letters on literature(关于文学)-第6章
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fled〃fled with battered banners of mist drifting through the 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。〃
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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。
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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。
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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；
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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
