Shelley has been called the poet’s poet, and Schumann might as aptly be termed the musician’s composer; because the subtle, fanciful, subjective character and the metaphysical tendency of the works of both require the keen insight and the fertile imagination of the artistic temperament, to follow them in all their flights and catch the full significance of their suggestions. With both, the instinct for form is weak, and the constructive faculty almost wanting. Ideas and figures are fine, profound, and astute, but there is a lack of lucidity, brevity, and force, as well as of logical development, in their expression. A few bits of melody by Schumann, such as the “Träumerei,” and an occasional brief lyric by Shelley, like “The Skylark,” have become well-known and popular; but their works, in the main, are likely to be the last ever written to catch the public ear. They appeal the more strongly to the inner circle of initiates who are familiar spirits in the mystical realm, whose language they speak. Where Shelley is the favorite poet, and Schumann the favorite composer, an unusually active fancy and subtle intellect are sure to be found.
Mendelssohn and Longfellow are alike in almost every feature. Both are in temperament objective and optimistic. Both are graceful, fluent, melodious, tender, and thoughtful, without being ever strongly impassioned or really dramatic. Both display superior and well-disciplined powers, nobility of sentiment, and ease and grace of manner. Perfect gentlemen and polished scholars, both avoid all radical and reformatory tendencies, to such an extent as to lend a shade of conventionality to their artistic personality, as compared with the extreme romanticists of their day. Both have reached the public ear and heart as no other talent of equal magnitude has ever done. Many of the ballads, narrative poems, and shorter pieces by Longfellow, and the “Songs Without Words,” by Mendelssohn, have become so familiar as to be almost hackneyed, even with the non-poetic and non-musical populace.
Chopin is beyond dispute the Tennyson of the pianoforte. The same depth, warmth, and delicacy of feeling vitalizing every line, the same polish, fineness of detail, and symmetry of form, the same exquisitely refined, yet by no means effeminate, temperament are seen in both. Each shows us fervent passion, beyond the ken of common men, without a touch of brutality; intense and vehement emotion, with never a hint of violence in its betrayal, expressed in dainty rhythmic numbers as polished and symmetrical as if that symmetry and polish were their only raison d’être. This similar trait leads often to a similar mistake in regard to both. Superficial observers, fixing their attention on the preëminent delicacy, tenderness, elegance, and grace of their manner and matter, regard them as exponents of these qualities merely, and deny them broader, stronger, sterner characteristics. Never was a grosser wrong done true artists. No poet and no composer is more profound, passionate, and intense than Tennyson and Chopin, and none so rarely pens a line that is devoid of genuine feeling as its legitimate origin. But the artist in each stood with quiet finger on the riotous pulses of emotion, and forbade all utterance that was crude, chaotic, or uncouth. Both had the heart of fire and tongue of gold. Tennyson wrote the model lyrics of his language and Chopin the model lyrics of his instrument, for all posterity. Edgar Poe said of Tennyson: “I call him and think him the noblest of poets, because the excitement which he induces is at all times the most ethereal, the most elevating, and the most pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy.” The same words might well be spoken of Chopin.
Liszt and Byron were kindred spirits, both as men and artists. Among the serener stars and planets that move majestically in harmony with heaven’s first law, to the music of the spheres, they were like meteors or comets, appearing above the horizon with dazzling brilliance, and darting to the zenith, through an erratic career, reaching a summit of fame and popularity, attained during his lifetime by no other poet or musician, and setting at defiance all laws of art, of society, and of morals. Brilliancy of style and character, haughty independence, impetuous passion, a matchless splendor of genius, a supreme contempt for the weaknesses of lesser mortals, combined with the warmest admiration for their peers, are the distinguishing attributes of both. Byron’s devoted friendship for Moore and Shelley corresponds exactly to Liszt’s feeling for Chopin and Wagner. Liszt himself recognized this affinity between himself and Byron. The English poet was for many years his model and favorite author; many of his scenes and poems he translated into tones, and his influence is marked in most of his earlier compositions. The works of both are remarkable for a fire and fury almost demoniac, alternating with a light and flippant grace, almost impish. Both understood a climax as few others have done, and both had the dramatic element strongly developed. Both were lawless and dissolute, according to the world’s verdict, yet scrupulous and refined to an extreme in certain respects. Each scandalized the world, repaid its censure with scorn, and saw it at his feet; and each left, like a meteor, a track of fire behind him, which still burns with a red and vivid, if not the purest, luster.
Wagner and Victor Hugo are the two Titans of the nineteenth century, having created more stir and ferment in the world of art and letters than any other writers, contemporary or previous. Each is the leading genius of his nation. They resemble each other in the pronounced originality of their genius, their virile energy and productivity, and their colossal force. Of both, the rare and singular fact is true, that their productions all attain about the same level of merit. Most authors and most composers are known by one or a few sublime creations. I know of no others who have written an equal number of great works and none that are mediocre or feeble. They are also alike in the circumstance that while each has done fine work in a number of other departments, it is the dramatic element which forms the strongest feature of their artistic personality. Few French novels can compare with those of Victor Hugo; but it is the powers of the dramatist displayed in the plot, striking situations and characters, which constitute their chief merit; and in his writings for the stage he has far surpassed all that he has done as novelist. Likewise, while Wagner’s orchestral works for the concert room would alone have made him a reputation, it is by his operas that he has made the world ring with his fame. Each had a sense of the dramatic and a mastery of its effects not even approached by any other artist. They bear, furthermore, a strong resemblance in their revolutionary character and tendencies. Both were born pioneers, innovators, reformers. Both headed a revolt against the reigning sovereigns and the established government of their respective arts and after a desperate struggle came out victorious. Both have been followed by a host of disciples, belligerent and radical beyond all that the annals of music and literature can show. They were like two powerful battering-rams, attacking the bulwarks of classic prejudice and conventionality. The revolution which Wagner brought about in opera was exactly matched by Hugo with the drama. His “Hernani” was as great a shock to the established precedents of the stage, as was Wagner’s “Nibelungen.” Lastly, both display the unusual phenomenon of retaining their creative power into extreme old age, and both died when life and art and fame were fully ripe, with the eyes of the world upon them and their names on every tongue.
FINIS.