Life of Chopin. By F. Liszt. Published by F. Leypoldt: Philadelphia.
Liszt's Life of Chopin! What a combination of names to wing the imagination upward into the ethereal regions of beauty, pure art, and lofty emotion! The imperial pianist discourses upon the genius and peculiar gifts of his brother musician. Before us arises a vision of the strong and fiery Hungarian, with clanger of steel, flash of spur, and ring of hoof, compelling his audiences to attention and enthusiastic admiration; and also of the gentle-mannered and suffering, but no less fiery Pole, shrinking from all rude contact, and weaving enchanted melodies and harmonies, teeming with ever-varying pictures of tender love, hopeless despair, chivalric daring, religious resignation, passionate pleading, eloquent disdain, the ardor of battle with the thunder of artillery, the hut of the peasant with its pastoral pleasures, and the assemblage of the noble, the distinguished, the beautiful, with the nameless fascinations of feminine loveliness, the witching caprices of conscious power,—while through all and above all glows the memory of the glorious past and mournful present of his beloved country. The book, in fact, opens a vista into modes of life, manners of being, and trains of thought little known among us, and hence is most deeply interesting. The style is eminently suited to the subject, and the translation of Liszt's French is equal to the original. This is saying much, but not too much; for when a cognate mind becomes thoroughly imbued with the spirit of an author, the transmutation of his ideas into another form of speech becomes a simple and natural process. To those who already know Chopin and are striving to play his music, this book will be invaluable, as giving a deep insight into the meaning and proper mode of rendering his compositions. To those who know nothing of him, and who are still floundering amid the fade and flimsy productions that would fain hide their emptiness and vulgarity under the noble name of music, this life of a true musician will reveal a new world, a new purpose for the drudgery of daily practice, and the expenditure of time, patience, and money.
The work, however, is not alone useful for those especially interested in music, but, being free from all repulsive technicalities, will be found highly attractive to the general reader. It contains a subtle dissection of a deeply interesting character, sketches of Heine, George Sand, Eugene de la Croix, Mickiewicz, and other celebrities in the world of literature and art, together with a most vivid portraiture of social life in Poland, a land which has ever excited so much admiration for its heroism, and compassion for its misfortunes.
Mr. Leypoldt, the enterprising publisher of this work, merits the encouragement of the American people, inasmuch as he has not feared to risk the publication of a work deemed by many too excellent to be generally appreciated by our reading community. He however has faith in the good sense of that community, and so have we.
Fragmentary portions of Liszt's 'Chopin,' about 60 pages out of 202, were translated by Mr. Dwight of Boston, and appeared in the 'Journal of Music.' Those portions were favorably received, and all who thus formed a partial acquaintance with the work will doubtless desire now to complete their knowledge, especially as some of the most vivid and characteristic chapters were omitted.
My Diary North and South. By William Howard Russell. T. O. H. P. Burnham. New York: O. S. Felt, 36 Walker Street. 1863. (Cloth, one dollar; paper covers, fifty cents.)
It is amusing to read over, at this stage of the war, these letters, in which the Thunderer, as represented by Mr. Russell, dwindled down to a very small squib indeed. Few men ever prophesied more brazenly as to the war,—very few ever had their prophecies so pitiably falsified. Other men have guessed right now and then, by chance; but poor Russell contrived, by dint of conceit and natural obtuseness, to make himself as thoroughly ridiculous to those who should review him in the future as was well possible. It is, however, to be hoped that these letters will be extensively read, that the public may now see who and what the correspondent really was, through whom England was to be specially instructed as to the merits of this country and its war. When we remember the advantages which poor Russell enjoyed for acquiring information, his neglect of matters of importance seems amazing—until we find, in scores of petty personal matters and silly egotisms, a key to the whole. He is a small-souled man, utterly incapable of mastering the great principles involved in this war,—a man petrified in English conceit, and at the end of his art when, like a twopenny reporter, he has made a smart little sneer at something or somebody. He writes on America as Sala wrote on Russia, in the same petty, frivolous vein, with the same cockney smartness; but fails to be funny, whereas Sala frequently succeeds. He came here to write for England, not the truth, but something which his readers expected. His object was to supply a demand, and he did it. He learned nothing, and returned as ignorant, so far as really understanding the problems he purposed to study, as he came. Those who can penetrate the depths of such pitiful characters cannot fail to feel true sorrow that men should exist to whom all life, all duty, every opportunity to tell great truths and to do good, should simply appear as opportunities to turn out a pièce de manufacture, and earn salaries. Mr. Russell could have done a great work in these letters—he leaves the impression on our minds that in his opinion his boots and his breakfast were to him matters of much more importance than the future of all North America.
Wanderings of a Beauty: A Tale of the Real and Ideal. By Mrs. Edwin James. New York: Carleton. 1863.
An entertaining little romance, which will be specially acceptable to the 'regular English novel' devourers—a by no means inconsiderable proportion of the public. Its heroine—a beauty—moves in English society, is presented to the Queen, is victimized by a rascally husband or two, and visits America, where she ends her adventures—à la Marble Faun—rather more obscurely than we could have wished, by 'enduring and suffering,' but on the whole happily, so far as sentiment is concerned. As the story contains to perfection every element of the most popular English novels of the day, yet in a more highly concentrated form than they usually present, we have no doubt that its sale will be very great. The volume contains a very beautifully engraved portrait-vignette, 'after a miniature by Thorburn,' which is worth the price of the book, and is neatly bound. Gentlemen wishing to make an acceptable gift to novel-reading friends will find the 'Wanderings of a Beauty' well suited to the purpose.
The Prisoner of State. By D. H. Mahoney. New York: Carleton. 1863.