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BY EDGAR A. POE. 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 pencilling 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 upon 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
pencilled, because the mind of the reader wishes to unburthen itself of
a thought; — however 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 [column 2:]
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 pencillings,
has m it something more of advantage than of 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 natural enough: — there [page
485:] 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 Lvcophron 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 synonym, or overzezet (turned topsv-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. Who has seen the "Velschii
Rhuzname Naurus," of
the Oriental Literature? [column 2:] There is about the same difference
between the epicyclic
lines of Shelley, et id genus, and the epics of Hell-Fire
Montgomery,
as between the notes of a flute and those of the gong at Astor's. In
the
one class the vibrations are unequal but melodious; the other have
regularity
enougn, but no great deal of music, and a trifle too much of the tintamarre.
The Bishop of Durham (Dr. Butler)
once asked Dean
Tucker whether he did not think that communities went mad en masse,
now
and then, just as individuals, individually. The thing need not have
been
questioned. Were not the Abderians seized, all at once, with the
Euripides
lunacy, during which they ran about the streets declaiming the plays of
the poet? And now here is the great tweedle-dee tweedle-dum paroxysm —
the uproar about Pusey. If England and America are not lunatic now — at
this very moment — then I have never seen such a thing as a March hare.
I believe that Hannibal passed into
Italy over the
Pennine Alps; and if Livy were living now, I could demonstrate this
fact
even to him. In a rail-road car, I once sat face
to face with
him — or, rather,  ,
as the Septuagint have it; for he had a tooth-ache, and three-fourths
of
his visage were buried in a red handkerchief. Of what remained visible,
an eighth, I thought, represented his "Gaieties," and an eighth his
"Gravities."
The only author I ever met who looked even the fourth of his own book. But for the shame of the thing, there
are few of
the so called apophthegms which would not avow themselves epigrams
outright.
They have it in common with the fencing school foils, that we can make
no real use of any part of them but the point, while this we can never
get fairly at, on account of a little flat profundity-button. I make no exception, even in Dante's
favor: — the
only thing well said of Purgatory, is that a man may go farther and
fare
worse. When music affects us to tears, [page 486:]
seemingly causeless,
we weep not, as Gravina supposes, from "excess of pleasure;"
but
through excess of an impatient, petulant sorrow that, as mere mortals,
we are as yet in no condition to banquet upon those supernal ecstasies
of which the music affords us merely a suggestive and indefinite
glimpse. One of the most deliberate tricks of
Voltaire,
is where he renders, by Soyez justes, mortels, et ne craignez qu'un Dieu, the words of Phlegyas, who cries out, in Hell, Dicite justitiam, moniti, et non temnere Divos. He gives the line this twist, by way
of showing that
the ancients worshipped one God. He is endeavoring to deny
that
the idea of the Unity of God originated with the Jews. The theorizers on Government, who pretend always to
"begin with the
beginning," commence with Man in what they call his natural state
— the savage. What right have they to suppose this his natural state?
Man's
chief idiosyncrasy being reason, it follows that his savage condition —
his condition of action without reason — is his unnatural
state.
The more he reasons, the nearer he approaches the position to which
this
chief idiosyncrasy irresistibly impels him; and not until he attains
this
position with exactitude — not until his reason has exhausted itself
for
his improvement — not until he has stepped upon the highest pinnacle of
civilisation — will his natural state be ultimately reached, or
thoroughly
determined. Our literature is infested with a swarm of just such
little people as
this — creatures who succeed in creating for themselves an absolutely
positive
reputation, by mere dint of the continuity and perpetuality of their
appeals
to the public which is permitted, not for a single instant, to rid
itself
of these Epizoe, or to get their pretensions out of sight. We cannot, then, regard the microscopical works of the animalculae
in [column 2:] question, as simple nothings;
for they
produce, as I say, a positive
effect,
and no multiplication of zeros will result in unity — but as negative
quantities
— as less than nothings; since — into — will give +. I cannot imagine why it is that Harrison Ainsworth so
bepeppers his
books with his own dog Latin and pig Greek — unless,
indeed,
he
agrees with Encyclopaedia Chambers, that nonsense sounds worse in
English
than in any other language. These gentlemen, in attempting the dash of Carlyle, get
only as far
as the luminousness of Plutarch, who begins the life of Demetrius
Poliorcetes
with an account of his death, and informs us that the hero could not
have
been as tall as his father, for the simple reason that his father,
after
all, was only his uncle. To persist in calling these places "Magdalen Asylums"
is absurd,
and worse. We have no reason to believe that Mary Magdalen ever sinned
as supposed, or that she is the person alluded to in the seventh
chapter
of Luke. See Macknight's "Harmony" — p. 201 — part 2. Nothing, to the true taste, is so offensive as mere
hyperism. In Germany wohlgeborn
is a loftier title than edelgeborn; and, in Greece, the
thrice-victorious
at the Olympic games could claim a statue of the size of life, while he
who had conquered but once was entitled only to a colossal. The author* speaks of music like a
man, and not like a
fiddler. This
is something — and that he has imagination is more. But the philosophy
of music is beyond his depth, and of its physics he, unquestionably,
has
no conception. By the way — of all the so-called scientific musicians,
how many may we suppose cognizant of the acoustic facts and
mathematical
deductions? To be sure, my acquaintance with eminent composers is quite
limited — but I have never met one who did not stare and say
"yes,"
"no," "hum!" "ha!" "eh?" when I mentioned the [page 487:]
mechanism of the Sirene, or
made allusion to the oval vibrations at right angles.His mind* — granting him any — is
essentially at home in
little statistics,
twaddling gossip, and maudlin commentaries, fashioned to look profound;
but the idea of his attempting original composition, is fantastic.All the Bridgewater treatises have failed in noticing the
great idiosyncrasy
in the Divine system of adaptation: — that idiosyncrasy which stamps
the
adaptation as Divine, in distinction from that which is the work of
merely
human constructiveness. I speak of the complete mutuality of
adaptation.
For example: — in human constructions, a particular cause has a
particular
effect — a particular purpose brings about a particular object; but we
see no reciprocity. The effect does not re-act upon the cause — the
object
does not change relations with the purpose. In Divine constructions,
the
object is either object or purpose, as we choose to regard it, while
the
purpose is either purpose or object; so that we can never
(abstractedly,
without concretion — without reference to facts of the moment) decide
which
is which. For secondary example: — In polar climates, the human frame,
to maintain its due caloric, requires, for combustion in the stomach,
the
most highly ammoniac food, such as train oil. Again: — In polar
climates,
the sole food afforded man is the oil of abundant seals and whales.
Now,
whether is oil at hand because imperatively demanded? — or whether is
it
the only thing demanded because the only thing to be obtained? It is
impossible
to say. There is an absolute reciprocity of adaptation, for which we
seek
in vain among the works of man. The Bridgewater tractists may have avoided this point,
on account of
its apparent tendency to overthrow the idea of cause in
general
— consequently of a First Cause — of God. But it is more probable that
they have failed to perceive what no one preceding them, has, to my
knowledge,
perceived.The pleasure which we derive from any exertion of human
ingenuity,
is in [column 2:] the direct ratio of the approach to
this species of
reciprocity
between cause and effect. In the construction of plot, for
example,
in fictitious literature, we should aim at so arranging the points, or
incidents, that we cannot distinctly see, in respect to any one of
them,
whether that one depends from anv one other, or upholds it. In this
sense,
of course, perfection of plot is unattainable in fact, — because
Man is the constructor. The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a
Plot of God. "Who does not turn with absolute contempt from the
rings, and gems,
and filters, and caves, and genii of Eastern Tales, as from the
trinkets
of a toy-shop, and the trumpery of a raree-show?" — Lectures on
Literature,
by James Montgomery. This is mere "pride and arrogance, and the evil way, and
the Toward
mouth." Or, perhaps, so monstrous a proposition (querily put) springs
rather
from the thickness of the Montgomery skull, which is the Montgomery
predominant
source of error — the Eidolon of the Den wherein grovel the Montgomery
curs. The serious (minor) compositions of Dickens have been
lost in the blaze
of his comic reputation. One of the most forcible things ever written,
is a short story of his, called "The Black Veil;" a strangely pathetic
and richly imaginative production, replete with the loftiest tragic
power. P. S. Mr. Dickens' head must puzzle the phrenologists.
The organs of
locality are small; and the conclusion of the "Curiosity-Shop" is more
truly ideal (in both phrenological senses) than any composition of
equal
length in the English language. A good book;† but, for a modern
book, too abundant in
faded philosophy.
Here is an argument spoken of as not proving the permanency of the
solar
system, "because we know, from the more sure word of prophecy, that it
is not destined to last for ever." Who believes — whether layman or
priest
— that the prophecies in question have any farther allusion than to the
orb of [page 488:] the Earth — or, more strictly, to the crust
of the orb! It ranks* with "Armstrong on Health"
— the "Botanic
Garden" — the "Connubia
Florum." Such works should conciliate the Utilitarians. I think I
will
set about a lyric on the Quadrature of Curves — or the Arithmetic of
Infinites.
Cotes, however, supplies me a ready-made title, in his "Harmonia
Mensurarum,"
and there is no reason why I should not be fluent, at least,
upon
the fluents of fractional expressions. In general, we should not be
over-scrupulous about
niceties of phrase, when the matter in hand is a dunce to be gibbeted.
Speak out! — or the person may not understand you. He is to be hung?
Then
hang him by all means; but make no bow when you mean no obeisance, and
eschew the droll delicacy of the Clown in the Play — "Be so good, sir,
as to rise and be put to death." This is the only true principle among
men. Where
the gentler sex is concerned, there seems but one course for the critic
— speak if vou can commend — be silent, if not; for a woman will newer
be brought to admit a non-identity between herself and her book, and "a
well-bred man" says, justly, that excellent old English moralist, James
Puckle, in his 'Gray Cap for a Green Head,' "a well-bred man will never
give
himself the liberty to speak ill of women." It† is the half-profound,
half-silly, and wholly
irrational composition
of a very clever, veryt ignorant, and laughably impudent fellow —
"ingeniosus puer,
sed insi,gnis nebula," as the Jesuits have well described
Crebillon. The Germans, just now, are afflicted with the epidemic
of history-writing
— the same cacoethes which Lucian tells us beset his
countrymen
upon the discomfiture of Severianus in Armenia, followed by the
triumphs
in Parthia. The sense of high birth is a moral force whose value the
democrats,
albeit compact of mathematics, are never in [column 2:]
condition to calculate. "Pour
savoir ce qu'est Dieu," says the Baron de Bielfeld, "il faut
etre
Dieu memen."I have seen many computations respecting the greatest
amount of erudition
attainable by an individual in his lifetime; but these computations are
falsely based, and fall infinitely beneath the truth. It is true that, in
general, we retain, we remember to available purpose, scarcely
one-hundredth
part of what we read; yet there are minds which not only
retain all receipts, but keep them at compound interest
for ever. Again:
— were every man supposed to read out, he could read, of
course,
very little, even in half a century; for, in such case, each individual
word must be dwelt upon in some degree. But, in reading to ourselves,
at
the ordinary rate of what is called "light reading," we scarcely touch
one
word in ten. And, even physically considered, knowledge breeds
knowledge,
as gold gold; for he who reads really much, finds his capacity to read
increase in geometrical ratio. The helluo lilrorum will but
glance
at the page which detains the ordinary reader some minutes; and the
difference
in the absolute reading (its uses considered), will be in
favor
of the helluo, who will have winnowed the matter of which the tyro
mumbled both the seeds and the chaff. A deep-rooted and
strictly continuous
habit of reading will, with certain classes of intellect, result in an
instinctive and seemingly magnetic appreciation of a thing written; and
now the student reads by pages just as other men by words. Long years
to
come, with a careful analysis of the mental process, may even render
this
species of appreciation a common thing. It may be taught in the schools
of our descendants of the tenth or twentieth generation. It may become
the method of the mob of the eleventh or twenty-first. And should these
matters come to pass — as they will — there will be in them no more
legitimate
cause for wonder than there is, to-day, in the marvel that, syllable by
syllable, men comprehend what, letter by letter, I now trace upon this
page. [page 489:] Is it not a law that need has a tendency to engender the
thing needed? "The nature of the soil may indicate
the countries
most exposed to these formidable concussions, since they are caused by
subterraneous fires, and such fires are kindled by the union and
fermentation
of iron and sulphur. But their times and effects appear to lie beyond
the
reach of human curiosity, and the philosopher will discreetly abstain
from
the prediction of earthquakes, till he has counted the drops of water
that
silently filtrate on the inflammable mineral, and measured the caverns
which increase by resistance the explosion of the imprisoned air.
Without
assigning the cause, history will distinguish the period in which these
calamitous events have been rare or frequent, and will observe, that
this
fever of the earth raged with uncommon violence during the reign of
Justinian.
Each year is marked by the repetition of earthquakes, of such duration,
that Constantinople has been shaken above forty days; of such extent,
that
the shock has been communicated to the whole surface of the globe, or
at
least of the Roman Empire." These sentences may be regarded as a
full synopsis
of the style of Gibbon — a style which has been more
frequently
commended
than almost another in the world. He had three hobbies which he rode to the death (stuffed
puppets as
they were), and which he kept in condition by the continual sacrifice
of
all that is valuable in language. These hobbies were Dignity —
Modulation — Laconism. Dignity is all very well; and history demands it for its
general tone;
but the being everlastingly on stilts is not only troublesome and
awkward,
but dangerous. He who falls en homme ordinaire — from the mere
slipping
of his feet — is usually an object of sympathy; but all men tumble now
and
then, and this tumbling from high sticks is sure to provoke laughter. His modulation, however, is always ridiculous;
for it is so uniform,
so continuous, and so jauntily kept up, that we almost fancy the writer
waltzing to his words. With him, to speak lucidly was a far less merit than to
speak smoothly
and curtly. There is a wall in which, [column 2:] through the
nature of language
itself,
we may often save a few words by talking backwards; and this is,
therefore,
a favorite practice with Gibbon. Observe the sentence commencing — "The
nature of the soil." The thought expressed could scarcely be more
condensed
in expression; but, for the sake of this condensation, he renders the
idea
difficult of comprehension, by subverting the natural order of a simple
proposition, and placing a deduction before that from which it is
deduced.
An ordinance man would have thus written: "As these formidable
concussions
arise from subterranean fires kindled by the union and fermentation of
iron and sulphur, we may judge of the degree in which any region is
exposed
to earthquake by the presence or absence of these minerals." My
sentence
has forty words — that of Gibbon thirty-six; but the first cannot
fail
of being instantly comprehended, while the latter it may be necessary
to
re-read. The mere terseness of this historian is,
however, grossly over-rated.
In general, he conveys an idea (although darkly) in fewer words than
others
of his time; but a habit of straight thinking that rejects
non-essentials,
will enable any one to say, for example, what was intended above, both
more
briefly and more distinctly. He must abandon, of course, "formidable
concussions"
and things of that kind. E. g. — "The sulphur and iron of any region express its
liability to
earthquake; their fermentation being its cause." Here are seventeen words in place of the thirty-six; and
these seventeen
convey the full force of all that it was necessary to say. Such
concision
is, nevertheless, an error, and, so far as respects the true object of
concision, is a full. The most truly concise style is that
which
most rapid transmits the sense. What, then, should be said of the
concision
of Carlyle? — that those are mad who admire a brevity which squanders
our
time for the purpose of economizing our printing ink and paper. Observe, now, the passage above quoted, commencing —
"Each year is marked."
What is it the historian wishes to say? Not, certainly, that ever` year
was marked by earthquakes that shook Constantinople forty days, and
extended
to all regions of the earth! — yet this only is the legitimate [page
490:] interpretation.
The earthquakes are said to be of such duration that
Constantinople,
&c., and these earthquakes (of such duration) were
experienced
every year. But this is a pure Gibbonism — an original one; no man ever
so rhodomontaded before. He means to say merely that the earthquakes w
ere of unusual duration and extent — the duration of one being so long
that Constantinople shook for forty days, and the extent of another
being
so wide as to include the whole empire of Rome — "by which," he adds Motto
voce — "by which insulated facts the reader may estimate
that average duration and extent of which I speak" — a thing
the
reader will find
it difficult to do. A few years hence — and should any one compose a mock
heroic in the
manner of the "Decline and Fall," the poem will be torn to pieces by
the
critics, instanter, as an unwarrantable exaggeration of the
principles
of the burlesque. I never knew a man, of so really decent understanding,
so full of bigotry
as B——d. Had he supreme power, and were he not, now and then, to meet
an
odd volume sufficiently silly to confirm his prejudices, there can be
no
doubt that he would burn every book in the world as an auto da fe.
It is a deeply consequential error this: — the assumption that we, being men, will, in general, be deliberately true. The greater amount of truth is impulsively uttered; thus the greater amount is spoken, not written. But, in examining the historic material, we leave these considerations out of sight. We dote upon records, which, in the main, lie; while we discard the Kabbala, which, properly interpreted, do not. "The right angle of light's incidence produces a sound
upon one of the
Egyptian pyramids." This assertion, thus expressed, I have encountered
somewhere — probably in one of the Notes to Apollonius. It is nonsense,
I suppose, — but it will not do to speak hastily. The orange ray of the spectrum and the buzz of the gnat
(which never
rises above the second A), affect me with nearly similar sensations. In
hearing the gnat, I perceive the color. In perceiving the color, I seem
to hear the gnat. [column 2:]Here the vibrations of the tympanum caused by wings of
the fly, may,
from within, induce abnormal vibrations of the retina, similar to those
which the orange ray induces, normally, from without. By similar, I
do
not mean of equal rapidity — this would be folly; — but each millionth
undulation,
for example, of the retina, might accord with one of the tympanum; and
I doubt whether this would not be sufficient for the effect. How many good books suffer neglect through the
inefficiency of their
beginnings! It is far better that we commence
irregularly — immethodically — than
that we fail to arrest attention; but the two points, method and
pungency,
may always be combined. At all risks, let there be a few vivid
sentences imprimis, by way of the electric bell to the
telegraph. I am far more than half serious in all that I have ever
said about manuscript,
as affording indication of character. The general proposition is unquestionable — that the
mental qualities
will have a tendency to impress the MS. The difficulty lies in
the
comparison of this tendency, as a mathematical force, with the
forces
of the various disturbing influences of mere circumstance. But — given
a
man's purely physical biography, with his MS., and the moral biography
may be deduced. The actual practical extent to which these ideas are
applicable, is
not sufficiently understood. For my own part, I by no means shrink from
acknowledging that I act, hourly, upon estimates of character derived
from
chirography. The estimates, however, upon which I depend, are
chiefly
negative. For example: a man may not always be a man of genius, or a
man
of taste, or a man of firmness, or a man of any other quality, because
he writes this hand or that; but then there are MSS. which no man of
firmness,
or of taste, or of genius, ever did, will, or can write. There is a certain species of hand-writing, — and a quite
"elegant" one
it is, too; although I hesitate to describe it, because it is written
by
some two or three thousand of my personal friends, — a species of
hand-writing,
I say, which seems to appertain, as if by prescriptive right, to the
blockhead,
and which has been employed by every donkey since the days of
Cadmus, — has
[page 491:] been penned by every gander since first
a grey goose yielded a pen. Now, were any one to write me a letter in this MS.,
requiring me to
involve myself with its inditer in any enterprise of moment and of
risk,
it would be only on the score of the commonest civility that I would
condescend
to send him a reply. These gentlemen may be permitted to exist vet a very
little while, since
it is "the darling public" who are amused, without knowing at what — Mais mod, Hi, dans le fond, sais bien ce He jen
crois, Qui compte,
tons les jours, leers larcins par mes points, Je ris — etc. Fellows who really have no right — some individuals have
— to
purloin
the property of their predecessors. Mere buzzards; or, in default of
that,
mere pechingzies — the species of creatures that they tell us
of
in the Persian Compendiums of Natural History — animals very soft and
vent
sly, with ears of such length that, while one answers for a bed, the
other
is all that is necessary for a counterpane. A race of dolts — literary
Cacuses,
whose clumsily stolen bulls never fail of leaving behind them ample
evidence
of having been dragged into the thief-den by the tail. In the Hebrew MS. (172 Prov. 18-22) after the word  ,
is an erasure, by which we lose some three or four letters. Could these
letters have been anything but  ?
The version reads, " whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing;" a
proposition
which cannot be mathematically demonstrated. By the insertion
suggested,
it would be converted into " whoso findeth a good wife,
findeth,"
&c. — an axiom which the most rigorous caviller for precision would
make no scruple of admitting into Euclid. "His imagery* is by no means
destitute of merit, but is
directed by
an exceedingly coarse and vulgar taste." Quite true; but the remark would have come with a better
grace from
almost any other lips than those of Lord Brougham and Vaux. [column 2:] Dr. Lardner thus explains the apparent difference in
size between the
setting and the noon-day sun: — "Various solutions have been proposed, and the one
generally adopted
by scientific minds I will now endeavor to make plain, though I fear
its
nature is so remarkable that I am not sure I shall make it
intelligible.
But here it is. If the sun, or another celestial object, be near the
horizon,
and I direct my attention to it, I see between me and that object a
vast
number of objects upon the face of the earth, as trees, houses,
mountains,
the magnitudes and positions of which are familiar to me. These supply
the mind with a means of estimating the size of the object at which I
am
looking. I know that it is much farther off than these; and vet the sun
appears, perhaps, much larger than the top of the intervening mountain.
I thus compare the sun, by a process of the mind so subtle and
instinctive
that I am unconscious of it, with the objects which I see between it
and
myself, and I conclude that it is much larger than those. Well, the
same
sun rises to the meridian; then there are no intervening objects
whereby
to space off the distance, as it were, and thus form a comparative
estimate
of its size I am prepared to be met by the objection, that this is an
extremely learned and metaphysical reason. So it is." How funny are the ideas which some persons entertain
about learning,
and especially about metaphysics! Whatever may be the foible of Dr. Lardner's
intellect, its forte
is certainly not originality; and however ill put are his
explanations
of the phenomenon in question, he is to be blamed for them only
inasmuch
as he adopted them, without examination, from others. The same thing is
said, very nearly in the same way, by all who have previously touched
the
subject. And the reasoning is not only of very partial force, but
wretchedly
urged. If the sun appears larger than usual merely because we compare
its
size with mountains and other large objects upon the earth (objects,
the
Doctor might have said, beyond all which we see the sun), how
happens
it that the illusion does not cease when we see the orb setting where
no
such objects are visible? For example, on the horizon of a smooth sea. [page
492:]We appreciate time by events alone. For this
reason we define
time (somewhat improperly) as the succession of events; but the fact
itself — that
events are our sole means of appreciating time — tends to the
engendering
of the erroneous idea that events are time — that the more
numerous
the events, the longer the time; and the converse. This erroneous idea
there can be no doubt that we should absolutely entertain in all cases,
but for our practical means of correcting the impression — such as
clocks,
and the movements of the heavenly bodies — whose revolutions, after
all,
we only assume to be regular. Space is precisely analogous with time. By objects alone
we estimate
space; and we might as rationally define it "the succession of
objects,"
as time "the succession of events." But, as before. — The fact, that we
have no other means of estimating space than objects afford us — tends
to
the false idea that objects are space — that the more numerous
the
objects the greater the space; and the converse; and this erroneous
impression
we should receive in all cases, but for our practical means of
correcting
it — such as yard measures, and other conventional measures, which
resolve
themselves, ultimately, into certain natural standards, such as
barley-corns,
which, after all, we only assume to be regular. The mind can form some conception of the
distance (however vast)
between the sun and Uranus, because there are ten objects which
(mentally)
intervene — the planets Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Ceres, Vesta,
Juno,
Pallas, Jupiter, and Saturn. These objects serve as stepping-stones to
the mind; which, nevertheless, is utterly lost in the attempt at
establishing
a notion of the interval between Uranus and Sirius; lost — yet,
clearly, not on account of the mere distance (for why should
we
not conceive the abstract idea of the distance, two miles, as readily
as
that of the distance, one?) but, simply, because between Uranus and
Sirius
we happen to know that all is void. And, from what I have already said,
it follows that this vacuity — this want of intervening points — will
cause to
fall short of the truth any notion we shall endeavor to form. In
fact,
having once passed the limits of absolutely practical adrneasurement,
by
means of [column 2:] intervening objects, our ideas of
distances are one; they
have no variation. Thus, in truth, we think of the interval between
Uranus
and Sirius precisely as of that between Saturn and Uranus, or of that
between
any one planet and its immediate neighbor. We fancy, indeed, that we
form
different conceptions of the different intervals; but we mistake the
mathematical
knowledge of the fact of the interval, for an idea of the interval
itself. It is the principle for which I contend that
instinctively leads the
artist, in painting what he technically calls distances, to introduce a
succession of objects between the "distance" and the foreground. Here
it
will be said that the intention is the perspective comparison of the
size of the objects. Several men, for example, are painted, one
beyond
the other, and it is the diminution of apparent size by which the idea
of distance is conveyed; — this, I say, will be asserted. But here is
mere
confusion of the two notions of abstract and comparative distance. By
this
process of diminishing figures, we are, it is true, made to feel that
one
is at a greater distance than the other, but the idea we thence glean
of
abstract distance, is gleaned altogether from the mere succession of
the
figures, independently of magnitude. To prove this, let the men be
painted
out, and rocks put in their stead. A rock may be of any size.
The
farthest may be, for all we know, really, and not merely optically, the
least. The effect of absolute distance will remain untouched, and the
sole
result will be confusion of idea respecting the comparative distances
from
rock to rock. But the thing is clear: if the artist's intention is
really,
as supposed, to convey the notion of great distance by perspective
comparison
of the size of men at different intervals, we must, at least,
grant
that he puts himself to unnecessary trouble in the multiplication of
his
men. Two would answer all the purposes of two thousand; — one
in
the foreground as a standard, and one in the background, of a size
corresponding
with the artist's conception of the distance. In looking at the setting sun in a mountainous region,
or with a city
between the eye and the orb, we see it of a certain seeming magnitude,
and we do not perceive that this seeming [page 493:] magnitude
varies when we look
at the same sun setting on the horizon of the ocean. In either case we
have a chain of objects by which to appreciate a certain distance; — in
the former case this chain is formed of mountains and towers — in the
latter,
of ripples, or specks of foam; but the result does not present any
difference.
In each case we get the same idea of the distance, and consequently of
the size. This size we have in our mind when we look at the sun in his
meridian place; but this distance we have not — for no objects
intervene.
That is to say, the distance falls short, while the size remains. The
consequence
is, that, to accord with the diminished distance, the mind
instantaneously
diminishes the size. The conversed experiment gives, of course, a
conversed
result. Dr. Lardner's "so it is" is amusing to say no more. In
general, the
mere natural philosophers have the same exaggerated notions of the
perplexity
of metaphysics. And, perhaps, it is this looming of the latter
science
which has brought about the vulgar derivation of its name from the
supposed
superiority to physics — as if XXXXXXX had the force of super physicam.
The fact is, that Aristotle's Treatise on Morals is next in succession
to his Book on Physics, and this he supposes the rational order of
study.
His Ethics, therefore, commence with the words XXXXXX — whence we take
the
word, Metaphysics. That Leibnitz, who was fond of interweaving even his
mathematical, with
ethical speculations, making a medley rather to be wondered at than
understood — that he made no attempt at amending the common
explanation of
the difference
in the sun's apparent size — this, perhaps, is more really a matter for
marvel than that Dr. Lardner should look upon the common explanation as
only too "learned" and too "metaphysical" for an audience in
Yankee-Land. That "truth is stranger than fiction" is an adage for
ever in the mouth
of the [column 2:] uninformed, who quote it as they would quote
any other
proposition
which to them seemed paradoxical — for the mere point of the paradox.
People
who read never quote the saying, because sheer truisms are never worth
quoting. A friend of mine once read me a long poem on the planet
Saturn.
He was a man of genius, but his lines were a failure of course, since
the
realities of the planet, detailed in the most prosaic language, put to
shame and quite overwhelm all the accessory fancies of the poet. If, however, the solemn adage in question should ever
stand in need
of support, here is a book will support it.* Some richly imaginative thoughts, skilfully expressed,
might be culled
from this poem† — which, as a whole, is nothing
worth. E. g — And I can hear the click of that old gate, As once again, amid the chirping yard, I see the summer rooms open and dark. and — — How calm the night moves on! and yet, In the dark morrow that behind those hills Lies sleeping now, who knows what horror lurks? The great force derivable from repetition of particular
vowel sounds
in verse, is little understood, or quite overlooked, even by those
versifiers
who dwell most upon what is commonly called "alliteration." How richly
melodious are these lines of Milton's "Comus!" May thy brimmed waves for this Their full tribute never miss — May thy billows roll ashore The beryl and the golden ore! — and yet it seems especially singular that, with the full and noble volume of the long o resounding in his ears, the poet should have written, in the last line, "beryl," when he might so well have written "onyx." [page 494:] Moore has been noted for the number and appositeness, as
well as novelty
of his similes, and the renown thus acquired is indicial of his
deficiency
in that noble merit — the noblest of all. No poet thus distinguished
was
ever richly ideal. Pope and Cowper are instances. Direct similes are of
too palpate: artificial a character to be artistical. An artist will
always
contrive to weave his illustrations into the metaphorical form. Moore has a peculiar facility in prosaically telling a
poetical story.
By this I mean that he preserves the tone and method of arrangement of
a prose relation, and thus obtains great advantage, in important
points,
over his more stilted compeers. His is no poetical style (such
as
the French have — a distinct style for a distinct purpose) but an easy
and
ordinary prose manner, which rejects the licenses because it does not
require
them, and is merely ornamented into poetry. By of this manner
he
is enabled to encounter, effectually, details which would baffle any
other
versifier of the day, and at which Lamartine would stand aghast. In
"Alciphron"
we see this exemplified. Here the minute and perplexed incidents of the
descent into the pyramid, are detailed, in verse, with quite as much
precision
and intelligibility as could be attained even by the coolest prose of
Mr.
Jeremy Bentham. Moore has vivacity; verbal and constructive dexterity; a
musical ear
not sufficiently cultivated; a vivid fancy; an epigrammatic spirit; and
a fine taste — as far as it goes. The defenders of this pitiable stuff, uphold it on the
ground of its
truthfulness. Taking the thesis into question, this truthfulness is the
one overwhelming defect. An original idea that — to laud the accuracy
with
which the stone is hurled that knocks us in the head. A little less
accuracy
might have left us more brains. And here are critics absolutely
commending
the truthfulness with which only the disagreeable is conveyed! In my
view,
if an artist must paint decayed cheeses, is merit will lie in their
looking
as little like decayed cheeses as possible. (To be continued.)
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