Marginalia — 1902 historical reading — reading text

Novalis.(2) In nine cases out of ten it is pure waste of time to attempt extorting sense from a German apothegm; — or, rather, any sense and every sense may be extorted from all of them. If in the sentence above quoted, the intention is to assert that the artist is the slave of his theme, and must conform to it his thoughts, I have no faith in the idea, which appears to me that of an essentially prosaic intellect. In the hands of the true artist the theme, or “work,” is but a mass of clay, of which anything (within the compass of the mass and quality of the clay) may be fashioned at will or according to the skill of the workman. The clay is, in fact, the slave of the artist. It belongs to him. His genius, to be sure, is manifested, very distinctively, in the choice of the clay. It should be neither fine nor coarse, abstractly — but just so fine or so coarse — just so plastic or so rigid — as may best serve the purposes of the thing to be wrought — of the idea to be made out, or, more exactly, of the impression to be conveyed. There are artists, however, who fancy only the finest material, and who, consequently, produce only the finest ware. It is generally very transparent and excessively brittle. ————— I have not the slightest faith in Carlyle. In ten years — possibly in five — he will be remembered only as a butt for sarcasm. His linguistic Euphuisms might very well have been taken as prima facie evidence of his philosophic ones; they were the froth which indicated, first, the shallowness, and secondly, the confusion of the waters. I would blame no man of sense for leaving the works of Carlyle unread, merely on account of these Euphuisms; for it might be shown a priori that no man capable of producing a definite impression upon his age or race, could or would commit himself to such inanities and insanities. The book about “Hero-Worship” — is it possible that it ever excited a feeling beyond contempt? No hero-worshipper can possess anything within himself. That man is no man who stands in awe of his fellow-man. Genius regards genius with respect — with even enthusiastic admiration — but there is nothing of worship in the admiration, for it springs from a thorough cognizance of the one admired — from a perfect sympathy, the result of this cognizance; and it is needless to say, that sympathy and worship are antagonistic. Your hero-worshippers , for example — what do they know about Shakspeare? They worship him — rant about him — lecture about him — about him, him, and nothing else — for no other reason than that he is utterly beyond their comprehension. They have arrived at an idea of his greatness from the pertinacity with which men have called him great. As for their own opinion about him — they really have none at all. In general the very smallest of mankind are the class of men-worshippers. Not one out of this class has ever accomplished anything beyond a very contemptible mediocrity. Carlyle, however, has rendered an important service (to posterity, at least) in pushing rant and cant to that degree of excess which inevitably induces reaction. Had he not appeared we might have gone on for yet another century, Emerson-izing in prose, Wordsworth-izing in poetry, and Fourier-izing in philosophy, Wilson-izing in criticism — Hudson-izing and Tom O’Bedlam-izing in everything. The author of the “Sartor Resartus,” however, has overthrown the various arguments of his own order, by a personal reductio ad absurdum. Yet an Olympiad, perhaps, and the whole horde will be swept bodily from the memory of man — or be remembered only when we have occasion to talk of such fantastic tricks as, erewhile, were performed by the Abderites. ————— I can not help thinking Doctor Cheever's(1) “Common-Place-Book-of American Poetry” a most judicious selection — its taste tending entirely toward the didactic. It has the merit, however, of not belying its title, and is excessively common-place. Poets are by no means, necessarily, judges of poetry, but nothing is more certain than that, to be a judge of poetry, it is necessary to have at least the poetic sentiment, if not the poetic power — the “vision,” if not the “faculty divine.” Dr. Cheever, very evidently, has neither — I have now before me one of the most commendable pieces of verse which I have seen from his pen, and quote from it its best quatrain, which is undeniably forcible and pointed in expression: A life all ease is all abused: — O, precious grace that made thee wise To know; — affliction, rightly used, Is mercy in disguise. The greater part of the poem (which consists of thirty-eight quatrains) jogs along thus: Those duties were love's natural sphere: Our drooping flower I cherished so That still the more it asked my care The dearer still it grew . ————— 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 — ποιησις. 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. ————— As a commentator, Professor Anthon has evinced powers very unusual in men who devote their lives to the hortus siccus of classical lore. He has ventured to dismiss the pedant and look en homme du monde upon some of the most valued of the literary monuments of antiquity. The abundant Notes to his Classics will do him lasting honor among all who are qualified to give an opinion of his labors, or whose good word and will he would be likely to consider as worth having. His accuracy is extreme. I would stand by his decision in any mere matter of classical fact, in preference to that of any man in Europe, or elsewhere. Some time ago, an attempt was made to injure his reputation by a charge of plagiarism, instituted in reference to his most important work, the Classical Dictionary; and urged against such a book, the accusation, from its mere silliness, was not easily rebutted. The Classical Dictionary is little more than a summary of facts, and these facts are the common property of mankind. Professor Anthon's accusers would have acted with equal wisdom in charging Legendre with robbing Euclid. The multitudinous quotations of the Classical Dictionary are made verbatim (unless where difference of opinion has induced alteration) without an attempt at giving the extracted matter an air of originality by merely re-writing it, which is but too common among compilers. And for this virtue he has been reviled. No doubt he would have given more satisfaction, in certain quarters, had he thought more of his own mere literary reputation, and kept his eye less steadily fixed on the true purpose of compilations such as he has undertaken — for the purpose of making a useful book. His talents, nevertheless, have long ago placed him in a position at which he is left free to pursue this good purpose in his own manner, without fear of injuring his character as an original writer, in the opinion of any one having sense enough to understand that there is a point at which originality ceases to be a matter for commendation. The only noticeable demerit of Professor Anthon is diffuseness, sometimes running into Johnsonism, of style. The best specimen of his manner is to be found in an analysis of the Life and Writings of Cicero, prefacing an edition of the orator's Select Orations. This analysis occupies about forty pages of the book, and is so peculiarly Ciceronian, in point of fullness, and in other points, that I have sometimes thought it an intended imitation of the Brutus, sive de Claris Oratoribus. ————— With the aid of a lantern, I have been looking again at “Niagara and other Poems” (Lord only knows if that be the true title) — but “there's nothing in it:” — at least nothing of Mr. Lord's own — nothing which is not stolen — or, (more delicately,) transfused — transmitted. By the way, Newton says a great deal about “fits of easy transmission and reflection,”(1) and I have no doubt that “Niagara” was put together in one of these identical fits. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 97:] 1. “Anastasia, or The Doctrine of the Resurrection; in which it is shown that the Doctrine of the Resurrection of the Body is not sanctioned by Reason or Revelation.” [The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 98:] 1. “Rome as seen by a New-Yorker,” by William M. Gillespie. 2. The nom-de-plume of Von Hardenberg. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 101:] 1. The Reverend George B. Cheever, of New York; author of “Deacon Giles’ Distillery,” (a brochure, which, at the epoch of its publication, produced much excitement), “God's Hand in America,” “Travels in the East,” and a “Defence of Capital Punishment.” The last named has not been long published. In some respects it is well reasoned. Its chief data, however, (in common with all I have yet seen on this vexata questio) are the merest assumptions. Authority is absolutely insisted upon, which nine-tenths of the thinking portion of the civilized world deny, either openly or at heart, to be any authority at all. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 104:] 1. Of the solar rays — in the “Optics.” VII. [Graham's Magazine, November, 1846.] 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 m 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 afterthought, 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. We should so render the original that the version should impress the people for whom it is intended, just as the original impresses