If this fault shocks all judges of severe taste, how revolting must be all those forced witticisms, those intricate and puzzling thoughts, which abound in otherwise valuable writings! Is it to be endured, that in a work of mathematics it should be said: "If Saturn should one day be missing, his place would be taken by one of the remotest of his satellites; for great lords always keep their successors at a distance?" Is it endurable to talk of Hercules being acquainted with physics, and that it is impossible to resist a philosopher of such force? Such are the excesses into which we are led by the thirst for shining and surprising by novelty. This petty vanity has produced verbal witticisms in all languages, which is the worst species of false wit.
False taste differs from false wit, for the latter is always an affectation – an effort to do wrong; whereas the former is often a habit of doing wrong without effort, and following instinctively an established bad example.
The intemperance and incoherence of the imaginations of the Orientals, is a false taste; but it is rather a want of wit than an abuse of it. Stars falling, mountains opening, rivers rolling back, sun and moon dissolving, false and gigantic similes, continual violence to nature, are the characteristics of these writers; because in those countries where there has never been any public speaking, true eloquence cannot have been cultivated; and because it is much easier to write fustian than to write that which is just, refined, and delicate.
False wit is precisely the reverse of these trivial and inflated ideas; it is a tiresome search after subtleties, an affectation of saying enigmatically what others have said naturally; or bringing together ideas which appear incompatible; of dividing what ought to be united; of laying hold on false affinities; of mixing, contrary to decency, the trifling with the serious, and the petty with the grand.
It were here a superfluous task to string together quotations in which the word spirit is to be found. We shall content ourselves with examining one from Boileau, which is given in the great dictionary of Trévoux: "It is a property of great spirits, when they begin to grow old and decay, to be pleased with stories and fables." This reflection is not just. A great spirit may fall into this weakness, but it is no property of great spirits. Nothing is more calculated to mislead the young than the quoting of faults of good writers as examples.
We must not here forget to mention in how many different senses the word "spirit" is employed. This is not a defect of language; on the contrary, it is an advantage to have roots which ramify into so many branches.
"Spirit of a body," "of a society," is used to express the customs, the peculiar language and conduct, the prejudices of a body. "Spirit of party," is to the "spirit of a body," what the passions are to ordinary sentiments.
"Spirit of a law," is used to designate its intention; in this sense it has been said: "The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life." "Spirit of a work," to denote its character and object. "Spirit of revenge," to signify desire and intention of taking revenge. "Spirit of discord," "spirit of revolt," etc.
In one dictionary has been quoted "spirit of politeness"; but from an author named Bellegarde, who is no authority. Both authors and examples should be selected with scrupulous caution. We cannot say "spirit of politeness," as we say "spirit of revenge," of "dissension," of "faction"; for politeness is not a passion animated by a powerful motive which prompts it, and which is metaphorically called spirit.
"Familiar spirit," is used in another sense, and signifies those intermediate beings, those genii, those demons, believed in by the ancients; as the "spirit of Socrates," etc.
Spirit sometimes denotes the more subtle part of matter; we say, "animal spirits," "vital spirits," to signify that which has never been seen, but which gives motion and life. These spirits, which are thought to flow rapidly through the nerves, are probably a subtile fire. Dr. Mead is the first who seems to have given proofs of this, in his treatise on poisons. Spirit, in chemistry, too, is a term which receives various acceptations, but always denotes the more subtile part of matter.
SECTION III
Spirit
Is not this word a striking proof of the imperfection of languages; of the chaos in which they still are, and the chance which has directed almost all our conceptions? It pleased the Greeks, as well as other nations, to give the name of wind, breath – "pneuma" – to that which they vaguely understand by respiration, life, soul. So that, among the ancients, soul and wind were, in one sense, the same thing; and if we were to say that man is a pneumatic machine, we should only translate the language of the Greeks. The Latins imitated them, and used the word "spiritus," spirit, breath. "Anima" and "spiritus" were the same thing.
The "rouhak" of the Phœnicians, and, as it is said, of the Chaldæans likewise, signified breath and wind. When the Bible was translated into Latin, the words, breath, spirit, wind, soul, were always used differently. "Spiritus Dei ferebatur super aquas" – the breath of God – the spirit of God – was borne on the waters.
"Spiritus vitæ" – the breath of life – the soul of life. "Inspiravit in faciem ejus spiraculum" or "spiritum vitæ" – And he breathed upon his face the breath of life; and, according to the Hebrew, he breathed into his nostrils the breath, the spirit, of life.
"Hæc quum dixisset, insufflavit et dixit eis, accipite spiritum sanctum" – Having spoken these words, he breathed on them, and said: Receive ye the holy breath – the holy spirit.
"Spiritus ubi vult spirat, et vocem ejus audis; sed nescis unde veniat" – The spirit, the wind, breathes where it will, and thou hearest its voice (sound); but thou knowest not whence it comes.
The distance is somewhat considerable between this and our pamphlets of the Quay des Augustins and the Pont-neuf, entitled, "Spirit of Marivaux," "Spirit of Desfontaines," etc.
What we commonly understand in French by "esprit," "bel-esprit," "trait d'esprit," are – ingenious thoughts. No other nation has made the same use of the word "spiritus." The Latins said "ingenium"; the Greeks, "eupheuia"; or they employed adjectives. The Spaniards say "agudo," "agudeza." The Italians commonly use the term "ingegno."
The English make use of the words "wit," "witty," the etymology of which is good; for "witty" formerly signified "wise." The Germans say "verständig"; and when they mean to express ingenious, lively, agreeable thoughts, they say "rich in sensations" – "sinnreich." Hence it is that the English, who have retained many of the expressions of the ancient Germanic and French tongue, say, "sensible man." Thus almost all the words that express ideas of the understanding are metaphors.
"Ingegno," "ingenium," comes from "that which generates"; "agudeza," from "that which is pointed"; "sinnreich," from "sensations"; "spirit," from "wind"; and "wit," from "wisdom."
In every language, the word that answers to spirit in general is of several kinds; and when you are told that such a one is a "man of spirit," you have a right to ask: Of what spirit?
Girard, in his useful book of definitions, entitled "French Synonymes," thus concludes: "In our intercourse with women, it is necessary to have wit, or a jargon which has the appearance of it. (This is not doing them honor; they deserve better.) Understanding is in demand with politicians and courtiers." It seems to me that understanding is necessary everywhere, and that it is very extraordinary to hear of understanding in demand.
"Genius is proper with people of project and expense." Either I am mistaken, or the genius of Corneille was made for all spectators – the genius of Bossuet for all auditors – yet more than for people of expense.
The wind, which answers to "Spiritus," – spirit, wind, breath – necessarily giving to all nations the idea of air, they all supposed that our faculty of thinking and acting – that which animates us – is air; whence our "souls are a subtile air." Hence, manes, spirits, ghosts, shades, are composed of air.
Hence we used to say, not long ago, "A 'spirit' has appeared to him; he has a 'familiar spirit;' that castle is haunted by 'spirits;'" and the populace say so still.
The word "spiritus" has hardly ever been used in this sense, except in the translations of the Hebrew books into bad Latin.
"Manes," "umbra," "simulacra," are the expressions of Cicero and Virgil. The Germans say, "geist"; the English, "ghost"; the Spaniards, "duende," "trasgo"; the Italians appear to have no term signifying ghost. The French alone have made use of the word "spirit" (esprit). The words for all nations should be, "phantom," "imagination," "reverie," "folly," "knavery."
SECTION IV
Wit
When a nation is beginning to emerge from barbarism, it strives to show what we call wit. Thus, in the first attempts made in the time of Francis I., we find in Marot such puns, plays on words, as would now be intolerable.
Remorentin la parte rememore:
Cognac s'en cogne en sa poitrine blême,
Anjou faict jou, Angoulême est de même.
These fine ideas are not such as at once present themselves to express the grief of nations. Many instances of this depraved taste might be adduced; but we shall content ourselves with this, which is the most striking of all.
In the second era of the human mind in France – in the time of Balzac, Mairet, Rotrou, Corneille – applause was given to every thought that surprised by new images, which were called "wit." These lines of the tragedy of "Pyramus" were very well received:
Ah! voici le poignard qui du sang de son maître
Sest souillé lâchement; il en rougit, le traître!
Behold the dagger which has basely drunk
Its master's blood! See how the traitor blushes!
There was thought to be great art in giving feeling to this dagger, in making it red with shame at being stained with the blood of Pyramus, as much as with the blood itself. No one exclaimed against Corneille, when, in his tragedy of "Andromeda," Phineus says to the sun:
Tu luis, soleil, et ta lumière
Semble se plaire à m'affliger.
Ah! mon amour te va bien obliger
À quitter soudain ta carrière.
Viens, soleil, viens voir la beauté,
Dont le divin éclat me dompte,
Et tu fuiras de honte
D'avoir moins de clarté.
O sun, thou shinest, and thy light
Seems to take pleasure in my woe;
But soon my love shall shame thee quite,
And be thy glory's overthrow.
Come, come, O sun, and view the face
Whose heavenly splendor I adore;
Then wilt thou flee apace,
And show thy own no more.
The sun flying because he is not so bright as Andromeda's face, is not at all inferior to the blushing dagger. If such foolish sallies as these found favor with a public whose taste it has been so difficult to form, we cannot be surprised that strokes of wit, in which some glimmering of beauty is discernible, should have had these charms.
Not only was this translation from the Spanish admired:
Ce sang qui, tout versé, fume encor de courroux,
De se voir répandu pour d'autres que pour vous.
– CID, act ii, sc. 9.
This blood, still foaming with indignant rage,
That it was shed for others, not for you; —
not only was there thought to be a very spirited refinement in the line of Hypsipyle to Medea, in the "Golden Fleece": "I have attractions only; you have charms;" but it was not perceived – and few connoisseurs perceive it yet – that in the imposing part of Cornelia, the author almost continually puts wit where grief alone was required. This woman, whose husband has just been assassinated, begins her studied speech to Cæsar with a "for":
César, car le destin que dans tes fers je brave
M'a fait ta prisonnière, et non pas ton esclave;
Et tu ne prétends pas qu'il m'abatte le cœur.
Jusqu'à te rendre hommage et te nommer seigneur.
– MORT DE POMPÉE, act iii, sc. 4.
Cæsar,
For the hard fate that binds me in thy chains,
Makes me thy prisoner, but not thy slave;
Nor wouldst thou have it so subdue my heart
That I should call thee lord and do thee homage.
Thus she breaks off, at the very first word, in order to say that which is at once far-fetched and false. Never was the wife of one Roman citizen the slave of another Roman citizen: never was any Roman called lord; and this word "lord" is, with us, nothing more than a term of honor and ceremony, used on the stage.
Fille de Scipion, et, pour dire encor plus,
Romaine, mon courage est encore au-dessus.– ID.
Daughter of Scipio, and, yet more, of Rome,
Still does my courage rise above my fate.
Besides the defect so common to all Corneille's heroes, of thus announcing themselves – of saying, I am great, I am courageous, admire me – here is the very reprehensible affectation of talking of her birth, when the head of Pompey has just been presented to Cæsar. Real affliction expresses itself otherwise. Grief does not seek after a "yet more." And what is worse, while she is striving to say "yet more," she says much less. To be a daughter of Rome is indubitably less than to be daughter of Scipio and wife of Pompey. The infamous Septimius, who assassinated Pompey, was Roman as well as she. Thousands of Romans were very ordinary men: but to be daughter and wife to the greatest of Romans, was a real superiority. In this speech, then, there is false and misplaced wit, as well as false and misplaced greatness.
She then says, after Lucan, that she ought to blush that she is alive:
Je dois rougir, partout, après un tel malheur,
De n'avoir pu mourir d'un excès de douleur.– ID.
However, after such a great calamity,
I ought to blush I am not dead of grief.
Lucan, after the brilliant Augustan age, went in search of wit, because decay was commencing; and the writers of the age of Louis XIV. at first sought to display wit, because good taste was not then completely found, as it afterwards was.
César, de ta victoire écoute moins le bruit;
Elle n'est que l'effet du malheur qui me suit.– ID.
Cæsar, rejoice not in thy victory;
For my misfortune was its only cause.
What a poor artifice! what a false as well as impudent notion! Cæsar conquered at Pharsalia only because Pompey married Cornelia! What labor to say that which is neither true, nor likely, nor fit, nor interesting!
Deux fois du monde entier j'ai causé la disgrâce.– ID.
Twice have I caused the living world's disgrace.
This is the "bis nocui mundo" of Lucan. This line presents us with a very great idea; it cannot fail to surprise; it is wanting in nothing but truth. But it must be observed, that if this line had but the smallest ray of verisimilitude – had it really its birth in the pangs of grief, it would then have all the truth, all the beauty, of theatrical fitness:
Heureuse en mes malheurs, si ce triste hyménée
Pour le bonheur du monde à Rome m'eût donnée
Et si j'eusse avec moi porté dans ta maison.
D'un astre envenimé l'invincible poison!
Car enfin n'attends pas que j'abaisse ma haine:
Je te l'ai déjà dit, César, je suis Romaine;
Et, quoique ta captive, un cœur tel que le mien,
De peur de s'oublier, ne te demande rien.– ID.
Yet happy in my woes, had these sad nuptials
Given me to Cæsar for the good of Rome;
Had I but carried with me to thy house
The mortal venom of a noxious star!
For think not, after all, my hate is less:
Already have I told thee I am a Roman;
And, though thy captive, such a heart as mine,
Lest it forget itself, will sue for nothing.
This is Lucan again. She wishes, in the "Pharsalia," that she had married Cæsar.
Atque utinam in thalamis invisi Cæsaris essem
Infelix conjux, et nulli læta marito!
– Lib., viii, v. 88, 89.
Ah! wherefore was I not much rather led
A fatal bride to Cæsar's hated bed, etc.
– ROWE.
This sentiment is not in nature; it is at once gigantic and puerile: but at least it is not to Cæsar that Cornelia talks thus in Lucan. Corneille, on the contrary, makes Cornelia speak to Cæsar himself: he makes her say that she wishes to be his wife, in order that she may carry into his house "the mortal poison of a noxious star"; for, adds she, my hatred cannot be abated, and I have told thee already that I am a Roman, and I sue for nothing. Here is odd reasoning: I would fain have married thee, to cause thy death; and I sue for nothing. Be it also observed, that this widow heaps reproaches on Cæsar, just after Cæsar weeps for the death of Pompey and promises to avenge it.
It is certain, that if the author had not striven to make Cornelia witty, he would not have been guilty of the faults which, after being so long applauded, are now perceived. The actresses can scarcely longer palliate them, by a studied loftiness of demeanor and an imposing elevation of voice.
The better to feel how much mere wit is below natural sentiment, let us compare Cornelia with herself, where, in the same tirade, she says things quite opposite:
Je dois toutefois rendre grâce aux dieux
De ce qu'en arrivant je trouve en ces lieux,
Que César y commande, et non pas Ptolemée.
Hélas! et sous quel astre, ó ciel, m'as-tu formée,
Si je leur dois des vœux, de ce qu'ils ont permis,
Que je recontre ici mes plus grands ennemis,
Et tombe entre leurs mains, plutôt qu'aux mains d'un prince
Qui doit à mon époux son trône et sa province.– ID.
Yet have I cause to thank the gracious gods,
That Cæsar here commands – not Ptolemy.
Alas! beneath what planet was I formed,
If I owe thanks for being thus permitted
Here to encounter my worst enemies
And fall into their hands, rather than those
Of him who to my husband owes his throne?
Let us overlook the slight defects of style, and consider how mournful and becoming is this speech; it goes to the heart: all the rest dazzles for a moment, and then disgusts. The following natural lines charm all readers:
O vous! à ma douleur objet terrible et tendre,
Éternel entretien de haine et de pitié,
Restes de grand Pompée, écoutez sa moitié, etc.
O dreadful, tender object of my grief,
Eternal source of pity and of hate,
Ye relics of great Pompey, hear me now —
Hear his yet living half.
It is by such comparisons that our taste is formed, and that we learn to admire nothing but truth in its proper place. In the same tragedy, Cleopatra thus expresses herself to her confidante, Charmion:
Apprends qu'une princesse aimant sa renommée,
Quand elle dit qu'elle aime, est sure d'être aimée;
Et que les plus beaux feux dont son cœur soit épris
N'oseraient l'exposer aux hontes d'un mépris.
– Act ii, sc. 1.
Know, that a princess jealous of her fame,
When she owns love, is sure of a return;
And that the noblest flame her heart can feel,
Dares not expose her to rejection's shame.
Charmion might answer: Madam, I know not what the noble flame of a princess is, which dares not expose her to shame; and as for princesses who never say they are in love, but when they are sure of being loved – I always enact the part of confidante at the play: and at least twenty princesses have confessed their noble flames to me, without being at all sure of the matter, and especially the infanta in "The Cid."
Nay, we may go further: Cæsar – Cæsar himself – addresses Cleopatra, only to show off double-refined wit:
Mais, ô Dieux! ce moment que je vous ai quittée
D'un trouble bien plus grand a mon âme agitée;
Et ces soins importans qui m'arrachaient de vous,
Contre ma grandeur même allumaient mon courroux;
Je lui voulais du mal de m'être si contraire;
Mais je lui pardonnais, au simple souvenir
Du bonheur qu'à ma flamme elle fait obtenir.
C'est elle, dont je tiens cette haute espérance,
Qui flatte mes désirs d'une illustre apparence…
C'était, pour acquérir un droit si précieux;
Que combattait partout mon bras ambitieux;
Et dans Pharsale même il a tiré l'épée
Plus pour le conserver que pour vaincre Pompée.
– Act iv, sc. 3.
But, O the moment that I quitted you,
A greater trouble came upon my soul;
And those important cares that snatched me from you
Against my very greatness moved my ire;
I hated it for thwarting my desires…
But I have pardoned it – remembering how
At last it crowns my passion with success:
To it I owe the lofty hope which now
Flatters my view with an illustrious prospect.
'Twas but to gain this dearest privilege,
That my ambitious arm was raised in battle;
Nor did it at Pharsalia draw the sword,
So much to conquer Pompey, as to keep
This glorious hope.
Here, then, we have Cæsar hating his greatness for having taken him away a little while from Cleopatra; but forgiving his greatness when he remembers that this greatness has procured him the success of his passion. He has the lofty hope of an illustrious probability; and it was only to acquire the dear privilege of this illustrious probability, that his ambitious arm fought the battle of Pharsalia.
It is said that this sort of wit, which it must be confessed is no other than nonsense, was then the wit of the age. It is an intolerable abuse, which Molière proscribed in his "Précieuses Ridicules."
It was of these defects, too frequent in Corneille, that La Bruyère said: "I thought, in my early youth, that these passages were clear and intelligible, to the actors, to the pit, and to the boxes; that their authors themselves understood them, and that I was wrong in not understanding them: I am undeceived."
SECTION V
In England, to express that a man has a deal of wit, they say that he has "great parts." Whence can this phrase, which is now the astonishment of the French, have come? From themselves. Formerly, we very commonly used the word "parties" in this sense. "Clelia," "Cassandra," and our other old romances, are continually telling us of the "parts" of their heroes and heroines, which parts are their wit. And, indeed, who can have all? Each of us has but his own small portion of intelligence, of memory, of sagacity, of depth and extent of ideas, of vivacity, and of subtlety. The word "parts" is that most fitting for a being so limited as man. The French have let an expression escape from their dictionaries which the English have laid hold of: the English have more than once enriched themselves at our expense. Many philosophical writers have been astonished that, since every one pretends to wit, no one should dare to boast of possessing it.
"Envy," it has been said, "permits every one to be the panegyrist of his own probity, but not of his own wit." It allows us to be the apologists of the one, but not of the other. And why? Because it is very necessary to pass for an honest man, but not at all necessary to have the reputation of a man of wit.
The question has been started, whether all men are born with the same mind, the same disposition for science, and if all depends on their education, and the circumstances in which they are placed? One philosopher, who had a right to think himself born with some superiority, asserted that minds are equal; yet the contrary has always been evident. Of four hundred children brought up together, under the same masters and the same discipline, there are scarcely five or six that make any remarkable progress. A great majority never rise above mediocrity, and among them there are many shades of distinction. In short, minds differ still more than faces.
SECTION VI
Crooked or Distorted Intellect
We have blind, one-eyed, cross-eyed, and squinting people – visions long, short, clear, confused, weak, or indefatigable. All this is a faithful image of our understanding; but we know scarcely any false vision: there are not many men who always take a cock for a horse, or a coffeepot for a church. How is it that we often meet with minds, otherwise judicious, which are absolutely wrong in some things of importance? How is it that the Siamese, who will take care never to be overreached when he has to receive three rupees, firmly believes in the metamorphoses of Sammonocodom? By what strange whim do men of sense resemble Don Quixote, who beheld giants where other men saw nothing but windmills? Yet was Don Quixote more excusable than the Siamese, who believes that Sammonocodom came several times upon earth – and the Turk, who is persuaded that Mahomet put one-half of the moon into his sleeve? Don Quixote, impressed with the idea that he is to fight with a giant, may imagine that a giant must have a body as big as a mill, and arms as long as the sails; but from what supposition can a man of sense set out to arrive at a conclusion, that half the moon went into a sleeve, and that a Sammonocodom came down from heaven to fly kites at Siam, to cut down a forest, and to exhibit sleight-of-hand?
The greatest geniuses may have their minds warped, on a principle which they have received without examination. Newton was very wrong-headed when he was commenting on the Apocalypse.
All that certain tyrants of souls desire, is that the men whom they teach may have their intellects distorted. A fakir brings up a child of great promise; he employs five or six years in driving it into his head, that the god Fo appeared to men in the form of a white elephant; and persuades the child, that if he does not believe in these metamorphoses, he will be flogged after death for five hundred thousand years. He adds, that at the end of the world, the enemy of the god Fo will come and fight against that divinity.
The child studies, and becomes a prodigy; he finds that Fo could not change himself into anything but a white elephant, because that is the most beautiful of animals. The kings of Siam and Pegu, say he, went to war with one another for a white elephant: certainly, had not Fo been concealed in that elephant, these two kings would not have been so mad as to fight for the possession of a mere animal.
Fo's enemy will come and challenge him at the end of the world: this enemy will certainly be a rhinoceros; for the rhinoceros fights the elephant. Thus does the fakir's learned pupil reason in mature age, and he becomes one of the lights of the Indies: the more subtle his intellect, the more crooked; and he, in his turn, forms other intellects as distorted as his own.
Show these besotted beings a little geometry, and they learn it easily enough; but, strange to say, this does not set them right. They perceive the truths of geometry; but it does not teach them to weigh probabilities: they have taken their bent; they will reason against reason all their lives; and I am sorry for them.
Unfortunately, there are many ways of being wrong-headed, 1. Not to examine whether the principle is true, even when just consequences are drawn from it; and this is very common.
2. To draw false consequences from a principle acknowledged to be true. For instance: a servant is asked whether his master be at home, by persons whom he suspects of having a design against his master's life. If he were blockhead enough to tell them the truth, on pretence that it is wrong to tell a lie, it is clear that he would draw an absurd consequence from a very true principle.
The judge who should condemn a man for killing his assassin, would be alike iniquitous, and a bad reasoner. Cases like these are subdivided into a thousand different shades. The good mind, the judicious mind, is that which distinguishes them. Hence it is, that there have been so many iniquitous judgments; not because the judges were wicked in heart, but because they were not sufficiently enlightened.