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[page 164:]
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A CHAPTER OF SUGGESTIONS.
BY EDGAR A POE.
IN the life of
every man there
occurs at least one epoch when the spirit seems to abandon, for a brief
period, the body, and, elevating itself above mortal affairs just so
far
as to get a comprehensive and general view, makes thus an
estimate
of its humanity, as accurate as is possible, under any circumstances,
to
that particular spirit. The soul here separates itself from its own
idiosyncrasy,
or individuality, and considers its own being, not as appertaining
solely
to itself, but as a portion of the universal Ens. All the important
good
resolutions which we keep — all startling, marked regenerations of
character
— are brought about at these crises of life. And thus it is
our sense of self which debases, and which keeps us
debased.
The theory of chance, or as the
mathematicians term
it, the Calculus of Probabilities, has this remarkable peculiarity,
that
its truth in general is in direct proportion with its fallacy in
particular.
We may judge of the degree of
abstraction in one
who meditates, by the manner in which he receives an [page
165:]
interruption. If he is much startled, his revery was not profound; and
the converse. Thus the affectation of the tribe of pretended
mental-absentees,
becomes transparent. These people awake from their musings with a
start,
and an air of bewilderment, as men naturally awake from dreams that
have
a close semblance of reality. But they are, clearly, ignorant that the
phenomena of dreaming differ, radically, from those of reverie — of
which
latter the mesmeric condition is the extreme.
There are few thinkers who will not
be surprised
to find, upon retrospect of the world of thought, how very frequently
the first, or intuitive, impressions have been the true ones. A poem,
for
example, enraptures us in our childhood. In adolescence, we perceive it
to be full of fault. In the first years of manhood, we utterly despise
and condemn it; and it is not until mature age has given tone to our
feelings,
enlarged our knowledge, and perfected our understanding, that we recur
to our original sentiment and primitive admiration, with the additional
pleasure which is always deduced from knowing how it was that
we
once were pleased and why it is that we still admire.
That the imagination has not been
unjustly ranked
as supreme among the mental faculties, appears from the intense
consciousness,
on the part of the imaginative man, that the faculty in question brings
his soul often to a glimpse of things supernal and eternal — to the
very
verge of the great secrets. There are moments, indeed, in
which
he perceives the faint perfumes, and hears the [page 166:]
melodies of a happier world. Some of the most profound knowledge —
perhaps
all very profound knowledge — has originated from a highly
stimulated
imagination. Great intellects guess well. The laws of Kepler
were,
professedly, guesses.
An excellent magazine paper might be
written upon
the subject of the progressive steps by which any great work of art —
especially
of literary art — attained completion. How vast a dissimilarity always
exists between the germ and the fruit — between the work and its
original
conception ! Sometimes the original conception is abandoned, or left
out
of sight altogether. Most authors sit down to write with no fixed
design, trusting to the inspiration of the moment; it is not,
therefore,
to be wondered at, that most books are valueless. Pen should
never
touch paper, until at least a well-digested general purpose be
established.
In fiction, the denouement — in all other composition the
intended effect, should be definitely considered and arranged,
before
writing the first
word; and no word should be then written which does not tend,
or
form a part of a sentence which tends to the development of the denouement,
or to the strengthening of the effect. Where plot forms
a portion
of the contemplated interest, too much preconsideration cannot be had. Plot
is very imperfectly understood, and has never
been rightly
defined. Many persons regard it as mere complexity of incident. In its
most rigorous acceptation, it is that from which no component atom
can [page 167:] be removed, and in which
none of the
component atoms ran be displaced, without rain to the whole; and
although
a sufficiently good plot may be constructed, without attention to the
whole
rigor of this definition, still it is the definition which the true
artist
should always keep in view, and always endeavor to consummate in his
works.
Some authors appear, however, to be totally deficient in
constructiveness,
and thus, even with plentiful invention, fad] signally in plot. Dickens
belongs to this class. His "Barnaby Rudge " shows not the least ability
to adapt. Godwin and Bulwer are the best constructors of plot
in
English literature. The former has left a preface to his "Caleb
Williams,"
in which he says that the novel was written backwards; the
author
first completing the second volume, in which the hero is involved in a
maze of difficulties, and then casting about him for sufficiently
probable
cause of these difficulties, out of which to concoct volume the first.
This mode cannot surely be recommended, but evinces the idiosyncrasy of
Godwin's mind. Bulwer's "Pompeii" is an instance of admirably managed
plot.
His "Night and Morning," sacrifices to mere plot interests of
far
higher value.
All men of genius have their
detractors; but
it is merely a non distributio medii to argue, thence, that
all
men who have their detractors are men of genius. Yet, undoubtedly, of
all
despicable things, your habitual sneerer at real greatness, is the most
despicable. What names excite, in mankind, the most unspeakable — the
most
insufferable disgust ? The Dennises — the Frérons — the
Desfontaines.
Their littleness is measured by the greatness of those whom they have
reviled.
And yet, in [page 168:] the face of this
well-known
and natural principle, there will always exist a set of homunculi, eager
to grow notorious by the pertinacity of their yelpings at the heels of
the distinguished. And this eagerness arises, less frequently from
inability
to appreciate genius, than from a species of cat-and-dog antipathy to
it,
which no suggestions of worldly prudence are adequate to quell.
That intuitive and seemingly casual
perception by
which we often attain knowledge, when reason herself falters and
abandons
the effort, appears to resemble the sudden glancing at a star, by which
we see it more clearly than by a direct gaze; or the half-closing the
eyes
in looking at a plot of grass the more fully to appreciate the
intensity
of its green.
There are few men of that peculiar
sensibility which
is at the root of genius, who, in early youth, have not expended much
of
their mental energy in living too fast; and, in later years,
comes
the unconquerable desire to goad the imagination up to that point which
it would have attained in an ordinary, normal, or well-regulated life.
The earnest longing for artificial excitement, which, unhappily, has
characterized
too many eminent men, may thus be regarded as a psychal want, or
necessity,
— an effort to regain the lost, — a struggle of the soul to assume the
position which, under other circumstances, would have been its due.
The great variety of melodious
expression which is
given out from the keys of a piano, might be made, in proper hands, the
basis of an excellent fairy-tale. Let the poet press his finger
steadily
upon each key, keeping [page 169:] it down, and
Imagine
each prolonged series of undulations the history, of joy or of sorrow,
related by a good or evil spirit imprisoned within. There are some of
the
notes which almost tell, of their own accord, true and intelligible
histories.
A precise or clear man, in
conversation or
in composition, has a very important consequential advantage — more
especially
in matters of logic. As he proceeds with his argument, the person
addressed,
exactly comprehending, for that reason, and often for that reason only,
agrees. Few minds, in fact, can immediately perceive the distinction
between
the comprehension of a proposition and an agreement of the reason with
the thing proposed. Pleased at comprehending, we often are so excited
as
to take it for granted that we assent. Luminous writers may thus
indulge,
for a long time, in pure sophistry, without being detected. Macaulay is
a remarkable instance of this species of mystification. We coincide
with
what he says, too frequently, because we so very distinctly understand
what it is that he intends to say. His essay on Bacon has been long and
deservedly admired; but its concluding portions (wherein he endeavors
to
depreciate the Novam Organum,) although logical to a fault,
are
irrational in the extreme. But not to confine myself to mere assertion.
Let us refer to this great essayist's review of Ranke's "History of the
Popes." His strength is here put forth to account for the progress of
Romanism,
by maintaining that divinity is not a progressive science. "The [page
170:] enigmas," says he, in substance, "which perplex the
natural
theologian, are the same in all ages, while the Bible, where alone we
are
to seek revealed truth, has been always what it is. "Here Mr. Macaulay
confounds the nature of that proof from which we reason of the concerns
of earth, considered as man's habitation, with the nature of that
evidence
from which we reason of the same earth, regarded as a unit of the
universe.
In the former case, the data being palpable, the proof is
direct;
in the latter it is purely analogical. Were the indications we
derive
from science, of the nature and designs of Deity, and thence, by
inference,
of man's destiny, — were these indications proof direct, it is
then
very true that no advance in science could strengthen them; for, as the
essayist justly observes, " nothing can be added to the force of the
argument
which the mind finds in every beast, bird, and flower; " but, since
these
indications are rigidly analogical, every step in human knowledge,
every
astronomical discovery, in especial, throws additional light upon the
august
subject, by extending the range of analogy. That we know no
more,
to-day, of the nature of Deity, of its purposes, and thus of man
himself,
than we did even a dozen years ago, is a proposition disgracefully
absurd.
"If Natural Philosophy," says a greater than Macaulay, " should
continue
to be improved in its various branches, the bounds of moral philosophy
would be enlarged also." These words of the prophetic Newton
are
felt to be true, and will be fulfilled. |
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