the rhythm of life-第8部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！



itnot　in　its　own　insolubility　butin　caricature。　　As　though　the

secrets　of　the　inherited　body　and　soul　needed　to　be　heightened　by　a

bit　of　burlesque　physiology！　　It　is　in　spite　of　our　protest　against

the　invention　of　Elsie's　horrible　plighta　conception　and　invention

which　Dr。　Oliver　Wendell　Holmes　should　feel　to　be　essentially

frivolousthat　the　serpent…maiden　moves　us　deeply　by　her　last　'Good

night；'　and　by　the　gentle　phrase　that　tells　us　'Elsie　wept。'　　But

now；　if　Dr。　Holmes　shall　succeed　in　proposing　the　question　of

separate　responsibility　so　as　to　convince　every　civilised　mind　of

his　doubts；　there　will　be　curiously　little　change　wrought　thereby　in

the　discipline　of　the　world。　　For　Dr。　Holmes　incidentally　lets　us

know　that　he　cherishes　and　values　the　instinct　of　intolerance　and

destructiveness　in　presence　of　the　cruel；　the　self…loving；　and　the

false。　　Negation　of　separate　moral　responsibility；　when　that

negation　is　tempered　by　a　working　instinct　of　intolerance　and

destructiveness；　will　deal　with　the　felon；　after　all；　very　much　in

the　manner　achieved　by　the　present　prevalent　judicialness；

unscientific　though　it　may　be。　　And　to　say　this　is　to　confess　that

Dr。　Oliver　Wendell　Holmes　has　worked；　through　a　number　of　books；　to

futile　purpose。　　His　books　are　justified　by　something　quite　apart

from　his　purpose。







JAMES　RUSSELL　LOWELL







The　United　States　have　produced　authors　not　a　few；　among　some　names

not　the　most　famous；　perhaps；　on　the　popular　tongue；　are　two　or

three　names　of　their　poets；　but　they　have　hardly　given　to　the　world

more　than　one　man　of　lettersjudicious；　judicial；　disinterested；

patient；　happy；　temperate；　delighted。　　The　colonial　days；　with　the

'painful'　divines　who　brought　the　parish　into　the　wilderness；　the

experimental　period　of　ambition　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　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

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。







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　its　home　within　that

slender　nature；　and　heroic　happiness　seeks　that　timorous　heart。



We　may；　indeed；　in　part　know　the　narrow　house　by　its

inarticulatenessnot；　certainly；　its　fewness　of　words；　but　its

inadequacy　and　imprecision　of　speech。　　For；　doubtless；　right

language　enlarges　the　soul　as　no　other　power　or　influence　may　do。

Who；　for　instance；　but　trusts　more　nobly　for　knowing　the　full　word

of　his　confidence？　　Who　but　loves　more　penetratingly　for　possessing

the　ultimate　syllable　of　his　tenderness？　　There　is　a　'pledging　of

the　word；'　in　another　sense　than　the　ordinary　sense　of　troth　and

promise。　　The　poet　pledges　his　word；　his　sentence；　his　verse；　and

finds　therein　a　peculiar　sanction。　　And　I　suppose　that　even　physical

pain　takes　on　an　edge　when　it　not　onl