Part 6 (2/2)

”Time,” says Th.o.r.eau, in his fanciful way, ”is but a stream I go fis.h.i.+ng in. I drink at it, but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper--fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars.”

He wors.h.i.+pped Nature in all her forms, and depicted with a loving and exuberant fancy hills and water, with the myriad life which peopled them. He wrote several books which are read to-day with more of interest than when the author was alive.

Genius and inspiration are so nearly allied as to leave no dividing line, and the sublimity of martyrdom is often added to the column of fame. Joan of Arc, the most ill.u.s.trious heroine of history, was born a poor peasant girl of Lorraine; but at the age of eighteen, impelled by an exalted enthusiasm, she commanded an army of devoted followers, and raising the siege of Orleans gave to Charles VII. a crown. At the age of thirteen she said she received commands from Heaven to go and liberate France; and with a confidence of Divine support she pursued her mission.

No romancer would dare to imagine or portray so glorious a heroine; fiction could not equal the actual deeds that this pure and lowly girl accomplished.[148] That she was the agent of Divine Providence to bring about a great political object goes without saying; yet this maid of Domremy was burned at the stake.

Rachel, the child of poverty, the itinerant of the Parisian boulevards, infused with genius, suddenly became the idol of courts and of princes, being as devoutly wors.h.i.+pped by the lovers of art on the banks of the Neva and the Thames as on the sh.o.r.es of her beautiful Seine. How strange were the vicissitudes of this wonderful artist, this frail child of genius! An actress of transcendent dramatic power, she leaves us the souvenir of a splendid star of histrionic art extinguished when it burned the brightest. One day, when Rachel was thus singing and reciting on the public street, a benevolent-looking man, with pitying eyes, was attracted, in pa.s.sing, by the child's intelligent look, and put a five-franc piece in her hand. She took the silver with a grateful courtesy and watched him until he pa.s.sed out of sight. A citizen who had seen the generous act said, ”That was Victor Hugo;” and the child-actress remembered the name ever after. But little did the great poet antic.i.p.ate what the pale-faced child was destined to become in that world of art of which he was so distinguished a disciple.

Edwin Forrest, our own famous tragedian, was in Paris in 1836, and was invited by the manager to see an actress who was to make her debut at one of the theatres on a certain evening. The manager asked him, in the course of the performance, what he thought of the debutante. Forrest replied that he feared she would never rise above mediocrity, and added, ”But that Jewish-looking girl, that little bag of bones, with the marble face and the flaming eyes,--there is demoniacal power in her. If she lives and does not burn out too soon, she will make a great actress.” He referred to Rachel, then in her fifteenth year. We all know how that genius developed. Parsimony was a fixed trait of her character; she could not help it. ”Is it any wonder,” she once said to a friend, ”that I should be fond of money, considering the suffering I went through in my youth to earn a few sous?”

It appears as if Nature scattered her seeds of genius to the wind, so many take root and blossom in sterile places, and also that she delights to add vigor and glory to her chance productions. Thus Adelina Patti, the greatest prima donna of her day, was once a barefooted child in the streets of New York. Kings and queens, spellbound by her glorious voice, have delighted to honor her; but her domestic life was wrecked at the moment of her greatest professional triumph. Complete success is granted to none. Some bitterness is sure to tincture our cup of bliss, for, after all, it is of earth and not of heaven. Perfection may exist with angels above, but not among mortals. The life of genius is beset with extraordinary temptations; the stimulating spur of praise, flattery, and high homage should be, but rarely is, counterbalanced by the curb of reason. We have already seen that great genius and true domestic happiness are seldom found under the same roof. The extraordinary development of certain faculties argues diminution in others; and where there are extremes, it is ever difficult to harmonize the various parts.

Miss Landon, the youthful and tender poetess and novelist, known to the world by her familiar signature ”L. E. L.,” coined the treasures of her brain to support those who were dependent upon her. In one of her letters she says, ”My life, since the age of fifteen years, has been one incessant struggle with adversity.” Her productions can hardly be said to bear the stamp of high genius, but they enjoyed a certain popularity and procured the much-needed money. The mystery of her early and mournful death is only known in heaven. She died from a dose of prussic acid, in her thirty-sixth year, which was also her bridal year.[149]

The infinitely sweet and touching poems of Mrs. Hemans were the outflow of a heart yearning for human affection and finding it not. Her domestic life also proved to be a marked failure. She separated from her husband after six years of married life, and never saw him again. Her genius was early developed; her poems were contributed to the London press at the age of fifteen.[150] She died at the age of forty-one, worn out by domestic unhappiness and ill health. She has herself said, ”There is strength deep-bedded in our hearts, of which we reck but little till the shafts of heaven have pierced its frail dwelling. Must not earth be rent before her gems are found?” ”It has been the fas.h.i.+on among youthful critics of late,” says Epes Sargent, ”to undervalue her productions; but not a few of these have a charm, a tenderness, and a spirit which must make them long dear to the hearts of the many.” Her complete works, containing a tragedy ent.i.tled, ”The Vespers of Palermo,” are contained in six volumes. We may also recall the sad, sad life of Charlotte Bronte, the poor curate's daughter, whose orphaned childhood was so miserable, and whose youth was drudgery as a schoolteacher at sixteen pounds a year. Under the pressure of extreme ill health and a heart nearly broken with sorrow, this daughter of genius produced ”Jane Eyre,”

a novel of such power, piquancy, and originality as to take the reading world by storm. She was finally married, but only to die in her bridal year. The three daughters of Rev. Patrick Bronte were each endowed with literary genius, which under happier circ.u.mstances might have developed into famous results. Charlotte wrote, as we have said, ”Jane Eyre;”

Emily wrote ”Wuthering Heights,” an almost equally popular novel; and Anne wrote the ”Tenant of Wildfell Hall.” The three unitedly published in 1846 ”Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell,” the sisters'

respective pseudonyms.[151] The father's income was one hundred and seventy pounds a year, upon which to support a family of twelve persons.

He was a man of more than ordinary culture and of much poetic talent. A volume of his poems was published in 1811, ent.i.tled ”Cottage Poems.” He survived his whole family. Many critics have p.r.o.nounced ”Villette,”

published by Charlotte a couple of years before her death, to be superior in construction and interest to ”Jane Eyre.”

It would seem that deep and thoughtful minds, like deep waters, must have a gloom in them, and that ideal life leads to turbulence of soul.

Nathaniel Hawthorne, endowed by Nature with an acute and subtle intellect, always suffered more or less from a morbid sensibility. Even in his youth, like Burns, he was oppressed by fits of deep dejection, which gave his friends much anxiety. His order of genius was of the highest; of that there is no doubt. His style is simple, graceful, and forcible, with a power to awaken intense interest in the characters which he delineated. The ”Scarlet Letter” is perhaps the best known and most popular of his several productions; and much of the same half-suppressed, feverish excitement is realized in its perusal as in a degree characterized Hawthorne himself. His most prominent trait as an author lay in his originality and power of a.n.a.lysis.[152]

Insanity is often the result of an overtasked sensitive brain wandering in the realms of fancy. Like a high-mettled horse, it sometimes throws the rider,--as in the instance of Cowper, Collins, and others already spoken of in these pages. Charles Fenno Hoffman, the ripe scholar, poet, and novelist, conceded to be one of the best song-writers we have had in America, was bereft of reason and died the inmate of an insane asylum, where the last quarter of his life was pa.s.sed. While yet a boy, Hoffman met with an accident so serious as to render necessary the amputation of one of his legs, and thenceforth he was obliged to go with a wooden one.

Beranger, like De Foe, was at one period the prime favorite of the Court, and presently was languis.h.i.+ng within the dreary walls of the Bastile, where he wrote some of his most effective poems. Contemporary with Beranger was Alfred de Musset, a poet and litterateur of rare excellence, possessed of a flow of poetical genius characterized by pa.s.sion, vivacity, and grace, notwithstanding that a morbid, misanthropic frame of mind consumed him in secret. His youthful liaison with George Sand is familiar to us all, and no doubt it left a weird influence upon his life. When De Musset received money he would squander it in the most reckless dissipation, then live on bread and onions until he earned another supply, to be lavished in the same manner. He was the intimate friend of the Duke of Orleans, Victor Hugo, and other notable men, but deliberately chose the debasing career of a drunkard, and died at the premature age of forty-seven, a victim to the demon of alcohol.

The grandmother of Alexandre Dumas the elder was an African negress. He enjoyed no educational advantages, until while yet a mere boy, actuated by a Bohemian spirit, which always influenced him more or less, he wandered away from his native place (Villers-Cotterets, France), and sought a stranger's home in Paris. Many of the varied productions of this prolific and sensual novelist bear testimony to his African origin, in their savage voluptuousness and barbaric taste. Dumas was one of the greatest plagiarists of modern times, so that it was said by his critics that he introduced the sweating system into literature. But no intelligent reader can deny that he was a great genius,[153]--in evidence of which he possessed the thousand and one conventional characteristics of the race. At one time he would resort to all manner of expedients to dodge his creditors and escape arrest for debt, at another scattering gold with the most lavish and inconsiderate hand.

Unlike Lamartine, he failed entirely in politics, but certainly was for years the most popular novelist in France. Dumas was frequently in the receipt of large sums in gold from the many popular books which he wrote. When this money was received it was placed in a pile upon the table of his sitting-room, and if appealed to in behalf of a charity, or asked for aid by an impecunious caller, he sent the parties to _help themselves_ as long as the pile of napoleons lasted! Such reckless disregard of reasonable care for money seems almost incredible; but this story is authenticated by his son, the present popular author and dramatist, Alexandre Dumas.

The life of Douglas Jerrold is still another example of the mutability of fortune; at first call-boy in a theatre, then a sailor, and finally a printer's apprentice, he became at last a famous dramatist, essayist, wit, and humorist. The anecdote of his first contribution to the press is perhaps not too familiar to repeat. He was a youthful compositor in a publis.h.i.+ng office, where he ventured to drop anonymously into the editor's box a contribution consisting of a criticism on ”Der Freischutz.” He lay awake that night thinking of his venture, and the next morning was rendered half frantic with joy when his copy was handed to him to be put into type by his own hands. Appended to the copy the editor had written a note, asking the anonymous author for further contributions. Jerrold became a prominent member of the brilliant coterie which made ”Punch,” that daring wag, a great moral and political power. Many of his best sayings--flashes of wit like those of Wycherley, Congreve, and Sheridan--rarely found their way into print, being uttered in small social circles, or in the society of the London clubs, where he was rather feared for the keenness of his satire, as he was no respecter of persons. As a dramatist Jerrold is best known by those popular plays, ”The Rent Day” and ”Black-Eyed Susan,”[154] the latter being still considered the best nautical drama on the stage. Good-fellows.h.i.+p, as it is falsely called, was the bane of Jerrold's life; and though he realized a most liberal income, he died poor and grievously in debt.

During the last years of his life he was editor of ”Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper,” from which he received one thousand pounds per annum, besides an income of a very handsome amount for other and various literary work.

Charles d.i.c.kens, whose early career was not without its severe discipline, and who was indisputably one of the greatest literary geniuses of modern times, certainly shortened his life by free living.

He was extravagantly fond of the pleasures of the table, and a constant partic.i.p.ant in convivial occasions.[155] Undoubtedly his domestic infelicity was largely attributable to a habit of overstimulating, besides which, brandy and continuous literary effort are incompatible with each other. His later works will not compare favorably with his earlier ones. ”Our Mutual Friend” was not worthy of his reputation; and the half of ”Edwin Drood” which was published was not of a character to make an intelligent reader desire more. At fifty-eight his brain was failing. Both d.i.c.kens and Thackeray were really sacrificed to the Moloch of conviviality. The latter was not only a remarkable novelist, but is ent.i.tled to distinct fame as a poet. He was a man of n.o.ble impulses, and charitable to a fault. He inherited a small fortune, in the expenditure of which he was very lavish, at one time giving the impecunious Dr.

Maginn five hundred pounds,--an unfortunate brother author who appealed to Thackeray when he was in a strait; and no needy man was ever refused by the author of ”Vanity Fair.”

There are few objects which if held up against a strong light, will not betray some defect. A perfect emerald was perhaps never seen, and almost as rare is a perfect diamond; the magnifying-gla.s.s is pretty sure to detect some flaw in the gem, be it never so small. So the microscope applied to genius is apt to discover those imperfections of humanity from which no mortal is entirely exempt. Was.h.i.+ngton said it was lamentable that great characters are so seldom without blot.[156] Edgar A. Poe, whose genius has so lately received public recognition, was left an orphan at a tender age, thus lacking the moral influence and training which might have prevented the blight of his after years. His father was a law-student, and his mother an actress named Elizabeth Arnold. Heaven had breathed into his soul the fire of a master-spirit, but at the same time endowed him with a morbid sensitiveness which rendered his imagination weird and gloomy. He became the victim of strong drink, and was thereby marked for an early grave, dying, after an erratic career, in a public hospital. He was an editor, critic, and poet, wielding a most witty but bitterly sarcastic pen. When penniless and in absolute want, he wrote to a friend, with a supreme contempt of the very sinews of war for which he was suffering: ”The Romans wors.h.i.+pped their standard, and the Roman standard happened to be an eagle. Our standard is only one tenth of an eagle, one dollar, but we make all even by adoring it with tenfold devotion.” Even in boyhood Poe developed a wild, unruly disposition, being expelled from the University of Virginia, and afterwards from the West Point Academy. The writer of these pages knew Poe personally, and employed him as a regular contributor to a paper which the writer was editing. Poe's literary reputation rests mainly upon one remarkable poem, ”The Raven.” Mr. Lowell's portrait of the author of ”The Raven” is both concise and true,--”three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge.” He was unquestionably a man of genius, but wrong-headed from very childhood.

We must wors.h.i.+p our literary heroes and heroines from afar: indeed, this will apply with force to all notables; intimacy is pretty sure to disenchant us. ”The love or friends.h.i.+p of such people,” says De Quincey, ”rather contracts itself into the narrow circle of individuals. You, if you are brilliant like themselves, they will hate; you, if you are dull, they will despise. Gaze, therefore, on the splendor of such idols as a pa.s.sing stranger. Look for a moment as one sharing in the idolatry, but pa.s.s on before the splendor has been sullied by human frailty.”

Admiration is the offspring of ignorance; even where familiarity does not breed contempt, it blunts the keenness of our homage, since to those that know them best, authors quickly come down from their pedestals and become only men and women. One of Byron's biographers lays it down as a rule to avoid writers whose works amuse you; for when you see them they will delight you no more, though Sh.e.l.ley, he admits, was an exception.

Mr. Emerson thought the conditions of literary success almost destructive of the best social powers. We are told by Lockhart that Scott could not endure, in London or Edinburgh, the little exclusive circles of literary society; he craved the company of men of business and affairs. ”It is much better to read authors than to know them,” says Horace Walpole. Speaking of young Mr. Burke, he says (in 1761), that although a remarkably sensible man, ”he has not worn off his authors.h.i.+p yet, and thinks there is nothing so charming as writers, and to be one.

He will know better one of these days.” Even Byron hated authors who were all author,--”fellows in foolscap uniform turned up with ink.” Miss Mitford, in the ripeness of her experience, wrote that authors ”as a general rule are the most disappointing people in the world;” much preferring persons who loved letters to those who followed the profession of authors.h.i.+p. Sir Egerton Brydges, the prolific writer of sonnets, novels, essays, letters, etc., says: ”I have observed that vulgar readers almost always lose their veneration for the writings of the genius with whom they have had personal intercourse.”

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