GOLDFADEN AS POET AND DRAMATIST
To ATTEMPT a review of the work of a popular author shortly after his death, while he is yet mourned by many admirers, and the sound of elaborate—and very often exaggerated—eulogies is yet reverberating in the air, is indeed a hazardous and an extremely disagreeable task, for to the conscientious critic it is next to impossible not to discover some flaw or deficiency even in the work of the real master and creator of enduring work; he must. therefore, perforce, find serious flaws in the work of the average man of letters who does not wield the pen nor profess the imagination of genius. The reviewer is occasion-. ally obliged to utter a disparaging word or to pronounce a seemingly harsh verdict, and even feel constrained from a sense of duty to de- molish a popular fetish or idol. And while he may sometimes be allowed the wide latitude and indulgence generally accorded to his profession if the author discussed by him abides in the land of the living or whose death has occurred many, many years ago, so as to obliterate the impression of bereavement, yet patience will be lost with him if he essays to apply the scalpel to the fresh, warm body while the grave is yet new, the sense of loss and bereavement keen, and worship and admiration has risen to fever heat in the heart of the people. At such a time it is considered sacrilege to disturb the hallowed bones, and his works are considered exempt as far as concerns the plebeian critic, who dares not defile them with the touch of his unsanctified hand.
Yet the writer of this review was venturesome enough to attempt this task some time ago, but the author's death has caused him, quite involuntarily, to reflect a little bit and to bestow some new attention to the works of the dead master.
To the antiquary, the person who has delved into the mysteries of bygone ages, it is well
known that literature, even as every other thing under the sun, is the product of evolution and gradual change and development; that the complex literature, with its severe, extensive scientific treatises, its elegant, polished romances and the dainty charms of its lyrics and epics, is but the natural offspring of the crude attempt of our ancestors to tell a tale, invent a fable, a legend or story. Thus we can picture how, in the beginning of time, in the dawn of history, when even the very characters of the alphabet were as yet unknown, a certain member of the clan, more gifted than his fellows, would compose some crude rhapsody on a topic which might come within the view of his rather narrow horizon and appeal to his limited intelligence, which he would assiduously commit to memory, so as to be able to recite it on the many festivals of his tribe, surrounded by a gaping and amused throng of his people; later on, as civilization advanced and man became the master, instead of being the slave, and began to found permanent homes and settlements, his literature, so called, also advanced in proportion to his economic progress, and the place of the primitive bard was now occupied by an individual whose productions were more pretentious, whose vocabulary was much larger and richer, the ideas and subject matter broader and more developed and covered a wider range of observation, and his work is composed with a certain rough regard for the appearance, finish, sound and rhythm. It is during this period that we meet with the wandering minstrel, who, harp in hand, a goodly supply of ballads and a pleasant voice, to boot, wanders from place to place, halting wherever there is any gathering, a concourse of people who will listen to his song or tale, applaud his skill and reward him with their bounty. His verses also of necessity had to be composed in the simplest form, with none,