Marginalia — 1902 historical reading — reading text

accordance with this definition, absurd as it is — the terms Dichtkunst, the art of fiction, and Dichten, to feign — which are generally used for poetry and to make verses. ————— Diana's Temple at Ephesus having been burnt on the night in which Alexander was born, some person observed that “it was no wonder, since, at the period of the conflagration, she was gossiping at Pella.” Cicero commends this as a witty conceit — Plutarch condems it as senseless — and this is the one point in which I agree with the biographer. ————— Brown, in his “Amusements,” speaks of having transfused the blood of an ass into the veins of an astrological quack — and there can be no doubt that one of Hugo's progenitors was the man. VI. [Democratic Review, April, 1846.] IN general, our first impressions are the true ones — the chief difficulty is in making sure which are the first. In early youth we read a poem, for instance, and are enraptured with it. At manhood we are assured by our reason that we had no reason to be enraptured. But some years elapse, and we return to our primitive admiration, just as a matured judgment enables us precisely to see what and why we admired. Thus, as individuals, we think in cycles, and may, from the frequency or infrequency of our revolutions about the various thought-centres, form an accurate estimate of the advance of our thought toward maturity. It is really wonderful to observe how closely, in all the essentials of truth, the child-opinion coincides with that of the man proper — of the man at his best. And as with individuals, so, perhaps, with mankind. When the world begins to return, frequently, to its first impressions, we shall then be warranted in looking for the millennium — or whatever it is: — we may safely take it for granted that we are attaining our maximum of wit, and of the happiness which is thence to ensue. The indications of such a return are, at present, like the visits of angels — but we have them now and then — in the case, for example, of credulity. The philosophic, of late days, are distinguished by that very facility in belief which was the characteristic of the illiterate half a century ago. Skepticism in regard to apparent miracles, is not, as formerly, an evidence either of superior wisdom or knowledge. In a word, the wise now believe — yesterday they would not believe — and day before yesterday (in the time of Strabo, for example) they believed, exclusively, anything and everything: — here, then, is one of the indicative cycles completed — indicative of the world's approach to years of discretion. I mention Strabo merely as an exception to the rule of his epoch — (just as one in a hurry for an illustration, might describe Mr. So and So to be as witty or as amiable as Mr. This and That is not) — for so rarely did men reject in Strabo's time, and so much more rarely did they err by rejection, that the skepticism of this philosopher must be regarded as one of the most remarkable anomalies on record. ————— I can not help believing, with Gosselin, that Hanno proceeded only so far as Cape Nun. ————— The drugging system, in medical practice, seems to me but a modification of the idea of penance, which has haunted the world since its infancy — the idea that the voluntary endurance of pain is atonement for sin. In this, the primary phase of the folly, there is at least a show of rationality. Man offends the Deity; thus appears to arise a necessity for retribution, or, more strictly, a desire, on the part of Deity, to punish. The self-infliction of punishment, then, seemed to include at once an acknowledgment of error, zeal in anticipating the will of God, and expiation of the wrong. The thought, thus stated, however absurd, is not unnatural; but the principle being gradually left out of sight, mankind at length found itself possessed of the naked idea that, in general, the suffering of mankind is grateful to the Creator: — hence the Dervishes, the Simeons, the monastic hair-cloths and shoe-peas, the present Puritanism and cant about the “mortification of the flesh.” From this point the conceit makes another lapse; the fancy took root, that in the voluntary endurance of ill there existed in the abstract a tendency to good; and it was but in pursuance of this fancy that, in sickness, remedies were selected in the ratio of their repulsiveness. How else shall we account for the fact, that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, the articles of the Materia Medica are distasteful? Mr. Henry Cary is introduced to us, in the Appendix to “The Poets and Poetry of America,” as “Mr. Henry Carey, author of ‘Poems by John Waters,’ originally printed in the ‘New York American’ and the ‘Knickerbocker Magazine.’ ” Mr. Cary's works have appeared only in the periodicals mentioned — that is, I believe they have not yet been collected in volume form. His poems (not so good as his prose by any means) are easily and pointedly written, neatly versified, and full of life and fancy. Doctor Griswold has made a mistake in attributing to our Mr. Cary the Anacreontic entitled “Old Wine to Drink,” quoted in the Appendix of the “large book.” It is as an essayist that Mr. C. is best entitled to distinction. He has written some of the happiest Magazine papers of the Spectator class, in the language. All that he does evinces a keen relish for old English literature, and a scholastic taste. His style is pure, correct, and vigorous — a judicious mixture of the Swift and Addison manners — although he is by no means either Swift or Addison. In a well written memoir of him, furnished for “The Broadway Journal,” the writer says: — “His essays are all short, as essays should be, of the Addisonian dimensions and density of expression. His sentences are the most perfect in the language; it would be a vain task to hunt through them all for a superfluous conjunction. They are too perfect to be peculiar, for writers are distinguished from each other more by their faults than their excellences . ... He can endure nothing that wears a slovenly aspect. His lawns must be neatly trimmed and his gardens weeded. ... . He has not written much about flowers, but we should think that his favorite was a Camelia. He is in some sort a Sam. Rogers, but more particular ... His descriptions have a delicacy of finish like the carvings of Grinling Gibbons. They remind you as forcibly of Nature as anything short of Nature can; but they never deceive you; you know all the while that it is not a reality that affects you.” Of course in all this there is exaggeration. The commentator seems to have had in view the twofold object of writing, himself, a John Waterish essay, and doing full justice to his personal friend. The only trouble is, that the justice is a little too full. It will not quite do to say that Mr. Cary's sentences are the “most perfect” in the language — first, because “perfect” admits of no degrees of comparison, and secondly, because the sentences in question are perfect by no means. For example — “It would be in vain,” says the critic, “to hunt through them all for a superfluous conjunction” — immediately afterwards quoting from Mr. C. the following words: “We paid our visit to the incomparable ruins of the castle and then proceeded to retrace our steps, and examining our wheels at every post-house, reached the Hotel D’Angleterre. ... It was well filled, and yet the number,” etc. Now the conjunctions which I have italicized are pleonastic. These things, however, are trifles; John Waters deserves all the spirit if not the whole letter of his friend's commendation. ————— “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? ————— Not long ago I pointed out in “The New-York Mirror,” and more fully, since, in “The Broadway Journal,” a very decided case of similarity between “A Death-Bed,” by Mr. Aldrich, and “The Death-Bed,” by Thomas Hood. The fact is I thought, and still think, that, in this instance, Mr. A. has been guilty of plagiarism in the first degree. A short piece of his headed “Lines” is not demonstrably a plagiarism — because there seems scarcely any design of concealing the source — but I quote the poem as evidence of Mr. A's aptitude at imitation. Leaving the original out of sight, every one would admit the beauty of the parallel. LINES. Underneath this marble cold, Lies a fair girl turned to mould; One whose life was like a star, Without toil or rest to mar Its divinest harmony — Its God-given serenity. One whose form of youthful grace, One whose eloquence of face Matched the rarest gem of thought By the antique sculptors wrought: Yet her outward charms were less Than her winning gentleness — Her maiden purity of heart — Which without the aid of art, Did in coldest hearts inspire Love that was not all desire. Spirit form with starry eyes That seem to come from Paradise — Beings of ethereal birth — Near us glide sometimes on earth, Like glimmering moonbeams dimly seen, Glancing down through alleys green; Of such was she who lies beneath This silent effigy of grief. Wo is me when I recall One sweet word by her let fall — One sweet word but half expressed — Downcast eyes told all the rest. To think beneath this marble cold Lies that fair girl turned to mould. 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. Still, what I mean to say is, that Mr. Aldrich's penchant for imitation does not show him to be incapable of poetry — as some have asserted. It is my own belief that, at some future day, he will distinguish himself as a lyrist. ————— There can be no doubt, that up to this period the Bushites have had the best of the battle. The “Anastasia”(1) is lucidly, succinctly, vigorously, and logically written, and proves, in my opinion, everything that it attempts — provided that we admit the imaginary axioms from which it starts; and this is as much as can be well said of any theological disquisition under the sun. It might be hinted, too, in reference as well to Professor Bush, as to his opponents, “que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce qu’elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu’elles nient.” Taylor, who wrote so ingeniously the “Natural History of Enthusiasm,” might have derived many a valuable hint from the study of Professor Bush. ————— A good title to a very respectable book.(1) The endeavor to convey Rome only by those impressions which would be naturally made upon an American, gives the work a certain air of originality — the rarest of all qualities in descriptions of the Eternal City. The style is pure and sparkling, although occasionally flippant and dilettantesque. The tone of remark is much in the usual way — selon les règles — never very exceptionable, and certainly never very profound. ————— 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?” ————— “The artist belongs to his work, not the work to the artist.” —