So you have had a visit from the Aesthete!1 I was
interested in the report you sent me. I know O.W. slightly—met him once or
twice when I was in Trinity College.2 His presence
and talk exercised an extraordinary fascination on me. I felt as if I would have
done anything for him. But his poetry, then and now, seems to me to be entirely
worthless—dead and artificial—not even good singing. You may have
come across the poems of another Trinity man, and also a lover of
yours—William Wilkins.3 Wilkins is has only a limited range and he's not always
sincere & is often affected—but I think there is real dash and life
about him and that a page of him is worth loc_af.01022_large.jpg all Oscar Wilde's poetry put
together. How absurd
too, to say that Tennyson has cut himself off from the spirit of his time and
that not he, but the Aesthetes are at the "heart of the nation"! Tennyson with
his glorious battle-ballads, history, humor, is read in every household in
England. The world of the Aesthetes is only, after all, London fashionable
"society"—a large and important world no doubt, but not the heart of
England, by any manner of means.
I sent you a 'Kottabos' yesterday with 'Calvin Harlowe' in it—a slightly
amended version.4 I enclose herewith a page of my
translation of the Leaves of Grass—you needn't loc_af.01023_large.jpg
save it as I don't want
it again. I am studying Luther's translation of the Bible a good deal with
reference to this translation. It is grand strong idiomatic German, not the
milk-and-water, romantified stuff they put into books nowadays. Germany at
present is suffering under an unprecedented plague of mediocrity—in all
branches of imaginative art. Dry bones everywhere—everything scientific,
psychological, faultless, barren—and they are delighted with it all, and
firmly believe themselves to be leading an active spiritual existence. Wagner is
the only man that is really alive among them. It is difficult to understand how
they can admire him as they do and then
loc_af.01024_large.jpgsit down with such perfect
complacency to their
anatomical philosophy and pedagogic novels and the studies of historical costume
which they call paintings. Well, if I was to unburden all my mind on this weary
subject I should go on till—till things got better, I suppose; and there
are no signs of that as yet.
I have come across two charming American girls, with their mother, who are living here now. They are studying, one to be a professional singer, the other a player—have real genius I think. My wife knows them well too. They are the first Americans I have met who seemed to me at all native growths, and not spoiled Europeans.
I see the 'Critic' of N. York has given very high praise to my Encheiridion.5 It is selling pretty well I hear, better then I had expected. I see Jeff Davis has written a history of the war.6 Ought to be valuable for a student. I will try and get hold of it.
Hope you keep well.
Yours always T W Rolleston.The following review of The Encheiridion of Epictetus (London, 1881) appeared in the January 14, 1882 issue of the Critic (2.6):
"This is an admirable, scholarly translation of the calm old Stoic who still has something to say to the world—something, in particular, to those who would dwell on the serene heights of philosophy. The translator has preserved the fresh, crisp, compact spirit of the original, and gives us the true tones of the Greek. It is presented in a handsome pocket volume of exquisite taste and workmanship, and at the time of the year when we are forming good resolutions. Though we might go astray if we accepted all that the old heathen philosopher offers, yet we shall find in him ideas of great pith and moment, many of which have already become worthily imbedded in Christian doctrine."
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