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rrore avro il sembiante. Temero me medesmo; e da me stesso Sempre fuggendo, avro me sempre appresso. La Gerusalemme Liberata, C. XII. 76, 77. to R. W. E. Dec. 12, 1843.—When Goethe received a letter from Zelter, with a handsome superscription, he said, Lay that aside; it is Zelter's true hand-writing. Every man has a dang out thought and life in regulated rations,—the more I weary of this world, and long to move upon the wing, without props and sedan chairs. to R. W. E. Dec. 26, 1839.—If you could look into my mind just now, you would send far from you those who love and hate. I am on the Drachenfels, and cannot get off; it is one of sh in one's own heart's blood. One would fain be no more artist, or philosopher, or lover, or critic, but a soul ever rushing forth in tides of genial life. 26 Dec., 1842.—I have been reading the lives of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, and of Sir Kenelm Digby. These splendid, chivalrous, and thoughtful Englishmen are meat which
enger. Clevenger gives the man as he is at the moment, but does not show the possibilities of his existence. Even thus seen, the head of Mr. Everett brings back all the age of Pericles, so refined and classic is its beauty. The two busts of Mr. Webster, by Clevenger and Powers, are the difference between prose,— healthy and energetic prose, indeed, but still prose,—and poetry. Clevenger's is such as we see Mr. Webster on any public occasion, when his genius is not called forth. No child coMr. Webster on any public occasion, when his genius is not called forth. No child could fail to recognize it in a moment. Powers' is not so good as a likeness, but has the higher merit of being an ideal of the orator and statesman at a great moment. It is quite an American Jupiter in its eagle calmness of conscious power. A marble copy of the beautiful Diana, not so spirited as the Athenaeum cast. S. C——thought the difference was one of size. This work may be seen at a glance; yet does not tire one after survey. It has the freshness of the woods, and of morning dew.
sible to their wit, high sentiment, and spontaneous grace. A wit that sparkles all over the ocean of life, a sentiment that never puts the best foot forward, but prefers the tone of delicate humor, to the mouthings of tragedy; a grace so aerial, that it nowhere requires the aid of a thought, for in the light refrains of these productions, the meaning is felt as much as in the most pointed lines. Thus, in Les Mirmidons, the refrain Mirmidons, race feconde, Mirmidons Enfin nous commandons, Jupiter livre le monde, Aux mirmidons, aux mirmidons, (bis,) The swarming of the insects about the dead lion is expressed as forcibly as in the most sarcastic passage of the chanson. In La Faridondaine every sound is a witticism, and levels to the ground a bevy of what Byron calls garrison people. Halte la! ou la systeme des interpretations is equally witty, though there the form seems to be as much in the saying, as in the comic melody of sound. In Adieux à la Campagne, Souvenirs du Peup
Capitaine Renaud (search for this): chapter 4
u Jonc the noblest. Never was anything more sweetly naive than parts of Le Cachet Rouge. La pauvre petite femme, she was just such a person as my——. And then the farewell injunctions,—du pauvre petite mare, —the nobleness and the coarseness of the poor captain. It is as original as beautiful, c'est dire beaucoup. In La Canne au Jonc, Collingwood, who embodies the high feeling of duty, is taken too raw out of a book,—his letters to his daughters. But the effect on the character of le Capitaine Renaud, and the unfolding of his interior life, are done with the spiritual beauty of Manzoni. Cinq-Mars is a romance in the style of Walter Scott. It is well brought out, figures in good relief, lights well distributed, sentiment high, but nowhere exaggerated, knowledge exact, and the good and bad of human nature painted with that impartiality which becomes a man, and a man of the world. All right, no failure anywhere; also, no wonderful success, no genius, no .magic. It is one of thos
when I consider that you are and have all that Miss——has so long wished for, and that you scorn her, and that she still admires you,—I think her place in heaven will be very high. But qualities of this kind can only be truly described by the impression they make on the bystander; and it is certain that her friends excused in her, because she had a right to it, a tone which they would have reckoned intolerable in any other. Many years since, one of her earliest and fastest friends quoted Spenser's sonnet as accurately descriptive of Margaret:— Rudely thou wrongest my dear heart's desire, In finding fault with her too portly pride; The thing which I do most in her admire Is of the world unworthy most envied. For, in those lofty looks is close implied Scorn of base things, disdain of foul dishonor, Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide That loosely they ne dare to look upon her: Such pride is praise, such portliness is honor, That boldened innocence bears in her eyes; And
ere— Sie fragen nicht nach Mann und Weib. It is regulated by the same law as that of love between persons of different sexes; only it is purely intellectual and spiritual. Its law is the desire of the spirit to realize a whole, which makes it seek in another being what it finds not in itself. Thus the beautiful seek the strong, and the strong the beautiful; the mute seeks the eloquent, &c.; the butterfly settles always on the dark flower. Why did Socrates love Alcibiades? Why did Korner love Schneider? How natural is the love of Wallenstein for Max; that of De Stael for De Recamier; mine for——. I loved—— for a time, with as much passion as I was then strong enough to feel. Her face was always gleaming before me; her voice was always echoing in my ear; all poetic thoughts clustered round the dear image. This love was a key which unlocked for me many a treasure which I still possess; it was the carbuncle which cast light into many of the darkest caverns of human nature
ters, memoirs, and novels, and was a dear student of Dante and Petrarca, and knew German books more cordially tt almost on equal ground, of Homer and Aeschylus, of Dante and Petrarch, of Montaigne, of Calderon, of Goethe. n in life. They saw she valued earnest persons, and Dante. Petrarch, and Goethe, because they thought as she ush and leap, blind force for the sake of force. Dante, thou didst not describe, in all thy apartments bf Ith thee. The infinite Shakspeare, the stern Angelo, Dante,—bittersweet like thee,—are no longer seen in thy pr of the period,—the new vogue given to the genius of Dante. An edition of Cary's translation, reprinted in Bose Inferno. Margaret had very early found her way to Dante, and from a certain native preference which she feltstand the genius of the north better than I did. Dante, Petrarca, Tasso, were her friends among the old poe are disgusting, as are those of every writer except Dante. Even genius should content itself in dipping the p<
assages of romantic sacrifice and of ecstatic fusion, which I have heard with the ear, but could not trust my profane pen to report There were, also, the ebbs and recoils from the other party,—the mortal unequal to converse with an immortal,—ingratitude, which was more truly incapacity, the collapse of overstrained affections and powers. At all events, it is clear that Margaret, later, grew more strict, and values herself with her friends on having the tie now redeemed from all search after Eros. So much, however, of intellectual aim and activity mixed with her alliances, as to breathe a certain dignity and myrrh through them all. She and her friends are fellowstu-dents with noblest moral aims. She is there for help and for counsel. Be to the best thou knowest ever true! is her language to one. And that was the effect of her presence. Whoever conversed with her felt challenged by the strongest personal influence to a bold and generous life. To one she wrote,— Could a word <
sooth, get the works of these always working geniuses, but by slow degrees, in a country that has no need of them till her railroads and canals are finished,—I need not jot down my petty impressions of the movement writers. I wish to speak of one among them, aided, honored by them, but not of them. He is to la jeune France rather the herald of a tourney, or the master of ceremonies at a patriotic festival, than a warrior for her battles, or an advocate to win her cause. The works of M. de Vigny having come in my way, I have read quite through this thick volume. I read, a year since, in the London and Westminster, an admirable sketch of Armand Carrel. The writer speaks particularly of the use of which Carrel's experience of practical life had been to him as an author; how it had tempered and sharpened the blade of his intellect to the Damascene perfection. It has been of like use to de Vigny, though not in equal degree. De Vigny passed,—but for manly steadfastness, he wou
Twice-Told Tales (search for this): chapter 4
ism, especially as it concerned woman; the whole prolific family of reforms, and, of course, the genius and career of each remarkable person. She had other friends, in this town, beside those in my house. A lady, already alluded to, lived in the village, who had known her longer than I, and whose prejudices Margaret had resolutely fought down, until she converted her into the firmest and most efficient of friends. In 1842, Nathaniel Hawthorne, already then known to the world by his Twice-Told Tales, came to live in Concord, in the Old Manse, with his wife, who was herself an artist. With these welcomed persons Margaret formed a strict and happy acquaintance. She liked their old house, and the taste which had filled it with new articles of beautiful form, yet harmonized with the antique furniture left by the former proprietors. She liked, too, the pleasing walks, and rides, and boatings, which that neighborhood commanded. In 1842, William Ellery Channing, whose wife was her
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