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vladislav sogan
LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST AND OTHER POEMS
LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST AND OTHER POEMS
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At the commencement of the year 1885, a captivating little volume of poems was mysteriously issued from the "Leadenhalle Presse" of Messrs. Field and Tuer—a quaint, vellum-bound, antique-looking book, tied up on all sides with strings of golden silk ribbon, and illustrated throughout with fanciful wood-cuts. It was entitled "Love Letters by a Violinist," and those who were at first attracted by its title and suggestive outward appearance, untied the ribbons with a certain amount of curiosity. Love-letters were surely of a private, almost sacred character. What "Violinist" thus ventured to publish his heart-records openly? and were they worth reading? were the questions asked by the public, and last, not least, came the natural inquiry, "Who was the 'Violinist'?" To this no satisfactory answer could be obtained, for nobody knew. But it was directly proved on perusal of the book that he was a poet, not a mere writer of verse. Speculations arose as to his identity, and Joseph Ellis, the poet, reviewed the work as follows:—
"Behold a mystery—who shall uncase it? A small quarto, anonymous. The publisher professes entire ignorance of its origin. Wild guesses spring from the mask of a 'Violinist'—who can he be? Unde derivatur? A Tyro? The work is too skilful for such, though even a Byron. Young? Not old. Tennyson? No—he hath not the grace of style, at least for these verses. Browning? No—he could not unbend so far. Edwin Arnold might, possibly, have been equal to it, witness, inter alia, 'Violetta'; but he is unlikely. Lytton Bulwer, a voice from the tomb? No. His son, Owen Meredith? A random supposition, yet possible. Rossetti—again a voice from the tomb? No—he wanted the strength of wing. James Thomson, the younger, could have done it, but he was too stern. Then, our detective ingenuity proving incompetent, who? We seek the Delphic fane—the oracle replies Swinburne. Let us bow to the oracular voice, for in Swinburne we find all requisites for the work—fertility of thought, grace of language, ingenuity, skill in the ars poetica, wealth of words, sensuous nature, classic resources. * * * The writer of the 'Love-Letters' is manifestly imbued with the tone and tune of Italian poetry, and has the merit of proving the English tongue capable of rivalling the Italian 'Canzoni d'Amore.' * * * * He is a master of versification, so is Swinburne—he is praiseworthy for freshness of thought, novelty, and aptness in imagery, so is Swinburne. He is remarkable for sustained energy, so is Swinburne; and thus it may safely be said that, if not the writer of the 'Love-Letters,' he deserves to be accredited with that mysterious production, until the authorship is avowed. * * * * Unto Britannia, as erst to Italia, has been granted a a Petrarch."
At the commencement of the year 1885, a captivating little volume of poems was mysteriously issued from the "Leadenhalle Presse" of Messrs. Field and Tuer—a quaint, vellum-bound, antique-looking book, tied up on all sides with strings of golden silk ribbon, and illustrated throughout with fanciful wood-cuts. It was entitled "Love Letters by a Violinist," and those who were at first attracted by its title and suggestive outward appearance, untied the ribbons with a certain amount of curiosity. Love-letters were surely of a private, almost sacred character. What "Violinist" thus ventured to publish his heart-records openly? and were they worth reading? were the questions asked by the public, and last, not least, came the natural inquiry, "Who was the 'Violinist'?" To this no satisfactory answer could be obtained, for nobody knew. But it was directly proved on perusal of the book that he was a poet, not a mere writer of verse. Speculations arose as to his identity, and Joseph Ellis, the poet, reviewed the work as follows:—
"Behold a mystery—who shall uncase it? A small quarto, anonymous. The publisher professes entire ignorance of its origin. Wild guesses spring from the mask of a 'Violinist'—who can he be? Unde derivatur? A Tyro? The work is too skilful for such, though even a Byron. Young? Not old. Tennyson? No—he hath not the grace of style, at least for these verses. Browning? No—he could not unbend so far. Edwin Arnold might, possibly, have been equal to it, witness, inter alia, 'Violetta'; but he is unlikely. Lytton Bulwer, a voice from the tomb? No. His son, Owen Meredith? A random supposition, yet possible. Rossetti—again a voice from the tomb? No—he wanted the strength of wing. James Thomson, the younger, could have done it, but he was too stern. Then, our detective ingenuity proving incompetent, who? We seek the Delphic fane—the oracle replies Swinburne. Let us bow to the oracular voice, for in Swinburne we find all requisites for the work—fertility of thought, grace of language, ingenuity, skill in the ars poetica, wealth of words, sensuous nature, classic resources. * * * The writer of the 'Love-Letters' is manifestly imbued with the tone and tune of Italian poetry, and has the merit of proving the English tongue capable of rivalling the Italian 'Canzoni d'Amore.' * * * * He is a master of versification, so is Swinburne—he is praiseworthy for freshness of thought, novelty, and aptness in imagery, so is Swinburne. He is remarkable for sustained energy, so is Swinburne; and thus it may safely be said that, if not the writer of the 'Love-Letters,' he deserves to be accredited with that mysterious production, until the authorship is avowed. * * * * Unto Britannia, as erst to Italia, has been granted a a Petrarch."
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