* * *
Our opinion, already recorded, is that if Keats had spent fifteen or
twenty minutes more on his Grecian Urn, all of the stanzas would be as
good as three of them. And so we think that if A. B. had put in, say, a
half hour more on her sonnet she would not have rhymed "worldliness" and
"moodiness." Of the harmony, counterpoint, thoroughbass, etc., of verse
we know next to nothing--we play on _our_ tin whistle entirely by
ear--but there are things which we avoid, perhaps needlessly. One of
these is the rhyming of words like utterly, monody, lethargy, etc.;
these endings seem weak when they are bunched. Our assistants will
apprehend that we are merely offering a suggestion or two, which we hope
they will follow up by exploring the authorities.
* * *
Music like Brahms' Second Symphony is peculiarly satisfying to the
listener. The first few measures disclose that the composer is in
complete control of his ideas and his expression of them. He has
something to say, and he says it without uncertainty or redundancy. Only
a man who _has_ something to say may dare to say it only once.
* * *
Those happy beings who "don't know a thing about art, but know what they
like," are restricted to the obvious because of ignorance of form; their
enjoyment ends where that of the cultivated person begins. Take music.
The person who knows what he likes takes his pleasure in the tune, but
gets little or nothing from the tune's development; hence his favorite
music is music which is all tune.
We recall a naive query by the publisher of a magazine, at a musicale in
Gotham. Our hostess, an accomplished pianist, had played a Chopin
Fantasia, and the magazine man was expressing his qualified enjoyment.
"What I can't understand," said he, "is why the tune quits just when
it's running along nicely." This phenomenon, no doubt, has mystified
thousands of other "music lovers."
* * *
A Boston woman complains that school seats have worn out three pairs of
pants (her son's) in three months. "Is a wheeze about the seat of
learning too obvious?" queries Genevieve. Oh, quite too, my dear!
* * *
Mr. Frederick Harrison at 89 observes: "May my end be early, speedy, and
peaceful! I regret nothing done or said in my long and busy life. I
withdraw nothing, and, as I said before, am not conscious of any change
in mind. In youth I was called a revolutionary; in old age I am called
a reactionary; both names alike untrue.... I ask nothing. I seek
nothing. I fear nothing. I have done and said all that I ever could have
done and said. There is nothing more. I am ready, and await the call."
A very good prose version of Henley's well known poem. As for regretting
nothing, a man at forty would be glad to unsay and undo many things. At
seventy, and decidedly at eighty-nine, these things have so diminished
in importance that it is not worth while withdrawing them.
* * *