Part 5 (2/2)
His black is admirably contrasted with his white, but his love has no converse of hate. His descriptions of nature, if not accurately or profoundly evidencing insight, are unstudied, fond, and reverential.
They are fine reveries about nature.
He has tried his powers on themes where he had great rivals--in the ”Plea of the Midsummer Fairies,” and ”Hero and Leander.” The latter is one of the finest subjects in the world, and one, too, which can never wear out as long as each mind shall have its separate ideal of what a meeting would be between two perfect lovers, in the full bloom of beauty and youth, under circ.u.mstances the most exalting to pa.s.sion, because the most trying, and with the most romantic accompaniments of scenery. There is room here for the finest expression of love and grief, for the wildest remonstrance against fate. Why are they made so lovely and so beloved? Why was a flower brought to such perfection, and then culled for no use? One of the older English writers has written an exquisite poem on this subject, painting a youthful pair, fitted to be not only a heaven but a world to one another. Hood had not power to paint or conceive such fulness of character; but, in a lesser style, he has written a fine poem. The best part of it, however, is the innocent cruelty and grief of the Sea Siren.
”Lycus the Centaur” is also a poem once read never to be forgotten. The hasty trot of the versification, unfit for any other theme, on this betokens well the frightened horse. Its mazy and bewildered imagery, with its countless glancings and glimpses, expressed powerfully the working of the Circean spell, while the note of human sadness, a yearning and condemned human love, thrills through the whole and gives it unity.
The Sonnets, ”It is not death,” &c., and that on Silence, are equally admirable. Whoever reads these poems will regard Hood as something more than a great wit,--as a great poet also.
To express this is our present aim, and therefore we shall leave to others, or another time, the retrospect of his comic writings. But having, on the late promptings of love for the departed, looked over these, we have been especially amused with the ”Schoolmistress Abroad,”
which was new to us. Miss Crane, a ”she Mentor, stiff as starch, formal as a Dutch ledge, sensitive as a daguerreotype, and so tall, thin, and upright, that supposing the Tree of Knowledge to have been a poplar, she was the very Dryad to have fitted it,” was left, with a sister little better endowed with the pliancy and power of adaptation which the exigencies of this varied world-scene demand, in attendance upon a sick father, in a foreign inn, where she cannot make herself understood, because her French is not ”French French, but English French,” and no two things in nature or art can be more unlike. Now look at the position of the sisters.
”The younger, Miss Ruth, was somewhat less disconcerted. She had by her position the greater share in the active duties of Lebanon House, and under ordinary circ.u.mstances would not have been utterly at a loss what to do for the comfort or relief of her parent. But in every direction in which her instinct and habits would have prompted her to look, the _materials_ she sought were deficient. There was no easy chair--no fire to wheel it to--no cus.h.i.+on to shake up--no cupboard to go to--no female friend to consult--no Miss Parfitt--no cook--no John to send for the doctor--no English--no French--nothing but that dreadful 'Gefullig,' or 'Ja Wohl,' and the equally incomprehensible 'Gnadige Frau!'
”'Der herr,' said the German coachman, 'ist sehr krank,' (the gentleman is very sick.)
”The last word had occurred so frequently on the organ of the Schoolmistress, that it had acquired in her mind some important significance.
”'Ruth, what is krank?'
”'How should I know?' retorted Ruth, with an asperity apt to accompany intense excitement and perplexity. 'In English, it's a thing that helps to pull the bell. But look at papa--do help to support him--you're good for nothing.'
”'I am, indeed,' murmured poor Miss Priscilla, with a gentle shake of her head, and a low, slow sigh of acquiescence. Alas! as she ran over the catalogue of her accomplishments, the more she remembered what she _could_ do for her sick parent, the more helpless and useless she appeared. For instance, she could have embroidered him a night-cap--or knitted him a silk purse--or plaited him a guard-chain--or cut him out a watch-paper--or ornamented his braces with bead-work--or embroidered his waistcoat--or worked him a pair of slippers--or openworked his pocket handkerchief. She could even, if such an operation would have been comforting or salutary, have roughcasted him with sh.e.l.l-work--or coated him with red or black seals--or encrusted him with blue alum--or stuck him all over with colored wafers--or festooned him.
”But alas! what would it have availed her poor dear papa in the spasmodics, if she had even festooned him, from top to toe, with little rice-paper roses?”
The comments of the female chorus, as the author reads aloud the sorrows of Miss Crane, are droll as Hood's drollest. Who can say more?
So farewell, gentle, generous, inventive, genial, and most amusing friend. We thank thee for both tears and laughter; tears which were not heart-breaking, laughter which was never frivolous or unkind. In thy satire was no gall, in the sting of thy winged wit no venom, in the pathos of thy sorrow no enfeebling touch! Thou hadst faults as a writer, we know not whether as a man; but who cares to name or even to note them? Surely there is enough on the sunny side of the peach to feed us and make us bless the tree from which it fell.
LETTERS FROM A LANDSCAPE PAINTER.[5]
This is a very pleasing book, and if the ”Essays of Summer Hours”
resemble it, we are not surprised at the favor with which they have been received, not only in this country, but in England.
The writer is, we believe, very young, and as these Essays have awakened in us a friendly expectation which he has time and talent to fulfil, we will, at this early hour, proffer our counsel on two points.
First. Avoid details, so directly personal, of emotion. A young and generous mind, seeing the deceit and cold reserve which so often palsy men who write, no less than those who act, may run into the opposite extreme. But frankness must be tempered by delicacy, or elevated into the region of poetry. You may tell the world at large what you please, if you make it of universal importance by transporting it into the field of general human interest. But your private griefs, merely _as_ yours, belong to yourself, your nearest friends, to Heaven and to nature. There is a limit set by good taste, or the sense of beauty, on such subjects, which each, who seeks, may find for himself.
Second. Be more sparing of your praise: above all, of its highest terms.
We should have a sense of mental as well as moral honor, which, while it makes us feel the baseness of uttering merely hasty and ignorant censure, will also forbid that hasty and extravagant praise which strict truth will not justify. A man of honor wishes to utter no word to which he cannot adhere. The offices of Poet--of Hero-wors.h.i.+p--are sacred, and he who has a heart to appreciate the excellent should call nothing excellent which falls short of being so. Leave yourself some incense worthy of the _best_; do not lavish it on the merely _good_. It is better to be too cool than extravagant in praise; and though mediocrity may be elated if it can draw to itself undue honors, true greatness shrinks from the least exaggeration of its claims. The truly great are too well aware how difficult is the attainment of excellence, what labors and sacrifices it requires, even from genius, either to flatter themselves as to their works, or to be otherwise than grieved at idolatry from others; and so, with best wishes, and a hope to meet again, we bid farewell to the ”Landscape Painter.”
BEETHOVEN.[6]
This book bears on its outside the t.i.tle, ”Life of Beethoven, by Moscheles.” It is really only a translation of Schindler, and it seems quite unfair to bring Moscheles so much into the foreground, merely because his name is celebrated in England. He has only contributed a few notes and a short introduction, giving a most pleasing account of his own devotion to the Master. Schindler was the trusty friend of Beethoven, and one whom he himself elected to write his biography.
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