the rhythm of life and other essays(生命的旋律)-第11节
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and attempts at a literature that should be young as the soil and much
younger than the race； the civil…war years； with a literature that matched
the self…conscious and inexpert heroism of the army；none of these
periods of the national life could fitly be represented by a man of letters。
And though James Russell Lowell was the contemporary of the
'transcendentalists；' and a man of middle age when the South seceded； and
though indeed his fame as a Yankee humourist is to be discerned through
the smoke and the dust； through the gravity and the burlesque； of the war；
clear upon the other side； yet he was virtually the child of national leisure；
of moderation and education； an American of the seventies and onwards。
He represented the little…recognised fact that in ripeness； not in rawness；
consists the excellence of Americans …an excellence they must be content
to share with contemporary nations； however much it may cost them to
abandon we know not what bounding ambitions which they have never
succeeded in definitely describing in words。 Mr。 Lowell was a refutation
of the fallacy that an American can never be American enough。 He
ranked with the students and the critics among all nations； and nothing
marks his transatlantic conditions except； perhaps； that his scholarliness is
a little anxious and would not seem so； he enriches his phrases busily； and
yet would seem composed； he makes his allusions tread closely one upon
another； and there is an assumed carelessness； and an ill…concealed
vigilance； as to the effect their number and their erudition will produce
upon the reader。 The American sensitiveness takes with him that
pleasantest of forms； his style confesses more than he thinks of the
loveable weakness of national vanity； and asks of the stranger now and
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again； 'Well； what do you think of my country？'
Declining； as I do； to separate style in expression from style in the
thought that informs itfor they who make such a separation can hardly
know that style should be in the very conception of a phrase； in its
antenatal history； else the word is neither choice nor authenticI recognise
in Mr。 Lowell； as a prose author； a sense of proportion and a delicacy of
selection not surpassed in the critical work of this critical century。 Those
small volumes； Among My Books and My Study Windows； are all pure
literature。 A fault in criticism is the rarest thing in them。 I call none to
mind except the strange judgment on Dr。 Johnson： 'Our present concern
with the Saxons is chiefly a literary one。 。 。 Take Dr。 Johnson as an
instance。 The Saxon； as it appears to me； has never shown any capacity
for art；' and so forth。 One wonders how Lowell read the passage on Iona；
and the letter to Lord Chesterfield； and the Preface to the Dictionary
without conviction of the great English writer's supreme artart that
declares itself and would not be hidden。 But take the essay on Pope； that
on Chaucer； and that on one Percival； a writer of American verse of whom
English readers are not aware； and they prove Lowell to have been as clear
in judging as he was exquisite in sentencing。 His essay 'On a Certain
Condescension in Foreigners' is famous； but an equal fame is due to 'My
Garden Acquaintance' and 'A Good Word for Winter。' His talk about the
weather is so full of wit that one wonders how prattlers at a loss for a topic
dare attempt one so rich。 The birds that nest in his syringas seem to be
not his pensioners only； but his parishioners； so charmingly local； so intent
upon his chronicle does he become when he is minded to play White of
Selborne with a smile。 And all the while it is the word that he is intent
upon。 You may trace his reading by some fine word that has not escaped
him； but has been garnered for use when his fan has been quick to purge
away the chaff of commonplace。 He is thus fastidious and alert in many
languages。 You wonder at the delicacy of the sense whereby he perceives
a choice rhyme in the Anglo…Norman of Marie de France or a clang of
arms in the brief verse of Peire de Bergerac； or touches sensitively a word
whereby Dante has transcended something sweet in Bernard de Ventadour；
or Virgil somewhat noble in Homer。 In his own use； and within his own
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English； he has the abstinence and the freshness of intention that keep
every word new for the day's work。 He gave to the language； and did not
take from it； it gained by him； and lost not。 There are writers of English
now at work who almost convince us of their greatness until we convict
them on that charge： they have succeeded at an unpardonable cost； they
are glorified； but they have beggared the phrases they leave behind them。
Nevertheless Lowell was no poet。 To accept his verse as a poet's
would be to confess a lack of instinct； and there is no more grievous lack
in a lover of poetry。 Reason； we grant； makes for the full acceptance of
his poems； and perhaps so judicial a mind as his may be forgiven for
having trusted to reason and to criticism。 His trust was justifiedif such
justification availsby the admiration of fairly educated people who
apparently hold him to have been a poet first； a humourist in the second
place； and an essayist incidentally。 It is hard to believe that he failed in
instinct about himself。 More probably he was content to forego it when
he found the ode； the lyric； and the narrative verse all so willing。 They
made no difficulty； and he made none； why then are we reluctant to
acknowledge the manifest stateliness of this verse and the evident grace of
that； and the fine thought finely worded？ Such reluctance justifies itself。
Nor would I attempt to back it by the cheap sanctions of prophecy。 Nay；
it is quite possible that Lowell's poems may live； I have no commands for
futurity。 Enough that he enriched the present with the example of a
scholarly； linguistic； verbal love of literature； with a studiousness full of
heart。
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DOMUS ANGUSTA
The narrow house is a small human nature compelled to a large human
destiny； charged with a fate too great； a history too various； for its slight
capacities。 Men have commonly complained of fate； but their complaints
have been of the smallness； not of the greatness； of the human lot。 A
disproportionall in favour of manbetween man and his destiny is one of
the things to be taken for granted in literature： so frequent and so easy is
the utterance of the habitual lamentation as to the trouble of a 'vain
capacity；' so well explained has it ever been。
'Thou hast not half the power to do me harm That I have to be hurt；'
discontented man seems to cry to Heaven； taking the words of the
brave Emilia。 But inarticulate has been the voice within the narrow
house。 Obviously it never had its poet。 Little elocution is there； little
argument or definition； little explicitness。 And yet for every vain
capacity we may assuredly count a thousand vain destinies； for every
liberal nature a thousand liberal fates。 It is the trouble of the wide house
we hear of； clamorous of its disappointments and desires。 The narrow
house has no echoes； yet its pathetic shortcoming might well move pity。
On that strait stage is acted a generous tragedy； to that inadequate soul is
intrusted an enormous sorrow； a tempest of movement makes
