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Updated: May 24, 2025
Ahead, and well on the lee-bow, appeared a jagged rock-point. Both men strained to it. "Amboy Point," Griffiths announced. "Plenty of water close up. Take the wheel, Jacobsen, till we set a course. Get a move on!" Running aft, barefooted and barelegged, the rainwater dripping from his scant clothing, the mate displaced the black at the wheel. "How's she heading?" Griffiths called.
More than two years ago I heard in Vienna Schoenberg's Gurrelieder, a setting to a dramatic legend by Jens Peter Jacobsen. This choral and orchestral work was composed in 1902, but it sounds newer than the quartets or the sextet. In magnitude it beats Berlioz.
With both feet on Griffiths's shoulder, he forced him still deeper, at the same time driving himself to the surface. Scarcely had his head broken into the sunshine when two splashes of water, in quick succession and within a foot of his face, advertised that Jacobsen knew how to handle a revolver. There was a chance for no third shot, for Grief, filling his lungs with air, sank down.
In those days pupils of the fair sex were not admitted to the Hochschule, and Miss Shinner began to study under Herr Jacobsen. It happened, however, that a lady from Silesia arrived at Berlin, intending to take lessons of Joachim, but unaware of the rules against the admission of women to the Hochschule. Joachim interested himself in her, and she was examined for admission.
He himself was one of these, and in this passage his own art and personality is described better than could be done in thousands of words of commentary. Jens Peter Jacobsen was born in the little town of Thisted in Jutland, on April 7, 1847.
Such analogies, however, have little significance, except that they indicate a unique and powerful artistic personality. Jacobsen is more than a mere stylist. The art of writers who are too consciously that is a sort of decorative representation of life, a formal composition, not a plastic composition.
I'll give the attorney about twenty-five dollars for his fee, and er the man Jacobsen let me see, Skinner, he had a broken nose, did he not?" "Yes, sir." "We'll pay his doctor bill and his wages as second mate since Kjellin fired him, and give him a hundred dollars extra." "How about Kjellin's hospital bill?" "I disclaim responsibility, Skinner.
As his hand finally closed upon it, second finger on trigger and forefinger laid past the cylinder and along the barrel, he wondered what luck he would have at left-handed snap-shooting. "Don't consider me," Griffiths gibed. "And just remember Jacobsen will testify that he saw me pay the money over. Now sign, sign in full, at the bottom, David Grief, and date it."
The man with the sombrero stood up. "Hello, Griffiths!" he said. "Hello, Jacobsen!" With his hand on the rail he turned to his dusky crew. "You fella boy stop along canoe altogether." As he swung over the rail and stepped on deck a hint of catlike litheness showed in the apparently heavy body. Like the other two, he was scantily clad.
One element particularly characteristic of Jacobsen is his accuracy of observation and minuteness of detail welded with a deep and intimate understanding of the human heart. His characters are not studied tissue by tissue as under a scientist's microscope, rather they are built up living cell by living cell out of the author's experience and imagination.
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