letters on literature-第6节

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pines；　down　to　the　Tweed　and　the　sea。　　The　〃Skeleton　in　Armour〃

comes　out　once　more　as　terrific　as　ever；　and　the　〃Wreck　of　the

Hesperus〃　touches　one　in　the　old；　simple　way　after　so　many；　many

days　of　verse…reading　and　even　verse…writing。



In　brief；　Longfellow's　qualities　are　so　mixed　with　what　the　reader

brings；　with　so　many　kindliest　associations　of　memory；　that　one

cannot　easily　criticize　him　in　cold　blood。　　Even　in　spite　of　this

friendliness　and　affection　which　Longfellow　wins；　I　can　see；　of

course；　that　he　does　moralize　too　much。　　The　first　part　of　his

lyrics　is　always　the　best；　the　part　where　he　is　dealing　directly

with　his　subject。　　Then　comes　the　〃practical　application〃　as

preachers　say；　and　I　feel　now　that　it　is　sometimes　uncalled　for；

disenchanting；　and　even　manufactured。



Look　at　his　〃Endymion。〃　　It　is　the　earlier　verses　that　win　you：





〃And　silver　white　the　river　gleams

As　if　Diana　in　her　dreams

Had　dropt　her　silver　bow

Upon　the　meadows　low。〃





That　is　as　good　as　Ronsard；　and　very　like　him　in　manner　and　matter。

But　the　moral　and　consolatory　application　is　too　longtoo　much

dwelt　on：





〃Like　Dian's　kiss；　unasked；　unsought；

Love　gives　itself；　but　is　not　bought。〃





Excellent；　but　there　are　four　weak；　moralizing　stanzas　at　the　close；

and　not　only　does　the　poet　〃moralize　his　song；〃　but　the　moral　is

feeble；　and　fantastic；　and　untrue。　　There　are；　though　he　denies　it；

myriads　of　persons　now　of　whom　it　cannot　be　said　that





〃Some　heart；　though　unknown；

Responds　unto　his　own。〃





If　it　were　true；　the　reflection　could　only　console　a　school…girl。



A　poem　like　〃My　Lost　Youth〃　is　needed　to　remind　one　of　what　the

author　really　was；　〃simple；　sensuous；　passionate。〃　　What　a　lovely

verse　this　is；　a　verse　somehow　inspired　by　the　breath　of

Longfellow's　favourite　Finnish　〃Kalevala；〃　〃a　verse　of　a　Lapland

song；〃　like　a　wind　over　pines　and　salt　coasts：





〃I　remember　the　black　wharves　and　the　slips；

And　the　sea…tide；　tossing　free；

And　Spanish　sailors　with　bearded　lips；

And　the　beauty　and　the　mystery　of　the　ships；

And　the　magic　of　the　sea。〃





Thus　Longfellow；　though　not　a　very　great　magician　and　master　of

languagenot　a　Keats　by　any　meanshas　often；　by　sheer　force　of

plain　sincerity；　struck　exactly　the　right　note；　and　matched　his

thought　with　music　that　haunts　us　and　will　not　be　forgotten：





〃Ye　open　the　eastern　windows；

That　look　towards　the　sun；

Where　thoughts　are　singing　swallows；

And　the　brooks　of　morning　run。〃





There　is　a　picture　of　Sandro　Botticelli's；　the　Virgin　seated　with

the　Child　by　a　hedge　of　roses；　in　a　faint　blue　air；　as　of　dawn　in

Paradise。　　This　poem　of　Longfellow's；　〃The　Children's　Hour；〃　seems；

like　Botticelli's　painting；　to　open　a　door　into　the　paradise　of

children；　where　their　angels　do　ever　behold　that　which　is　hidden

from　menwhat　no　man　hath　seen　at　any　time。



Longfellow　is　exactly　the　antithesis　of　Poe；　who；　with　all　his

science　of　verse　and　ghostly　skill；　has　no　humanity；　or　puts　none　of

it　into　his　lines。　　One　is　the　poet　of　Life；　and　everyday　life；　the

other　is　the　poet　of　Death；　and　of　bizarre　shapes　of　death；　from

which　Heaven　deliver　us！



Neither　of　them　shows　any　sign　of　being　particularly　American；

though　Longfellow；　in　〃Evangeline〃　and　〃Hiawatha；〃　and　the　〃New

England　Tragedies；〃　sought　his　topics　in　the　history　and　traditions

of　the　New　World。



To　me　〃Hiawatha〃　seems　by　far　the　best　of　his　longer　efforts；　it　is

quite　full　of　sympathy　with　men　and　women；　nature；　beasts；　birds；

weather；　and　wind　and　snow。　　Everything　lives　with　a　human　breath；

as　everything　should　live　in　a　poem　concerned　with　these　wild　folk；

to　whom　all　the　world；　and　all　in　it；　is　personal　as　themselves。　　Of

course　there　are　lapses　of　style　in　so　long　a　piece。　　It　jars　on　us

in　the　lay　of　the　mystic　Chibiabos；　the　boy　Persephone　of　the　Indian

Eleusinia；　to　be　told　that





〃the　gentle　Chibiabos

Sang　in　tones　of　deep　emotion！〃





〃Tones　of　deep　emotion〃　may　pass　in　a　novel；　but　not　in　this　epic　of

the　wild　wood　and　the　wild　kindreds；　an　epic　in　all　ways　a　worthy

record　of　those　dim；　mournful　races　which　have　left　no　story　of

their　own；　only　here　and　there　a　ruined　wigwam　beneath　the　forest

leaves。



A　poet's　life　is　no　affair；　perhaps；　of　ours。　　Who　does　not　wish　he

knew　as　little　of　Burn's　as　of　Shakespeare's？　　Of　Longfellow's　there

is　nothing　to　know　but　good；　and　his　poetry　testifies　to　ithis

poetry；　the　voice　of　the　kindest　and　gentlest　heart　that　poet　ever

bore。　　I　think　there　are　not　many　things　in　poets'　lives　more

touching　than　his　silence；　in　verse；　as　to　his　own　chief　sorrow。　　A

stranger　intermeddles　not　with　it；　and　he　kept　secret　his　brief　lay

on　that　insuperable　and　incommunicable　regret。　　Much　would　have　been

lost　had　all　poets　been　as　reticent；　yet　one　likes　him　better　for　it

than　if　he　had　given　us　a　new　〃Vita　Nuova。〃



What　an　immense　long　way　I　have　wandered　from　〃Sordello；〃　my　dear

Mainwaring；　but　when　a　man　turns　to　his　books；　his　thoughts；　like

those　of　a　boy；　〃are　long；　long　thoughts。〃　　I　have　not　written　on

Longfellow's　sonnets；　for　even　you；　impeccable　sonneteer；　admit　that

you　admire　them　as　much　as　I　do。







A　FRIEND　OF　KEATS







To　Thomas　Egerton；　Esq。；　Lothian　College；　Oxford。



Dear　Egerton；Yes；　as　you　say；　Mr。　Sidney　Colvin's　new　〃Life　of

Keats〃　｛3｝　has　only　one　fault；　it's　too　short。　　Perhaps；　also；　it　is

almost　too　studiously　free　from　enthusiasm。　　But　when　one　considers

how　Keats　（like　Shelley）　has　been　gushed　about；　and　how　easy　it　is

to　gush　about　Keats；　one　can　only　thank　Mr。　Colvin　for　his　example

of　reserve。　　What　a　good　fellow　Keats　was！　　How　really　manly　and；　in

the　best　sense；　moral　he　seems；　when　one　compares　his　life　and　his

letters　with　the　vagaries　of　contemporary　poets　who　lived　longer

than　he；　though　they；　too；　died　young；　and　who　left　more　work；

though　not　better；　never　so　good；　perhaps；　as　Keats's　best。



However；　it　was　not　of　Keats　that　I　wished　to　write；　but　of　his

friend；　John　Hamilton　Reynolds。　　Noscitur　a　sociisa　man　is　known

by　the　company　he　keeps。　　Reynolds；　I　think；　must　have　been

excellent　company；　if　we　may　judge　him　by　his　writings。　　He　comes

into　Lord　Houghton's　〃Life　and　Letters　of　Keats〃　very　early　（vol。　i。

p。　30）。　　We　find　the　poet　writing　to　him　in　the　April　of　1817；　from

the　Isle　of　Wight。　　〃I　shall　forthwith　begin　my　'Endymion；'　which　I

hope　I　shall　have　got　some　way　with　before　you　come；　when　we　will

read　our　verses　in　a　delightful　place　I　have　set　my　heart　upon；　near

the　castle。〃　　Keats　ends　〃your　sincere　friend；〃　and　a　man　to　whom

Keats　was　a　sincere　friend　had　some　occasion　for　pride。



About　Reynolds's　life　neither　time　nor　space　permits　me　to　say　very

much；　if　I　knew　very　much；　which　I　don't。　　He　was　the　son　of　a

master　in　one　of　our　large　schools。　　He　went　to　the　Bar。　　He　married

a　sister　of　Thomas　Hood。　　He　wrote；　like　Hood；　in　the　London

Magazine。　　With　Hood　for　ally；　he　published　〃Odes　and　Addresses　to

Great　People；〃　the　third　edition；　which　I　have　here；　is　of　1826。

The　late　relations　of　the　brothers…in…law　were　less　happy；　possibly

the　ladies　of　their　families　quarrelled；　that　is　usually　the　way　of

the　belligerent　sex。



Reynolds　died　in　the　enjoyment　of　a　judicial　office　in　the　Isle　of

Wight；　some　thirty　years　later　than　his　famous　friend；　the　author　of

〃Endymion。〃　　〃It　is　to　be　lamented；〃　says　Lord　Houghton；　〃that　Mr。

Reynolds's　own　remarkable　verse　is　not　better　known。〃　　Let　us　try　to

know　it　a　little　better。



I　have　not　succeeded　in　getting　Reynolds's　first　volume　of　poems；

which　was　published　before　〃Endymion。〃　　It　contained　some　Oriental

melodies；　and　won　a　careless　good　word　from　Byron。　　The　earliest

work　of　his　I　can　lay　my　hand　on　is　〃The　Fancy；　a　Selection　from　the

Poetical　Remains　of　the　late　Peter　Corcoran；　of　Gray's　Inn；　Student

at　Law；　with　a　brief　memoir　of　his　Life。〃　　There　is　a　motto　from

Wordsworth：





〃Frank　are　the　sports；　the　stains　are　fugitive。〃　　｛4｝





It　was　the　old　palmy　time　of　the　Ring。　　Every　one　knows　how　Byron

took　lessons　from　Jackson　the　boxer；　how　Shelley　had　a　fight　at　Eton

in　which　he　quoted　Homer；　but　was　licked　by　a　smaller　boy；　how

Christopher　North　whipped　the　professional　pugilist；　how　Keats

himself　never　had　enough　of　fighting　at　school；　and　beat　the　butcher

afterwards。　　His　friend　Reynolds；　also；　liked　a　set…to　with　the

gloves。　　His　imaginary　character；　Peter　Corcoran；　is　a　poetical　lad；

who　becomes　possessed　by　a　passion　for　prize…fighting。　　It　seems　odd

in　a　poet；　but　〃the　stains　are　fugitive。〃



We　would　liefer　see　a　young　man　rejoicing　in　his　strength　and

improving　his　science；　than　loafing　about　with　long　hair　and　giving

anxious　thought　to　the　colour　of　his　necktie。　　It　is　a　disinterested

preference；　as　fighting　was　never　my　forte；　any　more　than　it　was

Artem