Love Letters of a Violinist, and Other Poems

by Eric Mackay

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE

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."

Meanwhile other leading voices in the Press joined the swelling chorus of praise. The Morning Post took up the theme, and, after vainly endeavouring to clear up the mystery of the authorship, went on to say: "The appearance of this book must be regarded as a literary phenomenon. We find ourselves lifted at once by the author's genius out of the work-a-day world of the England of to-day, and transported into an atmosphere as rare and ethereal as that in which the poet of Vaucluse lived and moved and had his being. * * * * In nearly every stanza there are unerring indications of a mind and heart steeped in that subtlest of all forms of beauty, the mythology of old Greece. The reader perceives at once that he has to do with a scholar and man of culture, as well as with an inspired singer, whose muse need not feel abashed in the presence of the highest poets of our own day."

Such expressions as, "A new star of brilliant magnitude has risen above the literary horizon in the anonymous author of the exquisite book of 'Love-Letters,'" and "These poems are among the most graceful and beautiful productions of modern times," became frequent in the best literary journals, and private opinion concerning the book began to make its influence felt. The brilliant writer and astute critic, George Meredith, wrote to a friend on the subject as follows:—

"The lines and metre of the poems are easy and interthreading and perfectly melodious. It is an astonishing production—the work of a true musician in our tongue."

The Times' special correspondent, Antonio Gallenga, expressed himself at some length on the merits of the "Violinist," and spoke of him "as one who could conjure up a host of noble thoughts and bright fancies, who rejoices in a great command of language, with a flow of verse and a wealth of rhymes. It is impossible to hear his confessions, to follow him in his aspirations, to hear the tale of his visions, his trances, his dreams, without catching his enthusiasm and bestowing on him our sympathy. Each 'Love-Letter' is in twenty stanzas—each stanza in six lines. The poem is regular and symmetrical as Dante's 'Comedy,' with as stately and solemn, aye, and as arduous a measure." While the world of art and letters thus discussed the volume, reading it meanwhile with such eagerness that the whole edition was soon entirely exhausted, a particularly brilliant and well-written critique of it appeared in the New York Independent—a very prominent American journal, destined afterwards to declare the author's identity, and to be the first to do so. In the columns of this paper had been frequently seen some peculiarly graceful and impassioned poems, signed by one Eric Mackay—notable among these being a lyric entitled "The Waking of the Lark" (included in our present volume), which, to quote the expression of a distinguished New York critic, "sent a thrill through the heart of America." There are no skylarks in the New World, but there is a deep tenderness felt by all Americans for the little

"Priest in grey apparel

Who doth prepare to sing in air his sinless summer carol,"