Page:The Literary Magnet 1825 vol 4.djvu/87
he was the means of causing the novelists of his time to infuse more power and animation into their productions. We heartily wish that his imitators, while through a want of genius they copy his faults instead of his beauties, would avoid the abuse which Hoffmann sometimes made of his talents, by indulging in personalities, and even by availing himself of natural deformities, to ridicule unoffending individuals. They should at least bear in mind, that Hoffmann possessed some extraordinary gifts of nature, to compensate for his irregularities. Upon the whole, notwithstanding his blemishes, a more entertaining and original writer scarcely ever existed.
Walter Scott was his favourite English author; and among the Germans, he adored Tieck; and Jean Paul, the most original, perhaps, of all writers, seems to have had considerable influence over his style.
In conclusion, we shall endeavour to convey an idea of Hoffmann’s external appearance, which was not less extraordinary than his mental conformation. If we wished to express in a single word what Hoffmann resembled, we should say, a diminutive imp. He was almost a dwarf, and withal very thin. His countenance was of a round form; but he had so constantly habituated himself to distort his features, that he seemed to have a long face. His eyes, which were of a singular form, were thought to be small, because he kept them half closed; but, as soon as some idea actuated him, they expanded like the wings of a vulture, and shining in their peculiar colour of steel blue, shed an awful lustre. When he laughed, they had a serious cast; and when his look beamed cheerfully, there was no smile round his lips. It cannot, therefore, be wondered, if ladies of delicacy shuddered at his approach. His voice was at once hoarse and piercing in its sound, and his whole appearance was like one of the magical beings in his own tales.
At the head of the edition of the “Rhapsodies,” &c. of 1819, in two volumes, there is his portrait, drawn by himself, which, if not resembling in features, still conveys the true expression of his countenance. He died, as we have before stated, in the summer of the year 1822, in his 48th year, of an illness brought on by some vexations he had occasioned by his passionate temper. death.
Attacked by a lingering illness, his mind retained all its powerful faculties until his latest moments. He was dictating his last tale, called Der Feind (The Enemy), which he completed, two hours before his A few days before that event took place, a friend of his entered his room, and Hoffmann exclaimed cheerfully, “Don’t you smell the roast meat?” alluding to the circumstance of his spine having just been seared, in order to re-animate the vital principle. Although his extremities had become lifeless by degrees, he still expressed a wish to live, even in this state, finding a sufficient enjoyment in the resources of his mind.
Hoffmann’s life was wild, extravagant, and often blameable; but his death was grand and beautiful. He bore the cruel sufferings of a long and most painful illness with admirable composure of mind; and he showed, that if formerly he had been the slave of his senses, he was still able to master them like a hero. Now that he is gone, peace be to his ashes; and may his spirit have found that tranquillity above, which in vain he sought for below! J. G—ns.