Imágenes de página

HAWEIS, HUGH REGINALD, an English clergyman and general writer, born at Egham, Surrey, April 3, 1838. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, receiving the degree of M.A. in 1864. After filling two curacies, he was appointed rector of St. James's Church, Marylebone, and afterward of St. James's, Westminster. In 1868 he became editor of Cassell s Magazine. He is the author of Music and Morals, Thoughts for the Times, Speech in Season, Current Coin, Arrows in the Air, American Humorists, Poets in the Pulpit, Picture of Paul the Disciple, The Conquering Cross, and other works. In 1867 he married Miss Mary Eliza Joy, the daughter of the artist, Thomas Musgrave Joy, and herself an artist. She is also the author of Chances for Children (1877); The Artist of Beauty (1878), a collection of papers published some years previously in St. Paul's Magazine, The Art of Dress (1879); The Art of Decoration (1881); Beautiful Houses (1882), and Life of Sir Morell Mackenzie (1893).


The laws which regulate the effect of music upon the listener are subject to many strange perturbations. Unless we admit this to be the case, and try and detect the operation of certain irregular influences, we shall be at a loss to understand why, if music really has its own planes as well as progressions of emo

tion, gay music should make us sad, and solemn music should sometimes provoke a smile. Musical perturbations are sometimes due to the singer, player, or conductor-sometimes to the listener A magical prolongation of single notes here and there, until the vulgarity of the rhythm be broken-a pause, a little appogiatura, even a smile—and the original melody, such as we may know it to be, is changed and sublimated into the high expression of a high individuality. But the perturbations in the natural effect of the music which come from the listener are even more numerous and perplexing. They proceed chiefly from association and memory.

Memory is the great perturber of musical meaning. When memory is concerned, music is no longer itself; it ceases to have any proper plane of feeling; it surrenders itself wholly, with all its rights to memory, to be the patient, stern, and terrible exponent of that recording angel. What is it? Only a few trivial bars of an old piano-forte piece-Murmures du Rhone, or Pluie des Perles. The drawing-room window is open, the children are playing on the lawn, the warm morning air is charged with the scent of lilac blossom. Then the ring at the bell, the confusion in the hall, the girl at the piano stops, the door opens, and one is lifted in, dying or dead. Years, years ago! but passing through the streets, a bar or two of the Murmures du Rhone brings the whole scene before the girl, now no longer a girl, but a middle-aged woman, looking back to one fatal summer morning. The enthusiastic old men, who invariably turned out in force whenever poor Madame Grisi was advertised to sing in her last days, seemed always deeply affected. Yet it could hardly be at what they actually heard- no, the few notes recalled the most superb soprano of the age in her best days ; recalled, also, the scenes of youth forever faded out, and the lights of youth quenched in the gray mists of the dull declining years. It was worth any money to hear even the hollow echo of a voice which had power to bring back, if only for a moment, the “tender grace of a day that was dead.”-Music and Morals.

HAWES, STEPHEN, an English poet of whom personally little is recorded except that he was educated at Oxford, travelled in France, became Groom of the Privy Chamber to Henry VII. and died between 1520 and 1530. His principal work, The Pastime of Pleasure, is an allegorical poem setting forth the life and adventures of one Grande Amoure, who masters all those accomplishments which constitute a perfect knight, worthy of a perfect lady-love-La Belle Pucel. The poem was a sort of precursor of The Faerie Queene of Spenser, who seems to have been indebted to Hawes for many a useful hint and many a pleasing effect of rhyme and cadence.

Critical authorities generally speak slightingly of Hawes. Hallam says: "Those who require the ardent words or the harmonious grace of poetical diction will not frequently be content with Hawes. He is rude, obscure, full of pedantic Latinisms, but learned and philosophical, reminding us frequently of the school of James I." Mr. J. Churton Collins estimates him more highly. He says: “ Hawes, with all his faults, is a true poet. He has a sweet simplicity, a pensive, gentle air, a subdued cheerfulness about him, which have a strange charm at this distance of dissimilar time, though the hand of the artist is not firm, and the coloring sometimes too sober."

The way was troublous and ey nothyng playne,
Tyll at the last I came into a dale,
Beholdyng Phæbus declinyng lowe and pale.
With my grey houndes, in the fayre twylight
I sate me downe.
O mortall folke, you may beholde and see
Howe I lye here, sometime a mighty knight,
The end of joye and all prosperite
Is death at last, thorough his course and mighte,
After the daye there cometh the darke nighte,
For though the daye be never so long,
At last the bell ringeth to evensong.

Drive despaire away,
And live in hope which shall do you good.
Joy cometh after when the payne is past,
Be ye pacient and sober in mode :
So wepe and waile, all is for you in waste.
Was never payne, but it had joy a last
In the fayre morrowe.

DESCRIPTION OF LA BELLE PUCEL Her foreheade stepe with fayre browes ybent,

Her eyen gray, her nose straight and fayre; In her white chekes the fayre blonde it went

As among the wite the redde to repayre. Her mouthe right small, her breathe sweet of ayre ;

Her lippes soft and ruddy as a rose;

No hart alive but it would him appose.
With a little pitte in her well favoured chynne ;

Her necke long, as white as any lillye,
With vaynes blewe in which the bloude ranne in ;

Her pappes rounde, and thereto right pretye ; Her armes slender, and of goodly bodye ;

Her fingers small and thereto right long,

White as the milke, with blewe vaynes among. Her fete proper, she gartred well her hose.

I never sawe so fayre a creature ; Nothing she lacketh, as I do suppose,

That is longying to fayre dame Nature.

[graphic][merged small]
« AnteriorContinuar »