|
[page 529, continued:]
|
|
|
CI.
Macaulay, in his just admiration of
Addison, over-rates
Tickell, and does not seem to be aware how much the author of the
"Elegy"
is indebted to French models. Boileau, especially, he robbed without
mercy,
and without measure. A flagrant example is here. Boileau has the lines:
En vain contre "Le Cid" un
ministre se
ligue;
Tout Paris pour Chiméne a les yeux de
Rodrigue. |
Tickell thus appropriates them:
While the charm 'd reader with thy
thought
complies,
And views thy Rosamond with Henry's eyes. [page 530:] |
CII.
Stolen, body and soul, (and spoilt in
the stealing)
from a paper of the same title in the "European Magazine" for
December,
1817. Blunderingly done throughout, and must have cost more trouble
than
an original thing. This makes paragraph 33 of my "Chapter on
American
Cribbage." The beauty of these exposés must lie in
the
precision and unanswerability with which they are given — in day and
date
— in chapter and verse and, above all, in an unveiling of the minute
trickeries
by which the thieves hope to disguise their stolen wares. I must soon a
tale unfold, and an astonishing tale it will be. The C—— bears away
the
bell. The ladies, however, should positively not be guilty of these
tricks;
— for one has never the heart to unmask or deplume them. After all,
there
is this advantage in purloining one's magazine papers; — we are never
forced
to dispose of them under prime cost.
CIII.
Amare et sapere vix
Deo conceditur, as
the acute Seneca well observes.
However acute might be Seneca, still
he was not sufficiently
acute to say this. The sentence is often attributed to him, but is not
to be found in his works. "Semel insanavimu somnes,") a phrase
often
quoted, is invariably placed to the account of Horace, and with equal
error.
It is from the "De Honesto Amore" of the Italian Mantuanus,
who
has
| Id commune malum;
semel
insanavimus omnes. |
In the title, "De Honesto Amore," by the
way,
Mantuanus misconceives the force of honestus — just as Dryden
does
in his translation of Virgil's
| Et quocunque Deus
circum
caput egit honestum; |
which he renders
| On whate'er side he
turns his honest face. |
CIV.
No; — he fell by his own fame. Like
Richmann, he
was blasted by the fires himself had sought, and obtained, from the
Heavens.
CV.
How overpowering a style is that of
Curran! I use
"overpowering" in the sense of the English exquisite. I can imagine
nothing
more distressing than the extent of his eloquence. [page 531:]
CVI.
How radically has "Undine" been
misunderstood! Beneath
its obvious meaning there runs an under-current, simple, quite
intelligible,
artistically managed, and richly philosophical.
From internal evidence afforded by
the book itself,
I gather that the author suffered from the ills of a mal-arranged
marriage
— the bitter reflections thus engendered, inducing the fable.
In the contrast between the artless,
thoughtless,
and careless character of Undine before possessing a soul, and her
serious,
enwrapt, and anxious yet happy condition after possessing it, — a
condition
which, with all its multiform disquietudes, she still feels to be
preferable
to her original state, — Fouqué has beautifully painted the
difference
between the heart unused to love, and the heart which has
received
its inspiration.
The jealousies which follow the
marriage, arising
from the conduct of Bertalda, are but the natural troubles of love; but
the persecutions of Kuhleborn and the other water-spirits who take
umbrage
at Huldbrand's treatment of his wife, are meant to picture certain
difficulties
from the interference of relations in conjugal matters — difficulties
which
the author has himself experienced. The warning of Undine to Huldbrand
— "Reproach me not upon the waters, or we part forever" — is intended
to
embody the truth that quarrels between man and wife are seldom or never
irremediable unless when taking place in the presence of third parties.
The second wedding of the knight with his gradual forgetfulness of
Undine,
and Undine's intense grief beneath the waters — are dwelt upon so
pathetically
— so passionately — that there can be no doubt of the author's personal
opinions on the subject of second marriages — no doubt of his deep
personal
interest in the question. How thrillingly are these few and simple
words
made to convey his belief that the mere death of a beloved wife does
not
imply a separation so final or so complete as to justify an union with
another!
The fisherman had
loved Undine with
exceeding tenderness, and it was a doubtful conclusion to his mind that
the mere disappearance of his beloved child could be properly viewed as
her death.
This is where the old man is
endeavoring to dissuade
the knight from wedding Bertalda. [page 532:]
I cannot say whether the novelty of
the conception
of "Undine," or the loftiness and purity of its ideality, or the
intensity
of its pathos, or the rigor of its simplicity, or the high artistical
ability
with which all are combined into a well-kept, well-motivirt
whole
of absolute unity of effect — is the particular chiefly to be admired.
How delicate and graceful are the
transitions from
subject to subject! — a point severely testing the autorial power — as,
when, for the purposes of the story, it becomes necessary that the
knight,
with Undine and Bertalda, shall proceed down the Danube. An ordinary
novelist
would have here tormented both himself and his readers, in his search
for
a sufficient motive for the voyage. But, in a fable such as "Undine,"
how
all-sufficient — how well in keeping — appears the simple motive
assigned!
—
In this grateful
union of friendship
and affection, winter came and passed away; and spring, with its
foliage
of tender green, and its heaven of softest blue, succeeded to gladden
the
hearts of the three inmates of the castle. What wonder, then, that
its
storks and swallows inspired them also with a disposition to travel?
CVII.
I have at length attained the last
page, which is
a thing to thank God for; and all this may be logic, but I am sure it
is
nothing more. Until I get the means of refutation, however, I must be
content
to say, with the Jesuits, Le Sueur and Jacquier, that "I acknowledge
myself
obedient to the decrees of the Pope against the motion of the Earth."
CVIII.
Not so: — The first number of the
"Gentleman's Magazine"
was published on the first of January, 1731; but long before this — in
1681 — there appeared the "Monthly Recorder" with all the magazine
features.
I have a number of the "London Magazine," dated 1760; — commenced 1732,
at least, but I have reason to think much earlier.
CIX.
''Rhododaphne'' (who wrote it?) is
brim-full of music:
— e. g.
By living streams, in sylvan shades,
Where wind and wave symphonious make
Rich melody, the youths and maids
No more with choral music wake
Lone Echo from her tangled brake. [page
533:] |
CX.
I have just finished the "Mysteries
of Paris" — a
work of unquestionable power — a museum of novel and ingenious incident
— a paradox of childish folly and consummate skill. It has this point
in
common with all the "convulsive" fictions — that the incidents are consequential
from
the premises, while the premises themselves are laughably incredible.
Admitting,
for instance, the possibility of such a man as Rodolphe, and of such a
state of society as would tolerate his perpetual interference, we have
no difficulty in agreeing to admit the possibility of his accomplishing
all that is accomplished. Another point which distinguishes the Sue
school,
is the total want of the ars celare artem. In effect the
writer
is always saying to the reader, "Now — in one moment — you shall see
what
you shall see. I am about to produce on you a remarkable impression.
Prepare
to have your imagination, or your pity, greatly excited." The wires are
not only not concealed, but displayed as things to be admired, equally
with the puppets they set in motion. The result is, that in perusing,
for
example, a pathetic chapter in the "Mysteries of Paris" we say to
ourselves,
without shedding a tear — "Now, here is something which will be sure to
move every reader to tears." The philosophical motives attributed to
Sue
are absurd in the extreme. His first, and in fact his sole object, is
to
make an exciting, and therefore saleable book. The cant (implied or
direct)
about the amelioration of society, etc., is but a very usual trick
among
authors, whereby they hope to add such a tone of dignity or
utilitarianism
to their pages as shall gild the pill of their licentiousness. The ruse
is even more generally employed by way of engrafting a meaning upon the
otherwise unintelligible. In the latter case, however, this ruse
is an after-thought, manifested in the shape of a moral, either
appended
(as in Æsop) or dovetailed into the body of the work, piece by
piece,
with great care, but never without leaving evidence of its
after-insertion.
The translation (by C. H. Town) is
very imperfect,
and, by a too literal rendering of idioms, contrives to destroy the
whole tone of
the original. Or, perhaps, I should say a too literal rendering of local
peculiarities of phrase. There is one point (never yet, I believe,
noticed) which, obviously, should be considered in translation. [page
533:] We should so render the original that the version
should
impress the people for whom it is intended, just as the original
impresses
the people for whom it (the original) is intended. Now, if we
rigorously
translate mere local idiosyncrasies of phrase (to say nothing of
idioms)
we inevitably distort the author's designed impression. We are sure to
produce a whimsical, at least, if not always a ludicrous, effect — for
novelties, in a case of this kind, are incongruities — oddities. A
distinction,
of course, should be observed between those peculiarities of phrase
which
appertain to the nation and those which belong to the author himself —
for these latter will have a similar effect upon all nations,
and
should be literally translated. It is merely the general inattention to
the principle here proposed, which has given rise to so much
international
depreciation, if not positive contempt, as regards literature. The
English
reviews, for example, have abundant allusions to what they call the
"frivolousness"
of French letters — an idea chiefly derived from the impression made by
the French manner merely — this manner, again, having in it
nothing essentially frivolous, but affecting all foreigners as
such (the
English especially)
through that oddity of which I have already assigned the origin. The
French
return the compliment, complaining of the British gaucherie in
style.
The phraseology of every nation has a taint of drollery about
it
in the ears of every other nation speaking a different tongue. Now, to
convey the true spirit of an author, this taint should be corrected in
translation. We should pride ourselves less upon literality and more
upon
dexterity at paraphrase. Is it not clear that, by such dexterity, a
translation may be made to convey to a foreigner a juster conception of
an original than could the original itself ?
The distinction I have made between
mere idioms (which, of
course, should never be literally rendered) and "local
idiosyncrasies
of phrase," may be exemplified by a passage at page 291 of Mr.
Town's
translation:
Never mind! Go in
there! You will take
the cloak of Calebasse. You will wrap yourself in it, etc., etc.
These are the words of a lover to his
mistress, and
are meant kindly, although imperatively. They embody a local
peculiarity
— a French peculiarity of phrase, and (to French ears) convey
nothing [page
535:] dictatorial. To our own, nevertheless, they sound like
the command of a military officer to his subordinate, and thus produce
an effect quite different from that intended. The translation, in such
case, should be a bold paraphrase. For example: — "I must insist upon
your
wrapping yourself in the cloak of Calebasse."
Mr. Town's version of "The Mysteries
of Paris," however,
is not objectionable on the score of excessive literality alone, but
abounds
in misapprehensions of the author's meaning. One of the strangest
errors
occurs at page 368, where we read:
"From a wicked,
brutal savage and riotous
rascal, he has made me a kind of honest man by saying only two words to
me; but these words, 'voyez vous,' were like magic."
Here "voyez vous" are made to be the
two magical
words spoken; but the translation should run — "these words, do you
see?
were like magic." The actual words described as producing the magical
effect
are "heart" and "honor."
Of similar character is a curious
mistake at page
245.
"He is a gueux
fini and an attack
will not save him," added Nicholas. "A — yes," said the widow.
Many readers of Mr. Town's
translation have no doubt
been puzzled to perceive the force or relevancy of the widow's "A —
yes"
in this case. I have not the original before me, but take it for
granted
that it runs thus, or nearly so: — "ll est un gueux fini et un
assaut
ne l'intimidera pas." "Un — oui!" dit la veuve.
It must be observed that, in
vivacious French colloquy,
the oui seldom implies assent to the letter, but generally to
the
spirit, of a proposition. Thus a Frenchman usually says "yes" where an
Englishman would say "no." The latter's reply, for example, to the
sentence
"An attack will not intimidate him," would be "No" — that is to say, "I
grant you that it would not." The Frenchman, however, answers "Yes" —
meaning,
"I agree with what you say — it would not." Both replies, of
course,
reaching the same point, although by opposite routes. With this
understanding,
it will be seen that the true version of the widow's "Un — oui"
should be, "One attack, I grant you, might not," and that this is
the version becomes apparent when we read the words immediately
following
— "but every day — every day it is hell!" [page
536:]
An instance of another class of even
more reprehensible
blunders, is to be found on page 297, where Bras-Rouge is made to say
to
a police officer — "No matter; it is not of that I complain; every
trade
has its disagreements." Here, no doubt, the French is désagrémens
— inconveniences — disadvantages — unpleasantnesses. Désagrémens
conveys
disagreements not even so nearly as, in Latin, religio implies
religion.
I was not a little surprised, in
turning over these
pages, to come upon the admirable, thrice admirable story called "Gringalet
et Coupe en Deux," which is related by Pique Vinaigre to
his
companions in La Force. Rarely have I read anything of which
the
exquisite skill so delighted me. For my soul I could not
suggest
a fault in it — except, perhaps, that the intention of telling a very
pathetic story is a little too transparent.
But I say that I was surprised in
coming upon
this story — and I was so, because one of its points has been
suggested
to M. Sue by a tale of my own. Coupe en Deux has an ape
remarkable
for its size, strength, ferocity, and propensity to imitation. Wishing
to commit a murder so cunningly that discovery would be impossible, the
master of this animal teaches it to imitate the functions of a barber,
and incites it to cut the throat of a child, under the idea that, when
the murder is discovered, it will be considered the uninstigated deed
of
the ape.
On first seeing this, I felt
apprehensive that some
of my friends would accuse me of plagiarising from it my "Murders in
the
Rue Morgue." But I soon called to mind that this latter was first
published
in "Graham's Magazine" for April, 1841. Some years ago, "The Paris
Charivari"
copied my story with complimentary comments; objecting, however, to the
Rue
Morgue on the ground that no such street (to the Charivari's
knowledge)
existed in Paris. I do not wish, of course, to look upon M. Sue's
adaptation
of my property in any other light than that of a compliment. The
similarity may have been entirely accidental.
CXI.
Has any one observed the excessively
close resemblance
in subject, thought, general manner and particular point, which this
clever
composition* bears to the "Audibras [[Hudibras]]" of Butler? [page
537:]
CXII.
The à priori reasoners
upon government
are, of all plausible people, the most preposterous. They only argue
too
cleverly to permit my thinking them silly enough to be themselves
deceived
by their own arguments. Yet even this is possible; for there is
something
in the vanity of logic which addles a man's brains. Your true logician
gets, in times, to be logicalized, and then, so far as regards himself,
the universe is one word. A thing, for him, no longer exists.
He
deposits upon a sheet of paper a certain assemblage of syllables, and
fancies
that their meaning is riveted by the act of deposition. I am serious in
the opinion that some such process of thought passes through the mind
of
the "practised" logician, as he makes note of the thesis proposed. He
is
not aware that he thinks in this way — but, unwittingly, he so thinks.
The syllables deposited acquire, in his view, a new character. While
afloat
in his brain, he might have been brought to admit the possibility that
these syllables were variable exponents of various phases of thought;
but
he will not admit this if he once gets them upon the paper.
In a single page of "Mill," I find
the word "force"
employed four times; and each employment varies the idea. The fact is
that à
priori argument is much worse than useless except in the
mathematical
sciences, where it is possible to obtain precise meanings. If
there
is any one subject in the world to which it is utterly and radically
inapplicable,
that subject is Government. The identical arguments used to
sustain
Mr. Bentham's positions might, with little exercise of ingenuity, be
made
to overthrow them; and, by ringing small changes on the words
"leg-of-mutton,"
and "turnip" (changes so gradual as to escape detection,) I
could
"demonstrate" that a turnip was, is, and of right ought to be, a
leg-of-mutton.
CXIII.
The concord of sound-and-sense
principle was never
better exemplified than in these lines*: —
Ast amæns charæ thalamum
puellæ
Deserit flens, et tibi verba dicit
Aspera amplexu teneræ cupito a —
— vulsus amicæ. [page 538:] |
CXIV.
Miss Gould has much in common with
Mary Howitt; —
the characteristic trait of each being a sportive, quaint, epigrammatic
grace, that keeps clear of the absurd by never employing itself upon
very
exalted topics. The verbal style of the two ladies is identical. Miss
Gould
has the more talent of the two, but is somewhat the less original. She
has occasional flashes of a far higher order of merit than appertains
to
her ordinary manner. Her "Dying Storm" might have been written by
Campbell.
CXV.
Cornelius Webbe is one of the
best of that
numerous school of extravaganzists who sprang from the ruins of Lamb.
We
must be in perfectly good humor, however, with ourselves and all the
world,
to be much pleased with such works as "The Man about Town," in which
the
harum-scarum, hyperexcursive mannerism is carried to an excess which is
frequently fatiguing.
CXVI.
Nearly, if not quite the best "Essay
on a Future
State."* The arguments called "Deductions from
our Reason,"
are,
rightly enough, addressed more to the feelings (a vulgar term
not
to be done without,) than to our reason. The arguments deduced
from
Revelation are (also rightly enough) brief. The pamphlet proves
nothing,
of course; its theorem is not to be proved.
CXVII.
The style is so involute,†
that one
cannot help fancying
it must be falsely constructed. If the use of language is to convey
ideas,
then it is nearly as much a demerit that our words seem to be, as that
they are, indefensible. A man's grammar, like Cæsar's wife, must
not only be pure, but above suspicion of impurity.
CXVIII.
It is the curse of a certain order of
mind, that
it can never rest satisfied with the consciousness of its ability to do
a thing. Not even is it content with doing it. It must both know and
show
how it was done. [page 539:]
CXIX.
Not so: — a gentleman, with a pug
nose is a contradiction
in terms. — "Who can live idly and without manual labor, and will bear
the port, charge and countenance of a gentleman, he alone
should
be called master and be taken for a gentleman." — Sir Thomas
Smith's
"Commonwealth of England."
CXX.
Here is something at which I find it
impossible not
to laugh;* and yet, I laugh without knowing why.
That incongruity is
the
principle of all nonconvulsive laughter, is to my mind as clearly
demonstrated
as any problem in the "Principia Mathematica;" but here I cannot trace
the incongruous. It is there, I know. Still I do not see it. In the
meantime
let me laugh.
CXXI.
So violent was the
state of parties
in England, that I was assured by several that the Duke of Marlborough
was a coward and Pope a fool. — Voltaire.
Both propositions have since been
very seriously
entertained, quite independently of all party-feeling. That Pope was a
fool, indeed seems to be an established point at present with the
Crazy-ites
— what else shall I call them?
CXXII.
Imitators are not, necessarily,
unoriginal — except
at the exact points of the imitation. Mr. Longfellow, decidedly the
most
audacious imitator in America, is markedly original, or, in other
words,
imaginative, upon the whole; and many persons have, from the latter
branch
of the fact, been at a loss to comprehend, and therefore, to believe,
the
former. Keen sensibility of appreciation — that is to say, the poetic sentiment
(in
distinction from the poetic power) leads almost inevitably to
imitation.
Thus all great poets have been gross imitators. It is, however, a mere non
distributio medii hence to infer, that all great imitators are
poets.
CXXIII.
With all his faults,
however, this
author is a man of respectable powers.
Thus discourses, of William
Godwin, the "London
Monthly Magazine," May, 1818. [page 540:]
CXXIV.
As a descriptive poet, Mr. Street is
to be highly
commended. He not only describes with force and fidelity — giving us a
clear conception of the thing described — but never describes what to
the
poet, should be nondescript. He appears, however, not at any time to
have
been aware that mere description is not poetry at all. We
demand
creation — [[Greek text:]] xxxx [[:Greek text]]. About Mr. Street there
seems to be no spirit. He is all matter — substance — what the chemists
would call "simple substance" — and exceedingly simple it is.
CXXV.
I never read a personally abusive
paragraph in the
newspapers, without calling to mind the pertinent query propounded by
Johnson
to Goldsmith: — "My dear Doctor, what harm does it do a man to call him
Holofernes?"
CXXVI.
Were I to consign these volumes,*
altogether, to
the hands of any very young friend of mine, I could not, in conscience,
describe them otherwise than as "tammulti, tam grandes, tam pretiosi
codices;" and it would grieve me much to add the "incendite
omnes
illas membranas."†
CXXVII.
In reading some books we occupy
ourselves chiefly
with the thoughts of the author; in perusing others, exclusively with
our
own. And this‡ is one of the "others" — a
suggestive book. But there
are
two classes of suggestive books — the positively and the negatively
suggestive.
The former suggest by what they say; the latter by what they might and
should have said. It makes little difference, after all. In either case
the true book-purpose is answered.
CXXVIII.
It is observable that, in his brief
account of the
Creation, Moses employs the words, Bara Elohim (the Gods created,)
no less than thirty times; using the noun in the plural with the verb
in
the singular. Elsewhere, however — in Deuteronomy, for example — he
employs
the singular, Eloah. [page 541:]
CXXIX.
It is a thousand pities that the puny
witticisms
of a few professional objectors should have power to prevent, even for
a year, the adoption of a name for our country. At present we have,
clearly,
none. There should be no hesitation about "Appalachia." In the first
place,
it is distinctive. "America"* is not, and can never be made so. We may
legislate as much as we please, and assume for our country whatever
name
we think right — but to us it will be no name, to any purpose for which
a name is needed, unless we can take it away from the regions which
employ
it at present. South America is "America," and will insist upon
remaining
so. In the second place "Appalachia" is indigenous, springing from one
of the most magnificent and distinctive features of the country itself.
Thirdly, in employing this word we do honor to the Aborigines, whom,
hitherto,
we have at all points unmercifully despoiled, assassinated and
dishonored.
Fourthly, the name is the suggestion of, perhaps, the most deservedly
eminent
among all the pioneers of American literature. It is but just that Mr.
Irving should name the land for which, in letters, he first established
a name. The last, and by far the most truly important consideration of
all, however, is the music of "Appalachia" itself; nothing could be
more
sonorous, more liquid, or of fuller volume, while its length is just
sufficient
for dignity. How the guttural "Alleghania" could ever have been
preferred
for a moment is difficult to conceive. I yet hope to find "Appalachia"
assumed.
CXXX.
The "British Spy" of Wirt seems an
imitation of the
"Turkish Spy," upon Which Montesquieu's "Persian Letters" are also
based.
Marana's work was in Italian — Doctor Johnson errs.
CXXXI.
M——, as a matter of course, would
rather be abused
by the critics, than not be noticed by them at all; but he is hardly to
be blamed for growling a little, now and then, over their criticisms —
just as a dog might do if pelted with bones. [page 542:]
CXXXII.
About the "Antigone," as about all
the ancient plays,
there seems to me a certain baldness, the result of
inexperience
in art, but which pedantry would force us to believe the result of a
studied
and supremely artistic simplicity. Simplicity, indeed, is a very
important
feature in all true art — but not the simplicity which we see
in
the Greek drama. That of the Greek sculpture is every thing that can be
desired, because here the art in itself is simplicity in itself and in
its elements. The Greek sculptor chiselled his forms from what he saw
before
him every day, in a beauty nearer to perfection than any work of any
Cleomenes
in the world. But in the drama, the direct, straightforward, un-German
Greek
had no Nature so immediately presented from which to make copy. He did
what he could — but I do not hesitate to say that that was exceedingly
little worth. The profound sense of one or two tragic, or rather,
melo-dramatic
elements (such as the idea of inexorable Destiny) — this sense gleaming
at intervals from out the darkness of the ancient stage, serves, in the
very imperfection of its development, to show, not the dramatic
ability,
but the dramatic inability of the ancients. In a word, the
simple
arts spring into perfection at their origin; the complex as inevitably
demand the long and painfully progressive experience of ages. To the
Greeks,
beyond doubt, their drama seemed perfection — it fully
answered,
to them, the dramatic end, excitement — and this fact is urged as proof
of their drama's perfection in itself. It need only be said, in reply,
that their art and their sense of art were, necessarily, on a level.
CXXXIII.
That man is not truly brave who is
afraid either
to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.
CXXXIV.
A corrupt and impious heart — a
merely prurient fancy
— a Saturnian brain in which invention has only the phosphorescent
glimmer
of rottenness.* Worthless, body and soul.
A foul reproach to the
nation that engendered and endures him — a fetid battener upon the
garbage
of thought — no man — a beast — a pig: Less scrupulous than a
carrion-crow,
and not very much less filthy than a Wilmer. [page 543:]
CXXXV.
If ever mortal "wreaked his thoughts
upon expression,"
it was Shelley. If ever poet sang — as a bird sings —
earnestly
— impulsively — with utter abandonment — to himself solely — and for
the
mere joy of his own song — that poet was the author of "The Sensitive
Plant."
Of art — beyond that which is instinctive with genius — he either had
little
or disdained all. He really disdained that Rule which is an
emanation
from Law, because his own soul was Law in itself. His rhapsodies are
but
the rough notes — the stenographic memoranda of poems — memoranda
which,
because they were all-sufficient for his own intelligence, he cared not
to be at the trouble of writing out in full for mankind. In all his
works
we find no conception thoroughly wrought. For this reason he is the
most
fatiguing of poets. Yet he wearies in saying too little rather than too
much. What in him, seems the diffuseness of one idea, is the
conglomerate
concision of many: and this species of concision it is, which renders
him
obscure. With such a man, to imitate was out of the question. It would
have served no purpose; for he spoke to his own spirit alone, which
would
have comprehended no alien tongue. Thus he was profoundly original. His
quaintness arose from intuitive perception of that truth to which Bacon
alone has given distinct utterance: — "There is no exquisite Beauty
which
has not some strangeness in its proportions." But whether obscure,
original,
or quaint, Shelley had no affectations. He was at all times
sincere.
From his ruins, there sprang
into existence,
affronting the heavens, a tottering and fantastic pagoda, in
which
the salient angels, tipped with mad jangling bells, were the
idiosyncratic faults of
the original — faults which cannot be considered such in view of his
purposes,
but which are monstrous when we regard his works as addressed to
mankind.
A "school" arose — if that absurd term must still be employed — a
school
— a system of rules — upon the basis of the Shelley who had
none.
Young men innumerable, dazzled with the glare and bewildered by the bizarrerie
of
the lightning that flickered through the clouds of "Alastor" had no
trouble
whatever in heaping up imitative vapors, but, for the lightning, were
forced
to be content with its spectrum, in which the bizarrerie appeared
without the fire. Nor were mature [page 544:]
minds
unimpressed by the contemplation of a greater and more mature; and
thus,
gradually, into this school of all Lawlessness — of obscurity,
quaintness
and exaggeration — were interwoven the out-of-place didacticism of
Wordsworth,
and the more anomalous metaphysicianism of Coleridge. Matters were now
fast verging to their worst; and at length, in Tennyson poetic
inconsistency
attained its extreme. But it was precisely this extreme (for the
greatest
truth and the greatest error are scarcely two points in a circle)
which,
following the law of all extremes, wrought in him (Tennyson) a natural
and inevitable revulsion; leading him first to contemn, and secondly to
investigate, his early manner, and finally to winnow, from its
magnificent
elements, the truest and purest of all poetical styles. But not even
yet
is the process complete; and for this reason in part, but chiefly on
account
of the mere fortuitousness of that mental and moral combination which
shall
unite in one person (if ever it shall) the Shelleyan abandon
and
the Tennysonian poetic sense, with the most profound Art (based both in
Instinct and Analysis) and the sternest Will properly to blend
and
rigorously to control all — chiefly, I say, because such combination of
seeming antagonisms will be only a "happy chance" — the world has never
yet seen the noblest poem which, possibly, can be composed.
CXXXVI.
It is not proper, (to use a
gentle word,)
nor does it seem courageous, to attack our foe by name in spirit and in
effect, so that all the world shall know whom we mean, while we say to
ourselves, "I have not attacked this man by name in the eye, and
according
to the letter, of the law" — yet how often are men who call
themselves
gentlemen, guilty of this meanness! We need reform at this point of our
Literary Morality: — very sorely too, at another — the system of
anonymous
reviewing. Not one respectable word can be said in defence of this most
unfair — this most despicable and cowardly practice.
CXXXVII.
To villify a great man is the
readiest way in which
a little man can himself attain greatness. The Crab might never have
become
a Constellation but for the courage it evinced in nibbling Hercules on
the heel.
CXXXVIII. [page 545:]
I hardly know how to account for the
repeated failures
of John Neal as regards the construction of his works. His art
is
great and of a high character — but it is massive and undetailed. He
seems
to be either deficient in a sense of completeness, or unstable in
temperament;
so that he becomes wearied with his work before getting it done. He
always
begins well — vigorously — startlingly — proceeds by fits — much at
random
— now prosing, now gossiping, now running away with his subject, now
exciting
vivid interest; but his conclusions are sure to be hurried and
indistinct;
so that the reader, perceiving a falling-off where he expects a climax,
is pained, and, closing the book with dissatisfaction, is in no mood to
give the author credit for the vivid sensations which have been aroused
during
the progress of perusal. Of all literary foibles the most fatal,
perhaps,
is that of defective climax. Nevertheless, I should be inclined to rank
John Neal first, or at all events second, among our men of indisputable
genius. Is it, or is it not a fact, that the air of
a Democracy
agrees better with mere Talent than with Genius?
CXXXIX.
Among the moralists who keep themselves erect by the
perpetual swallowing
of pokers, it is the fashion to decry the "fashionable" novels. These
works
have their demerits; but a vast influence which they exert for an
undeniable
good, has never yet been duly considered. "Ingenuos didicisse
fideliter libros, emollit
mores nec sinit esse feros." Now, the fashionable novels are just the
books
which most do circulate among the class unfashionable; and
their
effect in softening the worst callosities — in smoothing the most
disgusting
asperities of vulgarism, is prodigious. With the herd, to admire and to
attempt imitation are the same thing. What if, in this case, the
manners
imitated are frippery; better frippery than brutality — and, after all,
there is little danger that the intrinsic value of the sturdiest iron
will
be impaired by a coating of even the most diaphanous gilt.
CXL.
The ancients had at least half an
idea that we travelled
on horseback to heaven. See a passage of Passeri, "de animæ
transvectione''
— quoted by Caylus. See, also, many old tombs. [page
546:]
CXLI.
It is said in Isaiah, respecting
Idumea, that "none
shall pass through thee for ever and ever." Dr. Keith here* insists, as
usual, upon understanding the passage in its most strictly literal
sense.
He attempts to prove that neither Burckhardt nor Irby passed through
the
country — merely penetrating to Petra, and returning. And our Mr. John
Stephens entered Idumea with the deliberate design of putting the
question
to test. He wished to see whether it was meant that Idumea should not
be
passed through, and "accordingly," says he, "I passed through it from
one
end to the other." Here is error on all sides. In the first place, he
was
not sufficiently informed in the Ancient Geography to know that the
Idumea
which he certainly did pass through, is not the Idumea or
Edom,
intended in the prophecy — the latter lying much farther eastward. In
the
next place, whether he did or did not pass through the true Idumea — or
whether anybody, of late days, did or did not pass through it — is a
point
of no consequence either to the proof or to the disproof of the literal
fulfilment of the Prophecies. For it is quite a mistake on the part of
Dr. Keith — his supposition that travelling through Idumea is
prohibited
at all.
The words conceived to embrace the
prohibition, are
found in Isaiah 34:10, and are Lenetsach netsachim ein over bah: — literally
— Lenetsach, for an eternity; netsachim, of
eternities; ein, not; over, moving
about; bah, in it. That is to say; for an eternity of
eternities,
(there shall) not (be any one) moving about in it — not through
it.
The participle over refers to one moving to and fro, or up and
down,
and is the same term which is translated "current" as an epithet of
money,
in Genesis 23:16. The prophet means only that there shall be no mark of
life in the land — no living being there — no one moving up and down in
it. He refers merely to its general abandonment and desolation.
In the same way we have received an
erroneous idea
of the meaning of Ezekiel 35:7, where the same region is mentioned. The
common version runs: — "Thus will I make Mount Seir most desolate, and
cut off from it him that passeth out and him that returneth," — a
sentence
which Dr. Keith views as he does the one [page 547:]
from Isaiah; that is, he supposes it to forbid any travelling in Idumea
under penalty of death; instancing Burckhardt's death shortly after his
return, as confirming this supposition, on the ground that he died in
consequence
of the rash attempt.
Now the words of Ezekiel are: — Venathati
eth-har
Seir leshimmamah ushemamah, vehichrati mimmennu over vasal: — literally
— Venathati, and I will give; eth-har, the mountain;
Seir,
Seir; leshimmamah, for a desolation; ushemamah, and a
desolation, vehichrati, and
I will cut off; mimmennu, from it; over, him that
goeth; vasal, and him that returneth: — and I will give Mount
Seir
for an utter desolation,
and I will cut off from it him that passeth and repasseth therein.
The reference here is as in the preceding passage: allusion is made to
the inhabitants of the land, as moving about in it, and actively
employed
in the business of life. I am sustained in the translation of over
vasal by Gesenius S 5 — vol 2 — p. 570, Leo's Trans.: Compare,
also
Zachariah 7:14 and 9:8. There is something analogous in the
Hebrew-Greek
phrase, at Acts, 9:28 — [[Greek text:]] xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx [[:Greek text]]
— And he was with them in Jerusalem, coming in and going out. The Latin
versatus est is
precisely paraphrastic. The meaning is that Saul,
the new convert, was on intimate terms with the true believers in
Jerusalem;
moving about among them to and fro, or in and out.
CXLII.
The author of "Cromwell" does better
as a writer
of ballads than of prose. He has fancy, and a fine conception of
rhythm.
But his romantico-histories have all the effervescence of his verse,
without
its flavor. Nothing worse than his tone can be invented: —
turgid
sententiousness, involute, spasmodically straining after effect. And to
render matters worse, he is as thorough an unistylist as Cardinal
Chigi,
who boasted that he wrote with the same pen for half a century.
CXLIII.
Our "blues" are increasing in number
at a great rate;
and should be decimated, at the very least. Have we no critic with
nerve
enough to hang a dozen or two of them, in terrorem? He must
use
a silk-cord, of course — as they do, in Spain, with all grandees of the
blue blood
— of the "sangre azula." [page 548:]
CXLIV.
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For all the rhetorician's rules
Teach nothing but to name the tools. — HUDIBRAS.
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What these oft-quoted lines go to show is, that a
falsity
in verse will travel faster and endure longer than a falsity in prose.
The man who would sneer or stare at a silly proposition nakedly put,
will
admit that "there is a good deal in that" when "that'' is the
point
of an epigram shot into the ear. The rhetorician's rules — if they are
rules
— teach him not only to name his tools, but to use his tools, the
capacity
of his tools — their extent — their limit; and from an examination of
the
nature of the tools — (an examination forced on him by their constant
presence)
— force him, also, into scrutiny and comprehension of the material on
which
the tools are employed, and thus, finally, suggest and give birth to
new
material for new tools.
CXLV.
Among his eidola of the den,
the tribe, the
forum, the theatre, etc., Bacon might well have placed the great eidolon
of
the parlor (or of the wit, as I have termed it in one of the previous
Marginalia)
the idol whose worship blinds man to truth by dazzling him with the apposite.
But
what title could have been invented for that idol which has
propagated,
perhaps, more of gross error than all combined? — the one, I mean,
which
demands from its votaries that they reciprocate cause and effect —
reason
in a circle — lift themselves from the ground by pulling up their
pantaloons
— and carry themselves on their own heads, in hand-baskets, from
Beersheba
to Dan.
All — absolutely all the
argumentation which I have
seen on the nature of the soul, or of the Diety, seems to me nothing
but
worship of this unnameable idol. Pour savoir ce qu'est Dieu, says
Bielfeld, although nobody listens to the solemn truth, il faut
être
Dieu même — and to reason about the reason is of all things
the
most unreasonable. At least, he alone is fit to discuss the topic who
perceives
at a glance the insanity of its discussion.
CXLVI.
I believe it is Montaigne who says —
"People talk
about thinking, but, for my part I never begin to think until I sit
down
to write." A better plan for him would have been, never to sit down to
write until he had made an end of thinking. [page 549:]
CXLVII.
No doubt, the association of idea is
somewhat singular
— but I never can hear a crowd of people singing and gesticulating, all
together, at an Italian opera, without fancying myself at Athens,
listening
to that particular tragedy, by Sophocles, in which he introduces a full
chorus of turkeys, who set about bewailing the death of Meleager. It is
noticeable in this connexion, by the way, that there is not a goose in
the world who, in point of sagacity, would not feel itself insulted in
being compared with a turkey. The French seem to feel this. In Paris, I
am sure, no one would think of saying to Mr. F——, "What a goose you
are!"
— "Quel dindon tu es!" would be the phrase employed as
equivalent.
CXLVIII.
Alas! how many American critics
neglect the happy
suggestion of M. Timon — "que le ministre de L'Instruction Publique
doit lui-même savoir parler Français."
CXLIX.
It is folly to assert, as some at
present are fond
of asserting, that the Literature of any nation or age was ever injured
by plain speaking on the part of the Critics. As for American Letters,
plain-speaking about them is, simply, the one thing needed.
They
are in a condition of absolute quagmire — a quagmire, to use the words
of Victor Hugo, d'où on ne peut se tirer par des periphrases
— par des quemadmodums et des verumenimveros.
CL.
It is certainly very remarkable that
although destiny
is the ruling idea of the Greek drama, the word [[Greek text:]] xxxxx
[[Greek
text]] (Fortune) does not appear once in the whole Iliad.
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