Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 2 August 1848

Various

Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 2 August 1848

THE LATE MARIA BROOKS

BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD[WITH A PORTRAIT.]

This remarkable woman was not only one of the first writers of her country, but she deserves to be ranked with the most celebrated persons of her sex who have lived in any nation or age. Within the last century woman has done more than ever before in investigation, reflection and literary art. On the continent of Europe an Agnesi, a Dacier and a Chastelet have commanded respect by their learning, and a De Stael, a Dudevant and a Bremer have been admired for their genius; in Great Britain the names of More, Burney, Barbauld, Baillie, Somerville, Farrar, Hemans, Edgeworth, Austen, Landon, Norman and Barrett, are familiar in the histories of literature and science; and in our own country we turn with pride to Sedgwick, Child, Beecher, Kirkland, Parkes Smith, Fuller, and others, who in various departments have written so as to deserve as well as receive the general applause; but it may be doubted whether in the long catalogue of those whose works demonstrate and vindicate the intellectual character and position of the sex, there are many names that will shine with a clearer, steadier, and more enduring lustre than that of Maria del Occidente.

Maria Gowen, afterward Mrs. Brooks, upon whom this title was conferred originally I believe by the poet Southey, was descended from a Welsh family that settled in Charlestown, near Boston, sometime before the Revolution. A considerable portion of the liberal fortune of her grandfather was lost by the burning of that city in 1775, and he soon afterward removed to Medford, across the Mystic river, where Maria Gowen was born about the year 1795. Her father was a man of education, and among his intimate friends were several of the professors of Harvard College, whose occasional visits varied the pleasures of a rural life. From this society she derived at an early period a taste for letters and learning. Before the completion of her ninth year she had committed to memory many passages from the best poets; and her conversation excited special wonder by its elegance, variety and wisdom. She grew in beauty, too, as she grew in years, and when her father died, a bankrupt, before she had attained the age of fourteen, she was betrothed to a merchant of Boston, who undertook the completion of her education, and as soon as she quitted the school was married to her. Her early womanhood was passed in commercial affluence; but the loss of several vessels at sea in which her husband was interested was followed by other losses on land, and years were spent in comparitive indigence. In that remarkable book, "Idomen, or the Vale of Yumuri," she says, referring to this period: "Our table had been hospitable, our doors open to many; but to part with our well-garnished dwelling had now become inevitable. We retired, with one servant, to a remote house of meaner dimensions, and were sought no longer by those who had come in our wealth. I looked earnestly around me; the present was cheerless, the future dark and fearful. My parents were dead, my few relatives in distant countries, where they thought perhaps but little of my happiness. Burleigh I had never loved other than as a father and protector; but he had been the benefactor of my fallen family, and to him I owed comfort, education, and every ray of pleasure that had glanced before me in this world. But the sun of his energies was setting, and the faults which had balanced his virtues increased as his fortune declined. He might live through many years of misery, and to be devoted to him was my duty while a spark of his life endured. I strove to nerve my heart for the worst. Still there were moments when fortitude became faint with endurance, and visions of happiness that might have been mine came smiling to my imagination. I wept and prayed in agony."

In this period poetry was resorted to for amusement and consolation. At nineteen she wrote a metrical romance, in seven cantos, but it was never published. It was followed by many shorter lyrical pieces which were printed anonymously; and in 1820, after favorable judgments of it had been expressed by some literary friends, she gave to the public a small volume entitled "Judith, Esther, and other Poems, by a Lover of the Fine Arts." It contained many fine passages, and gave promise of the powers of which the maturity is illustrated by "Zophiël," very much in the style of which is this stanza:

With even step, in mourning garb arrayed,Fair Judith walked, and grandeur marked her air;Though humble dust, in pious sprinklings laid.Soiled the dark tresses of her copious hair.

And this picture of a boy:

Softly supine his rosy limbs reposed,His locks curled high, leaving the forehead bare:And o'er his eyes the light lids gently closed,As they had feared to hide the brilliance there.

And this description of the preparations of Esther to appear before Ahasuerus:

"Take ye, my maids, this mournful garb away;Bring all my glowing gems and garments fair;A nation's fate impending hangs to-day,But on my beauty and your duteous care."Prompt to obey, her ivory form they lave;Some comb and braid her hair of wavy gold;Some softly wipe away the limpid waveThat o'er her dimply limbs in drops of fragrance rolled.Refreshed and faultless from their hands she came,Like form celestial clad in raiment bright;O'er all her garb rich India's treasures flame,In mingling beams of rainbow-colored light.Graceful she entered the forbidden court,Her bosom throbbing with her purpose high;Slow were her steps, and unassured her port,While hope just trembled in her azure eye.Light on the marble fell her ermine tread.And when the king, reclined in musing mood,Lifts, at the gentle sound, his stately head,Low at his feet the sweet intruder stood.

Among the shorter poems are several that are marked by fancy and feeling, and a graceful versification, of one of which, an elegy, these are the opening verses:

Lone in the desert, drear and deep,Beneath the forest's whispering shade,Where brambles twine and mosses creep,The lovely Charlotte's grave is made.But though no breathing marble thereShall gleam in beauty through the gloom,The turf that hides her golden hairWith sweetest desert flowers shall bloom.And while the moon her tender lightUpon the hallowed scene shall fling,The mocking-bird shall sit all nightAmong the dewy leaves, and sing.

In 1823 Mr. Brooks died, and a paternal uncle soon after invited the poetess to the Island of Cuba, where, two years afterward, she completed the first canto of "Zophiël, or the Bride of Seven," which was published in Boston in 1825. The second canto was finished in Cuba in the opening of 1827; the third, fourth and fifth in 1828; and the sixth in the beginning of 1829. The relative of Mrs. Brooks was now dead, and he had left to her his coffee plantation and other property, which afforded her a liberal income. She returned again to the United States, and resided more than a year in the vicinity of Dartmouth College, where her son was pursuing his studies; and in the autumn of 1830, she went to Paris, where she passed the following winter. The curious and learned notes to "Zophiël," were written in various places, some in Cuba, some in Hanover, some in Canada, (which she visited during her residence at Hanover,) some at Paris, and the rest at Keswick, in England, the home of Robert Southey, where she passed the spring of 1831. When she quitted the hospitable home of this much honored and much attached friend, she left with him the completed work, which he subsequently saw through the press, correcting the proof sheets himself, previous to its appearance in London in 1833.

The materials of this poem are universal; that is, such as may be appropriated by every polished nation. In all the most beautiful oriental systems of religion, including our own, may be found such beings as its characters. The early fathers of Christianity not only believed in them, but wrote cumbrous folios upon their nature and attributes. It is a curious fact that they never doubted the existence and the power of the Grecian and Roman gods, but supposed them to be fallen angels, who had caused themselves to be worshiped under particular forms, and for particular characteristics. To what an extent, and to how very late a period this belief has prevailed, may be learned from a remarkable little work of Fontenelle,1 in which that pleasing writer endeavors seriously to disprove that any preternatural power was evinced in the responses of the ancient oracles. The Christian belief in good and evil angels is too beautiful to be laid aside. Their actual and present existence can be disproved neither by analogy, philosophy, or theology, nor can it be questioned without casting a doubt also upon the whole system of our religion. This religion, by many a fanciful skeptic, has been called barren and gloomy; but setting aside all the legends of the Jews, and confining ourselves entirely to the generally received Scriptures, there will be found sufficient food for an imagination warm as that of Homer, Apelles, Phidias, or Praxiteles. It is astonishing that such rich materials for poetry should for so many centuries have been so little regarded, appropriated, or even perceived.

The story of Zophiël, though accompanied by many notes, is simple and easily followed. Reduced to prose, and a child, or a common novel reader, would peruse it with satisfaction. It is in six cantos, and is supposed to occupy the time of nine months: from the blooming of roses at Ecbatana to the coming in of spices at Babylon. Of this time the greater part is supposed to elapse between the second and third canto, where Zophiël thus speaks to Egla of Phraërion:

Yet still she bloomed – uninjured, innocent —

Though now for seven sweet moons by Zophiël watched and wooed.

The king of Medea, introduced in the second canto, is an ideal personage; but the history of that country, near the time of the second captivity, is very confused, and more than one young prince resembling Sardius, might have reigned and died without a record. So much of the main story however as relates to human life is based upon sacred or profane history; and we have sufficient authority for the legend of an angel's passion for one of the fair daughters of our own world. It was a custom in the early ages to style heroes, to raise to the rank of demigods, men who were distinguished for great abilities, qualities or actions. Above such men the angels who are supposed to have visited the earth were but one grade exalted, and they were capable of participating in human pains and pleasures. Zophiël is described as one of those who fell with Lucifer, not from ambition or turbulence, but from friendship and excessive admiration of the chief disturber of the tranquillity of heaven: as he declares, when thwarted by his betrayer, in the fourth canto:

Though the first seraph formed, how could I tellThe ways of guile? What marvels I believedWhen cold ambition mimicked love so wellThat half the sons of heaven looked on deceived!

During the whole interview in which this stanza occurs, the deceiver of men and angels exhibits his alledged power of inflicting pain. He says to Zophiël, after arresting his course:

"Sublime Intelligence,Once chosen for my friend and worthy me:Not so wouldst thou have labored to be hence,Had my emprise been crowned with victory.When I was bright in heaven, thy seraph eyesSought only mine. But he who every powerBeside, while hope allured him, could despise,Changed and forsook me, in misfortune's hour."

To which Zophiël replies:

"Changed, and forsook thee? this from thee to me?Once noble spirit! Oh! had not too muchMy o'er fond heart adored thy fallacy,I had not, now, been here to bear thy keen reproach;Forsook thee in misfortune? at thy sideI closer fought as peril thickened round,Watched o'er thee fallen: the light of heaven denied,But proved my love more fervent and profound.Prone as thou wert, had I been mortal-born,And owned as many lives as leaves there be,From all Hyrcania by his tempest tornI had lost, one by one, and given the last for thee.Oh! had thy plighted pact of faith been kept,Still unaccomplished were the curse of sin;'Mid all the woes thy ruined followers wept,Had friendship lingered, hell could not have been."

Phraërion, another fallen angel, but of a nature gentler than that of Zophiël, is thus introduced:

Harmless Phraërion, formed to dwell on high,Retained the looks that had been his above;And his harmonious lip, and sweet, blue eye,Soothed the fallen seraph's heart, and changed his scorn to love;No soul-creative in this being born,Its restless, daring, fond aspirings hid:Within the vortex of rebellion drawn,He joined the shining ranks as others did.Success but little had advanced; defeatHe thought so little, scarce to him were worse;And, as he held in heaven inferior seat,Less was his bliss, and lighter was his curse.He formed no plans for happiness: contentTo curl the tendril, fold the bud; his painSo light, he scarcely felt his banishment.Zophiël, perchance, had held him in disdain;But, formed for friendship, from his o'erfraught soul'Twas such relief his burning thoughts to pourIn other ears, that oft the strong controlOf pride he felt them burst, and could restrain no more.Zophiël was soft, but yet all flame; by turnsLove, grief, remorse, shame, pity, jealousy,Each boundless in his breast, impels or burns:His joy was bliss, his pain was agony.

Such are the principal preter-human characters in the poem. Egla, the heroine, is a Hebress of perfect beauty, who lives with her parents not far from the city of Ecbatana, and has been saved, by stratagem, from a general massacre of captives, under a former king of Medea. Being brought before the reigning monarch to answer for the supposed murder of Meles, she exclaims,

Sad from my birth, nay, born upon that dayWhen perished all my race, my infant earsWere opened first with groans; and the first rayI saw, came dimly through my mother's tears.

Zophiël is described throughout the poem as burning with the admiration of virtue, yet frequently betrayed into crime by the pursuit of pleasure. Straying accidentally to the grove of Egla, he is struck with her beauty, and finds consolation in her presence. He appears, however, at an unfortunate moment, for the fair Judean has just yielded to the entreaties of her mother and assented to proposals offered by Meles, a noble of the country; but Zophiël causes his rival to expire suddenly on entering the bridal apartment, and his previous life at Babylon, as revealed in the fifth canto, shows that he was not undeserving of his doom. Despite her extreme sensibility, Egla is highly endowed with "conscience and caution;" and she regards the advances of Zophiël with distrust and apprehension. Meles being missed, she is brought to court to answer for his murder. Her sole fear is for her parents, who are the only Hebrews in the kingdom, and are suffered to live but through the clemency of Sardius, a young prince who has lately come to the throne, and who, like many oriental monarchs, reserves to himself the privilege of decreeing death. The king is convinced of her innocence, and, struck with her extraordinary beauty and character, resolves suddenly to make her his queen. We know of nothing in its way finer than the description which follows, of her introduction, in the simple costume of her country, to a gorgeous banqueting hall in which he sits with his assembled chiefs:

With unassured yet graceful step advancing,The light vermilion of her cheek more warmFor doubtful modesty; while all were glancingOver the strange attire that well became such formTo lend her space the admiring band gave way;The sandals on her silvery feet were blue;Of saffron tint her robe, as when young daySpreads softly o'er the heavens, and tints the trembling dew.Light was that robe as mist; and not a gemOr ornament impedes its wavy fold,Long and profuse; save that, above its hem,'Twas broidered with pomegranate-wreath, in gold.And, by a silken cincture, broad and blue,In shapely guise about the waste confined,Blent with the curls that, of a lighter hue,Half floated, waving in their length behind;The other half, in braided tresses twined,Was decked with rose of pearls, and sapphires azure too,Arranged with curious skill to imitateThe sweet acacia's blossoms; just as liveAnd droop those tender flowers in natural state;And so the trembling gems seemed sensitive,And pendent, sometimes touch her neck; and thereSeemed shrinking from its softness as alive.And round her arms, flour-white and round and fair,Slight bandelets were twined of colors five,Like little rainbows seemly on those arms;None of that court had seen the like before,Soft, fragrant, bright – so much like heaven her charms,It scarce could seem idolatry to adore.He who beheld her hand forgot her face;Yet in that face was all beside forgot;And he who, as she went, beheld her pace,And locks profuse, had said, "nay, turn thee not."

Idaspes, the Medean vizier, or prime minister, has reflected on the maiden's story, and is alarmed for the safety of his youthful sovereign, who consents to some delay and experiment, but will not be dissuaded from his design until five inmates of his palace have fallen dead in the captive's apartment. The last of these is Altheëtor, a favorite of the king, (whose Greek name is intended to express his qualities,) and the circumstances of his death, and the consequent grief of Egla and despair of Zophiël, are painted with a beauty, power and passion scarcely surpassed.

Touching his golden harp to prelude sweet,Entered the youth, so pensive, pale, and fair;Advanced respectful to the virgin's feet,And, lowly bending down, made tuneful parlance there.Like perfume, soft his gentle accents rose,And sweetly thrilled the gilded roof along;His warm, devoted soul no terror knows,And truth and love lend fervor to his song.She hides her face upon her couch, that thereShe may not see him die. No groan – she springsFrantic between a hope-beam and despair,And twines her long hair round him as he sings.Then thus: "O! being, who unseen but near,Art hovering now, behold and pity me!For love, hope, beauty, music – all that's dear,Look, look on me, and spare my agony!Spirit! in mercy make not me the cause,The hateful cause, of this kind being's death!In pity kill me first! He lives – he draws —Thou wilt not blast? – he draws his harmless breath!"Still lives Altheëtor; still unguarded straysOne hand o'er his fallen lyre; but all his soulIs lost – given up. He fain would turn to gaze,But cannot turn, so twined. Now all that stoleThrough every vein, and thrilled each separate nerve,Himself could not have told – all wound and claspedIn her white arms and hair. Ah! can they serveTo save him? "What a sea of sweets!" he gasped,But 'twas delight: sound, fragrance, all were breathing.Still swelled the transport: "Let me look and thank:"He sighed (celestial smiles his lips enwreathing,)"I die – but ask no more," he said, and sank;Still by her arms supported – lower – lower —As by soft sleep oppressed; so calm, so fair,He rested on the purple tapestried floor,It seemed an angel lay reposing there.

And Zophiël exclaims,

"He died of love, or the o'er-perfect joyOf being pitied – prayed for – pressed by thee.O! for the fate of that devoted boyI'd sell my birthright to eternity.I'm not the cause of this thy last distress.Nay! look upon thy spirit ere he flies!Look on me once, and learn to hate me less!"He said; and tears fell fast from his immortal eyes.

Beloved and admired at first, Egla becomes an object of hatred and fear; for Zophiël being invisible to others her story is discredited, and she is suspected of murdering by some baleful art all who have died in her presence. She is, however, sent safely to her home, and lives, as usual, in retirement with her parents. The visits of Zophiël are now unimpeded. He instructs the young Jewess in music and poetry; his admiration and affection grow with the hours; and he exerts his immortal energies to preserve her from the least pain or sorrow, but selfishly confines her as much as possible to solitude, and permits for her only such amusements as he himself can minister. Her confidence in him increases, and in her gentle society he almost forgets his fall and banishment.

But the difference in their natures causes him continual anxiety; knowing her mortality, he is always in fear that death or sudden blight will deprive him of her; and he consults with Phraërion on the best means of saving her from the perils of human existence. One evening,

Round Phraërion, nearer drawn,One beauteous arm he flung: "First to my love!We'll see her safe; then to our task till dawn."Well pleased, Phraërion answered that embrace;All balmy he with thousand breathing sweets,From thousand dewy flowers. "But to what place,"He said, "will Zophièl go? who danger greetsAs if 'twere peace. The palace of the gnome,Tahathyam, for our purpose most were meet;But then, the wave, so cold and fierce, the gloom,The whirlpools, rocks, that guard that deep retreat!Yet there are fountains, which no sunny rayE'er danced upon, and drops come there at last,Which, for whole ages, filtering all the way,Through all the veins of earth, in winding maze have past.These take from mortal beauty every stain,And smooth the unseemly lines of age and pain,With every wondrous efficacy rife;Nay, once a spirit whispered of a draught,Of which a drop, by any mortal quaffed,Would save, for terms of years, his feeble, flickering life."

Tahathyam is the son of a fallen angel, and lives concealed in the bosom of the earth, guarding in his possession a vase of the elixir of life, bequeathed to him by a father whom he is not permitted to see. The visit of Zophiël and Phraërion to this beautiful but unhappy creature will remind the reader of the splendid creations of Dante.

The soft flower-spirit shuddered, looked on high,And from his bolder brother would have fled;But then the anger kindling in that eyeHe could not bear. So to fair Egla's bedFollowed and looked; then shuddering all with dread,To wondrous realms, unknown to men, he led;Continuing long in sunset course his flight,Until for flowery Sicily he bent;Then, where Italia smiled upon the night,Between their nearest shores chose midway his descent.The sea was calm, and the reflected moonStill trembled on its surface; not a breathCurled the broad mirror. Night had passed her noon;How soft the air! how cold the depths beneath!The spirits hover o'er that surface smooth,Zophiël's white arm around Phraërion's twined,In fond caresses, his tender cares to soothe,While either's nearer wing the other's crossed behind.Well pleased, Phraërion half forgot his dread,And first, with foot as white as lotus leaf,The sleepy surface of the waves essayed;But then his smile of love gave place to drops of grief.How could he for that fluid, dense and chill,Change the sweet floods of air they floated on?E'en at the touch his shrinking fibres thrill;But ardent Zophiël, panting, hurries on,And (catching his mild brother's tears, with lipThat whispered courage 'twixt each glowing kiss,)Persuades to plunge: limbs, wings, and locks they dip;Whate'er the other's pains, the lover felt but bliss.Quickly he draws Phraërion on, his toilEven lighter than he hoped: some power benignSeems to restrain the surges, while they boil'Mid crags and caverns, as of his designRespectful. That black, bitter element,As if obedient to his wish, gave way;So, comforting Phraërion, on he went,And a high, craggy arch they reach at dawn of day,Upon the upper world; and forced them throughThat arch, the thick, cold floods, with such a roar,That the bold sprite receded, and would viewThe cave before he ventured to explore.Then, fearful lest his frighted guide might partAnd not be missed amid such strife and din,He strained him closer to his burning heart,And, trusting to his strength, rushed fiercely in.On, on, for many a weary mile they fare;Till thinner grew the floods, long, dark and dense,From nearness to earth's core; and now, a glareOf grateful light relieved their piercing sense;As when, above, the sun his genial streamsOf warmth and light darts mingling with the waves,Whole fathoms down; while, amorous of his beams,Each scaly, monstrous thing leaps from its slimy caves.And now, Phraërion, with a tender cry,Far sweeter than the land-bird's note, afarHeard through the azure arches of the sky,By the long-baffled, storm-worn mariner:"Hold, Zophiël! rest thee now – our task is done,Tahathyam's realms alone can give this light!O! though it is not the life-awakening sun,How sweet to see it break upon such fearful night!"Clear grew the wave, and thin; a substance white,The wide-expanding cavern floors and flanks;Could one have looked from high how fair the sight!Like these, the dolphin, on Bahaman banks,Cleaves the warm fluid, in his rainbow tints,While even his shadow on the sands belowIs seen; as through the wave he glides, and glints,Where lies the polished shell, and branching corals grow.No massive gate impedes; the wave, in vain,Might strive against the air to break or fall;And, at the portal of that strange domain,A clear, bright curtain seemed, or crystal wall.The spirits pass its bounds, but would not farTread its slant pavement, like unbidden guest;The while, on either side, a bower of sparGave invitation for a moment's rest.And, deep in either bower, a little throneLooked so fantastic, it were hard to knowIf busy nature fashioned it alone,Or found some curious artist here below.Soon spoke Phraërion: "Come, Tahathyam, come,Thou know'st me well! I saw thee once to love;And bring a guest to view thy sparkling domeWho comes full fraught with tidings from above."Those gentle tones, angelically clear,Past from his lips, in mazy depths retreating,(As if that bower had been the cavern's ear,)Full many a stadia far; and kept repeating,As through the perforated rock they pass,Echo to echo guiding them; their tone(As just from the sweet spirit's lip) at lastTahathyam heard: where, on a glittering throne he solitary sat.

Sending through the rock an answering strain, to give the spirits welcome, the gnome prepares to meet them at his palace-door: