and the animal kingdom alien, and man alone with his destiny,—a destiny that menaces and appalls him. It is a too powerful book. Jeffries makes onefeel, for the moment, that all the happy people are happy only because insensate, and are madly dancing on volcanoes."
"Austin Dobson says: 'I have always admired your sonnets,—a thing I can never manage; but how you do take all Gallometry to be your province!! What are we, poor slaves to canzonets and serenades, to do next?' Very pleasant of him."
"Last Saturday the Boyle O'Reilly monument was unveiled, and I was chosen to crown it with a laurel wreath. It was a wonderful occasion; and President Capen, of Tufts College, gave the most eloquent eulogy to which I ever listened."
"My life is not the beautiful life you think, but it is my soul's steadfast purpose to make it all that you believe it already is. Nothing is of any real consequence save to live up to your very highest ideal. In criticism I made up my mind, long ago, that one should be like Swedenborg's angels, who sought to find the good in everything. Of course, really poor things must be condemned—or whatIthink is better—boycotted; but I do not like what is harsh, prejudiced, one-sided. I would see my possible soul's brother in every man—which all means that I am an optimist."
"Can you tell me what Henry James means by his story, 'The Private Life'? Is it an allegory or what? I never saw anything so impossible to understand."
"You speak of the 'close and near friendships' you have made in your few weeks in Florence,—'friendships for a lifetime.' That is delightful, only I can't make friendships with new people easily; so if I went I should not have that pleasure."
"... Before I rose this morning, a special messenger came from the Secretary of the Women Writers' Club (which is giving a magnificent dinner to-night at which Mrs. Humphry Ward presides). Miss Blackburne, the 'Hon. Secretary,' had only heard of my being in London this morning, so she at once sent a messenger to invite me. She entreated me to come; said she wanted me to sit at the head of one of the tables, and preside over that table, etc., etc. She sent a most distinguished list of guests, and oh, Ididwant to go—but I felt so ill I dared not try to go, and I sent an immediate refusal. Many of the authors whom I would like to meet will be among the guests...."
"Here is the little screed ... about Mrs. Browning. The description was given meby an English lady who saw Mrs. Browning very often during Mrs. B.'s last visit to Rome. To her such rumors as (falsely, I am persuaded) have connected Mr. Browning's name with that of another marriage would have seemed an impossible impertinence. Indeed, when one knows—as I happen to know—that Mr. Browning was asked to furnish some letters and some data about Mrs. Browning's life for Miss Zimmern (who had been requested to write about her for the Famous Women Series of Biographies) and refused because he could not bring himself to speak in detail of the past which had been so dear, or to share the sacred letters of his wife with the public, it hardly seems that he can be contemplating the offer of the place she, his 'moon of poets,' held in his life, to another."
In the "little screed" alluded to was this description of Mrs. Browning, given in the words of the friend:
"No, she wasnotwhat people call beautiful; but she was more and better. I can see her now, as she lay there on her sofa. I never saw her sitting up. She was always in white. She wore white dresses, trimmed with white lace, with white, fleecy shawls wrapped round her, and her dark brown hairused to be let down and fall all about her like a veil. Her face used to seem to me something already not of the earth—it was so pale, so pure, and with great dark eyes that gleamed like stars. Then her voice was so sweet you never wanted her to stop speaking, but it was also so low you could only hear it by listening carefully.""'Was Mr. Browning there?'"Oh, yes, and he used to watch her as one watches who has the most precious object in the whole world to keep guard over. He looked out for her comfort as tenderly as a woman."I think there never was another marriage like that; a marriage that made two poet souls one forever. Don't you notice how Browning always speaks of finding again the 'soul of his soul'? It was easy enough to see that that was just what she was. And the boy was there, too, a little fellow, with long golden hair, and I remember how quietly he used to play, how careful he was not to disturb his mother. Sometimes he used to stand for a long time beside her, with her 'spirit-small hand,' as her husband called it, just playing with his curls. I wonder if he can have known that she was going away from him so soon."
"No, she wasnotwhat people call beautiful; but she was more and better. I can see her now, as she lay there on her sofa. I never saw her sitting up. She was always in white. She wore white dresses, trimmed with white lace, with white, fleecy shawls wrapped round her, and her dark brown hairused to be let down and fall all about her like a veil. Her face used to seem to me something already not of the earth—it was so pale, so pure, and with great dark eyes that gleamed like stars. Then her voice was so sweet you never wanted her to stop speaking, but it was also so low you could only hear it by listening carefully."
"'Was Mr. Browning there?'
"Oh, yes, and he used to watch her as one watches who has the most precious object in the whole world to keep guard over. He looked out for her comfort as tenderly as a woman.
"I think there never was another marriage like that; a marriage that made two poet souls one forever. Don't you notice how Browning always speaks of finding again the 'soul of his soul'? It was easy enough to see that that was just what she was. And the boy was there, too, a little fellow, with long golden hair, and I remember how quietly he used to play, how careful he was not to disturb his mother. Sometimes he used to stand for a long time beside her, with her 'spirit-small hand,' as her husband called it, just playing with his curls. I wonder if he can have known that she was going away from him so soon."
From various letters of this time of and to Mrs. Moulton may be taken such bits as these:
Mrs. Moulton to Elihu Vedder"It was such a pleasure to me in my present loneliness to have a good talk with you last night, and I have been thinking of what you said. You would like a big fortune that you might have leisure to fulfil your dreams, but what if you had the fortune and not the dreams? I would a million times rather be you than any capitalist alive. It seems to me that to do work as the few great men in the world have, that must live, is the supreme joy. When you are dust the world will adore the wonder and majesty and beauty of your pictures. It seems to me that I would starve willingly in an attic, like Chatterton, to leave to the wide future one such legacy."
Mrs. Moulton to Elihu Vedder
"It was such a pleasure to me in my present loneliness to have a good talk with you last night, and I have been thinking of what you said. You would like a big fortune that you might have leisure to fulfil your dreams, but what if you had the fortune and not the dreams? I would a million times rather be you than any capitalist alive. It seems to me that to do work as the few great men in the world have, that must live, is the supreme joy. When you are dust the world will adore the wonder and majesty and beauty of your pictures. It seems to me that I would starve willingly in an attic, like Chatterton, to leave to the wide future one such legacy."
Walter Pater to Mrs. Moulton"I read very little contemporary poetry, finding a good deal of it a little falsetto. I found, however, in your elegant and musical volume a sincerity, a simplicity, which stand you as constituting acachet, a distinct note."
Walter Pater to Mrs. Moulton
"I read very little contemporary poetry, finding a good deal of it a little falsetto. I found, however, in your elegant and musical volume a sincerity, a simplicity, which stand you as constituting acachet, a distinct note."
Mrs. Moulton to Lady Lindsay"I am reading, with very unusual interest, 'Blake of Oriel,' by Adeline Sargent. It is a story of fate and of heredity, which sets one thinking and questioning.... Is fate also to be complicated by the curse of evil inheritance? Oh, is it fair to give life to one with such an inheritance of evil, and then condemn the sinner for what he does? Is it?... Is it a loving God who creates men foreknowing that they will commit spiritual suicide?... Are people sinners who are doomed by heredity to sin?"
Mrs. Moulton to Lady Lindsay
"I am reading, with very unusual interest, 'Blake of Oriel,' by Adeline Sargent. It is a story of fate and of heredity, which sets one thinking and questioning.... Is fate also to be complicated by the curse of evil inheritance? Oh, is it fair to give life to one with such an inheritance of evil, and then condemn the sinner for what he does? Is it?... Is it a loving God who creates men foreknowing that they will commit spiritual suicide?... Are people sinners who are doomed by heredity to sin?"
Arthur Christopher Benson to Mrs. Moulton"Thank you for what you say of my 'Arthur Hamilton.' It is deeply gratifying to me that the book has ever so slightly interested you. As for the difficulties of the hero, I suppose they are the eternal difficulties. It was like my impudent youth to think that to no one else had the same problem been so unjustly presented before, and to rush wildly into a tourney."
Arthur Christopher Benson to Mrs. Moulton
"Thank you for what you say of my 'Arthur Hamilton.' It is deeply gratifying to me that the book has ever so slightly interested you. As for the difficulties of the hero, I suppose they are the eternal difficulties. It was like my impudent youth to think that to no one else had the same problem been so unjustly presented before, and to rush wildly into a tourney."
The summer of 1900 Mrs. Moulton passed abroad, going before her London visit for the spring in Italy. She revisited familiar haunts in Rome and Florence, and againwas steeped in the enchantment of Italy. In Rome she loved especially the gardens of the Villa Ludovisi; and indeed, something in the solemn spell she felt in the Eternal City appealed especially to her nature. The roses and the ruins, the antique and the modern; churches and altars and temples, and modern studios and society,—each, in turn, attracted her. She passed hours in the Vatican galleries; she was fond of driving on the Pincian in the late afternoon; she took a child's joy in thefestas; she found delight in the works growing under the hand of artists. Of a visit to the studio of Mr. Story she related: "I was looking at a noble statue of Saul, and this, recalling to me the 'Saul' of Browning, led me to speak of the dead poet. Mr. Story then told me of his own last meeting with Browning, which was at Asolo. It was but a short time before Browning's death, and the two old friends were talking over all sorts of intimate things, and finally Mr. Story entered his carriage to drive away. Browning, who had bade him good-bye and turned away, suddenly came back, and reached his hand into the carriage, grasping that of Story, and looking into the sculptor's eyes exclaimed, 'Friends for forty years! Forty years without a break.' Then with a last good-bye heturned away, and the two friends never met again."
After the London visit, Mrs. Moulton went for the cure at Aix-les-Bains, perhaps as much for the delightful excursions of the neighborhood as in any hope of help for her almost constant ill-health. Thence she went in September to Paris, still in the full glory of its Exposition year. While in Paris she received from Professor Meiklejohn the comments upon her latest volume, "At the Wind's Will." He had fallen into the custom of going over her poems carefully, and of sending her his notes of admiration. "I still maintain," he wrote her on this occasion, "that your brothers are the Elizabethan lyrists, Shakespeare, Fletcher, Vaughan." Some of the comments were these:
"In 'When Love is Young,' the line"Time has his will of every man,is in the strong style of the sixteenth century."I think the 'Dead Men's Holiday' martial and glorious."And the keen air stung all their lips like wine,is the kind of line when Nature has taken the pen into her own hand."What an exquisite stanza is this in 'The Summer's Queen':"You sow the fields with lilies—wake the choirOf summer birds to chorus of delight;Yours is the year's deep rapture—yours the fireThat burns the West, and ushers in the night."The line"Yet done with striving, and foreclosed of care,in the sonnet entitled 'At Rest' is as good as anything of Drayton's. You know his sonnet,"Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part!"Mocked by a day that shines no more on thee,in the sonnet called 'The New Year Dawns,' is the very truth in the strong simplicity of the Elizabethan age."What a wonderful line is the last one of the sonnet, 'The Song of the Stars':"The waking rapture, and the fair, far place."
"In 'When Love is Young,' the line
"Time has his will of every man,
is in the strong style of the sixteenth century.
"I think the 'Dead Men's Holiday' martial and glorious.
"And the keen air stung all their lips like wine,
is the kind of line when Nature has taken the pen into her own hand.
"What an exquisite stanza is this in 'The Summer's Queen':
"The line
"Yet done with striving, and foreclosed of care,
in the sonnet entitled 'At Rest' is as good as anything of Drayton's. You know his sonnet,
"Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part!
"Mocked by a day that shines no more on thee,
in the sonnet called 'The New Year Dawns,' is the very truth in the strong simplicity of the Elizabethan age.
"What a wonderful line is the last one of the sonnet, 'The Song of the Stars':
"The waking rapture, and the fair, far place."
The serenity and sweetness of Longfellow's verse are the natural expression of a life sweet and serene; and in the work of Mrs. Moulton the beauty of her work was in no less a measure the inevitable outcome of her character. She wrote so spontaneously that her poems seemed, as she used to say, "to come to her," and although she never spared the most careful polishing, yet her song seemed to spring without effort and almost without conscious prevision.
The literary life was to her in its outward aspect chiefly a matter of fit and harmonious companionship. She declared that she thought "the great charm of a literary life was that it made one acquainted with so many delightful people." Her warm sense of the personality and characteristics of the writers whom she met in London has been alluded to already, and some of her words about them have been quoted in a former chapter. Those who enjoyed the privilege of chatting with her in her morning-room were never tired of hearing her give her impressions of distinguished authors.
"George Meredith's talk," she said on one occasion, "is like his books, it is so scintillating, so epigrammatic. In talking with him you have to be swiftly attentive or you will miss some allusion or witticism, and seem disreputably inattentive."
"Thomas Hardy," she said again, "has the face, I think, which one would expect from his books. His forehead is so large and so fine that it seems to be half his face. His blue eyes are kindly, but they are extremely shrewd. You feel that he sees everything,and that because he would always understand he would always forgive. I have heard him called the shyest man in London, but he never impressed me so."
"I did not find George Eliot so plain a person as she is ordinarily represented," she replied to a question about that author. "To me she seemed to have a singularly interesting face and a lovely smile; and one distinctive trait, one peculiarly her own, was a very gentle and sweet deference of manner. In any difference of opinion, she always began by agreeing with the person with whom she was conversing, as 'I quite see that, but don't you think—' and then there would follow a statement so supremely convincing, so comprehensive, so true, so sweetly suggestive, that one could not help being convinced. It was like a fair mist over a background of the greatest strength."
Christmas was always a season of much activity at No. 28 Rutland Square. The tokens which Mrs. Moulton sent to friends kept her and Katy busy long in arranging and sending; and in turn came gifts from far and near. With her generous and friendly spirit she was fully in sympathy with the spirit of the time. Among her Christmas gifts on thisyear, was one from Louise Imogen Guiney, with these charming and delicately humorous verses:
TO LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON
With a Thermometer at Christmas.
On January 1, 1901, Mrs. Moulton records in her diary:
"Wrote a sonnet, the first in nearly or quite two years, beginning, 'Once more the New Year mocks me with its scorn.'"
"Wrote a sonnet, the first in nearly or quite two years, beginning, 'Once more the New Year mocks me with its scorn.'"
When the poem was published, "New Year" had been changed to "morning."
The summer of this year found her again in London. Her health was seriously affected,and at times she was a great sufferer; but when she was able to go about among her friends she was as full of spirit as ever. Indeed, the diary gives a surprising list of festivities which she attended.