Of his
poems "_Samlede Digte_," (1882) I have not the space to speak, and can
only regret that they are written in a language in which they will
remain as hidden from the world as if they had been imprinted in
cuneiform inscriptions upon Assyrian bricks. They are largely occasional
and polemical; and more remarkable for vigor of thought than sweetness
of melody.
J. P. Jacobsen, the second in the group to which I have referred, was a
colorist of a very eminent type, both in prose and verse; but his talent
lacked that free-flowing, spontaneous abundance--that charming air of
improvisation--with which Schandorph captivates his reader, takes him
into his confidence, and overwhelms him with entertainment. Jacobsen
painted faces better than he did souls; or, rather, he did not seem to
think the latter worth painting, unless they exhibited some abnormal
mood or trait. There is something forced and morbid in his people--a
lack of free movement and natural impulse. His principal work, "Mistress
Marie Grubbe," is a series of anxiously finished pictures, carefully
executed in the minutest details, but failing somehow to make a complete
impression.
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