By the same right and on the same terms,another New England poetess,whom I met those first days in Boston,was a Boston author.When I saw Celia Thaxter she was just beginning to make her effect with those poems and sketches which the sea sings and flashes through as it sings and flashes around the Isles of Shoals,her summer home,where her girlhood had been passed in a ******* as wild as the curlew's.She was a most beautiful creature,still very young ,with a slender figure,and an exquisite perfection of feature;she was in presence what her work was:fine,frank,finished.I do not know whether other witnesses of our literary history feel that the public has failed to keep her as fully in mind as her work merited;but I do not think there can be any doubt but our literature would be sensibly the poorer without her work.It is interesting to remember how closely she kept to her native field,and it is wonderful to consider how richly she made those sea-beaten rocks to blossom.Something strangely full and bright came to her verse from the mystical environment of the ocean,like the luxury of leaf and tint that it gave the narrower flower-plots of her native isles.Her gift,indeed,could not satisfy itself with the terms of one art alone,however varied,and she learned to express in color the thoughts and feelings impatient of the pallor of words.
She remains in my memories of that far Boston a distinct and vivid personality;as the authoress of 'Amber Gods',and 'In a Cellar',and 'Circumstance',and those other wild romantic tales,remains the gentle and somewhat evanescent presence I found her.Miss Prescott was now Mrs.
Spofford,and her husband was a rising young politician of the day.It was his duties as member of the General Court that had brought them up from Newburyport to Boston for that first winter;and I remember that the evening when we met he was talking of their some time going to Italy that she might study for imaginative literature certain Italian cities he named.I have long since ceased to own those cities,but at the moment Ifelt a pang of expropriation which I concealed as well as I could;and now I heartily wish she could have fulfilled that purpose if it was a purpose,or realized that dream if it was only a dream.Perhaps,however,that sumptuous and glowing fancy of hers,which had taken the fancy of the young readers of that day,needed the cold New England background to bring out all its intensities of tint,all its splendors of light.Its effects were such as could not last,or could not be farther evolved;they were the expression of youth musing away from its environment and smitten with the glories of a world afar and beyond,the great world,the fine world,the impurpled world of romantic motives and passions.But for what they were,I can never think them other than what they appeared:the emanations of a rarely gifted and singularly poetic mind.I feel better than I can say how necessarily they were the emanations of a New England mind,and how to the subtler sense they must impart the pathos of revolt from the colorless rigidities which are the long result of puritanism in the physiognomy of New England life.
Their author afterwards gave herself to the stricter study of this life in many tales and sketches which showed an increasing mastery;but they could not have the flush,the surprise,the delight of a young talent trying itself in a kind native and,so far as I know,peculiar to it.
From time to time I still come upon a poem of hers which recalls that earlier strain of music,of color,and I am content to trust it for my abiding faith in the charm of things I have not read for thirty years.
