Poet and novelist, was born at London, May 4, 1749. Married Benjamin Smith, Feb. 23, 1765. Published “Elegiac Sonnets and other Essays,” 1784; second edition same year, and a fifth edition 1789. Translated “Manon Lescaut,” 1785, and wrote the “Romance of Real Life,” 1786. Her first novel, “Emmeline,” published 1788; “The Old Manor House,” 1793. Other works by Charlotte Smith are: 1. “Ethelinde, or the Recluse of the Lake,” 5 vols. 1790; 2nd edit. 1814. 2. “The Banished Man,” 4 vols. 1794. 3. “Montalbert,” 1795. 4. “Marchmont.” 5. “Rural Walks.” 6. “Rambles Farther,” 1796. 7. “Minor Morals interspersed with Sketches,” 2 vols. 1798; other editions, 1799, 1800, 1816, 1825. 8. “The Young Philosopher,” a novel, 1798. 9. “The Solitary Wanderer,” 1799. 10. “Beachy Head,” a poem, 1807.

Personal

  But every one, whether of sad or gay temperament, must regret that the tone of melancholy which pervades Mrs. Smith’s compositions was derived too surely from the circumstances and feelings of the amiable authoress. We are indeed, informed by Mrs. Dorset that the natural temper of her sister was lively and playful; but it must be considered that the works on which she was obliged, often reluctantly, to labour, were seldom undertaken from free choice. Nothing saddens the heart so much as that sort of literary labour which depends upon the imagination, when it is undertaken unwillingly, and from a sense of compulsion. The galley-slave may sing when he is unchained, but it would be uncommon equanimity which could induce him to do so when he is actually bound to his oar. If there is a mental drudgery which lowers the spirits and lacerates the nerves, like the toil of the slave, it is that which is exacted by literary composition when the heart is not in unison with the work upon which the head is employed. Add to the unhappy author’s task, sickness, sorrow, or the pressure of unfavourable circumstances, and the labour of the bondsman becomes light in comparison.

Sonnets

  I did not see Charlotte Smith’s “Sonnets” until after I had published my own; but when I met with them they filled me with delight, and to this day I equally admire them.

  I will, however, first prelude my examples from her by two sonnets from an earlier writer, Charlotte Smith, whose productions in this stanza are not only numerous, but of such elegance and merit as to command the homage of all who are interested in the history of its growth and development.

  The unmitigable woe with which Mrs. Smith’s poems are filled, together with their factitious and second-hand phraseology, renders them unpalatable to a generation so much healthier than that in which they were produced; yet we must respect the opinion of so admirable a critic as Wordsworth, who described her as “a lady to whom English verse is under greater obligations than are likely to be either acknowledged or remembered.” “She wrote little,” he continues, “and that little unambitiously, but with true feeling for rural Nature, at a time when Nature was not much regarded by English Poets; for in point of time her earlier writings preceded, I believe, those of Cowper and Burns.” Her Sonnets, about which some of their old sweetness still lingers, like the perfume of dried flowers, have been repeatedly praised by Dyce.

  When Bowles first published his sonnets he was accused of having imitated those of Charlotte Smith. In what high estimation this lady’s work was still held nearly thirty years after her death, may be gathered from the fact that the late Rev. Alexander Dyce included no fewer than nine of her sonnets in his Selection, whereas he only gives one by Keats, and entirely omits those of Shelley and Byron.

General

  A lady to whom English verse is under greater obligations than are likely to be either acknowledged or remembered. She wrote little, and that little unambitiously, but with true feeling for rural Nature, at a time when Nature was not much regarded by English Poets; for in point of time her earlier writings preceded, I believe, those of Cowper and Burns.

  Some of her novels will last, and her sonnets with them, each perhaps aided by the other. There is nothing great in her; but she is natural and touching, and has hit, in the music of her sorrows, upon some of those chords, which have been awakened equally, though not so well, in all human bosoms.

  Did you ever read any of Charlotte Smith’s novels? Except that they want cheerfulness, nothing can exceed the beauty of the style. Whenever Erskine had a great speech to make he used to read her works, that he might catch their grace of composition.

  Her poetical compositions are distinguished by an easy grace. A sweet melancholy, never morbid though settled, but chastened by a hopeful piety, sheds a touching charm over her verses. She had a keen perception of natural beauty, and her descriptions of rural scenery or cultivated gardens are ever true and full of sentiment. Some of her sonnets are among the best of the second class in our language, and a volume of them, we are told, “passed through eleven editions, besides being translated into French and Italian.” We have given a longer sketch of this interesting lady than of some others, because her writings, though marked with elegance, judgment and natural beauty, have fallen into such undeserved neglect, that they are rarely found except in libraries of collectors.

  Few women have ever possessed greater advantages of capacity and ability, of acquirement and influence. Her faculties were of no common kind. Her mind had naturally great scope, comprising the high imaginative power of an inborn poet, with the accuracy of detail and sound common sense which constitute the woman of business and worldly wisdom. To her belonged also that attribute of noble natures, pervading sincerity; the thoughts and feelings of her every-day existence being the opinions and sentiments of her prose and poetry. There is that charm in her poetry which belongs only to genius. The tone is too monotonous, the spirit too querulous; it wants the exulting and exalting notes of the caroller who soars to the skies and dwells blissfully in the turf, yet it has a sort of ravishment like the nightingale’s strains, ever pleasing though plaintive.

  She was among the most prolific novelists of her time, but only one work, “The Old Manor House,” enjoyed more than a passing reputation, or has any claim to particular mention here. The chief merit of Charlotte Smith’s novels lies in their descriptions of scenery, an element only just entering into the work of the novelist.

  As a novelist she shows skill in portraying character, but the deficiencies of the plots render her novels tedious. Her English style is good.