_Conti the Discarded: with Other Tales and Fancies. By Henry F.
Chorley. 2 vols. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers._
Mr. Chorley has hitherto written nothing of any great length. His
name, however, is familiar to all readers of English Annuals, and in
whatever we have seen from his pen, evidences of a rare genius have
been perceptible. In Conti, and in the "Other Tales and Fancies" which
accompany it, these evidences are more distinct, more brilliant, and
more openly developed. Neither are these pieces wanting in a noble,
and, to us, a most thrillingly interesting _purpose_. In saying that
our whole heart is with the author--that the deepest, and we trust,
the purest emotions are enkindled within us by his chivalric and
magnanimous _design_--we present but a feeble picture of our
individual feelings as influenced by the perusal of Conti. We repeat
it--our whole heart is with the author. When _shall_ the artist assume
his proper situation in society--in a society of thinking beings? How
long shall he be enslaved? How long shall mind succumb to the grossest
materiality? How long shall the veriest vermin of the Earth, who crawl
around the altar of Mammon, be more esteemed of men than they, the
gifted ministers to those exalted emotions which link us with the
mysteries of Heaven? To our own query we may venture a reply. Not
long. Not long will such rank injustice be committed or permitted. A
spirit is already abroad at war with it. And in every billow of the
unceasing sea of Change--and in every breath, however gentle, of the
wide atmosphere of Revolution encircling us, is that spirit steadily
yet irresistibly at work.
"Who has not looked," says Mr. Chorley in his Preface, "with painful
interest on the unreckoned-up account of misunderstanding and
suspicion which exists between the World and the Artist? Who has not
grieved to see the former willing to degrade Art into a mere
plaything--to be enjoyed without respect, and then cast aside--instead
of receiving her high works as among the most humanizing blessings
ever vouchsafed to man by a beneficent Creator? Who has not suffered
shame in observing the Artist bring his own calling into contempt by
coarsely regarding it as a mere engine of money getting, or holding it
up to reproach by making it the excuse for such eccentricities or
grave errors as separate him from the rest of society?"
That genius should not and indeed cannot be bound down to the vulgar
common-places of existence, is a maxim which, however true, has been
too often repeated; and there have appeared on earth enough spirits of
the loftiest and most brilliant order who have worthily taken their
part in life as useful citizens, affectionate husbands, faithful
friends, to deprive of their excuse all such as hold, that to despise
and alienate the world is the inevitable and painfully glorious
destiny of the highly gifted.
Very few of our readers, it may be, are acquainted with a particular
class of works which has long exercised a very powerful influence on
the private habits and character, as well as on the literature of the
Germans. We speak of the _Art Novels_--the Kunstromanen--books written
not so much in immediate defence, or in illustration, as in
personification of individual portions of the Fine Arts--books which,
in the guise of Romance, labor to the sole end of reasoning men into
admiration and study of the beautiful, by a tissue of _bizarre_
fiction, partly allegorical, and partly metaphysical. In Germany alone
could so mad--or perhaps so profound--an idea have originated. From
the statement of Mr. Chorley, we find that his original intention was
to attempt something in the style of the _Kunstromanen_, with such
modifications as might seem called for by the peculiar spirit of the
British national tastes and literature. "It occurred to me, however,"
says he, "that the very speculations and reveries which appeared to
myself so delicious and significant, might be rejected by the rest of
the world as fantastic and overstrained." Mr. C. could never have
persevered in a scheme so radically erroneous for more than a dozen
pages; and neither the world nor himself will have {196} cause to
regret that he thought proper to abandon the _Art Novels_, and embody
his fine powers and lofty design in so stirring and so efficient a
series of paintings as may be found in the present volumes.
A single passage near the commencement of Conti, will afford to all
those who feel and think, direct evidence of the extraordinary
abilities of Mr. Chorley. Madame Zerlini is an Italian _prima donna_,
who becoming enamored of Colonel Hardwycke, an Englishman, accompanies
him to England as his mistress, and after living with him for twelve
years, and bearing him a son, Julius, dies suddenly upon hearing of
his intention to marry.
"A strange scene greeted his eyes (those of Julius) as he entered the
spacious hall, which, as its windows fronted the east, was already
beginning to be dusky with the shadows of twilight. On the lowest step
of the stairs lay, in violent hysterics, one of the women
servants--she was raving and weeping, half supported by two others,
themselves trembling so as to be almost powerless.
"'And here's Master Julius, too!' exclaimed one of the group which
obstructed his passage, 'and my master gone away--no one knows for how
long. Lord have mercy upon us!--what are we to do, I wonder?'
"'Don't go up stairs!' shrieked the other, leaving her charge, and
endeavoring to stop him. 'Don't go up stairs--it is all over!'
"But the boy, whose mind was full of other matters, and who, having
wandered away in the morning, before the delirium became so violent,
had no idea of his mother's imminent danger, broke from them without
catching the meaning of their words, and forced his way up stairs,
towards the great drawing room, the folding doors of which were
swinging open.
"He went in. Madame Zerlini was there--flung down upon a sofa, in an
attitude which, in life, it would have been impossible for her to
maintain for many moments. Her head was cast back over one of the
pillows, so far, that her long hair, which had been imperfectly
fastened, had disengaged itself by its own weight, and was now
sweeping heavily downward, with a crushed wreath of passion flowers
and myrtles half buried among it. Every thing about her told how
fiercely the spirit had passed. Her robe of scarlet muslin was
entirely torn off on one shoulder, and disclosed its exquisitely
rounded proportions. Her glittering _negligé_ was unclasped, and one
end of it clenched firmly in the small left hand, which there was now
hardly any possibility of unclosing. Her glazed eyes were wide
open--her mouth set in an unnatural, yet fascinating smile; her cheek
still flushed with a more delicate, yet intense red than belongs to
health; and the excited boy, who was rushing hastily into the room,
with the rapid inquiry, 'Where is Father Vanezzi?' stood as fixed on
the threshhold, with sudden and conscious horror, as if he had been a
thing of marble."
It is not our intention to analyze, or even to give a compend of the
Tale of Conti. Such are not the means by which any idea of its
singular power can be afforded. We will content ourselves with saying
that, in its prevailing tone, it bears no little resemblance to that
purest, and most enthralling of fictions, the Bride of Lammermuir; and
we have once before expressed our opinion of this, the master novel of
Scott. It is not too much to say that no modern composition, and
perhaps no composition whatever, with the single exception of
Cervantes' Destruction of Numantia, approaches so nearly to the proper
character of the dramas of Æschylus, as the magic tale of which
Ravenswood is the hero. We are not aware of being sustained by any
authority in this opinion--yet we do not believe it the less
intrinsically correct.
The other pieces in the volumes of Mr. Chorley are, _Margaret Sterne_,
or _The Organist's Journey_--an _Essay on the Popular Love of
Music_--_Rossini's Otello_--_The Imaginative Instrumental Writers,
Haydn, Beethoven, &c._--_The Village Beauty's Wedding_--_Handel's
Messiah_--and _A few words upon National Music_--all of which papers
evince literary powers of a high order, an intimate acquaintance with
the science of music, and a lofty and passionate devotion to its
interests.