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MARGINALIA.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IN getting my
books, I have
been always solicitous of an ample margin; this not so much through any
love of the thing in itself, however agreeable, as for the facility it
affords me of penciling suggested thoughts, agreements, and differences
of opinion, or brief critical comments in general. Where what I have to
note is too much to be included within the narrow limits of a margin, I
commit it to a slip of paper, and deposit it between the leaves; taking
care to secure it by an imperceptible portion of gum tragacanth paste.
All this may be whim; it may be not
only a very hackneyed,
but a very idle practice; — yet I persist in it still; and it affords
me
pleasure; which is profit, in despite of Mr. Bentham with Mr. Mill on
his
back.
This making of notes, however, is by
no means the
making of mere memoranda — a custom which has its
disadvantages,
beyond doubt. "Ce que je mets sur papier," says Bernardin de St.
Pierre, "je remets de ma mémoire, et par consequence je
l'oublie;"
— and, in fact, if you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note
that this thing is to be remembered.
But the purely marginal jottings,
done with no eye
to the Memorandum Book, have a distinct complexion, and not only a
distinct
purpose, but none at all; this it is which imparts to them a value.
They
have a rank somewhat above the chance and desultory comments of
literary
chit-chat — for these latter are not unfrequently "talk for talk's
sake,"
hurried out of the mouth; while the marginalia are
deliberately
penciled, because the mind of the reader wishes to unburthen itself of
a thought — however [page 484:] flippant —
however
silly — however trivial — still a thought indeed, not merely a thing
that
might have been a thought in time, and under more favorable
circumstances.
In the marginalia, too, we talk only to ourselves; we
therefore
talk freshly — boldly — originally — with abandonnement — without
conceit — much after the fashion of Jeremy Taylor, and Sir Thomas
Browne,
and Sir William Temple, and the anatomical Burton, and that most
logical
analogist, Butler, and some other people of the old day, who were too
full
of their matter to have any room for their manner, which being thus
left
out of question, was a capital manner, indeed — a model of manners,
with
a richly marginalic air.
The circumscription of space, too, in
these pencilings,
has in it something more of advantage than inconvenience. It compels us
(whatever diffuseness of idea we may clandestinely entertain) into
Montesquieu-ism,
into Tacitus-ism, (here I leave out of view the concluding portion of
the
"Annals,") — or even into Carlyle-ism — a thing which, I have been
told,
is not to be confounded with your ordinary affectation and bad grammar.
I say "bad grammar," through sheer obstinacy, because the grammarians
(who
should know better) insist upon it that I should not. But then grammar
is not what these grammarians will have it; and, being merely the
analysis
of language, with the result of this analysis, must be good or bad just
as the analyst is sage or silly — just as he is a Horne Tooke or a
Cobbett.
But to our sheep. During a rainy
afternoon, not long
ago, being in a mood too listless for continuous study, I sought relief
from ennui in dipping here and there, at random, among the
volumes
of my library — no very large one, certainly, but sufficiently
miscellaneous;
and, I flatter myself, not a little recherché.
Perhaps it was what the Germans call
the "brain-scattering"
humor of the moment; but, while the picturesqueness of the numerous
pencil-scratches
arrested my attention, their helter-skelter-iness of commentary amused
me. I found myself, at length, forming a wish that it had been some
other
hand than my own which had so bedevilled the books, and fancying that,
in such case, I might have derived no inconsiderable pleasure from
turning
them over. From this the transition-thought (as Mr. Lyell, or Mr.
Murchison,
or Mr. Featherstonhaugh would have it) was [page 485:]
natural enough: — there might be something even in my scribblings
which, for the mere sake of scribbling, would have interest for others.
The main difficulty respected the
mode of transferring
the notes from the volumes — the context from the text — without
detriment
to that exceedingly frail fabric of intelligibility in which the
context
was imbedded. With all appliances to boot, with the printed pages at
their
back, the commentaries were too often like Dodona's oracles — or those
of Lycophron Tenebrosus — or the essays of the pedant's pupils, in
Quintillian,
which were "necessarily excellent, since even he (the pedant) found it
impossible to comprehend them:" — what, then, would become of it — this
context — if transferred? — if translated? Would it not rather be traduit
(traduced)
which is the French synonyme, or overzezet (turned
topsy-turvy)
which is the Dutch one?
I concluded, at length, to put
extensive faith in
the acumen and imagination of the reader: — this as a general rule.
But,
in some instances, where even faith would not remove mountains, there
seemed
no safer plan than so to re-model the note as to convey at least the
ghost
of a conception as to what it was all about. Where, for such
conception,
the text itself was absolutely necessary, I could quote it; where the
title
of the book commented upon was indispensable, I could name it. In
short,
like a novel-hero dilemma'd, I made up my mind "to be guided by
circumstances,"
in default of more satisfactory rules of conduct.
As for the multitudinous opinion
expressed in the
subjoined farrago — as for my present assent to all,
or dissent
from any portion of it — as to the possibility of my having, in some
instances,
altered my mind — or as to the impossibility of my not having altered
it
often — these are points upon which I say nothing, because upon these
there
can be nothing cleverly said. It may be as well to observe, however,
that
just as the goodness of your true pun is in the direct ratio of its
intolerability,
so is nonsense the essential sense of the Marginal Note. [page
486:]
.
I.
.
ONE of the happiest examples,
in
a small way, of the carrying-one's-self-in-a-hand-basket logic, is to
be
found in a London weekly paper, called "The Popular Record of Modern
Science;
a Journal of Philosophy and General Information." This work has a vast
circulation, and is respected by eminent men. Sometime in November,
1845,
it copied from the "Columbian Magazine," of New York, a rather
adventurous
article of mine, called "Mesmeric Revelation." It had the impudence,
also,
to spoil the title by improving it to "The Last Conversation of a
Somnambule"
— a phrase that is nothing at all to the purpose, since the person who
"converses" is not a somnambule. He is a sleep-walker — not
a
sleep-walker; but I presume that "The Record" thought it was only the
difference
of an 1. What I chiefly complain of, however, is that the
London
editor prefaced my paper with these words: — "The following is an
article
communicated to the Columbian Magazine, a journal of respectability and
influence in the United States, by Mr. Edgar A. Poe. It bears
internal
evidence of authenticity."! There is no subject under heaven about
which funnier ideas are, in general, entertained than about this
subject
of internal evidence. It is by "internal evidence," observe, that we
decide
upon the mind. But to "The Record:" — On the issue of my "Valdemar
Case,"
this journal copies it, as a matter of course, and (also as a matter of
course) improves the title, as in the previous instance. But the
editorial
comments may as well be called profound. Here they are:
The following
narrative appears in
a recent number of The American Magazine, a respectable
periodical
in the United States. It comes, it will be observed, from the narrator
of the "Last Conversation of a Somnambule," published in The Record of
the 29th of November. In extracting this case the Morning Post of
Monday last, takes what it considers the safe side, by remarking — "For
our own parts we do not believe it; and there are several statements
made,
more especially with regard to the disease of which the patient died,
which
at once prove the case to be either a fabrication, or the work of one
little
acquainted with consumption. The story, however, is wonderful, and we
therefore
give it." The editor, however, does not point out the especial
statements
which are inconsistent with what we know of the progress of
consumption,
and as few scientific persons would be willing to take their pathology
any more than their logic from the Morning Post, his caution,
it
is to be feared, will not have much weight. The reason assigned by the
Post for publishing the account is quaint, and would apply equally to
an
adventure from Baron Munchausen: — "it is wonderful and we therefore
give
it." . . . The above case is obviously one that cannot be [page
487:] received except on the strongest testimony, and it is
equally clear that the testimony by which it is at present accompanied,
is not of that character. The most favorable circumstances in support
of
it, consist in the fact that credence is understood to be given to it
at
New York, within a few miles of which city the affair took place, and
where
consequently the most ready means must be found for its authentication
or disproval. The initials of the medical men and of the young medical
student must be sufficient in the immediate locality, to establish
their
identity, especially as M. Valdemar was well known, and had been so
long
ill as to render it out of the question that there should be any
difficulty
in ascertaining the names of the physicians by whom he had been
attended.
In the same way the nurses and servants under whose cognizance the case
must have come during the seven months which it occupied, are of course
accessible to all sorts of inquiries. It will, therefore, appear that
there
must have been too many parties concerned to render prolonged deception
practicable. The angry excitement and various rumors which have at
length
rendered a public statement necessary, are also sufficient to show that
something extraordinary
must have taken place. On the other hand there is no strong point for
disbelief.
The circumstances are, as the Post says, "wonderful;" but so are all
circumstances
that come to our knowledge for the first time — and in Mesmerism every
thing is new. An objection may be made that the article has rather a
Magazinish
air; Mr. Poe having evidently written with a view to effect, and so as
to excite rather than to subdue the vague appetite for the mysterious
and
the horrible which such a case, under any circumstances, is sure to
awaken
— but apart from this there is nothing to deter a philosophic mind from
further inquiries regarding it. It is a matter entirely for testimony.
[So it is.] Under this view we shall take steps to procure from some of
the most intelligent and influential citizens of New York all the
evidence
that can be had upon the subject. No steamer will leave England for
America
till the 3d of February, but within a few weeks of that time we doubt
not
it will be possible to lay before the readers of the Record information
which will enable them to come to a pretty accurate conclusion."
Yes; and no doubt they came to one
accurate enough,
in the end. But all this rigmarole is what people call testing a thing
by "internal evidence." The Record insists upon the truth of
the
story because of certain facts — because "the initials of the young men
must be
sufficient to establish their identity" — because "the nurses must be
accessible to all sorts of inquiries" — and because the "angry
excitement
and various rumors which at length rendered a public statement
necessary,
are sufficient to show that something extraordinary must have
taken place." To be sure! The story is proved by these facts — the
facts
about the students, the nurses, the excitement, the credence given the
tale at New York. And now all we have to do is to prove these facts.
Ah!
— they are proved by the story. As for the Morning
Post,
it evinces more weakness in its disbelief than the Record in
its
credulity. What the former says about doubting on account of inaccuracy
[page
488:] in the detail of the phthisical symptoms, is a mere fetch,
as
the Cockneys have it, in order to make a very few little children
believe
that it, the Post, is not quite so stupid as a post proverbially is. It
knows nearly as much about pathology as it does about English grammar —
and I really hope it will not feel called upon to blush at the
compliment.
I represented the symptoms of M. Valdemar as "severe," to be sure. I
put
an extreme case; for it was necessary that I should leave on the
reader's
mind no doubt as to the certainty of death without the aid of the
Mesmerist
— but such symptoms might have appeared — the identical
symptoms have
appeared, and will be presented again and again. Had the Post been
only half as honest as ignorant, it would have owned that it
disbelieved
for no reason more profound than that which influences all dunces in
disbelieving
— it would have owned that it doubted the thing merely because the
thing was a "wonderful" thing, and had never yet been printed in a
book.
II.
We mere men of the world, with no
principle — a very
old[[-]]fashioned and cumbersome thing — should be on our guard lest,
fancying
him on his last legs, we insult, or otherwise maltreat some poor devil
of a genius at the very instant of his putting his foot on the top
round
of his ladder of triumph. It is a common trick with these fellows, when
on the point of attaining some long-cherished end, to sink themselves
into
the deepest possible abyss of seeming despair, for no other purpose
than
that of increasing the space of success through which they have made up
their minds immediately to soar.
III.
Mr. Hudson, among innumerable
blunders, attributes
to Sir Thomas Brown, the paradox of Tertullian in his De Carne
Christi
— "Mortunus est Dei filus, credibile est quia ineptum est; et
sepultus
resurrexit, certum est quia impossibile est."
IV.
After reading all that has been
written, and after
thinking all that can be thought, on the topics of God and the soul,
the
man who has a right to say that he thinks at all, will find himself
face
to face with the conclusion that, on these topics, the most profound
thought
is that which can be the least easily distinguished from the most
superficial
sentiment. [page 489:]
V.
That punctuation is important all
agree; but how
few comprehend the extent of its importance! The writer who neglects
punctuation,
or mis-punctuates, is liable to be misunderstood — this, according to
the
popular idea, is the sum of the evils arising from heedlessness or
ignorance.
It does not seem to be known that, even where the sense is perfectly
clear,
a sentence may be deprived of half its force — its spirit — its point —
by improper punctuations. For the want of merely a comma, it often
occurs
that an axiom appears a paradox, or that a sarcasm is converted into a
sermonoid. There is no treatise on the topic — and there is no
topic
on which a treatise is more needed. There seems to exist a vulgar
notion
that the subject is one of pure conventionality, and cannot be brought
within the limits of intelligible and consistent rule. And
yet,
if fairly looked in the face, the whole matter is so plain that its rationale
may
be read as we run. If not anticipated, I shall hereafter, make an
attempt
at a magazine paper on "The Philosophy of Point." In the meantime let
me
say a word or two of the dash. Every writer for the press, who
has
any sense of the accurate, must have been frequently mortified and
vexed
at the distortion of his sentences by the printer's now general
substitution
of a semicolon, or comma, for the dash of the MS. The total or nearly
total
disuse of the latter point, has been brought about by the revulsion
consequent
upon its excessive employment about twenty years ago. The Byronic poets
were all dash. John Neal, in his earlier novels, exaggerated
its
use into the grossest abuse — although his very error arose from the
philosophical
and self-dependent spirit which has always distinguished him, and which
will even yet lead him, if I am not greatly mistaken in the man, to do
something for the literature of the country which the country "will not
willingly," and cannot possibly, "let die." Without entering now into
the why,
let me observe that the printer may always ascertain when the dash of
the
MS. is properly and when improperly employed, by bearing in mind that
this
point represents a second thought — an emendation. In using it
just
above I have exemplified its use. The words "an emendation" are,
speaking
with reference to grammatical construction, put in apposition
with
the words "a second thought." Having [page 490:]
written
these latter words, I reflected whether it would not be possible to
render
their meaning more distinct by certain other words. Now, instead of
erasing
the phrase "a second thought," which is of some use — which partially
conveys
the idea intended — which advances me a step toward my full
purpose
— I suffer it to remain, and merely put a dash between it and the
phrase
"an emendation." The dash gives the reader a choice between two, or
among
three or more expressions, one of which may be more forcible than
another,
but all of which help out the idea. It stands, in general, for these
words
— [["]] or, to make my meaning more distinct." This force it
has — and this force no other point can have; since all other
points
have well-understood uses quite different from this. Therefore, the
dash cannot be dispensed with. It has its phases — its
variation of the
force described; but the one principle — that of second thought or
emendation
— will be found at the bottom of all.
VI.
Diana's Temple at Ephesus having been burnt on the
night
in which Alexander
was born, some person observed that "it was no wonder, since, at the
period
of the conflagration, she was gossiping at Pella." Cicero commends this
as a witty conceit — Plutarch condems it as senseless — and this is the
one point in which I agree with the biographer.
VII.
Until we analyze a religion, or a
philosophy, in
respect of its inducements, independently of its rationality, we shall
never be in condition to estimate that religion, or that philosophy, by
the mere number of its adherents: — unluckily,
No Indian Prince has to his
palace
More followers than a thief to the
gallows.
VIII.
"If in any point," says Lord Bacon,
"I have receded
from what is commonly received, it hath been for the purpose of
proceeding melius and
not in aliud" — but the character assumed, in general, by
modern
"Reform" is, simply, that of Opposition.
IX.
A strong argument for the religion of Christ
is this —
that offences against Charity are about the only ones which
men
on their death-beds can be made — not to understand — but to feel —
as crime. [page 491:]
X.
The effect derivable from
well-managed rhyme is very
imperfectly understood. Conventionally "rhyme" implies merely close
similarity
of sound at the ends of verse, and it is really curious to observe how
long mankind have been content with their limitation of the idea. What,
in rhyme, first and principally pleases, may be referred to the human
sense
or appreciation of equality — the common element, as might be
easily
shown, of all the gratification we derive from music in its most
extended
sense — very especially in its modifications of metre and rhythm. We
see,
for example, a crystal, and are immediately interested by the equality
between the sides and angles of one of its faces — but, on bringing to
view a second face, in all respects similar to the first, our pleasure
seems to be squared — on bringing to view a third, it appears
to
be cubed, and so on: I have no doubt, indeed, that the delight
experienced,
if measurable, would be found to have exact mathematical relations,
such,
or nearly such, as I suggest — that is to say, as far as a certain
point,
beyond which there would be a decrease, in similar relations. Now here,
as the ultimate result of analysis, we reach the sense of mere equality,
or
rather the human delight in this sense; and it was an instinct, rather
than a clear comprehension of this delight as a principle, which, in
the
first instance, led the poet to attempt an increase of the effect
arising
from the mere similarity (that is to say equality) between two sounds —
led him, I say, to attempt increasing this effect by making a secondary
equalization, in placing the rhymes at equal distances — that is, at
the
ends of lines of equal length. In this manner, rhyme and the
termination
of the line grew connected in men's thoughts — grew into a
conventionalism
— the principle being lost sight of altogether. And it was simply
because
Pindaric verses had, before this epoch, existed — i. e. verses
of
unequal length — that rhymes were subsequently found at unequal
distances.
It was for this reason solely, I say — for none more profound. Rhyme
had
come to be regarded as of right appertaining to the end of
verse
— and here we complain that the matter has finally rested. But it is
clear
that there was much more to be considered. So far, the sense of equality
alone,
entered the effect; or, if this equality was slightly varied, it was
varied
only [page 492:] through an accident — the
accident
of the existence of Pindaric metres. It will be seen that the rhymes
were
always anticipated. The eye, catching the end of a verse,
whether
long or short, expected, for the ear, a rhyme. The great element of
unexpectedness
was not dreamed of — that is to say, of novelty — of originality.
"But,"
says Lord Bacon, (how justly!) "there is no exquisite beauty without
some strangeness in
the proportions." Take away this element of strangeness — of
unexpectedness
— of novelty — of originality — call it what we will — and all that is ethereal
in loveliness is lost at once. We lose — we miss the unknown
— the
vague — the uncomprehended because offered before we have time to
examine
and comprehend. We lose, in short, all that assimilates the beauty of
earth
with what we dream of the beauty of Heaven. Perfection of rhyme is
attainable
only in the combination of the two elements, Equality and
Unexpectedness.
But as evil cannot exist without good, so unexpectedness must arise
from
expectedness. We do not contend for mere arbitrariness of
rhyme.
In the first place, we must have equi-distant or regularly recurring
rhymes,
to form the basis, expectedness, out of which arises the element,
unexpectedness,
by the introduction of rhymes, not arbitrarily, but with an eye to the
greatest amount of unexpectedness. We should not introduce them, for
example,
at such points that the entire line is a multiple of the syllables
preceding
the points. When, for instance, I write —
And the silken, sad, uncertain
rustling of each
purple curtain,
I produce more, to be sure, but not remarkably more than the ordinary
effect
of rhymes regularly recurring at the ends of lines; for the number of
syllables
in the whole verse is merely a multiple of the number of syllables
preceding
the rhyme introduced at the middle, and there is still left, therefore,
a certain degree of expectedness. What there is of the element,
unexpectedness,
is addressed, in fact, to the eye only — for the ear divides the verse
into two ordinary lines, thus:
And the silken, sad, uncertain
Rustling of each purple curtain.
I obtain, however, the whole effect of unexpectedness, when I write —
Thrilled me, filled
me with fantastic
terrors never felt before. [page 493:]
N. B. It is very commonly supposed that rhyme, as it
now ordinarily exists, is of modern invention — but see the "Clouds of
Aristophanes." Hebrew verse, however, did not include it — the
terminations
of the lines, where most distinct, never showing any thing of the kind.
XI.
Paulus Jovius, living in those
benighted times when
diamond-pointed styluses were as yet unknown, thought proper,
nevertheless,
to speak of his goosequill as "aliquando ferreus, aureus
aliquando"
— intending, of course, a mere figure of speech; and from the class of
modern authors who use really nothing to write with but steel and gold,
some, no doubt, will let their pens, vice versâ, descend
to
posterity under the designation of "anserine" — of course, intending
always
a mere figure of speech.
XII.
The Carlyle-ists should adopt, as a
motto, the inscription
on the old bell from whose metal was cast the Great Tom, of Oxford: —
"In Thomæ laude
resono 'Bim! Bom!' sine fraude:" — and "Bim! Bom," in such case, would
be a marvellous "echo of sound to sense."
XIII.
An infinity of error makes its way
into our Philosophy,
through Man's habit of considering himself a citizen of a world solely
— of an individual planet — instead of at least occasionally
contemplating
his position as cosmopolite proper — as a denizen of the universe.
XIV.
Talking of puns: — "Why do they not
give us quail
for dinner, as usual?" demanded Count Fessis, the other day, of H——,
the
classicist and sportsman.
"Because at this season," replied H——
, who was dozing,
"qualis sopor fessis." (Quail is so poor, Fessis.)
XV.
The German "Schwarmerei" — not
exactly "humbug,"
but "sky-rocketing" — seems to be the only term by which we can
conveniently
designate that peculiar style of criticism which has lately come into
fashion,
through the influence of certain members of the Fabian family
—
people who live (upon beans) about Boston. [page 494:]
XVI.
Some Frenchman — possibly Montaigne —
says: "People
talk about thinking, but for my part I never think, except when I sit
down
to write." It is this never thinking, unless when we sit down to write,
which is the cause of so much indifferent composition. But perhaps
there
is something more involved in the Frenchman's observation than meets
the
eye. It is certain that the mere act of inditing, tends, in a great
degree,
to the logicalization of thought. Whenever, on account of its
vagueness,
I am dissatisfied with a conception of the brain, I resort forthwith to
the pen, for the purpose of obtaining, through its aid, the necessary
form,
consequence and precision.
How very commonly we hear it
remarked, that such
and such thoughts are beyond the compass of words! I do not believe
that
any thought, properly so called, is out of the reach of language. I
fancy,
rather, that where difficulty in expression is experienced, there is,
in
the intellect which experiences it, a want either of deliberateness or
of method. For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could
not
set down in words, with even more distinctness than that with which I
conceived
it: — as I have before observed, the thought is logicalized by the
effort
at (written) expression. There is, however, a class of fancies, of
exquisite
delicacy, which are not thoughts, and to which, as yet,
I
have found it absolutely impossible to adapt language. I use the word fancies
at
random, and merely because I must use some word; but the idea
commonly
attached to the term is not even remotely applicable to the shadows of
shadows in question. They seem to me rather psychal than intellectual.
They arise in the soul (alas, how rarely!) only at its epochs of most
intense
tranquillity — when the bodily and mental health are in perfection —
and
at those mere points of time where the confines of the waking world
blend
with those of the world of dreams. I am aware of these "fancies" only
when
I am upon the very brink of sleep, with the consciousness that I am so.
I have satisfied myself that this condition exists but for an
inappreciable point of
time — yet it is crowded with these "shadows of shadows;" and for
absolute thought there
is demanded time's endurance. These "fancies" have in them a
pleasurable
ecstasy, as far beyond the most pleasurable [page 495:]
of the world of wakefulness, or of dreams, as the heaven of the
Northman
theology is beyond its hell. I regard the visions, even as they arise,
with an awe which, in some measure, moderates or tranquilizes the
ecstasy
— I so regard them, through a conviction (which seems a portion of the
ecstasy itself) that this ecstasy, in itself, is of a character
supernal
to the human nature — is a glimpse of the spirit's outer world; and I
arrive
at this conclusion — if this term is at all applicable to instantaneous
intuition by a perception that the delight experienced has, as its
element,
but the absoluteness of novelty. I say the absoluteness — for
in
these fancies — let me now term them psychal impressions — there is
really
nothing even approximate in character to impressions ordinarily
received.
It is as if the five senses were supplanted by five myriad others alien
to mortality.
Now, so entire is my faith in the power
of words, that,
at times, I have believed it possible to embody even the evanescence of
fancies such as I have attempted to describe. In experiments with this
end in view, I have proceeded so far as, first, to control (when the
bodily
and mental health are good) the existence of the condition: — that is
to
say, I can now (unless when ill) be sure that the condition will
supervene,
if I so wish it, at the point of time already described: — of its
supervention,
until lately, I could never be certain, even under the most favorable
circumstances.
I mean to say, merely, that now I can be sure, when all circumstances
are
favorable, of the supervention of the condition, and feel even the
capacity
of inducing or compelling it: — the favorable circumstances, however,
are
not the less rare — else had I compelled, already, the heaven into the
earth.
I have proceeded so far, secondly, as
to prevent
the lapse from the point of which I speak — the point of
blending
between wakefulness and sleep — as to prevent at will, I say, the lapse
from this border-ground into the dominion of sleep. Not that I can continue
the
condition — not that I can render the point more than a point — but
that
I can startle myself from the point into wakefulness; and thus
transfer
the point itself into the realm of Memory; convey its impressions,
or more properly their recollections, to a situation where (although
still
for a very brief period) I can survey them with the eye of analysis.
For
these reasons — that is to [page 496:] say,
because
I have been enabled to accomplish thus much — I do not altogether
despair
of embodying in words at least enough of the fancies in question to
convey,
to certain classes of intellect, a shadowy conception of their
character.
In saying this I am not to be understood as supposing that the fancies,
or psychal impressions, to which I allude, are confined to my
individual
self — are not, in a word, common to all mankind — for on this point it
is quite impossible that I should form an opinion — but nothing can be
more certain than that even a partial record of the impressions would
startle
the universal intellect of mankind, by the supremeness of the
novelty of
the material employed, and of its consequent suggestions. In a word —
should
I ever write a paper on this topic, the world will be compelled to
acknowledge
that, at last, I have done an original thing..
XVII.
In the way of original, striking, and
well-sustained
metaphor, we can call to mind few finer things than this — to be found
in James Puckle's "Gray Cap for a Green head:" "In speaking of the
dead,
so fold up your discourse that their virtues may be outwardly shown,
while
their vices are wrapped up in silence."
.
XVIII.
Talking of inscriptions — how
admirable was the one
circulated at Paris, for the equestrian statue of Louis XV., done by
Pigal
and Bouchardon — "Statua Statutæ."
.
XIX.
"This is right," says Epicurus,
"precisely because
the people are displeased with it."
"Il y a á parier," says
Chamfort —
one of the Kambars of Mirabeau — "que route idée
publique
— toute convention reçue — est une sottise car elle a convenue
au
plus grand nombre."
"Si proficere cupis," says the
great African
bishop, "primo id verum puta quod sana mens omnium hominum attestatur."
Now,
Who shall decide where Doctors disagree?
To me it appears that, in all ages,
the most preposterous
falsities have been received as truths by at least the mens
omnium
hominum. As for the sana mens — how are we ever to determine
what
that is? [page 497:]
XX.
This book*
could never have been popular out of Germany.
It is too simple — too direct — too obvious — too bold [[bald]]
— not sufficiently complex — to be relished by any people who have
thoroughly passed the first (or impulsive) epoch of
literary civilization.
The Germans have not yet passed this first epoch. It must be remembered
that during the whole of the middle ages they lived in utter
ignorance
of the art of writing. From so total a darkness, of so late a
date,
they could not, as a nation, have as yet fully emerged into
the
second or critical epoch. Individual Germans have been critical in the
best sense — but the masses are unleavened. Literary Germany thus
presents
the singular spectacle of the impulsive spirit surrounded by the
critical,
and, of course, in some measure influenced thereby. England, for
example,
has advanced far, and France much farther, into the critical epoch; and
their effect on the German mind is seen in the wildly anomalous
condition
of the German literature at large. That this latter will be improved by
age, however, should never be maintained. As the impulsive spirit
subsides,
and the critical uprises, there will appear the polished insipidity of
the later England, or that ultimate throe of taste which has
found
its best exemplification in Sue. At present the German literature
resembles
no other on the face of the earth — for it is the result of certain
conditions
which, before this individual instance of their fulfilment, have never
been fulfilled. And this anomalous state to which I refer is the source
of our anomalous criticism upon what that state produces — is the
source
of the grossly conflicting opinions about German letters. For my own
part,
I admit the German vigor, the German directness, boldness, imagination,
and some other qualities of impulse, just as I am willing to admit and
admire these qualities in the first (or impulsive) epochs of British
and
French letters. At the German criticism, however, I cannot refrain from
laughing all the more heartily, all the more seriously I hear it
praised.
Not that, in detail, it affects me as an absurdity — but in the
adaptation
of its details. It abounds in brilliant bubbles of suggestion, but
these rise and sink and jostle each other, until the whole vortex [page
498:] of thought in which they originate is one
indistinguishable
chaos of froth. The German criticism is unsettled, and can
only
be settled by time. At present it suggests without demonstrating, or
convincing,
or effecting any definite purpose under the sun. We read it, rub our
foreheads,
and ask "What then?" I am not ashamed to say that I prefer even
Voltaire
to Goethe, and hold Macaulay to possess more of the true critical
spirit
than Augustus William and Frederick Schlegel combined. "Thiodolf" is
called
by Foqué his "most successful work." He would not have
spoken
thus had he considered it his best. It is admirable of its
kind
— but its kind can never be appreciated by Americans. It will
affect
them much as would a grasp of the hand from a man of ice. Even the
exquisite
"Undine" is too chilly for our people, and, generally, for our epoch.
We
have less imagination and warmer sympathies than the age which preceded
us. It would have done Foqué more ready and fuller justice than
ours. Has any one remarked the striking similarity in tone between
"Undine"
and the "Libussa" of Musœus?"
XXI.
What can be more soothing, at once to
a man's Pride
and to his Conscience, than the conviction that, in taking vengeance on
his enemies for injustice done him, he has simply to do them justice
in
return?
.
XXII.
Bielfeld, the author of "Les
Premiers Traits de
L'Erudition Universelle," defines poetry as "l'art d'exprimer
les
pensées par la fiction." The Germans have two works in full
accordance with this definition, absurd as it is — the terms Dichtkunst,
the
art of fiction, and Dichten, to feign — which are generally
used
for poetry and to make verses.
.
XXIII.
Brown, in his "Amusements," speaks of
having transfused
the blood of an ass into the veins of an astrological quack — and there
can be no doubt that one of Hague's progenitors was the man.
.
XXIV.
The chief portion of Professor Espy's theory has
been anticipated by Roger Bacon. [page 499:]
.
XXV.
Whatever may be the merits or
demerits, generally,
of the Magazine Literature of America, there can be no question as to
its
extent or influence. The Topic — Magazine Literature — is therefore an
important one. In a few years its importance will be found to have
increased
in geometrical ratio. The whole tendency of the age is Magazine-ward.
The
Quarterly Reviews have never been popular. Not only are they
too
stilted, (by way of keeping up a due dignity,) but they make a point,
with
the same end in view, of discussing only topics which are caviare to
the many, and which, for the most part, have only a conventional
interest
even with the few. Their issues, also, are at too long intervals; their
subjects get cold before being served up. In a word, their ponderosity
is quite out of keeping with the rush of the age. We now
demand
the light artillery of the intellect; we need the curt, the condensed,
the pointed, the readily diffused — in place of the verbose, the
detailed,
the voluminous, the inaccessible. On the other hand, the lightness of
the
artillery should not degenerate into popgunnery — by which term we may
designate the character of the greater portion of the newspaper press —
their sole legitimate object being the discussion of ephemeral matters
in an ephemeral manner. Whatever talent may be brought to bear upon our
daily journals, and in many cases this talent is very great, still the
imperative necessity of catching, currente calamo, each topic
as
it flits before the eye of the public, must of course materially narrow
the limits of their power. The bulk and the period of issue of the
monthly
magazines, seem to be precisely adapted, if not to all the literary
wants
of the day, at least to the largest and most imperative, as well as the
most consequential portion of them.
.
XXVI.
My friend — — , can never commence what he fancies
a poem, (he is a fanciful man, after all) without first
elaborately
"invoking the Muses." Like so many she-dogs of John of Nivelles,
however,
the more he invokes them, the more they decline obeying the invocation.
.
XXVII.
The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at
any time, it can be quietly led. [page 500:]
.
XXVIII.
.
There lies a deep and sealed well
Within yon leafy
forest hid,
Whose pent and lonely waters swell
Its confines
chill and drear amid. |
This putting the adjective after the
noun is, merely,
an inexcusable Gallicism; but the putting the preposition after the
noun
is alien to all language, and in opposition to all its principles. Such
things, in general, serve only to betray the versifier's poverty of
resource;
and, when an inversion of this kind occurs, we say to ourselves, "Here
the poet lacked the skill to make out his line without distorting the
natural
or colloquial order of the words." Now and then, however, we must refer
the error not to deficiency of skill, but to something far less
defensible
— to an idea that such things belong to the essence of poetry — that it
needs them to distinguish it from prose — that we are poetical, in a
word,
very much in the ratio of our unprosaicalness at these points. Even
while
employing the phrase "poetic license," — a phrase which has to answer
for
an infinity of sins — people who think in this way seem to have an
indistinct
conviction that the license in question involves a necessity of
being
adopted. The true artist will avail himself of no "license"
whatever.
The very word will disgust him; for it says — "Since you seem unable to
manage without these peccadillo advantages, you must have them, I
suppose;
and the world, half-shutting its eyes, will do its best not to see the
awkwardness which they stamp upon your poem."
Few things have greater tendency than
inversion,
to render verse feeble and ineffective. In most cases where a line is
spoken
of as "forcible," the force may be referred to directness of
expression.
A vast majority of the passages which have become household through
frequent
quotation, owe their popularity either to this directness, or, in
general,
to the scorn of "poetic license." In short, as regards verbal
construction, the
more prosaic a poetical, style is, the better. Through this
species
of prosaicism, Cowper, with scarcely one of the higher poetical
elements,
came very near making his age fancy him the equal of Pope; and to the
same
cause are attributable three-fourths of that unusual point and force
for
which Moore is distinguished. It is the prosaicism of these
two
writers to which is owing their especial quotability. [page
501:]
.
XXIX.
The Reverend
Arthur Coxe's
"Saul, a Mystery," having been condemned in no measured terms by Poe,
of
"The Broadway Journal," and Green of "The Emporium," a writer in the
"Hartford
Columbian" retorts as follows:
An entertaining history,
Entitled "Saul, A Mystery,"
Has recently been published by the
Reverend Arthur Coxe.
The poem is dramatic,
And the wit of it is attic,
And its teachings are emphatic of the
doctrines orthodox.
But Mr. Poe, the poet,
Declares he cannot go it —
That the book is very stupid, or
something of that sort.
And Green, of the Empori —
Um, tells a kindred story,
And swears like any tory that it is'nt
worth a groat.
But maugre all the croaking
Of the Raven and the joking
Of the verdant little fellow of the used
to be review,
The People, in derision
Of their impudent decision,
Have declared, without division, that the
Mystery will
do.
The truth, of course, rather injures an
epigram
than otherwise; and nobody will think the worse of the one above, when
I say that, at the date of its first appearance, I had expressed no
opinion whatever of the poem to which it refers. "Give a dog a bad
name," &c. Whenever a book is abused, people take it for granted
that
it is I who have been abusing it.
Latterly I have read "Saul,"
and agree with
the epigrammatist, that it "will do" — whoever attempts to wade through
it. It will do, also, for trunk-paper. The author is right in calling
it
"A Mystery:" — for a most unfathomable mystery it is. When I got to the
end of it, I found it more mysterious than ever — and it was really a
mystery
how I ever did get to the end — which I half fancied that somebody had
cut off, in a fit of ill-will to the critics. I have heard not a
syllable
about the "Mystery," of late days. "The People" seem to have forgotten
it; and Mr. Coxe's friends should advertise it under the head of
"Mysterious
Disappearance" — that is to say, the disappearance of a Mystery.
.
XXX.
The vox populi, so much talked about to so
little purpose, is, possibly, that very vox et preterea nihil which
the countryman, in Catullus, mistook for a nightingale. [page
502:]
.
XXXI.
The pure Imagination chooses,
from either
Beauty or Deformity, only the most combinable things hitherto
uncombined;
the compound, as a general rule, partaking, in character, of beauty, or
sublimity, in the ratio of the respective beauty or sublimity of the
things
combined — which are themselves still to be considered as atomic — that
is to say, as previous combinations. But, as often analogously happens
in physical chemistry, so not unfrequently does it occur in this
chemistry
of the intellect, that the admixture of two elements results in a
something
that has nothing of the qualities of one of them, or even nothing of
the
qualities of either. . . Thus, the range of Imagination is unlimited.
Its
materials extend throughout the universe. Even out of deformities it
fabricates
that Beauty which is at once its sole object and its
inevitable
test. But, in general, the richness or force of the matters combined;
the
facility of discovering combinable novelties worth combining; and,
especially
the absolute "chemical combination" of the completed mass — are the
particulars
to be regarded in our estimate of Imagination. It is this thorough
harmony
of an imaginative work which so often causes it to be undervalued by
the
thoughtless, through the character of obviousness which is
superinduced.
We are apt to find ourselves asking why it is that these
combinations
have never been imagined before.
.
XXXII.
In examining trivial details, we are
apt to overlook
essential generalities. Thus M——, in making a to-do about the
"typographical
mistakes" in his book, has permitted the printer to escape a scolding
which
he did richly deserve — a scolding for a "typographical
mistake"
of really vital importance — the mistake of having printed the book at
all.
.
XXXIII.
It has been well said of the French
orator, Dupin,
that "he spoke, as nobody else, the language of everybody;" and thus
his
manner seems to be exactly conversed in that of the Frogpondian
Euphuists,
who, on account of the familiar tone in which they lisp their outré
phrases,
may be said to speak, as everybody, the language of nobody — that is to
say, a language emphatically their own. [page 503:]
.
XXIV.
He (Bulwer) is the
most accomplished
writer of the most accomplished era of English Letters; practising all
styles and classes of composition, and eminent in all — novelist,
dramatist,
poet, historian, moral philosopher, essayist, critic, political
pamphleteer;
— in each superior to all others, and only rivalled in each by himself.
— Ward — author of "Tremaine."
The "only rivalled in each by
himself," here, puts
me in mind of
None but himself can be his
parallel.
But surely Mr. Ward (who, although he did write "De
Vere," is by no means a fool) could never have put to paper, in his
sober
senses, anything so absurd as the paragraph quoted above, without
stopping
at every third word to hold his sides, or thrust his
pocket-handkerchief
into his mouth. If the serious intention be insisted upon, however, I
have
to remark that the opinion is the mere opinion of a writer
remarkable
for no other good trait than his facility at putting his readers to
sleep
according to rules Addisonian, and with the least possible loss of
labor
and time. But as the mere opinion of even a Jeffrey or a
Macaulay,
I have an inalienable right to meet it with another.
As a novelist, then, Bulwer is far
more than respectable;
although generally inferior to Scott, Godwin, D'Israeli, Miss
Burney,
Sue, Dumas, Dickens, the author of "Ellen Wareham," and the author of
"Jane
Eyre," and several others. From the list of foreign novels I could
select
a hundred which he could neither have written nor conceived. As a
dramatist,
he deserves more credit, although he receives less. His "Richelieu,"
"Money,"
and "Lady of Lyons," have done much in the way of opening the public
eyes
to the true value of what is superciliously termed "stage effect" in
the
hands of one able to manage it. But if commendable at this point, his
dramas
fail egregiously in points more important; so that, upon the whole, he
can be said to have written a good play, only when we think of him in
connexion
with the still more contemptible "old-dramatist" imitators who are his
contemporaries and friends. As historian, he is sufficiently dignified,
sufficiently ornate, and more than sufficiently self-sufficient. His
"Athens"
would have received an Etonian prize, and has all the happy air of an
Etonian
prize-essay re-vamped. His political pamphlets are very good as
political
pamphlets and very disreputable [page 504:] as
anything
else. His essays leave no doubt upon any body's mind that, with the
writer,
they have been essays indeed. His criticism is really beneath contempt.
His moral philosophy is the most ridiculous of all the moral
philosophies
that ever have been imagined upon earth.
"The men of sense," says Helvetius,
"those idols
of the unthinking, are very far inferior to the men of passions. It is
the strong passions which, rescuing us from sloth, can alone impart to
us that continuous and earnest attention necessary to great
intellectual
efforts."
When the Swiss philosopher here
speaks of "inferiority,"
he refers to inferiority in worldly success: — by "men of sense" he
intends
indolent men of genius. And Bulwer is, emphatically, one of the "men of
passions" contemplated in the apopthegm. His passions, with
opportunities,
have made him what he is. Urged by a rabid ambition to do much, in
doing
nothing he would merely have proved himself an idiot. Something he has
done. In aiming at Crichton, he has hit the target an inch or two above
Harrison Ainsworth. Not to such intellects belong the honors of
universality.
His works bear about them the unmistakeable indications of mere talent
— talent, I grant, of an unusual order and nurtured to its extreme of
development
with a very tender and elaborate care. Nevertheless, it is talent
still.
Genius it is not.
And the proof is, that while we often
fancy ourselves
about to be enkindled beneath its influence, fairly enkindled we never
are. That Bulwer is no poet, follows as a corollary from what
has
been already said: — for to speak of a poet without genius, is merely
to
put forth a flat contradiction in terms.
.
XXXV.
In the tale proper — where there is
no space for
development of character or for great profusion and variety of incident
— mere construction is, of course, far more imperatively
demanded
than in the novel. Defective plot, in this latter, may escape
observation,
but in the tale, never. Most of our tale writers, however, neglect the
distinction. They seem to begin their stories without knowing how they
are to end; and their ends, generally, — like so many governments of
Trinculo
— appear to have forgotten their beginnings. [page 505:]
.
XXXVI.
Quaintness, within reasonable
limits, is not
only not to be regarded as affectation, but has its proper
uses,
in aiding a fantastic effect. Miss Barret will afford me two examples.
In some lines to a Dog, she says:
Leap! thy broad tail waves a light.
Leap, thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes.
Leap! those tasselled ears of thine
Flicker strangely fair and fine
Down their, golden inches.
And again — in the "Song of a Tree-Spirit."
The Divine impulsion cleaves
In dim movements to the leaves
Dropt and lifted — dropt and lifted —
In the sun-light greenly sifted —
In the sun-light and the moon-light
Greenly sifted through the trees.
Ever wave the Eden trees
In the night-light and the moon-light,
With a ruffling of green branches
Shaded off to resonances
Never stirred by rain or breeze.
The thoughts here belong to a high order of poetry,
but could not have been wrought into effective expression, without the
aid of those repetitions — those unusual phrases — those quaintnesses,
in
a word, which it has been too long the fashion to censure,
indiscriminately,
under the one general head of "affectation." No poet will fail to be
pleased
with the two extracts I have here given; but no doubt there are some
who
will find it hard to reconcile the psychal impossibility of refraining
from admiration, with the too-hastily attained mental conviction that,
critically, there is nothing to admire.
.
XXXVII.
Mozart declared, on his death-bed,
that he "began
to see what may be done in music;" and it is to be hoped that
DeMeyer
and the rest of the spasmodists will, eventually, begin to understand
what
may not be done in this particular branch of the Fine Arts.
.
XXXVIII.
For my part I agree with Joshua
Barnes: — nobody
but Solomon could have written the Iliad. The catalogue of ships was
the
work of Robins. [page 506:]
.
XXXIX.
In Colton's "American Review" for
October, 1845,
a gentleman, well known for his scholarship, has a forcible paper on
"The
Scotch School of Philosophy and Criticism." But although the paper is
"forcible,"
it presents the most singular admixture of error and truth — the one
dovetailed
into the other, after a fashion which is novel, to say the least of it.
Were I to designate in a few words what the whole article demonstrated,
I should say "the folly of not beginning at the beginning — of
neglecting
the giant Moulineau's advice to his friend Ram." Here is a passage from
the essay in question:
The Doctors [Campbell
and Johnson]
both charge Pope with error and inconsistency: — error in supposing
that in
English, of metrical lines unequal in the number of syllables and
pronounced
in equal times, the longer suggests celerity (this being the principle
of the Alexandrine:) — inconsistency, in that Pope himself uses the
same
contrivance to convey the contrary idea of slowness. But why in
English?
It is not and cannot be disputed that, in the Hexameter of the Greeks
and
Latins — which is the model in this matter — what is distinguished as
the
"dactylic line" was uniformly applied to express velocity. How was it
to
do so? Simply from the fact of being pronounced in an equal time with,
while containing a greater number of syllables or "bars" than the
ordinary
or average measure; as, on the other hand, the spondaic line, composed
of the minimum number, was, upon the same principle, used to indicate
slowness.
So, too, of the Alexandrine in English versification. No, says
Campbell,
there is a difference: the Alexandrine is not in fact, like the
dactylic
line, pronounced in the common time. But does this alter the principle?
What is the rationale of Metre, whether the classical hexameter or the
English heroic?" [[sic]]
I have written an essay on the
"Rationale of Verse,"
in which the whole topic is surveyed abinitio, and with
reference
to general and immutable principles. To this essay I refer Mr. Bristed.
In the meantime, without troubling myself to ascertain whether Doctors
Johnson and Campbell are wrong, or whether Pope is wrong, or whether
the
reviewer is right or wrong, at this point or at that, let me
succinctly
state what is the truth on the topics at issue. And first;
the same principles, in all cases, govern all verse.
What
is true in English is true in Greek. Secondly; in a series of
lines,
if one line contains more syllables than the law of the verse demands,
and if, nevertheless, this line is pronounced in the same time, upon
the
whole, as the rest of the lines, then this line suggests celerity — on
account of the increased rapidity of enunciation required. Thus in the
Greek hexameter the dactylic [page 507:] lines —
those
most abounding in dactyls — serve best to convey the idea of rapid
motion.
The spondaic lines convey that of slowness. Thirdly; it is a
gross
mistake to suppose that the Greek dactylic line is "the model in this
matter"
— the matter of the English Alexandrine. The Greek dactylic line is of
the same number of feet — bars — beats — pulsations — as the ordinary
dactylic-spondaic
lines among which it occurs. But the Alexandrine is longer by one foot
— by one pulsation — than the pentameters among which it arises. For
its
pronunciation it demands more time, and therefore, ceteris
paribus,
it would well serve to convey the impression of length, or duration,
and
thus, indirectly, of slowness. I say ceteris Paribas. But, by
varying
conditions, we can effect a total change in the impression conveyed.
When
the idea of slowness is conveyed by the Alexandrine, it is not conveyed
by any slower enunciation of syllables — that is to say, it is not directly
conveyed
— but indirectly, through the idea of length in the whole
line.
Now, if we wish to convey, by means of an Alexandrine, the impression
of
velocity, we readily do so by giving rapidity to our enunciation of the
syllables composing the several feet. To effect this, however, we must
have more syllables, or we shall get through the whole line
too
quickly for the intended time. To get more syllables, all we have to
do,
is to use, in place of iambuses, what our prosodies call
anapæsts.*
Thus in the line,
Flies o'er the unbending corn
and skims along
the main,
the syllables "the unbend" form an anapæst and, demanding
unusual rapidity of enunciation, in order that we may get them in the
ordinary
time of an iambus, serve to suggest celerity. By the elision of e in
the, as
is customary, the whole of the intended effect is lost; for th'unbend
is
nothing more than the usual iambus. In a word, wherever an Alexandrine
expresses celebrity, [page 508:] we shall find it
to
contain one or more anapæsts — the more anapæsts, the more
decided the impression. But the tendency of the Alexandrine consisting
merely of the usual iambuses, is to convey slowness — although it
conveys
this idea feebly, on account of conveying it indirectly. It follows,
from
what I have said, that the common pentameter, interspersed with
anapæsts,
would better convey celerity than the Alexandrine interspersed with
them
in a similar degree; — and it unquestionably does.
.
XL.
This "species of nothingness" is
quite as reasonable,
at all events, as any "kind of something-ness." See Cowley's
"Creation,"
where,
An unshaped kind of something first appeared.
.
XLI.
If any ambitious man have a fancy to
revolutionize,
at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and
human sentiment, the opportunity is his own — the road to immortal
renown
lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do
is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple
— a few plain words — "My Heart Laid Bare." But — this little book must
be true to its title. Now, is it not very
singular that,
with the rabid
thirst for notoriety which distinguishes so many of mankind — so many,
too, who care not a fig what is thought of them after death, there
should
not be found one man having sufficient hardihood to write this little
book?
To write, I say. There are ten thousand men who, if the book
were
once written, would laugh at the notion of being disturbed by its
publication
during their life, and who could not even conceive why they
should
object to its being published after their death. But to write it — there
is the rub. No man dare write it. No man ever will dare write it. No
man could write
it, even if he dared. The paper would shrivel and blaze at every touch
of the fiery pen.
.
XLII.
All that the man of genius demands
for his exaltation
is moral matter in motion. It makes no difference whither tends
the motion — whether for him or against him — and it is absolutely of no
consequence "what is the matter." [page 509:]
.
XLIII.
To converse well, we need the cool
tact of talent
— to talk well, the glowing abandon of genius. Men of very
high
genius, however, talk at one time very well, at another very
ill: — well, when they have full time, full scope, and a sympathetic
listener:
— ill, when they fear interruption and are annoyed by the impossibility
of exhausting the topic during that particular talk. The partial genius
is flashy — scrappy. The true genius shudders at incompleteness —
imperfection
— and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not
everything
that should be said. He is so filled with his theme that he is dumb,
first
from not knowing how to begin, where there seems eternally beginning
behind
beginning, and secondly from perceiving his true end at so infinite a
distance.
Sometimes, dashing into a subject, he blunders, hesitates, stops short,
sticks fast, and because he has been overwhelmed by the rush and
multiplicity
of his thoughts, his hearers sneer at his inability to think. Such a
man
finds his proper element in those "great occasions" which confound and
prostrate the general intellect.
Nevertheless, by his conversation,
the influence
of the conversationist upon mankind in general, is more decided than
that
of the talker by his talk: — the latter invariably talks to best
purpose
with his pen. And good conversationists are more rare than respectable
talkers. I know many of the latter; and of the former only five or six:
— among whom I can call to mind, just now, Mr. Willis, Mr. J. T. S.
Sullivan
— of Philadelphia, Mr. W. M. R. of Petersburg, Va., and Mrs. S—d,
formerly
of New York. Most people, in conversing, force us to curse our stars
that
our lot was not cast among the African nation mentioned by Eudoxus —
the
savages who having no mouths, never opened them, as a matter of course.
And yet, if denied mouth, some persons whom I have in my eye would
contrive
to chatter on still — as they do now — through the nose.
.
XLIV.
I cannot tell how it happens, but,
unless, now and
then, in a case of portrait-painting, very few of our artists can
justly
be held guilty of the crime imputed by Apelles to Protogenes — that of
"being too natural." [page 510:]
.
XLV.
It was a pile of the
oyster, which
yielded the precious pearls of the South, and the artist had
judiciously
painted some with their lips parted, and showing within the large
precious
fruit in the attainment of which Spanish cupidity had already proved
itself
capable of every peril, as well as every crime. At once true and
poetical,
no comment could have been more severe, &c. — Mr. Simms' Damsel
of Darien.
Body of Bacchus! — only think of
poetical beauty
in the countenance of a gaping oyster!
And how natural, in
an age so fanciful,
to believe that the stars and starry groups beheld in the new world for
the first time by the native of the old were especially assigned for
its
government and protection."
Now, if by the old world be meant the
east, and by
the new world the west, I am at a loss to know what are the
stars
seen in the one which cannot be equally seen in the other. Mr. Simms
has
abundant faults — or had; — among which inaccurate English, a proneness
to revolting images, and pet phrases, are the most noticeable.
Nevertheless,
leaving out of question Brockden Brown and Hawthorne, (who are each a genus),
he is immeasurably the best writer of fiction in America. He has more
vigor,
more imagination, more movement, and more general capacity than all our
novelists (save Cooper), combined.
.
XLVI.
.
All a in [[in a]] hot and copper
sky
The bloody sun at
noon
Just up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the
moon. — COLERIDGE. |
Is it possible that the poet did not
know the apparent
diameter of the moon to be greater than that of the sun?
.
XLVII.
Here is an edition,*
which, so far as
microscopical
excellence and absolute accuracy of typography are concerned, might
well
be prefaced with the phrase of the Koran — "There is no error
in
this book." We cannot call a single inverted o an error — can
we? But I am really as glad of having found that inverted o, as
ever was a Columbus or an Archimedes. What, after all, are continents
discovered,
or silversmiths exposed? Give us a good o turned upside-down,
and
a whole herd of bibliomanic Arguses overlooking it for years. [page
511:]
.
XLVIII.
That sweet smile and
serene — that
smile never seen but upon the face of the dying and the dead. — Earnest
Maltravers.
Bulwer is not the man to look a stern
fact in the
face. He would rather sentamentalize upon a vulgar although picturesque
error. Who ever really saw anything but horror in the smile of
the
dead? We so earnestly desire to fancy it "sweet" — that is the
source
of the mistake; if, indeed, there ever was a mistake in the question.
.
XLIX.
The misapplication of quotations is
clever, and has
a capital effect, when well done; but Lord Brougham has not exactly
that
kind of capacity which the thing requires. One of the best hits in this
way is made by Tieck, and I have lately seen it appropriated, with
interesting
complacency, in an English magazine. The author of the "Journey into
the
Blue Distance," is giving an account of some young ladies, not very
beautiful,
whom he caught in mediis rebus, at their toilet. "They were
curling
their monstrous heads," says he, "as Shakspeare says of the waves in
a storm."
.
L.
Here are both Dickens and Bulwer
perpetually using
the adverb "directly" in the sense of "as soon as." "Directly he came I
did so and so." — "Directly I knew it I said this and that." But
observe!
— "Grammar is hardly taught," [in the United States,] "being thought an
unnecessary basis for other learning." I quote "America and her
Resources,"
by the British Counsellor at Law, John Bristed. |
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