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[page 511, continued:]
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LI.
At Ermenonville, too, there is a
striking instance
of the Gallic rhythm with which a Frenchman regards the English verse.
There Gerardin has the following inscription to the memory of
Shenstone:
This plain stone
To William Shenstone.
In his writings he displayed
A mind natural;
At Leasowes he laid
Arcadian greens rural. |
There are few Parisians, speaking English, who would
find anything particularly the
matter with this epitaph. [page 512:]
LII.
Upon her was lavished the
enthusiastic applause of
the most correct taste, and of the deepest sensibility. Human triumph,
in all that is most exciting and delicious, never went beyond that
which
she experienced — or never but in the case of Taglioni. For what are
the
extorted adulations that fall to the lot of the conqueror? — what even
are the extensive honors of the popular author — his far-reaching fame
— his high influence — or the most devout public appreciation of his
works
— to that rapturous approbation of the personal woman — that
spontaneous,
instant, present, and palpable applause — those irrepressible
acclamations
— those eloquent sighs and tears which the idolized Malibran at once
heard,
and saw, and deeply felt that she deserved? Her brief career was one
gorgeous
dream — for even the many sad intervals of her grief were but dust in
the
balance of her glory. In this book* I read much
about the causes which
curtailed her existence; and there seems to hang around them, as here
given,
an indistinctness which the fair memorialist tries in vain to illumine.
She seems never to approach the full truth. She seems never to reflect
that the speedy decease was but a condition of the rapturous life. No
thinking
person, hearing Malibran sing, could have doubted that she would die in
the spring of her days. She crowded ages into hours. She left the world
at twenty-five, having existed her thousands of years.
LIII.
[["]]Accursed be the
heart
that does not
wildly throb, and palsied be the eye that will not weep over the woes
of
the wanderer of Switzerland." — Monthly Register, 1807.
This is "dealing damnation round the
land" to some
purpose; — upon the reader, and not upon the author, as usual. For my
part
I shall be one of the damned; for I have in vain endeavored to see even
a shadow of merit in anything ever written by either of the
Montgomeries.
LIV.
Strange — that I should here†
find
the only non-execrable barbarian attempts
at imitation of the Greek and Roman measures! [page 513:]
LV.
In my reply to the letter signed
"Outis," and defending
Mr. Longfellow from certain charges supposed to have been made against
him by myself, I took occasion to assert that "of the class of willful
plagiarists nine out of ten are authors of established reputation who
plunder
recondite, neglected, or forgotten books." I came to this conclusion à
priori; but experience has confirmed me in it. Here is a
plagiarism
from Channing; and as it is perpetrated by an anonymous writer in a
monthly
magazine, the theft seems at war with my assertion — until it is seen
that
the magazine in question is Campbell's "New Monthly" for August,
1828. Channing, at that time, was comparatively unknown; and, besides,
the plagiarism appeared in a foreign country, where there was little
probability
of detection. Channing, in his essay on Buonaparte, says:
We would observe that
military talent,
even of the highest order, is far from holding the first place among
intellectual
endowments. It is one of the lower forms of genius, for it is not
conversant
with the highest and richest objects of thought. . . . . . Still the
chief
work of a general is to apply physical force — to remove physical
obstructions
— to avail himself of physical aids and advantages — to act on matter —
to overcome rivers, ramparts, mountains, and human muscles; and these
are
not the highest objects of mind, nor do they demand intelligence of the
highest order: — and accordingly nothing is more common than to find
men,
eminent in this department, who are almost wholly wanting in the
noblest
energies of the soul — in imagination and taste — in the capacity of
enjoying
works of genius — in large views of human nature — in the moral
sciences
— in the application of analysis and generalization to the human mind
and
to society, and in original conceptions on the great subjects which
have
absorbed the most glorious understandings.
The thief in "The New Monthly," says:
Military talent, even
of the highest grade,
is very far from holding the first place among intellectual endowments.
It is one of the lower forms of genius, for it is never made conversant
with the more delicate and abstruse of mental operations. It
is
used to apply physical force; to remove physical force; to remove
physical
obstructions; to avail itself of physical aids and advantages; and all
these are not the highest objects of mind, nor do they demand
intelligence
of the highest and rarest order. Nothing is more common than
to
find men eminent in the science and practice of war, wholly wanting
in the nobler energies of the soul; in imagination, in taste, in enlarged
views
of human nature, in the moral sciences, in the application of analysis
and generalization to the human mind and to society; or in original
conceptions
on the great subjects which have occupied and absorbed the
most
glorious of human understandings.
The article in "The New Monthly" is
on "The State
of Parties." The italics are mine. [page 514:]
Apparent plagiarisms frequently arise
from an author's
self repetition. He finds that something he has already published has
fallen
dead — been overlooked — or that it is peculiarly àpropos to
another subject now under discussion. He therefore introduces the
passage;
often without allusion to his having printed it before; and sometimes
he
introduces it into an anonymous article. An anonymous writer is thus,
now
and then, unjustly accused of plagiarism — when the sin is merely that
of self-repetition. In the present case, however, there has been a
deliberate
plagiarism of the silliest as well as meanest species. Trusting to the
obscurity of his original, the plagiarist has fallen upon the idea of
killing
two birds with one stone — of dispensing with all disguise but that of decoration.
Channing says "order" — the writer in the New Monthly says "grade." The
former says that this order is "far from holding," etc. — the latter
says
it is "very far from holding." The one says that military
talent
is "not conversant," and so on — the other says "it is never
made conversant." The one speaks of "the highest and richest
objects"
— the other of "the more delicate and abstruse." Channing speaks of
"thought"
— the thief of "mental operations." Channing mentions "intelligence of
the highest order" — the thief will have it of "the highest and
rarest." Channing observes that military talent is often "almost
wholly
wanting," etc. — the thief maintains it to be "wholly wanting."
Channing alludes to "large views of human nature" — the thief
can
be content with nothing less than "enlarged" ones. Finally, the
American
having been satisfied with a reference to "subjects which have absorbed
the most glorious understandings," the Cockney puts him to shame at
once
by discoursing about "subjects which have occupied and absorbed
the most glorious of human understandings" — as if one could
be
absorbed, without being occupied, by a subject — as if "of" were
here any thing more than two superfluous letters — and as if there were
any chance of the reader's supposing that the understandings in
question
were the understandings of frogs, or jackasses, or Johnny Bulls.
By the way, in a case of this kind,
whenever there
is a question as to who is the original and who the plagiarist, the
point
may be determined, almost invariably, by observing which passage is [page
515:] amplified, or exaggerated, in tone. To disguise his
stolen
horse, the uneducated thief cuts off the tail; but the educated thief
prefers
tying on a new tail at the end of the old one, and painting them both
sky
blue.
LVI.
When I consider the true talent — the
real force
of Mr. Emerson, I am lost in amazement at finding in him little more
than
a respectful imitation of Carlyle. Is it possible that Mr. E. has ever
seen a copy of Seneca? Scarcely — or he would long ago have abandoned
his
model in utter confusion at the parallel between his own worship of the
author of "Sartor Resartus" and the aping of Sallust by Aruntius, as
described
in the 114th Epistle. In the writer of the "History of the Punic Wars"
Emerson is portrayed to the life. The parallel is close; for not only
is
the imitation of the same character, but the things imitated are
identical.
Undoubtedly it is to be said of Sallust, far more plausibly than of
Carlyle,
that his obscurity, his unusuality of expression, and his Laconism
(which
had the effect of diffuseness, since the time gained in the mere
perusal
of his pithiness is trebly lost in the necessity of cogitating them
out)
— it may be said of Sallust, more truly than of Carlyle, that these
qualities
bore the impress of his genius, and were but a portion of his
unaffected
thought. If there is any difference between Aruntius and Emerson, this
difference is clearly in favor of the former, who was in some measure
excusable,
on the ground that he was as great a fool as the latter is not.
LVII.
I believe that odors have an
altogether idiosyncratic
force, in affecting us through association; a force differing essentially
from
that of objects addressing the touch, the taste, the sight, or the
hearing.
LVIII.
It would have been becoming, I think,
in Bulwer,
to have made at least a running acknowledgment of that extensive
indebtedness
to Arnay's "Private Life of the Romans,"* which
he had so little
scruple
about incurring, during the composition of "The Last Days of Pompeii."
He acknowledges, I believe, what he owes to Sir William Gell's
"Pompeiana."
Why this? — why not that? [page 516:]
LIX.
One of our truest poets is Thomas
Buchanan Read.
His most distinctive features are, first, "tenderness," or subdued
passion,
and secondly, fancy. His sin is imitativeness. At present, although
evincing high capacity, he is but a copyist of Longfellow — that is to
say, but the echo of an echo. Here is a beautiful thought which is not
the
property of Mr. Read:
And, where the spring-time sun
had longest shone,
A violet looked up and found itself
alone.
Here again: a spirit
Slowly through the lake
descended,
Till from her hidden form below
The waters took a golden glow,
As if the star which made her forehead
bright
Had burst and filled the lake with
light.
Lowell has some lines very similar, ending with
As if a star had burst within
his brain.
LX.
I cannot say that I ever fairly
comprehended the
force of the term "insult," until I was given to understand,
one
day, by a member of the "North American Review" clique, that
this
journal was "not only willing but anxious to render me that justice
which
had been already rendered me by the 'Revue Française' and
the 'Revue des Deux Mondes' " — but was "restrained from so
doing"
by my "invincible spirit of antagonism." I wish the "North American
Review"
to express no opinion of me whatever — for I have none of it.
In
the meantime, as I see no motto on its title-page, let me recommend it
one from Sterne's "Letter from France." Here it is: — "As we rode along
the valley we saw a herd of asses on the top of one of the mountains —
how they viewed and reviewed us!"
LXI.
Von Raumer says that Enslen, a German
optician, conceived
the idea of throwing a shadowy figure, by optical means, into the chair
of Banquo; and that the thing was readily done. Intense effect was
produced;
and I do not doubt that an American audience might be electrified by
the
feat. But our managers not only have no invention of their own, but no
energy to avail themselves of that of others. [page 517:]
LXII.
A capital book, generally speaking;*
but Mr. Grattan
has a bad habit — that of loitering in the road — of dallying and
toying
with his subjects, as a kitten with a mouse — instead of grasping it
firmly
at once and eating it up without more ado. He takes up too much time in
the ante-room. He has never done with his introductions. Occasionally,
one introduction is but the vestibule to another; so that by the time
he
arrives at his main incidents, there is nothing more to tell. He seems
afflicted with that curious yet common perversity observed in garrulous
old women — the desire of tantalizing by circumlocution. Mr. G's
circumlocution,
however, is by no means like that which Albany Fonblanque describes as
"a style of about and about and all the way round to nothing and
nonsense."
. . . If the greasy-looking lithograph here given as a frontispiece, be
meant for Mr. Grattan, then is Mr. Grattan like nobody else: — for the
fact is, I never yet knew an individual with a wire wig, or the
countenance
of an under-done apple dumpling . . . . As a general rule, no man
should
put his own face in his own book. In looking at the author's
countenance
the reader is seldom in condition to keep his own.
LXIII.
Here is a good idea for a Magazine
paper: — let somebody
"work it up:" — A flippant pretender to universal acquirement — a
would-be
Crichton — engrosses, for an hour or two, perhaps, the attention of a
large
company — most of whom are profoundly impressed by his knowledge. He is
very witty, in especial, at the expense of a modest young gentleman,
who
ventures to make no reply, and who, finally, leaves the room as if
overwhelmed
with confusion; — the Crichton greeting his exit with a laugh.
Presently
he returns, followed by a footman carrying an armful of books. These
are
deposited on the table. The young gentleman, now, referring to some
penciled
notes which he had been secretly taking during the Crichton's display
of
erudition, pins the latter to his statements, each by each, and refutes
them all in turn, by reference to the very authorities cited by the
egotist
himself — whose ignorance at all points is thus made apparent. [page
518:]
LXIV.
A long time ago — twenty-three or
four years at least
— Edward C. Pinckney, of Baltimore, published an exquisite poem
entitled
"A Health." It was profoundly admired by the critical few, but had
little
circulation: — this for no better reason than that the author was born too
far South. I quote a few lines:
Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours —
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers.
To her the better elements
And kindlier stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
'Tis less of Earth than Heaven.
Now, in 1842, Mr. George Hill published "The Ruins
of
Athens and Other Poems," — and from one of the "Other Poems" I quote
what
follows:
And thoughts go sporting through her mind
Like children among flowers;
And deeds of gentle goodness are
The measures of her hours.
In soul or face she bears no trace
Of one from Eden driven,
But like the rainbow seems, though born
Of Earth, a part of Heaven.
Is this plagiarism or is it not?
— I merely
ask for information.
LXV.
Had the "George Balcombe" of
Professor Beverley Tucker
been the work of any one born North of Mason and Dixon's line, it would
have been long ago recognised as one of the very noblest fictions ever
written by an American. It is almost as good as "Caleb Williams." The
manner
in which the cabal of the "North American Review" first write all our
books
and then review them, puts me in mind of the fable about the Lion and
the
Painter. It is high time that the literary South took its own interests
into its own charge.
LXVI.
Here is a plot which, with all its
complexity, has
no adaptation — no dependency; — it is involute and nothing more —
having
all the air of G — — —'s wig, or the cycles and epicycles in Ptolemy's
"Almagest." [page 519:]
LXVII.
We might give two plausible
derivations of the epithet
"weeping" as applied to the willow. We might say that the word has its
origin in the pendulous character of the long branches, which suggest
the
idea of water dripping; or we might assert that the term comes from a
fact
in the natural history of the tree. It has a vast insensible
perspiration,
which, upon sudden cold, condenses, and sometimes is precipitated in a
shower. Now, one might very accurately determine the bias and value of
a man's powers of causality, by observing which of these two
derivations
he would adopt. The former is, beyond question, the true; and, for this
reason — that common or vulgar epithets are universally suggested by
common
or immediately obvious things, without strict regard of any exactitude
in application: — but the latter would be greedily seized by nine
philologists
out of ten, for no better cause than its epigrammatism — than
the
pointedness with which the singular fact seems to touch the occasion.
Here,
then, is a subtle source of error which Lord Bacon has neglected. It is
an Idol of the Wit.
LXVIII.
In a "Hymn for Christmas," by Mrs.
Hemans, we find
the following stanza:
Oh, lovely voices of the sky
Which hymned the Savior's birth,
Are ye not singing still on high,
Ye that sang "Peace on Earth?"
To us yet speak the strains
Wherewith, in times gone by,
Ye blessed the Syrian swains,
Oh, voices of the sky!
And at page 305 of "The Christian Keepsake and
Missionary
Annual for 1840" — a Philadelphia Annual — we find "A Christmas Carol,"
by Richard W. Dodson: — the first stanza running thus:
Angel voices of the sky!
Ye that hymned Messiah's birth,
Sweetly singing from on high
"Peace, Goodwill to all on earth!"
Oh, to us impart those strains!
Bid our doubts and fears to cease!
Ye that cheered the Syrian swains,
Cheer us with that song of peace! [page 520:]
LXIX.
The more there are
great excellences
in a work, the less am I surprised at finding great demerits. When a
book
is said to have many faults, nothing is decided, and I cannot tell, by
this, whether it is excellent or execrable. It is said of another that
it is without fault; if the account be just, the work cannot be
excellent. — Trublet.
The "cannot" here is much too
positive. The
opinions of Trublet are wonderfully prevalent, but they are none the
less
demonstrably false. It is merely the indolence of genius which
has
given them currency. The truth seems to be that genius of the highest
order
lives in a state of perpetual vacillation between ambition and the
scorn
of it. The ambition of a great intellect is at best negative. It
struggles
— it labors — it creates — not because excellence is desirable, but
because
to be excelled where there exists a sense of the power to excel, is
unendurable.
Indeed I cannot help thinking that the greatest intellects
(since
these most clearly perceive the laughable absurdity of human ambition)
remain contentedly "mute and inglorious." At all events, the vacillation
of
which I speak is the prominent feature of genius. Alternately inspired
and depressed, its inequalities of mood are stamped upon its labors.
This
is the truth, generally — but it is a truth very different from the
assertion
involved in the "cannot" of Trublet. Give to genius a sufficiently
enduring motive, and
the result will be harmony, proportion, beauty, perfection — all, in
this
case, synonymous terms. Its supposed "inevitable" irregularities shall
not be found: — for it is clear that the susceptibility to impressions
of beauty — that susceptibility which is the most important element of
genius — implies an equally exquisite sensitiveness and aversion to
deformity.
The motive — the enduring motive — has indeed, hitherto,
fallen rarely to
the lot of genius; but I could point to several compositions which,
"without
any fault," are yet "excellent" — supremely so. The world, too, is on
the
threshold of an epoch, wherein, with the aid of a calm philosophy, such
compositions shall be ordinarily the work of that genius which is true.
One
of the first and most essential steps, in overpassing this threshold,
will
serve to kick out of the world's way this very idea of Trublet — this
untenable
and paradoxical idea of the incompatibility of genius with art. [page
521:]
LXX.
It may well be doubted whether a
single paragraph
of merit can be found either in the "Koran" of Lawrence Sterne, or in
the
"Lacon" of Colton, of which paragraph the origin, or at least the germ,
may not be traced to Seneca, to Plutarch, (through Machiavelli) to
Machiavelli
himself, to Bacon, to Burdon, to Burton, to Bolinbroke, to
Rochefoucault,
to Balzac, the author of "La Maniére de Bien Penser," or
to Bielfeld, the German, who wrote, in French, "Les Premiers Traits
de L'Erudition Universelle."
LXXI.
A man of genius, if not permitted to
choose his own
subject, will do worse, in letters, than if he had talents none at all.
And here how imperatively is he controlled! To be sure, he can
write
to suit himself — but in the same manner his publishers print. From the
nature of our copyright laws, he has no individual powers. As for his
free
agency, it is about equal to that of the dean and chapter of the
see-cathedral,
in a British election of Bishops — an election held by virtue of the
king's
writ of congé d'élire — specifying the person to
be
elected.
LXXII.
To see distinctly the machinery — the
wheels and
pinions — of any work of Art is, unquestionably, of itself, a pleasure,
but one which we are able to enjoy only just in proportion as we do not
enjoy
the legitimate effect designed by the artist: — and, in fact, it too
often
happens that to reflect analytically upon Art, is to reflect after the
fashion of the mirrors in the temple of Smyrna, which represent the
fairest
images as deformed.
LXXIII.
With the aid of a lantern, I have
been looking again
at "Niagara and other Poems" (Lord only knows if that be the true
title)
— but "there's nothing in it:" — at least nothing of Mr. Lord's own —
nothing
which is not stolen — or, (more delicately,) transfused — transmitted.
By the way, Newton says a great deal about "fits of easy transmission
and
reflection,"* and I have no doubt that "Niagara" was put together in
one
of these identical fits. [page 522:]
LXXIV.
A remarkable work,* and one
which I
find much difficulty
in admitting to be the composition of a woman. Not that many good and
glorious
things have not been the composition of women — but, because, here, the
severe precision of style, the thoroughness, and the
luminousness,
are points never observable, in even the most admirable of their
writings.
Who is Lady Georgiana Fullerton? Who is that Countess of Dacre, who
edited
"Ellen Wareham," — the most passionate of fictions — approached, only
in
some particulars of passion, by this? The great detect of "Ellen
Middleton,"
lies in the disgusting sternness, captiousness, and bullet-headedness
of
her husband. We cannot sympathize with her love for him. And the
intense
selfishness of the rejected lover precludes that compassion which is
designed.
Alice is a creation of true genius. The imagination,
throughout,
is of a lofty order, and the snatches of original verse would do honor
to any poet living. But the chief merit, after all, is that of the style
— about which it is difficult to say too much in the way
of praise,
although it has, now and then, an odd Gallicism — such as "she lost her
head," meaning she grew crazy. There is much, in the whole manner of
this
book, which puts me in mind of "Caleb Williams."
LXXV.
The God-abstractions of the modern
polytheism are
nearly in as sad a state of perplexity and promiscuity as were the more
substantial deities of the Greeks. Not a quality named that does not
impinge
upon some one other; and Porphyry admits that Vesta, Rhea, Ceres,
Themis,
Proserpina, Bacchus, Attis, Adonis, Silenus, Priapus, and the Satyrs,
were
merely different terms for the same thing. Even gender was never
precisely
settled. Servius on Virgil mentions a Venus with a beard. In Macrobius,
too, Calvus talks of her as if she were a man; while Valerius Soranus
expressly
calls Jupiter "the Mother of the Gods."
LXXVI.
The next work of Carlyle will be
entitled "Bow-Wow,"
and the title-page will have a motto from the opening chapter of the
Koran:
"There is no error in this Book." [page 528.]
LXXVII.
Surely M—— cannot complain of the
manner in which
his book has been received; for the public, in regard to it, has given
him just such an assurance as Polyphemus pacified Ulysses with, while
his
companions were being eaten up before his eyes. "Your book, Mr. M—— ,"
says the public, "shall be — I pledge you my word — the very last that
I devour."
LXXVIII.
The modern reformist Philosophy which
annihilates
the individual by way of aiding the mass; and the late reformist
Legislation,
which prohibits pleasure with the view of advancing happiness, seem to
be chips of that old block of a French feudal law which, to prevent
young
partridges from being disturbed, imposed penalites upon hoeing and
weeding.
LXXIX.
That Demosthenes "turned out very
badly," appears,
beyond dispute, from a passage in "Meker de vet. et rect. Pron.
Ling.
Græcæ,'' where we read "Nec illi (Demostheni)
turpe
videbatur, optimis relictis magistris, ad canes se conferre, etc., etc."
— that is to say, Demosthenes was not ashamed to quit good society and
"go to the dogs."
LXXX.
When —— and —— pavoneggiarsi about
the celebrated
personages whom they have "seen" in their travels, we shall not be far
wrong in inferring that these celebrated personages were seen [[Greek
text:]]
xxxx [[:Greek text]] — as Pindar says he "saw" Archilochus, who
died
ages before the former was born.
LXXXI.
I cannot help thinking that
romance-writers, in general,
might, now and then, find their account in taking a hint from the
Chinese,
who, in spite of building their houses downwards, have still sense
enough to
begin their books at the end.
LXXXII.
La Harpe (who was no critic) has,
nevertheless, done
little more than strict justice to the fine taste and precise finish of
Racine, in all that regards the minor morals of Literature. In these he
as far excels Pope, as Pope the veriest dolt in his own "Dunciad." [page
524:]
LXXXIII.
I have sometimes amused myself by
endeavoring to
fancy what would be the fate of an individual gifted, or rather
accursed,
with an intellect very far superior to that of his race. Of
course,
he would be conscious of his superiority; nor could he (if otherwise
constituted
as man is) help manifesting his consciousness. Thus he would make
himself
enemies at all points. And since his opinions and speculations would
widely
differ from those of all mankind — that he would be considered
a
madman, is evident. How horribly painful such a condition! Hell could
invent
no greater torture than that of being charged with abnormal weakness on
account of being abnormally strong.
In like manner, nothing can be
clearer than that
a very generous spirit — truly feeling what all
merely profess
— must inevitably find itself misconceived in every direction — its
motives
misinterpreted. Just as extremeness of intelligence would be thought
fatuity,
so excess of chivalry could not fail of being looked upon as meanness
in
its last degree: — and so on with other virtues. This subject is a
painful
one indeed. That individuals have so soared above the plane of
their
race, is scarcely to be questioned; but, in looking back through
history
for traces of their existence, we should pass over all biographies of
"the
good and the great," while we search carefully the slight records of
wretches
who died in prison, in Bedlam, or upon the gallows.
LXXXIV.
Samuel Butler, of Hudibrastic memory,
must have had
a prophetic eye to the American Congress when he defined a rabble as
— "A congregation or assembly of the States-General — every one being
of
a several judgment concerning whatever business be under consideration"
. . . "They meet only to quarrel," he adds, "and then return home full
of satisfaction and narrative."
LXXXV.
I have now before me a book in which
the most noticeable
thing is the pertinacity with which "Monarch" and "King" are printed
with
a capital M and a capital K. The author, it seems, has been lately
presented
at Court. He will employ a small g in future, I presume,
whenever
he is so unlucky as to have to speak of his God. [page 525:]
LXXXVI.
Were I called on to define, very briefly,
the term "Art," I should call it "the reproduction of what the Senses
perceive
in Nature through the veil of the soul." The mere imitation, however
accurate,
of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of
"Artist."
Denner was no artist. The grapes of Zeuxis were inartistic —
unless
in a bird's-eye view; and not even the curtain of Parrhasius could
conceal
his deficiency in point of genius. I have mentioned "the veil of
the soul." Something of the kind appears indispensable in Art. We can,
at any time, double the true beauty of an actual landscape by half
closing
our eyes as we look at it. The naked Senses sometimes see too little —
but then always they see too much.
LXXXVII.
With how unaccountable an obstinacy
even our best
writers persist in talking about "moral courage" — as if there could be
any courage that was not moral. The adjective is improperly
applied
to the subject instead of the object. The energy which overcomes fear —
whether fear of evil threatening the person or threatening the
impersonal
circumstances amid which we exist — is, of course, simply a mental
energy
— is, of course, simply "moral." But, in speaking of "moral courage"
we imply the existence of physical. Quite as reasonable an
expression
would be that of "bodily thought," or of "muscular imagination."
LXXXVIII.
I have great faith in fools: — self-confidence my
friends will call
it: —
Si demain, oubliant d' élore,
Le jour manquait, eh bien! demain
Quelque fou trouverait encore
Un flambeau pour le genre humain.
By the way, what with the new electric light and other matters, De
Béranger's
idea is not so very extravagant.
LXXXIX.
"He that is born to be a
man," says
Wieland, in his
"Peregrinus Proteus," "neither should nor can be anything nobler,
greater,
or better than a man." The fact is, that in efforts to soar above our
nature,
we invariably fall below it. Your reformist demigods are merely devils
turned inside out. [page 526:]
XC.
The phrase of which our poets, and
more especially
our orators, are so fond — the phrase "music of the spheres" — has
arisen
simply from a misconception of the Platonic word [[Greek text:]] xxxx
[[:Greek
text]] — which, with the Athenians, included not merely the harmonies
of
tune and time, but proportion generally. In recommending the
study
of "music" as "the best education for the soul," Plato referred to the
cultivation of the Taste, in contradistinction from that of the Pure
Reason.
By the "music of the spheres" is meant the agreements — the adaptations
— in a word, the proportions — developed in the astronomical laws. He
had no allusion to music in our understanding of the
term. The word
"mosaic," which we derive from [[Greek text:]] xxxx [[:Greek text]],
refers,
in like manner, to the proportion, or harmony of color, observed
— or which should be observed — in the department of Art so entitled.
XCI.
Not long ago, to call a man "a great
wizzard,"was
to invoke for him fire and faggot; but now, when we wish to run our protégé
for
President, we just dub him "a little magician." The fact is,
that,
on account of the curious modern bouleversement of old
opinion,
one cannot be too cautious of the grounds on which he lauds a
friend
or vituperates a foe.
XCII.
"Philosophy," says Hegel, "is utterly
useless and
fruitless, and, for this very reason, is the sublimest of all
pursuits,
the most deserving attention, and the most worthy of our zeal." This
jargon
was suggested, no doubt, by Tertullian's "Mortuus est Dei filius;
credibile
est quia ineptum — et sepultus resurrexit; certum est quia impossibile."
XCIII.
A clever French writer of "Memoirs"
is quite right
in saying that "if the Universities had been willing to permit
it,
the disgusting old debauché of Teos, with his eternal
Batyllis,
would long ago have been buried in the darkness of Oblivion."
XCIV.
It is by no means an irrational fancy
that, in a
future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present
existence,
as a dream. [page 527:]
XCV.
"The artist belongs
to his work, not
the work to the artist." — Novalis.*
In nine cases out of ten it is pure
waste of time
to attempt extorting sense from a German apothegm; — or, rather, any
sense
and every sense may be extorted from all of them. If, in the sentence
above
quoted, the intention is to assert that the artist is the slave of his
theme, and must conform it to his thoughts, I have no faith in the
idea,
which appears to me that of an essentially prosaic intellect. In the
hands
of the true artist the theme, or "work," is but a mass of clay,
of which anything (within the compass of the mass and quality of the
clay)
may be fashioned at will, or according to the skill of the workman. The
clay is, in fact, the slave of the artist. It belongs to him. His
genius,
to be sure, is manifested, very distinctively, in the choice of
the clay. It should be neither fine nor coarse, abstractly — but just
so
fine or so coarse — just so plastic or so rigid — as may best serve the
purposes of the thing to be wrought — of the idea to be made out, or,
more
exactly, of the impression to be conveyed. There are artists,
however,
who fancy only the finest material, and who, consequently,
produce
only the finest ware. It is generally very transparent and
excessively
brittle.
XCVI.
Tell a scoundrel, three or four times
a day, that
he is the pink of probity, and you make him at least the perfection of
"respectability" in good earnest. On the other hand, accuse an
honorable
man, too pertinaciously, of being a villain, and you fill him with a
perverse
ambition to show you that you are not altogether in the wrong.
XCVII.
The Romans worshipped their
standards; and the Roman
standard happened to be an eagle. Our standard is only one-tenth of an
Eagle — a Dollar — but we make all even by adoring it with tenfold
devotion.
XCVIII.
A pumpkin has more angles than C——
[[Lewis Gaylord
Clark]], and is altogether a cleverer thing. He is remarkable at one
point
only — at that of being remarkable for nothing.
XCIX.
That evil predominates
over good, becomes
evident, when we consider that there can be found no aged person who
would
be willing to relive the life he has already lived. — Volney.
The idea here, is not distinctly made
out; for unless
through the context, we cannot be sure whether the author means merely
this: — that every aged person fancies he might, in a different course
of life, have been happier than in the one actually lived, and, for
this
reason, would not be willing to live his life over again, but
some other life; — or, whether the sentiment intended is this: —
that
if, upon the grave's brink, the choice between the expected death and
the
re-living the old life, were offered any aged person, that person would
would [[sic]] prefer to die. The first proposition is, perhaps, true;
but
the last (which is the one designed) is not only doubtful, in point of
mere fact, but is of no effect, even if granted to be true, in
sustaining
the original proposition — that evil predominates over good. It is
assumed
that the aged person will not re-live his life, because he knows that
its evil predominated over its good. The source of error lies in the
word
"knows" — in the assumption that we can ever be, really, in possession
of the whole knowledge to which allusion is cloudily made. But there is
a seeming — a fictitious knowledge; and this very seeming
knowledge
it is, of what the life has been, which incapacitates the aged person
from
deciding the question upon its merits. He blindly deduces a notion of
the
happiness of the original real life — a notion of its preponderating
evil
or good — from a consideration of the secondary or supposititious one.
In his estimate he merely strikes a balance between events, and
leaves quite out of the account that elastic Hope which is the
Eos
of all. Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting
that it soon will be so. In regarding the supposititious life, however,
we paint to ourselves chill certainties for warm expectations, and
grievances
quadrupled in being foreseen. But because we cannot avoid doing this —
strain our imaginative faculties as we will — because it is so very
difficult
— so nearly impossible a task, to fancy the known unknown — the done
unaccomplished
— and because (through our inability to fancy all this) we prefer death
to a secondary life — [page 529:] does it, in any
manner,
follow that the evil of the properly-considered real existence does
predominate over the good?
In order that a just estimate be made
by Mr. Volney's
"aged person," and from this estimate a judicious choice: — in order,
again,
that from this estimate and choice, we deduce any clear comparison of
good
with evil in human existence, it will be necessary that we obtain the
opinion,
or "choice," upon this point, from an aged person, who shall be in
condition
to appreciate, with precision, the hopes he is naturally led to leave
out
of question, but which reason tells us he would as strongly experience
as ever, in the absolute re-living of the life. On the other hand, too,
he must be in condition to dismiss from the estimate the fears which he
actually feels, and which show him bodily the ills that are to happen,
but which fears, again, reason assures us he would not, in the
absolute
secondary life, encounter. Now what mortal was ever in condition to
make
these allowances? — to perform impossibilities in giving these
considerations
their due weight? What mortal, then, was ever in condition to make a
well-grounded
choice? How, from an ill-grounded one, are we to make deductions which
shall guide us aright? How out of error shall we fabricate truth?
C.
This reasoning is about as convincing
as would be
that of a traveller who, going from Maryland to New York without
entering
Pennsylvania, should advance this feat as an argument against Leibnitz'
Law
of Continuity — according to which nothing passes from one state
to
another without passing through all the intermediate states. |
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