LIBRARY
IVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
THE BOOK'LOVER'S
ARNHEIM EDITION
This edition of the Complete Works of
Edgar Allan Poe is limited to Five Hundred
Signed and Numbered sets, of which this is
THE
COMPLETE WORKS
ALLAN POE
The Imp of the Perverse.
"There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient,
as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice,
thus meditates a plunge."
MISCELLANY
G. P, PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK: AND LONDON
Z&be ftnicfeecbocfcer press
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02 BIUJBH m noiaaaq on 21 919/iT"
,3oiqio9iq B io a^ 9 9 ^^ noqu ^nhsbbi/ria ,orfw mirf lo Isd^ z&
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THE
COMPLETE WORKS
EDGAR ALLAN POE
MISCELLANY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
Ube fmfcfcecbocfcer press
Copyright, 1902
(For Introduction and Designs)
by
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
TTbe ftnicfcerbocfcer prees, flew fork
Contents
Maelzel's Chess-Player
Prefaces to " The Conchologist's First Book " .
Philosophy of Furniture
Cryptography
A Chapter on Autography
Anastatic Printing
Eureka An Essay on the Material and Spiritual
Universe
Title Index
PAGE
i
40
44
54
77
. 162
in
List of Illustrations
PAGE
The Imp of the Perverse . . . Frontispiece
" There is no passion in nature so demoniacally
impatient as that of him who, shuddering upon
the edge of a precipice thus meditates a plunge."
Poe's Cottage at Fordham ..... 36
Washington Irving ...... 86
Etched by Jacques Reich from the painting by
C. R. Leslie.
Edward Everett ....... 108
From a steel engraving.
William Ellery Channing ..... 128
Dante Gabriel Rossetti ..... 140
Ralph Waldo Emerson ..... 160
From the painting by A. E. Smith. Reproduced
by permission of Foster Brothers, Boston.
List of Illustrations
PAGE
Hop-Frog 200
" Waited patiently until midnight ... be
fore making their appearance."
(See vol. vi., page 267.)
Mrs. Clemm's House in Carmine St. . . . 240
Poe's first home in New York.
Lander's Cottage 300
" Suddenly . . . and as if by the hand of
magic, this whole valley and everything in it be
came brilliantly visible.'*
(See vol. vi., page 311.)
VI
MISCELLANY
MaelzePs Chess-Player
ERHAPS no exhibition of the kind has ever
elicited so general attention as the Chess-
Player of Maelzel. Wherever seen it has
been an object of intense curiosity to all persons who
think. Yet the question of its modus operand! is still
undetermined. Nothing has been written on this
topic which can be considered as decisive, and, accord
ingly, we find everywhere men of mechanical genius,
of great general acuteness and discriminative under
standing, who make no scruple in pronouncing the
Automaton a pure machine, unconnected with human
agency in its movements, and consequently, beyond all
comparison, the most astonishing of the inventions of
mankind. And such it would undoubtedly be, were
they right in their supposition. Assuming this hy
pothesis, it would be grossly absurd to compare with the
Chess-Player any similar thing of either modern or
Maelzel's Chess-Player
ancient days. Yet there have been many and wonder
ful automata. In Brewster's Letters on Natural Magic
we have an account of the most remarkable. Among
these may be mentioned, as having beyond doubt ex
isted, firstly, the coach invented by M. Camus for the
amusement of Louis XIV. when a child. A table,
about four feet square, was introduced into the room
appropriated for the exhibition. Upon this table was
placed a carriage six inches in length, made of wood,
and drawn by two horses of the same material. One
window being down, a lady was seen on the back seat.
A coachman held the reins on the box and a footman
and page were in their places behind. M. Camus now
touched a spring; whereupon the coachman smacked
his whip and the horses proceeded in a natural manner
along the edge of the table, drawing after them the
carriage. Having gone as far as possible in this direc
tion, a sudden turn was made to the left, and the
vehicle was driven at right angles to its former course
and still closely along the edge of the table. In this
way the coach proceeded until it arrived opposite the
chair of the young prince. It then stopped, the page
descended and opened the door, the lady alighted and
presented a petition to her sovereign. She then re-
entered. The page put up the steps, closed the door,
and resumed his station. The coachman whipped his
horses, and the carriage was driven back to its original
position.
Maelzel's Chess-Player
The Magician of M. Maillardet is also worthy of
notice. We copy the following account of it from the
Letters before mentioned of Dr. B., who derived his
information principally from the Edinburgh Ency*
clopxdia i
" One of the most popular pieces of mechanism
which we have seen is the Magician constructed by M.
Maillardet, for the purpose of answering certain given
questions. A figure, dressed like a magician, appears
seated at the bottom of a wall, holding a wand in one
hand and a book in the other. A number of questions,
ready prepared, are inscribed on oval medallions, and
the spectator takes any of these he chooses, and to
which he wishes an answer, and, having placed it in a
drawer ready to receive it, the drawer shuts with a
spring till the answer is returned. The magician then
arises from his seat, bows his head, describes circles
with his wand, and, consulting the book as if in deep
thought, he lifts it toward his face. Having thus ap
peared to ponder over the proposed question, he raises
his wand, and, striking with it the wall above his head,
two folding-doors fly open and display an appropriate
answer to the question. The doors again close, the
magician resumes his original position, and the drawer
opens to return the medallion. There are twenty of
these medallions, all containing different questions, to
which the magician returns the most suitable and
striking answers. The medallions are thin plates of
3
Maelzel's Chess-Player
brass, of an elliptical form, exactly resembling each
other. Some of the medallions have a question in
scribed on each side, both of which the magician an
swers in succession. If the drawer is shut without a
medallion being put in it, the magician rises, consults
his book, shakes his head, and resumes his seat, the
folding-doors remain shut, and the drawer is returned
empty. If two medallions are put into the drawer to
gether, an answer is returned only to the lower one.
When the machinery is wound up, the movements con
tinue about an hour, during which time about fifty
persons may be answered. The inventor stated that
the means by which the different medallions acted
upon the machinery, so as to produce the proper an
swers to the questions which they contained, were
extremely simple."
The Duck of Vaucanson was still more remarkable.
It was of the size of life, and so perfect an imitation of
the living animal that all the spectators were deceived.
It executed, says Brewster, all the natural movements
and gestures, it ate and drank with avidity, performed
all the quick motions of the head and throat which are
peculiar to the duck, and like it muddled the water
which it drank with its bill. It produced also the
sound of quacking in the most natural manner. In
the anatomical structure the artists exhibited the high
est skill. Every bone in the real duck had its repre
sentative hi the automaton, and its wings were
4
Maelzel's Chess-Player
anatomically exact. Every cavity, apophysis, and cur
vature was imitated, and each bone executed its proper
movements. When corn was thrown down before it,
the duck stretched out its neck to pick it up, swallowed,
and digested it. 1
But if these machines were ingenious, what shall we
think of the calculating machine of Mr. Babbage ?
What shall we think of an engine of wood and metal
which can not only compute astronomical and naviga
tion tables to any given extent, but render the exacti
tude of its operations mathematically certain through
its power of correcting its possible errors ? What
shall we think of a machine which can not only accom
plish all this, but actually print off its elaborate results,
when obtained, without the slightest intervention of
the intellect of man ? It will, perhaps, be said in reply,
that a machine such as we have described is altogether
above comparison with the Chess-Player of Maelzel.
By no means, it is altogether beneath it, that is to say,
provided we assume (what should never for a moment
be assumed) that the Chess-Player is a pure machine,
and performs its operations without any immediate
human agency. Arithmetical or algebraical calcula
tions are, from their very nature, fixed and determinate.
Certain data being given, certain results necessarily
and inevitably follow. These results have dependence
1 Under the head " Androides " in the Edinbutgh Encyclopaedia may be found
a full account of the principal automata of ancient and modern times.
Maelzel's Chess-Player
upon nothing, and are influenced by nothing but
the data originally given. And the question to be
solved proceeds, or should proceed, to its final deter
mination by a succession of unerring steps liable to no
change and subject to no modification. This being the
case, we can without difficulty conceive the possibility
of so arranging a piece of mechanism, that upon
starting it in accordance with the data of the question
to be solved, it should continue its movements regu
larly, progressively, and undeviatingly toward the
required solution, since these movements, however
complex, are never imagined to be otherwise than finite
and determinate. But the case is widely different with
the Chess-Player. With him there is no determi
nate progression. No one move in chess necessarily
follows upon any one other. From no particular dis
position of the men at one period of a game can we
predicate their disposition at a different period. Let us
place the first move in a game of chess in juxtaposi
tion with the data of an algebraical question, and their
great difference will be immediately perceived. From
the latter, from the data, the second step of the ques
tion, dependent thereupon, inevitably follows. It is
modelled by the data. It must be thus and not other
wise. But from the first move in the game of chess
no especial second move follows of necessity. In the
algebraical question, as it proceeds toward solution, the
certainty of its operations remains altogether unim-
6
Maelzel's Chess-Player
paired. The second step having been a consequence
of the data, the third step is equally a consequence
of the second, the fourth of the third, the fifth of the
fourth, and so on, and not possibly otherwise, to the
end. But in proportion to the progress made in a
game of chess is the uncertainty of each ensuing move.
A few moves having been made, no step is certain.
Different spectators of the game would advise different
moves. All is then dependent upon the variable judg
ment of the players. Now even granting (what should
not be granted) that the movements of the Automaton
Chess-Player were in themselves determinate, they
would be necessarily interrupted and disarranged by
the indeterminate will of his antagonist. There is,
then, no analogy whatever between the operations of
the Chess-Player and those of the calculating machine
of Mr. Babbage, and if we choose to call the former a
pure machine we must be prepared to admit that it is,
beyond all comparison, the most wonderful of the in
ventions of mankind. Its original projector, however,
Baron Kempelen, had no scruple in declaring it to be
a " very ordinary piece of mechanism, a bagatelle
whose effects appeared so marvellous only from the
boldness of the conception and the fortunate choice of
the methods adopted for promoting the illusion." But
it is needless to dwell upon this point. It is quite cer
tain that the operations of the Automaton are regulated
by mind and by nothing else. Indeed, this matter is
7
Maelzel's Chess-Player
susceptible of a mathematical demonstration, a
The only question, then, is of the manner in which
human agency is brought to bear. Before entering
upon this subject it would be as well to give a brief
history and description of the Chess-Player for the
benefit of such of our readers as may never have had
an opportunity of witnessing Mr. Maelzel's exhibition.
The Automaton Chess-Player was invented in 1769
by Baron Kempelen, a nobleman of Presburg, in Hun
gary, who afterward disposed of it, together with the
secret of its operations, to its present possessor. 1 Soon
after its completion it was exhibited in Presburg, Paris,
Vienna, and other continental cities. In 1783 and
1784 it was taken to London by Mr. Maelzel. Of late
years it has visited the principal towns in the United
States. Wherever seen, the most intense curiosity was
excited by its appearance, and numerous have been the
attempts, by men of all classes, to fathom the mystery
1 This was written in 1835, when Mr. Maelzel, recently deceased, was ex
hibiting the Chess-Player in the United States. Editor.
8
Maelzel's Chess-Player
of its evolutions. The cut on opposite page gives a
tolerable representation of the figure as seen by the
citizens of Richmond a few weeks ago. The right arm,
however, should lie more at length upon the box, a
chess-board should appear upon it, and the cushion
should not be seen while the pipe is held. Some im
material alterations have been made hi the costume of
the player since it came into the possession of Maelzel
the plume, for example, was not originally worn.
At the hour appointed for exhibition, a curtain is
withdrawn, or folding-doors are thrown open, and the
machine rolled to within about twelve feet of the near
est of the spectators, between whom and it (the ma
chine) a rope is stretched. A figure is seen habited as
a Turk, and seated, with its legs crossed, at a large box
apparently of maplewood, which serves it as a table.
The exhibitor will, if requested, roll the machine to
any portion of the room, suffer it to remain altogether
on any designated spot, or even shift its location re
peatedly during the progress of a game. The bottom
of the box is elevated considerably above the floor by
means of the castors or brazen rollers on which it
moves, a clear view of the surface immediately beneath
the Automaton being thus afforded to the spectators.
The chair on which the figure sits is affixed perma
nently to the box. On the top of this latter is a chess
board, also permanently affixed. The right arm of
the Chess-Player is extended at full length before him,
9
Maelzel's Chess-Player
at right angles with his body, and lying, in an appa
rently careless position, by the side of the board. The
back of the hand is upward. The board itself is eight
een inches square. The left arm of the figure is bent
at the elbow, and in the left hand is a pipe. A green
drapery conceals the back of the Turk and falls par
tially over the front of both shoulders. To judge from
the external appearance of the box, it is divided into
five compartments three cupboards of equal dimen
sions, and two drawers occupying that portion of the
chest lying beneath the cupboards. The foregoing
observations apply to the appearance of the Automaton
upon its first introduction into the presence of the
spectators.
Maelzel now informs the company that he will dis
close to their view the mechanism of the machine.
Taking from his pocket a bunch of keys, he unlocks
with one of them a door marked i in the cut on page
8, and throws the cupboard fully open to the inspec
tion of all present. Its whole interior is apparently
filled with wheels, pinions, levers, and other machinery,
crowded very closely together, so that the eye can
penetrate but a little distance into the mass. Leaving
this door open to its full extent, he goes now round to
the back of the box, and, raising the drapery of the
figure, opens another door situated precisely in the
rear of the one first opened. Holding a lighted candle
at this door, and shifting the position of the whole
10
Maelzel's Chess-Player
machine repeatedly at the same time, a bright light is
thrown entirely through the cupboard, which is now
clearly seen to be full, completely full, of machinery.
The spectators being satisfied of this fact, Maelzel
closes the back door, locks it, takes the key from the
lock, lets fall the drapery of the figure, and comes
round to the front. The door marked i, it will be re
membered, is still open. The exhibitor now proceeds
to open the drawer which lies beneath the cupboards
at the bottom of the box, for although there are ap
parently two drawers there is really only one, the
two handles and two key-holes being intended merely
for ornament. Having opened this drawer to its full
extent, a small cushion and a set of chessmen, fixed
in a framework made to support them perpendicu
larly, are discovered. Leaving this drawer, as well as
cupboard No. i, open, Maelzel now unlocks door No.
2 and door No. 3, which are discovered to be folding-
doors, opening into one and the same compartment.
To the right of this compartment, however (that is to
say, to the spectators 1 right), a small division, six
inches wide and filled with machinery, is partitioned
off. The main compartment itself (in speaking of that
portion of the box visible upon opening doors 2 and 3
we shall always call it the main compartment) is lined
with dark cloth and contains no machinery whatever
beyond two pieces of steel, quadrant-shaped, and
situated one in each of the rear top corners of the
ii
Maelzel's Chess-Player
compartment. A small protuberance about eight
inches square, and also covered with dark cloth, lies
on the floor of the compartment near the rear corner
on the spectators' left hand. Leaving doors No. 2 and
No. 3 open, as well as the drawer and door No. i, the
exhibitor now goes round to the back of the main
compartment, and, unlocking another door there, dis
plays clearly all the interior of the main compartment
by introducing a candle behind it and within it. The
whole box being thus apparently disclosed to the scru
tiny of the company, Maelzel, still leaving the doors
and drawer open, rolls the Automaton entirely round
and exposes the back of the Turk by lifting up the
drapery. A door about ten inches square is thrown
open hi the loins of the figure, and a smaller one also
in the left thigh. The interior of the figure, as seen
through these apertures, appears to be crowded with
machinery. In general, every spectator is now thor
oughly satisfied of having beheld and completely
scrutinized, at one and the same time, every individ
ual portion of the Automaton, and the idea of any
person being concealed in the interior, during so com
plete an exhibition of that interior, if ever entertained,
is immediately dismissed as preposterous in the ex
treme.
M. Maelzel, having rolled the machine back into its
original position, now informs the company that the
Automaton will play a game of chess with any one
12
Maelzel's Chess-Player
disposed to encounter him. This challenge being ac
cepted, a small table is prepared for the antagonist and
placed close by the rope, but on the spectators' side of
it, and so situated as not to prevent the company from
obtaining a full view of the Automaton. From a
drawer in this table is taken a set of chessmen, and
Maelzel arranges them generally, but not always, with
his own hands, on the chess-board, which consists
merely of the usual number of squares painted upon
the table. The antagonist having taken his seat, the
exhibitor approaches the drawer of the box and takes
therefrom the cushion, which, after removing the pipe
from the hand of the Automaton, he places under its
left arm as a support. Then, taking also from the
drawer the Automaton's set of chessmen, he arranges
them upon the chess-board before the figure. He now
proceeds to close the doors and to lock them, leaving
the bunch of keys in door No. i. He also closes the
drawer, and, finally, winds up the machine by apply
ing a key to an aperture in the left end (the specta
tors' left) of the box. The game now commences, the
Automaton taking the first move. The duration of
the contest is usually limited to half an hour, but if it
be not finished at the expiration of this period, and the
antagonist still contends that he can beat the Autom
aton, M. Maelzel has seldom any objection to con
tinue it. Not to weary the company is the ostensible
and, no doubt, the real object of the limitation. It
13
Maelzel's Chess-Player
will, of course, be understood that when a move is
made at his own table by the antagonist, the corres
ponding move is made at the box of the Automaton,
by Maelzel himself, who then acts as the representa
tive of the antagonist. On the other hand, when the
Turk moves, the corresponding move is made at the
table of the antagonist, also by M. Maelzel, who then
acts as the representative of the Automaton. In this
manner it is necessary that the exhibitor should often
pass from one table to the other. He also frequently
goes in the rear of the figure to remove the chessmen
which it has taken, and which it deposits, when taken,
on the box to the left (to its own left) of the board.
When the Automaton hesitates in relation to its move,
the exhibitor is occasionally seen to place himself very
near its right side, and to lay his hand now and then,
in a careless manner, upon the box. He has also a
peculiar shuffle with his feet, calculated to induce sus
picion of collusion with the machine in minds which
are more cunning than sagacious. These peculiari
ties are, no doubt, mere mannerisms of M. Maelzel,
or, if he is aware of them at all, he puts them in prac
tice with a view of exciting in the spectators a false
idea of the pure mechanism in the Automaton.
The Turk plays with his left hand. All the move
ments of the arm are at right angles. In this manner,
the hand (which is gloved and bent in a natural way),
being brought directly above the piece to be moved,
14
Maelzel's Chess-Player
descends finally upon it, the fingers receiving it, in
most cases, without difiiculty. Occasionally, however,
when the piece is not precisely in its proper situation
the Automaton fails in his attempt at seizing it. When
this occurs, no second effort is made, but the arm con
tinues its movement in the direction originally in
tended, precisely as if the piece were in the fingers.
Having thus designated the spot whither the move
should have been made, the arm returns to its cushion,
and Maelzel performs the evolution which the Au
tomaton pointed out. At every movement of the
figure machinery is heard in motion. During the
progress of the game, the figure now and then rolls its
eyes as if surveying the board, moves its head, and
pronounces the word " echec" (check) when necessary. 1
If a false move be made by his antagonist, he raps
briskly on the box with the fingers of his right hand,
shakes his head roughly, and, replacing the piece
falsely moved in its former situation, assumes the next
move himself. Upon beating the game, he waves his
head with an air of triumph, looks around compla
cently upon the spectators, and, drawing his left arm
farther back than usual, suffers his fingers alone to
rest upon the cushion. In general, the Turk is vic
torious once or twice he has been beaten. The game
being ended, Maelzel will again, if desired, exhibit the
1 The making the Turk pronounce the word " echec " is an improvement
by M. Maelzel. When in possession of Baron Kempelen, the figure indicated
a check by rapping on the box with his right hand.
15
Maelzel's Chess-Player
mechanism of the box in the same manner as before.
The machine is then rolled back, and a curtain hides
it from the view of the company.
There have been many attempts at solving the mys
tery of the Automaton. The most general opinion in
relation to it, an opinion, too, not unfrequently adopted
by men who should have known better, was, as we
have before said, that no immediate human agency
was employed, in other words, that the machine was
purely a machine and nothing else. Many, however,
maintained that the exhibitor himself regulated the
movements of the figure by mechanical means, operat
ing through the feet of the box. Others, again, spoke
confidently of a magnet. Of the first of these opin
ions we shall say nothing at present more than we
have already said. In relation to the second it is only
necessary to repeat what we have before stated, that
the machine is rolled about on castors, and will, at the
request of a spectator, be moved to and fro to any por
tion of the room, even during the progress of the game.
The supposition of the magnet is also untenable, for
if a magnet were the agent, any other magnet in the
pocket of a spectator would disarrange the entire
mechanism. The exhibitor, however, will suffer the
most powerful loadstone to remain even upon the box
during the whole of the exhibition.
The first attempt at a written explanation of the
secret, at least the first attempt of which we ourselves
16
Maelzel's Chess-Player
have any knowledge, was made in a large pamphlet
printed at Paris in 1785. The author's hypothesis
amounted to this that a dwarf actuated the machine.
This dwarf he supposed to conceal himself during the
opening of the box by thrusting his legs into two hollow
cylinders, which were represented to be (but which are
not) among the machinery in the cupboard No. i,
while his body was out of the box entirely and covered
by the drapery of the Turk. When the doors were
shut, the dwarf was enabled to bring his body within
the box, the noise produced by some portion of the
machinery allowing him to do so unheard, and also to
close the door by which he entered. The interior of
the Automaton being then exhibited, and no person
discovered, the spectators, says the author of this
pamphlet, are satisfied that no one is within any por
tion of the machine. The whole hypothesis was too
obviously absurd to require comment or refutation,
and, accordingly, we find that it attracted very little
attention.
In 1789 a book was published at Dresden by M. I. F.
Freyhere, in which another endeavor was made to un
ravel the mystery. Mr. Freyhere's book was a pretty
large one, and copiously illustrated by colored engrav
ings. His supposition was that " a well-taught boy,
very thin and tall of his age (sufficiently so that he
could be concealed in a drawer almost immediately
under the chess-board) " played the game of chess and
VOL. X. 2. j ij
Maelzel's Chess-Player
effected all the evolutions of the Automaton. This
idea, although even more silly than that of the Pa
risian author, met with a better reception, and was in
some measure believed to be the true solution of the
wonder, until the inventor put an end to the discussion
by suffering a close examination of the top of the box.
These bizarre attempts at explanation were followed
by others equally bizarre. Of late years, however, an
anonymous writer, by a course of reasoning exceed
ingly unphilosophical, has contrived to blunder upon
a plausible solution, although we cannot consider it
altogether the true one. His essay was first pub
lished in a Baltimore weekly paper, was illustrated by
cuts, and was entitled An Attempt to Analyze the
Automaton Chess "Player of M, Maelzel This essay
we suppose to have been the original of the pamphlet
to which Sir David Brewster alludes in his Letters on
Natural Magic, and which he has no hesitation in de
claring a thorough and satisfactory explanation. The
results of the analysis are undoubtedly, in the main,
just; but we can only account for Brewster's pro
nouncing the essay a thorough and satisfactory ex
planation by supposing him to have bestowed upon it
a very cursory and inattentive perusal. In the com
pendium of the essay, made use of in the Letters on
Natural Magic, it is quite impossible to arrive at any
distinct conclusion in regard to the adequacy or in
adequacy of the analysis, on account of the gross mis-
18
Maelzel's Chess-Play er
arrangement and deficiency of the letters of reference
employed. The same fault is to be found in the
Attemptf etc., as we originally saw it. The solution
consists in a series of minute explanations (accom
panied by wood-cuts, the whole occupying many
pages), in which the object is to show the possibility
of so shifting the partitions of the box as to allow a
human being, concealed in the interior, to move por
tions of his body from one part of the box to another
during the exhibition of the mechanism, thus eluding
the scrutiny of the spectators. There can be no doubt,
as we have before observed, and as we will presently
endeavor to show, that the principle, or rather the
result of this solution is the true one. Some person is
concealed in the box during the whole time of exhibit
ing the interior. We object, however, to the whole
verbose description of the manner in which the par
titions are shifted to accommodate the movements
of the person concealed. We object to it as a mere
theory assumed in the first place, and to which cir
cumstances are afterward made to adapt themselves.
It was not, and could not have been, arrived at by any
inductive reasoning. In whatever way the shifting is
managed, it is, of course, concealed at every step from
observation. To show that certain movements might
possibly be effected in a certain way is very far from
showing that they are actually so effected. There may
be an infinity of other methods by which the same
19
Maelzel's Chess-Play er
results may be obtained. The probability of the one
assumed proving the correct one is, then, as unity to
infinity. But, in reality, this particular point, the
shifting of the partitions, is of no consequence what
ever. It was altogether unnecessary to devote seven
or eight pages for the purpose of proving what no one
in his senses would deny, viz., that the wonderful me
chanical genius of Baron Kempelen could invent the
necessary means for shutting a door or slipping aside
a panel, with a human agent, too, at his service in
actual contact with the panel or the door, and the
whole operations carried on, as the author of the essay
himself shows, and as we shall attempt to show more
fully hereafter, entirely out of reach of the observa
tion of the spectators.
In attempting, ourselves, an explanation of the Au
tomaton, we will, in the first place, endeavor to show
how its operations are effected, and afterward describe,
as briefly as possible, the nature of the observations
from which we have deduced our result.
It will be necessary for a proper understanding of
the subject, that we repeat here, in a few words, the
routine adopted by the exhibitor in disclosing the in
terior of the box a routine from which he never de
viates in any material particular. In the first place,
he opens the door No. i. Leaving this open, he goes
round to the rear of the box and opens a door pre
cisely at the back of door No. i. To this back door
20
Maelzel's Chess-Player
he holds a lighted candle. He then closes the back
door, locks it, and, coming round to the front, opens
the drawer to its full extent. This done, he opens the
doors No. 2 and No. 3 (the folding-doors), and dis
plays the interior of the main compartment. Leaving
open the main compartment, the drawer, and the front
door of cupboard No. i, he now goes to the rear again
and throws open the back door of the main compart
ment. In shutting up the box no particular order is
observed, except that the folding-doors are always
closed before the drawer.
Now, let us suppose that when the machine is first
rolled into the presence of the spectators a man is
already within it. His body is situated behind the
dense machinery in cupboard No. i (the rear portion
of which machinery is so contrived as to slip en masse
from the main compartment to the cupboard No. i, as
occasion may require), and his legs lie at full length
in the main compartment. When Maelzel opens the
door No. i, the man within is not in any danger of
discovery, for the keenest eye cannot penetrate more
than about two inches into the darkness within. But
the case is otherwise when the back door of the cup
board No. i is opened. A bright light then pervades
the cupboard, and the body of the man would be dis
covered if it were there. But it is not. The putting
the key in the lock of the back door was a signal, on
hearing which the person concealed brought his body
21
Maelzel's Chess-Player
forward to an angle as acute as possible, throwing it
altogether, or nearly so, into the main compartment.
This, however, is a painful position and cannot be long
maintained. Accordingly, we find that Maelzel closes
the back door. This being done, there is no reason
why the body of the man may not resume its former
situation, for the cupboard is again so dark as to defy
scrutiny. The drawer is now opened, and the legs of
the person within drop down behind it in the space it
formerly occupied. 1 There is, consequently, now no
longer any part of the man in the main compartment,
his body being behind the machinery in cupboard No.
i, and his legs in the space occupied by the drawer.
The exhibitor, therefore, finds himself at liberty to dis
play the main compartment. This he does, opening
both its back and front doors, and no person is dis
covered. The spectators are now satisfied that the
whole of the box is exposed to view, and exposed, too,
all portions of it at one and the same time. But, of
course, this is not the case. They neither see the
space behind the drawer nor the interior of cupboard
No. i, the front door of which latter the exhibitor
virtually shuts in shutting its back door. Maelzel, hav
ing now rolled the machine around, lifted up the dra-
1 Sir David Brewster supposes that there is always a large space behind this
drawer even when shut in other words, that the drawer is a " false drawer,"
and does not extend to the back of the box. But the idea is altogether un
tenable. So commonplace a trick would be immediately discovered, espe
cially as the drawer is always opened to its full extent, and an opportunity
thus offered of comparing its depth with that of the box.
22
Maelzel's Chess-Player
pery of the Turk, opened the doors in its back and
thigh, and shown his trunk to be full of machinery,
brings the whole back into its original position and
closes the doors. The man within is now at liberty to
move about. He gets up into the body of the Turk
just so high as to bring his eyes above the level of the
chess-board. It is very probable that he seats himself
upon the little square block or protuberance which is
seen in a corner of the main compartment when the
doors are open. In this position he sees the chess
board through the bosom of the Turk, which is of
gauze. Bringing his right arm across his breast, he
actuates the little machinery necessary to guide the
left arm and the fingers of the figure. This machin
ery is situated just beneath the left shoulder of the
Turk, and is consequently easily reached by the right
hand of the man concealed, if we suppose his right
arm brought across the breast. The motion of the
head and eyes, and of the right arm of the figure, as
well as the sound " echec" are produced by other mech
anism in the interior, and actuated at will by the man
within. The whole of this mechanism, that is to say,
all the mechanism essential to the machine, is most
probably contained within the little cupboard (of about
six inches in breadth) partitioned off at the right (the
spectators' right) of the main compartment.
In this analysis of the operations of the Automaton
we have purposely avoided any allusion to the manner
23
Maelzel's Chess-Player
in which the partitions are shifted, and it will now be
readily comprehended that this point is a matter of
no importance, since, by mechanism within the ability
of any common carpenter, it might be effected in an
infinity of different ways, and since we have shown
that, however performed, it is performed out of the
view of the spectators. Our result is founded upon
the following observations taken during frequent visits
to the exhibition of Maelzel. 1
1. The moves of the Turk are not made at regular
intervals of time, but accommodate themselves to the
moves of the antagonist, although this point (of regu
larity), so important in all kinds of mechanical con
trivance, might have been readily brought about by
limiting the time allowed for the moves of the antag
onist. For example, if this limit were three minutes,
the moves of the Automaton might be made at any
given intervals longer than three minutes. The fact,
then, of irregularity, when regularity might have been
so easily attained, goes to prove that regularity is un
important to the action of the Automaton; in other
words, that the Automaton is not a pure machine.
2. When the Automaton is about to move a piece,
a distinct motion is observable just beneath the left
1 Some of these observations are intended merely to prove that the machine
must be regulated by mind, and it may be thought a work of supererogation
to advance further arguments in support of what has been already fully de
cided. But our object is to convince, in especial, certain of our friends upon
whom a train of suggestive reasoning will have more influence than the most
positive a priori demonstration.
24
Maelzel's Chess- Player
shoulder, and which motion agitates in a slight degree
the drapery covering the front of the left shoulder.
This motion invariably precedes, by about two sec
onds, the movement of the arm itself; and the arm
never, in any instance, moves without this preparatory
motion in the shoulder. Now, let the antagonist move
a piece, and let the corresponding move be made by
Maelzel, as usual, upon the board of the Automaton.
Then let the antagonist narrowly watch the Autom
aton until he detect the preparatory motion in the
shoulder. Immediately upon detecting this motion,
and before the arm itself begins to move, let him
withdraw his piece, as if perceiving an error in his
manoeuvre. It will then be seen that the movement
of the arm, which, in all other cases, immediately
succeeds the motion in the shoulder, is withheld, is
not made, although Maelzel has not yet performed, on
the board of the Automaton, any move corresponding
to the withdrawal of the antagonist. In this case, that
the Automaton was about to move is evident; and
that he did not move was an effect plainly produced
by the withdrawal of the antagonist and without any
intervention of Maelzel.
This fact fully proves (i) that the intervention of
Maelzel, in performing the moves of the antagonist
on the board of the Automaton, is not essential to the
movements of the Automaton; (2) that its move
ments are regulated by mind, by some person who
25
Maelzel's Chess-Player
sees the board of the antagonist; (3) that its move
ments are not regulated by the mind of Maelzel, whose
back was turned toward the antagonist at the with
drawal of his move.
3. The Automaton does not invariably win the
game. Were the machine a pure machine, this would
not be the case it would always win. The principle
being discovered by which a machine can be made to
play a game of chess, an extension of the same prin
ciple would enable it to win a game ; a further exten
sion would enable it to win all games, that is, to beat
any possible game of an antagonist. A little considera
tion will convince any one that the difficulty of mak
ing a machine beat all games is not in the least degree
greater, as regards the principle of the operations
necessary, than that of making it beat a single game.
If, then, we regard the Chess-Player as a machine, we
must suppose (what is highly improbable) that its in
ventor preferred leaving it incomplete to perfecting it,
a supposition rendered still more absurd when we
reflect that the leaving it incomplete would afford an
argument against the possibility of its being a pure
machine, the very argument we now adduce.
4. When the situation of the game is difficult or
complex, we never perceive the Turk either shake his
head or roll his eyes. It is only when his next move
is obvious, or when the game is so circumstanced that
to a man in the Automaton's place there would be no
26
Maelzel's Chess-Player
necessity for reflection. Now, these peculiar move
ments of the head and eyes are movements custom
ary with persons engaged in meditation, and the
ingenious Baron Kempelen would have adapted these
movements (were the machine a pure machine) to
occasions proper for their display, that is, to occasions
of complexity. But the reverse is seen to be the case,
and this reverse applies precisely to our supposition of
a man in the interior. When engaged in meditation
about the game he has no time to think of setting in
motion the mechanism of the Automaton by which are
moved the head and the eyes. When the game, how
ever, is obvious, he has time to look about him, and,
accordingly, we see the head shake and the eyes
roll.
5. When the machine is rolled round to allow the
spectators an examination of the back of the Turk,
and when his drapery is lifted up and the doors in the
trunk and thigh thrown open, the interior of the
trunk is seen to be crowded with machinery. In
scrutinizing this machinery while the Automaton was
in motion, that is to say, while the whole machine was
moving on the castors, it appeared to us that cer
tain portions of the mechanism changed their shape
and position in a degree too great to be accounted for
by the simple laws of perspective; and subsequent
examinations convinced us that these undue altera
tions were attributable to mirrors in the interior of the
27
Maelzel's Chess-Player
trunk. The introduction of mirrors among the ma
chinery could not have been intended to influence, in
any degree, the machinery itself. Their operation,
whatever that operation should prove to be, must
necessarily have reference to the eye of the spectator.
We at once concluded that these mirrors were so
placed to multiply to the vision some few pieces of
machinery within the trunk so as to give it the appear
ance of being crowded with mechanism. Now, the
direct inference from this is that the machine is not
a pure machine. For if it were, the inventor, so far
from wishing its mechanism to appear complex, and
using deception for the purpose of giving it this
appearance, would have been especially desirous of
convincing those who witnessed his exhibition, of the
simplicity of the means by which results so wonderful
were brought about.
6. The external appearance, and, especially, the de
portment of the Turk, are, when we consider them as
imitations of life, but very indifferent imitations. The
countenance evinces no ingenuity, and is surpassed, in
its resemblance to the human face, by the very com
monest of waxworks. The eyes roll unnaturally in
the head, without any corresponding motions of the
lids or brows. The arm, particularly, performs its
operations in an exceedingly stiff, awkward, jerking,
and rectangular manner. Now, all this is the result
either of inability in Maelzel to do better, or of inten-
28
Maelzel's Chess-Player
tional neglect, accidental neglect being out of the
question, when we consider that the whole time of
the ingenious proprietor is occupied in the improve
ment of his machines. Most assuredly we must not
refer the unlife-like appearances to inability, for all
the rest of Maelzel's automata are evidences of his full
ability to copy the motions and peculiarities of life with
the most wonderful exactitude. The rope-dancers, for
example, are inimitable. When the clown laughs, his
lips, his eyes, his eyebrows, and eyelids indeed, all
the features of his countenance are imbued with
their appropriate expressions. In both him and his
companion, every gesture is so entirely easy and free
from the semblance of artificiality, that, were it not
for the diminutiveness of their size and the fact of their
being passed from one spectator to another previous
to their exhibition on the rope, it would be difficult to
convince any assemblage of persons that these wooden
automata were not living creatures. We cannot,
therefore, doubt Mr. Maelzel's ability, and we must
necessarily suppose that he intentionally suffered his
Chess-Player to remain the same artificial and un
natural figure which Baron Kempelen (no doubt also
through design) originally made it. What this design
was it is not difficult to conceive. Were the Autom
aton lifelike in its motions, the spectator would be
more apt to attribute its operations to their true cause
(that is, to human agency within) than he is now,
29
Maelzel's Chess-Player
when the awkward and rectangular manoeuvres con
vey the idea of pure and unaided mechanism.
7. When, a short time previous to the commence
ment of the game, the Automaton is wound up by the
exhibitor as usual, an ear in any degree accustomed to
the sounds produced in winding up a system of ma
chinery will not fail to discover, instantaneously, that
the axis turned by the key in the box of the Chess-
Player cannot possibly be connected with either a
weight, a spring, or any system of machinery what
ever. The inference here is the same as in our last
observation. The winding up is inessential to the op
erations of the Automaton, and is performed with the
design of exciting in the spectators the false idea of
mechanism.
8. When the question is demanded explicitly of
Maelzel, " Is the Automaton a pure machine or not ? "
his reply is invariably the same : " I will say nothing
about it." Now, the notoriety of the Automaton, and
the great curiosity it has everywhere excited, are owing
more especially to the prevalent opinion that it is a
pure machine than to any other circumstance. Of
course, then, it is the interest of the proprietor to rep
resent it as a pure machine. And what more obvious
and more effectual method could there be of impress
ing the spectators with this desired idea, than a posi
tive and explicit declaration to that effect ? On the
other hand, what more obvious and effectual method
30
Maelzel's Chess-Player
could there be of exciting a disbelief in the Automaton's
being a pure machine than by withholding such ex
plicit declaration ? For people will naturally reason
thus : It is Maelzel's interest to represent this thing a
pure machine ; he refuses to do so, directly, in words,
although he does not scruple, and is evidently anxious,
to do so indirectly by actions; were it actually what
he wishes to represent it by actions, he would gladly
avail himself of the more direct testimony of words;
the inference is, that the consciousness of its not
being a pure machine is the reason of his silence ; his
actions cannot implicate him in a falsehood, his
words may.
9. When, in exhibiting the interior of the box,
Maelzel has thrown open the door No. i and also the
door immediately behind it, he holds a lighted candle
at the back door (as before mentioned) and moves the
entire machine to and fro with a view of convincing
the company that the cupboard No. i is entirely filled
with machinery. When the machine is thus moved
about, it will be apparent to any careful observer that,
whereas that portion of the machinery near the front
door No. i is perfectly steady and unwavering, the por
tion farther within fluctuates, in a very slight degree,
with the movements of the machine. This circum
stance first aroused in us the suspicion that the more
remote portion of the machinery was so arranged as to
be easily slipped, en masse, from its position when
3 1
Maelzel's Chess-Player
occasion should require it. This occasion we have
already stated to occur when the man concealed within
brings his body into an erect position upon the closing
of the back door.
10. Sir David Brewster states the figure of the Turk
to be of the size of life, but, in fact, it is far above the
ordinary size. Nothing is more easy than to err in our
notions of magnitude. The body of the Automaton is
generally insulated, and, having no means of imme
diately comparing it with any human form, we suffer
ourselves to consider it as of ordinary dimensions.
This mistake may, however, be corrected by observing
the Chess-Player when, as is sometimes the case, the
exhibitor approaches it. Mr. Maelzel, to be sure, is not
very tall, but upon drawing near the machine his head
will be found at least eighteen inches below the head
of the Turk, although the latter, it will be remembered,
is in a sitting position.
11. The box, behind which the Automaton is
placed, is precisely three feet six inches long, two feet
four inches deep, and two feet six inches high. These
dimensions are fully sufficient for the accommodation
of a man very much above the common size ; and the
main compartment alone is capable of holding any or
dinary man in the position we have mentioned as
assumed by the person concealed. As these are facts,
which any one who doubts them may prove by actual
calculation, we deem it unnecessary to dwell upon
32
Maelzel's Chess-Play er
them. We will only suggest that, although the top of
the box is apparently a board of about three inches in
thickness, the spectator may satisfy himself by stoop
ing and looking up at it when the main compartment
is open, that it is in reality very thin. The height of
the drawer also will be misconceived by those who ex
amine it in a cursory manner. There is a space of
about three inches between the top of the drawer as
seen from the exterior and the bottom of the cupboard,
a space which must be included in the height of the
drawer. These contrivances to make the room within
the box appear less than it actually is are referable to
a design on the part of the inventor to impress the
company again with a false idea, viz., that no human
being can be accommodated within the box.
12. The interior of the main compartment is lined
throughout with cloth. This cloth we suppose to have
a twofold object. A portion of it may form, when
tightly stretched, the only partitions which there is any
necessity for removing during the changes of the man's
position, viz., the partition between the rear of the
main compartment and the rear of cupboard No. i,
and the partition between the main compartment and
the space behind the drawer when open. If we im
agine this to be the case, the difficulty of shifting the
partitions vanishes at once, if, indeed, any such diffi
culty could be supposed under any circumstances to
exist. The second object of the cloth is to deaden and
VOL. X. 3, .5
Maelzel's Chess-Player
render indistinct all sounds occasioned by the move
ments of the person within.
13. The antagonist (as we have before observed)
is not suffered to play at the board of the Automaton,
but is seated at some distance from the machine. The
reason which, most probably, would be assigned for
this circumstance, if the question were demanded, is,
that were the antagonist otherwise situated, his person
would intervene between the machine and the specta
tors and preclude the latter from a distinct view. But
this difficulty might be easily obviated, either by ele
vating the seats of the company, or by turning the end
of the box toward them during the game. The true
cause of the restriction is, perhaps, very different.
Were the antagonist seated in contact with the box,
the secret would be liable to discovery, by his detect
ing, with the aid of a quick ear, the breathings of the
man concealed.
14. Although M. Maelzel, in disclosing the interior
of the machine, sometimes slightly deviates from the
routine which we have pointed out, yet never in any
instance does he so deviate from it as to interfere with
our solution. For example, he has been known to
open, first of all, the drawer, but he never opens the
main compartment without first closing the back door
of cupboard No. i ; he never opens the main compart
ment without first pulling out the drawer; he never
shuts the drawer without first shutting the main com-
34
Maelzel's Chess-Play er
partment; he never opens the back door of cupboard
No. i while the main compartment is open, and the
game of chess is never commenced until the whole
machine is closed. Now, if it were observed that never,
in any single instance, did M. Maelzel differ from the
routine we have pointed out as necessary to our solu
tion, it would be one of the strongest possible argu
ments in corroboration of it ; but the argument becomes
infinitely stengthened if we duly consider the circum
stance that he does occasionally deviate from the
routine, but never does so deviate as to falsify the
solution.
15. There are six candles on the board of the Au
tomaton during exhibition. The question naturally
arises : " Why are so many employed, when a single
candle, or, at farthest, two, would have been amply
sufficient to afford the spectators a clear view of the
board in a room otherwise so well lit up as the exhibi
tion room always is; when, moreover, if we suppose
the machine a pure machine, there can be no neces
sity for so much light, or, indeed, any light at all, to
enable it to perform its operations; and when, espe
cially, only a single candle is placed upon the table of
the antagonist ? " The first and most obvious infer
ence is, that so strong a light is requisite to enable the
man within to see through the transparent material
(probably fine gauze) of which the breast of the Turk
is composed. But when we consider the arrangement
35
Maelzel's Chess-Player
of the candles, another reason immediately presents
itself. There are six lights (as we have said before) in
all. Three of these are on each side of the figure.
Those most remote from the spectators are the longest,
those in the middle are about two inches shorter, and
those nearest the company about two inches shorter
still, and the candles on one side differ in height from
the candles respectively opposite on the other by a
ratio different from two inches; that is to say, the
longest candle on one side is about three inches shorter
than the longest candle on the other, and so on. Thus
it will be seen that no two of the candles are of the
same height, and thus also the difficulty of ascertain
ing the material of the breast of the figure (against
which the light is especially directed) is greatly aug
mented by the dazzling effect of the complicated cross
ings of the rays, crossings which are brought about
by placing the centres of radiation all upon different
levels.
16. While the Chess-Player was in possession of
Baron Kempelen, it was more than once observed,
first, that an Italian in the suite of the Baron was never
visible during the playing of a game at chess by the
Turk, and, secondly, that, the Italian being taken seri
ously ill, the exhibition was suspended until his recov
ery. This Italian professed a total ignorance of the
game of chess, although all others of the suite played
well. Similar observations have been made since the
36
Ill
*
Maelzel's Chess-Play er
of the canflif, another reaaon immediately presents
itself. There are six lights (as we have said before) in
all. Three of these are on each side of the figure.
Those most remote ftem the spectators are the longest,
those in the tmddie are about two inches shorter, and
those nearest the company about two inches shorter
still, and the candles on one side differ in height from
the caudles mpectively opposite on the other by a
ratio different from two inches; that is to say, the
longest candle on one side is about three inches shorter
than the longest candle on the other, and so on. Thus
it will be se^^tg^lgggO^^i^v^jg^^are of
same height, and thus also the difficulty of ascertain
ing the material of the breast of the figure (against
which the light to especially directed) is greatly aug
mented by teiwttftt dtart of the complicated craft
ings of th* ' **** *M* * brought about
by placing tfee e***** ** fttittftMl ail upon different
levels.
16. WhS tfcs OwiS-Player was in possession of
Baron Kempelen, it was more than once observed,
first, that an Italian in the suite of the Baron was never
visible during the playing of a game at chess by the
Turk, Mid, secondly, that, the Italian being taken seri
ously ill, the f xhibition was suspended until his recov
ery. This ttftttaa pretested a total ignorance of the
gam* of <&*, afefcMf* all others of the suite played
wdL aMtar otofrvm&ot* have been made since the
Maelzel's Chess-Player
Automaton has been purchased by Maelzel. There is
a man, Schlumberger, who attends him wherever he
goes, but who has no ostensible occupation other than
that of assisting in the packing and unpacking of the
Automaton. This man is about the medium size, and
has a remarkable stoop in the shoulders. Whether he
professes to play chess or not, we are not informed. It
is quite certain, however, that he is never to be seen
during the exhibition of the Chess-Player, although
frequently visible just before and just after the exhibi
tion. Moreover, some years ago Maelzel visited Rich
mond with his automata, and exhibited them, we
believe, in the house now occupied by M. Bossieux
as a dancing academy. Schlumberger was suddenly
taken ill, and during his illness there was no exhibition
of the Chess-Player. These facts are well known to
many of our citizens. The reason assigned for the
suspension of the Chess-Player's performances was not
the illness of Schlumberger. The inferences from all
this we leave, without farther comment, to the reader.
17. The Turk plays with his left arm. A circum
stance so remarkable cannot be accidental. Brewster
takes no notice of it whatever beyond a mere state
ment, we believe, that such is the fact. The early
writers of treatises on the Automaton seem not to have
observed the matter at all, and have no reference to it.
The author of the pamphlet alluded to by Brewster men
tions it, but acknowledges his inability to account for
37
Maelzel's Chess-Play er
it. Yet it is obviously from such prominent discrep
ancies or incongruities as this that deductions are to
be made (if made at all) which shall lead us to the
truth.
The circumstance of the Automaton's playing with
his left hand cannot have connection with the opera
tions of the machine, considered merely as such. Any
mechanical arrangement which would cause the figure
to move, in any given manner, the left arm, could, if
reversed, cause it to move, in the same manner, the
right. But these principles cannot be extended to the
human organization, wherein there is a marked and
radical difference in the construction, and, at all events,
in the powers, of the right and left arms. Reflecting
upon this latter fact, we naturally refer the incon
gruity noticeable hi the Chess-Player to this peculiarity
hi the human organization. If so, we must imagine
some reversion, for the Chess-Player plays precisely as
a man would not. These ideas, once entertained, are
sufficient of themselves to suggest the notion of a man
in the interior. A few more imperceptible steps lead
us finally to the result. The Automaton plays with his
left arm, because under no other circumstances could
the man within play with his right a desideratum, of
course. Let us, for example, imagine the Automaton
to play with his right arm. To reach the machinery
which moves the arm, and which we have before ex
plained to lie just beneath the shoulder, it would be
38
Maelzel's Chess-Play er
necessary for the man within either to use his right
arm in an exceedingly painful and awkward position
(viz., brought up close to his body and tightly com
pressed between his body and the side of the Autom
aton), or else to use his left arm brought across his
breast. In neither case could he act with the requi
site ease or precision. On the contrary, the Autom
aton playing, as it actually does, with the left arm, all
difficulties vanish. The right arm of the man within
is brought across his breast, and his right fingers act,
without any constraint, upon the machinery in the
shoulder of the figure.
We do not believe that any reasonable objections
can be urged against this solution of the Automaton
Chess-Player.
39
Prefaces to "The Concholo-
gist's First Book" 1
FIRST EDITION, 1839
E term " Malacology," an abbreviation of
" Malacozoology," from the Greek ^oka-
nog (soft), Co5o^ (an animal), and AGIOS' (a
discourse), was first employed by the French naturalist
De Blainville to designate an important division of
Natural History, in which the leading feature of the
animals discussed was the softness of the flesh, or, to
speak with greater accuracy, of the general envelop.
This division comprehends not only the Mollusca, but
1 The full title is " The Conchologist's First Book : a System of Testaceous
Malacology, arranged expressly for the use of schools ; in which the animals,
according to Cuvier, are given with the shells, a great number of new species
added, and the whole brought up, as accurately as possible, to the present con
dition of the science. By Edgar A. Poe. Second edition. With illustrations
of two hundred and fifteen shells, presenting a correct type of each genus.
Philadelphia: Published for the Author by Haswell, Barrington, & Haswell,
and for sale by the principal booksellers in the United States." [First edition.
1839; second edition, 1840; both prefaces signed " E. A. P."]
40
" The Conchologist's First Book"
also the Testacea of Aristotle and Pliny, and, of course,
had reference to molluscous animals in general, of
which the greater portion have shells.
A treatise concerning the shells, exclusively, of this
greater portion, is termed, in accordance with general
usage, a "Treatise upon Conchology or Conchyliology" ;
although the word is somewhat improperly applied, as
the Greek conchyllon, from which it is derived, em
braces in its signification both the animal and shell.
Ostracology would have been more definite.
The common works upon this subject, however, will
appear to every person of science very essentially de
fective, inasmuch as the relation of the animal and
shell, with their dependence upon each other, is a
radically important consideration in the examination of
either. Neither, in the attempt to obviate this diffi
culty, is a work upon Malacology at large necessarily
included. Shells, it is true, form, and for many obvi
ous reasons will continue to form, the subject of chief
interest, whether with regard to the school or the
cabinet ; still, there is no good reason why a book upon
Conchology (using the common term) may not be
malacological as far as it proceeds.
In this view of the subject the present little work is
offered to the public. Beyond the ruling feature,
that of giving an anatomical account of each animal,
together with a description of the shell which it in
habits, I have aimed at little more than accuracy and
41
" The Conchologist's First Book "
simplicity, as far as the latter quality can be thought
consistent with the rigid exactions of science.
No attention has been given to the mere history of
the subject; it is conceived that any disquisition on
this head would more properly appertain to works of
ultimate research than to one whose sole intention is
to make the pupil acquainted, in as tangible a form as
possible, with results. To afford, at a cheap rate, a
concise, yet sufficiently comprehensive, and especially
a well-illustrated school-book, has been the principal
design.
In conclusion, I have only to acknowledge my great
indebtedness to the valuable public labors, as well as
private assistance, of Mr. Isaac Lea of Philadelphia. To
Mr. Thomas Wyatt and his late excellent Manual of
Conchology t I am also under many obligations. No
better work, perhaps, could be put into the hands of
the student as a secondary text-book. Its beautiful
and perfectly well-colored illustrations afford an aid
in the collection of a cabinet scarcely to be met with
elsewhere.
SECOND EDITION, 1840
In issuing a second edition of this " Conchology " in
so very brief a period since the publication of the first
large impression, the author has little more to do than
to express the high pleasure with which he has seen
42
"The Conchologist's First Book"
his labors well received. The success of the work has
been decided ; and the entire design has been accom
plished hi its general introduction into schools.
Many important alterations and additions are now
made; errors of the press carefully corrected; many
more recently discovered American species added; and
the work, upon the whole, is rendered more worthy of
public approbation.
43
Philosophy of Furniture
the internal decoration, if not in the exter
nal architecture of their residences, the
English are supreme. The Italians have
but little sentiment beyond marbles and colors. In
France, meliora ptobant, detetiota seqvantur, the
people are too much a race of gadabouts to maintain
those household proprieties of which, indeed, they have
a delicate appreciation, or, at least, the elements of a
proper sense. The Chinese and most of the Eastern
races have a warm but inappropriate fancy. The
Scotch are poor decorists. The Dutch have, perhaps,
an indeterminate idea that a curtain is not a cabbage.
In Spain they are all curtains a nation of hangmen.
The Russians do not furnish. The Hottentots and
Kickapoos are very well in their way. The Yankees
alone are preposterous.
How this happens it is not difficult to see. We have
no aristocracy of blood, and having, therefore, as a
natural, and, indeed, as an inevitable thing, fashioned
44
Philosophy of Furniture
for ourselves an aristocracy of dollars, the display of
wealth has here to take the place and perform the
office of the heraldic display in monarchical countries.
By a transition readily understood, and which might
have been as readily foreseen, we have been brought
to merge in simple show our notions of taste itself.
To speak less abstractly. In England, for example,
no mere parade of costly appurtenances would be so
likely, as with us, to create an impression of the beauti
ful in respect to the appurtenances themselves, or of
taste as regards the proprietor; this for the reason,
first, that wealth is not, in England, the loftiest object of
ambition as constituting a nobility ; and, secondly, that
there, the true nobility of blood, confining itself within
the strict limits of legitimate taste, rather avoids than
affects that mere costliness in which a parvenu ri
valry may at any time be successfully attempted. The
people will imitate the nobles, and the result is a thor
ough diffusion of the proper feeling. But in America,
the coins current being the sole arms of the aristoc
racy, their display may be said, in general, to be the
sole means of aristocratic distinction; and the popu
lace, looking always upward for models, are insensibly
led to confound the two entirely separate ideas of mag
nificence and beauty. In short, the cost of an article
of furniture has at length come to be, with us, nearly
the sole test of its merit in a decorative point of view,
and this test, once established, has led the way to many
45
Philosophy of Furniture
analogous errors, readily traceable to the one primitive
folly.
There could be nothing more directly offensive to the
eye of an artist than the interior of what is termed
in the United States, that is to say, in Appalachia, a
well-furnished apartment. Its most usual defect is a
want of keeping. We speak of the keeping of a room
as we would of the keeping of a picture, for both the
picture and the room are amenable to those undeviat-
ing principles which regulate all varieties of art; and
very nearly the same laws by which we decide on the
higher merits of a painting suffice for decision on the
adjustment of a chamber.
A want of keeping is observable sometimes in the
character of the several pieces of furniture, but gen
erally in their colors or modes of adaptation to use.
Very often the eye is offended by their inartistical
arrangement. Straight lines are too prevalent, too
uninterruptedly continued, or clumsily interrupted at
right angles. If curved lines occur, they are repeated
into unpleasant uniformity. By undue precision the
appearance of many a fine apartment is utterly
spoiled.
Curtains are rarely well disposed, or well chosen, in
respect to other decorations. With formal furniture,
curtains are out of place ; and an extensive volume of
drapery of any kind is, under any circumstances, ir
reconcilable with good taste, the proper quantum, as
46
Philosophy of Furniture
well as the proper adjustment, depending upon the
character of the general effect.
Carpets are better understood of late than of ancient
days, but we still very frequently err in their patterns
and colors. The soul of the apartment is the carpet.
From it are deduced not only the hues, but the forms of
all objects incumbent. A judge at common law may be
an ordinary man ; a good judge of a carpet must be a
genius. Yet we have heard discoursing of carpets,
with the air d'um mouton qtti reve f fellows who
should not and who could not be entrusted with the
management of their own moustaches. Every one
knows that a large floor may have a covering of large
figures, and that a small one must have a covering of
small ; yet this is not all the knowledge in the world.
As regards texture, the Saxony is alone admissible.
Brussels is the preter-pluperfect tense of fashion, and
Turkey is taste in its dying agonies. Touching pat
tern, a carpet should not be bedizened out like a Ric-
caree Indian all red chalk, yellow ochre, and cock's
feathers. In brief, distinct grounds and vivid circular
or cycloid figures, of no meaning, are here Median
laws. The abomination of flowers, or representations
of well-known objects of any kind, should not be en
dured within the limits of Christendom. Indeed,
whether on carpets, or curtains, or tapestry, or otto
man coverings, all upholstery of this nature should be
rigidly arabesque. As for those antique floor-cloths
47
Philosophy of Furniture
still occasionally seen in the dwellings of the rabble,
cloths of huge, sprawling, and radiating devices, stripe-
interspersed, and glorious with all hues, among which
no ground is intelligible, these are but the wicked in
vention of a race of time-servers and money-lovers,
children of Baal and worshippers of Mammon, Ben-
thams, who, to spare thought and economize fancy,
first cruelly invented the kaleidoscope and then estab
lished joint-stock companies to twirl it by steam.
Glare is a leading error in the philosophy of Ameri
can household decoration, an error easily recognized
as deduced from the perversion of taste just specified.
We are violently enamored of gas and of glass. The
former is totally inadmissible within doors. Its harsh
and unsteady light offends. No one having both
brains and eyes will use it. A mild, or what artists
term a cool light, with its consequent warm shadows,
will do wonders for even an ill-furnished apartment.
Never was a more lovely thought than that of the
astral lamp. We mean, of course, the astral lamp
proper the lamp of Argand, with its original plain
ground-glass shade and its tempered and uniform
moonlight rays. The cut-glass shade is a weak inven
tion of the enemy. The eagerness with which we have
adopted it, partly on account of its flashiness, but prin
cipally on account of its greater cost, is a good com
mentary on the proposition with which we began. It
is not too much to say that the deliberate employer of
48
Philosophy of Furniture
a cut-glass shade is either radically deficient in taste,
or blindly subservient to the caprices of fashion. The
light proceeding from one of these gaudy abomina
tions is unequal, broken, and painful. It alone is
sufficient to mar a world of good effect in the furniture
subjected to its influence. Female loveliness, in espe
cial, is more than one half disenchanted beneath its
evil eye.
In the matter of glass, generally, we proceed upon
false principles. Its leading feature is glitter, and in
that one word how much of all that is detestable do
we express! Flickering, unquiet lights, are some
times pleasing to children and idiots always so ; but
in the embellishment of a room they should be scrupu
lously avoided. In truth, even strong, steady lights are
inadmissible. The huge and unmeaning glass chande
liers, prism-cut, gas-lighted, and without shade, which
dangle in our most fashionable drawing-rooms, may
be cited as the quintessence of all that is false in taste or
preposterous in folly.
The rage for glitter, because its idea has become, as
we before observed, confounded with that of mag
nificence in the abstract, has led us, also, to the exag
gerated employment of mirrors. We line our dwellings
with great British plates and then imagine we have
done a fine thing. Now, the slightest thought will be
sufficient to convince any one, who has an eye at all,
of the ill effect of ' numerous looking-glasses, and
VOL. X.- 4 .
Philosophy of Furniture
especially of large ones. Regarded apart from its re
flection, the mirror presents a continuous flat, color
less, unrelieved surface, a thing always and obviously
unpleasant. Considered as a reflector, it is potent in
producing a monstrous and odious uniformity: and
the evil is here aggravated, not in merely direct pro
portion with the augmentation of its sources, but in a
ratio constantly increasing. In fact, a room with four
or five mirrors arranged at random, is, for all purposes
of artistic show, a room of no shape at all. If we add
to this evil the attendant glitter upon glitter, we have
a perfect farrago of discordant and displeasing effects.
The veriest bumpkin, on entering an apartment so
bedizened, would be instantly aware of something
wrong, although he might be altogether unable to
assign a cause for his dissatisfaction. But let the
same person be led into a room tastefully furnished,
and he would be startled into an exclamation of pleas
ure and surprise.
It is an evil growing out of our republican institu
tions, that here a man of large purse has usually a
very little soul which he keeps in it. The corruption
of taste is a portion or a pendant of the dollar-manu
facture. As we grow rich, our ideas grow rusty. It
is, therefore, not among our aristocracy that we must
look (if at all, in Appalachia) for the spirituality of a
British boudoir. But we have seen apartments in the
tenure of Americans of modern means, which, in nega-
Philosophy of Furniture
tive merit at least, might vie with any of the ormolu'd
cabinets of our friends across the water. Even now,
there is present to our mind's eye a small and not
ostentatious chamber with whose decorations no fault
can be found. The proprietor lies asleep on a sofa,
the weather is cool, the time is near midnight; we
will make a sketch of the room during his slumber.
It is oblong, some thirty feet in length and twenty-
five in breadth, a shape affording the best (ordinary)
opportunities for the adjustment of furniture. It has
but one door, by no means a wide one, which is at
one end of the parallelogram, and but two windows,
which are at the other. These latter are large, reach
ing down to the floor, have deep recesses, and open on
an Italian veranda. Their panes are of a crimson-
tinted glass, set in rosewood framings, more massive
than usual. They are curtained within the recess by
a thick silver tissue adapted to the shape of the window,
and hanging loosely in small volumes. Without the
recess are curtains of an exceedingly rich crimson silk,
fringed with a deep network of gold, and lined with
the silver tissue which is the material of the exterior
blind. There are no cornices; but the folds of the
whole fabric (which are sharp rather than massive,
and have an airy appearance) issue from beneath a
broad entablature of rich giltwork, which encircles the
room at the junction of the ceiling and walls. The
drapery is thrown open also, or closed, by means of a
5 1
Philosophy of Furniture
thick rope of gold loosely enveloping it, and resolving
itself readily into a knot; no pins or other such de
vices are apparent. The colors of the curtains and their
fringe, the tints of crimson and gold, appear everywhere
in profusion and determine the character of the room.
The carpet of Saxony material is quite half an inch
thick, and is of the same crimson ground, relieved
simply by the appearance of a gold cord (like that
festooning the curtains) slightly relieved above the
surface of the ground and thrown upon it in such a
manner as to form a succession of short, irregular
curves, one occasionally overlying the other. The walls
are prepared with a glossy paper of a silver-gray tint,
spotted with small Arabesque devices of a fainter hue
of the prevalent crimson. Many paintings relieve the
expanse of the paper. These are chiefly landscapes of
an imaginative cast, such as the fairy grottoes of Stan-
field, or the lake of the Dismal Swamp of Chapman.
There are, nevertheless, three or four female heads of
an ethereal beauty portraits in the manner of Sully.
The tone of each picture is warm, but dark. There
are no " brilliant effects." Repose speaks in all. Not
one is of small size. Diminutive paintings give that
spotty look to a room which is the blemish of so many
a fine work of art overtouched. The frames are
broad but not deep, and richly carved without being
dulled or filigreed. They have the whole lustre of
burnished gold. They lie flat on the walls, and do not
52
Philosophy of Furniture
hang off with cords. The designs themselves are often
seen to better advantage in this latter position, but the
general appearance of the chamber is injured. But
one mirror, and this is not a very large one, is visible.
In shape it is nearly circular, and it is hung so that a
reflection of the person can be obtained from it in none
of the ordinary sitting-places of the room. Two large
low sofas of rosewood and crimson silk, gold-flowered,
form the only seats, with the exception of two light
conversation chairs, also of rosewood. There is a
pianoforte (rosewood, also), without cover, and thrown
open. An octagonal table, formed altogether of the
richest gold-threaded marble, is placed near one of
the sofas. This is also without cover ; the drapery of
the curtains has been thought sufficient. Four large
and gorgeous Sevres vases, in which bloom a profusion
of sweet and vivid flowers, occupy the slightly rounded
angles of the room. A tall candelabrum, bearing a
small antique lamp with highly perfumed oil, is stand
ing near the head of my sleeping friend. Some light
and graceful hanging shelves, with golden edges and
crimson silk cords with golden tassels, sustain two or
three hundred magnificently bound books. Beyond
these things there is no furniture, if we except an
Argand lamp, with a plain crimson-tinted ground-glass
shade, which depends from the lofty vaulted ceiling by
a single slender gold chain, and throws a tranquil but
magical radiance over all.
53
Cryptography
S we can scarcely imagine a time when there
did not exist a necessity, or at least a desire,
of transmitting information from one indi
vidual to another in such a manner as to elude general
comprehension, so we may well suppose the practice
of writing in cipher to be of great antiquity. De la
Guilletiere, therefore, who, in his Lacedxmon Ancient
and Modern, maintains that the Spartans were the in
ventors of cryptography, is obviously in error. He
speaks of the scytala as being the origin of the art;
but he should only have cited it as one of its earliest
instances, so far as our records extend. The scytalae
were two wooden cylinders, precisely similar in all re
spects. The general of an army, in going upon any
expedition, received from the ephori one of these cylin
ders, while the other remained in their possession. If
either party had occasion to communicate with the
other, a narrow strip of parchment was so wrapped
around the scytala that the edges of the skin fitted
54
Cryptography
accurately each to each. The writing was then in
scribed longitudinally, and the epistle unrolled and
despatched. If, by mischance, the messenger was in
tercepted, the letter proved unintelligible to his captors.
If he reached his destination safely, however, the party
addressed had only to involve the second cylinder in
the strip to decipher the inscription. The transmission
to our own times of this mode of cryptography is due,
probably, to the historical use of the scytala rather
than to anything else. Similar means of secret inter
communication must have existed almost contem
poraneously with the invention of letters.
It may be as well to remark, in passing, that in none
of the treatises on the subject of this paper which have
fallen under our cognizance have we observed any
suggestion of a method, other than those which apply
alike to all ciphers, for the solution of the cipher by
scytala. We read of instances, indeed, in which the
intercepted parchments were deciphered; but we are
not informed that this was ever done except acciden
tally. Yet a solution might be obtained with absolute
certainty in this manner : The strip of skin being in
tercepted, let there be prepared a cone of great length
comparatively, say six feet long, and whose circum
ference at base shall at least equal the length of the
strip. Let this latter be rolled upon the cone near the
base, edge to edge, as above described ; then, still keep
ing edge to edge, and maintaining the parchment close
55
Cryptography
upon the cone, let it be gradually slipped toward the
apex. In this process, some of those words, syllables,
or letters, whose connection is intended, will be sure to
come together at that point of the cone where its di
ameter equals that of the scytala upon which the
cipher was written. And as in passing up the cone
to its apex all possible diameters are passed over, there
is no chance of a failure. The circumference of the
scytala being thus ascertained, a similar one can be
made and the cipher applied to it.
Few persons can be made to believe that it is not
quite an easy thing to invent a method of secret writ
ing which shall baffle investigation. Yet it may be
roundly asserted that human ingenuity cannot concoct
a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve. In
the facility with which such writing is deciphered,
however, there exist very remarkable differences in
different intellects. Often, in the case of two individ
uals of acknowledged equality as regards ordinary
mental efforts, it will be found that, while one cannot
unriddle the commonest cipher, the other will scarcely
be puzzled by the most abstruse. It may be observed
generally that in such investigations the analytic ability
is very forcibly called into action ; and, for this reason,
cryptographical solutions might, with great propriety,
be introduced into academies as the means of giving
tone to the most important of the powers of mind.
Were two individuals, totally unpractised in cryptog-
56
Cryptography
raphy, desirous of holding by letter a correspondence
which should be unintelligible to all but themselves, it
is most probable that they would at once think of a
peculiar alphabet, to which each should have a key.
At first it would, perhaps, be arranged that " a " should
stand for z," " b " for " y," c " for " x," " d " for
" w," etc., etc. ; that is to say, the order of the letters
would be reversed. Upon second thoughts, this ar
rangement appearing too obvious, a more complex
mode would be adopted. The first thirteen letters
might be written beneath the last thirteen, thus :
nopqrstuvwxyz
abcdefghijklm;
and, so placed, " a " might stand for " n " and " n " for
"a", "o" for "b" and "b" for "o," etc., etc. This,
again, having an air of regularity which might be
fathomed, the key alphabet might be struck absolutely
at random. Thus,
a might stand for p
b " " " x
c " " " u
d " " " o, etc.
The correspondents, unless convinced of their error by
the solution of their cipher, would, no doubt, be will
ing to rest in this latter arrangement as affording full
security. But if not, they would be likely to hit upon
the plan of arbitrary marks used in place of the usual
characters. For example,
57
Cryptography
( might be employed for a
it H tt ti |j
it g
(( U d
) " " " " e, etc.
A letter composed of such characters would have an
intricate appearance unquestionably. If still, how
ever, it did not give full satisfaction, the idea of a per
petually shifting alphabet might be conceived, and
thus effected: Let two circular pieces of pasteboard
be prepared, one about half an inch in diameter less
than the other. Let the centre of the smaller be
placed upon the centre of the larger one and secured
for a moment from slipping, while radii are drawn
from the common centre to the circumference of the
smaller circle, and thus extended to the circumference
of the greater. Let there be twenty-six of these radii,
forming on each pasteboard twenty-six spaces. In
each of these spaces on the under circle write one of
the letters of the alphabet, so that the whole alphabet
be written if at random so much the better. Do the
same with the upper circle. Now run a pin through
the common centre and let the upper circle revolve,
while the under one is held fast. Now stop the revo
lution of the upper circle, and, while both lie still, write
the epistle required, using for " a " that letter in the
smaller circle which tallies with " a " in the larger, for
" b " that letter in the smaller circle which tallies with
58
Cryptography
" b " in the larger, etc., etc. In order that an epistle
thus written may be read by the person for whom it is
intended, it is only necessary that he should have in
his possession circles constructed as those just de
scribed, and that he should know any two of the char
acters (one in the under and one in the upper circle)
which were in juxtaposition when his correspondent
wrote the cipher. Upon this latter point he is in
formed by looking at the two initial letters of the
document which serves as a key. Thus, if he sees " a
m " at the beginning, he concludes that by turning his
circles so as to put these characters in conjunction, he
will arrive at the alphabet employed.
At a cursory glance, these various modes of con
structing a cipher seem to have about them an air of
inscrutable secrecy. It appears almost an impossibil
ity to unriddle what has been put together by so com
plex a method. And to some persons the difficulty
might be great ; but to others, to those skilled in de
ciphering, such enigmas are very simple indeed. The
reader should bear in mind that the basis of the whole
art of solution, as far as regards these matters, is found
in the general principles of the formation of language
itself, and thus is altogether independent of the
particular laws which govern any cipher, or the con
struction of its key. The difficulty of reading a cryp-
tographical puzzle is by no means always in accordance
with the labor or ingenuity with which it has been
59
Cryptography
constructed. The sole use of the key, indeed, is for
those au fait to the cipher; in its perusal by a third
party, no reference is had to it at all. The lock of the
secret is picked. In the different methods of cryptog
raphy specified above, it will be observed that there is
a gradually increasing complexity. But this com
plexity is only in shadow. It has no substance what
ever. It appertains merely to the formation, and has
no bearing upon the solution of the cipher. The last
mode mentioned is not in the least degree more difficult
to be deciphered than the first, whatever may be the
diffiiculty of either.
In the discussion of an analogous subject, in one of
the weekly papers of this city about eighteen months
ago, the writer of this article had occasion to speak of
the application of a rigorous method in all forms of
thought, of its advantages, of the extension of its use
even to what is considered the operation of pure fancy,
and thus, subsequently, of the solution of cipher. He
even ventured to assert that no cipher, of the charac
ter above specified, could be sent to the address of the
paper which he would not be able to resolve. This
challenge excited, most unexpectedly, a very lively in
terest among the numerous readers of the journal.
Letters were poured in upon the editor from all parts
of the country; and many of the writers of these
epistles were so convinced of the impenetrability of
their mysteries as to be at great pains to draw him
60
Cryptography
into wagers on the subject. At the same time, they
were not always scrupulous about sticking to the
point. The cryptographs were, in numerous instances,
altogether beyond the limits defined in the beginning.
Foreign languages were employed. Words and sen
tences were run together without interval. Several
alphabets were used hi the same cipher. One gentle
man, but moderately endowed with conscientiousness,
inditing us a puzzle composed of pot-hooks and hangers
to which the wildest typography of the office could
afford nothing similar, went even so far as to jumble
together no less than seven distinct alphabets, without
intervals between the letters or between the lines.
Many of the cryptographs were dated in Philadelphia,
and several of those which urged the subject of a bet
were written by gentlemen of this city. Out of, per
haps, one hundred ciphers altogether received, there
was only one which we did not immediately succeed
in resolving. This one we demonstrated to be an im
position, that is to say, we fully proved it a jargon of
random characters, having no meaning whatever. In
respect to the epistle of the seven alphabets, we had
the pleasure of completely nonplussing its inditer by a
prompt and satisfactory translation.
The weekly paper mentioned was, for a period of
some months, greatly occupied with the hieroglyphic
and cabalistic-looking solutions of the cryptographs
sent us from all quarters. Yet, with the exception of
61
Cryptography
the writers of the ciphers, we do not believe that any
individuals could have been found among the readers
of the journal who regarded the matter in any other
light than in that of a desperate humbug. We mean
to say that no one really believed in the authenticity
of the answers. One party averred that the mysteri
ous figures were only inserted to give a queer air to
the paper for the purpose of attracting attention. An
other thought it more probable that we not only solved
the ciphers, but put them together ourselves for solu
tion. This having been the state of affairs at the
period when it was thought expedient to decline fur
ther dealings in necromancy, the writer of this article
avails himself of the present opportunity to maintain
the truth of the journal in question, to repel the
charges of rigmarole by which it was assailed, and
to declare, in his own name, that the ciphers were all
written in good faith and solved in the same spirit.
A very common and somewhat too obvious mode of
secret correspondence is the following: A card is in
terspersed, at irregular intervals with oblong spaces,
about the length of ordinary words of three syllables
in a bourgeois type. Another card is made exactly
coinciding. One is in possession of each party. When
a letter is to be written the key-card is placed upon
the paper and words conveying the true meaning in
scribed in the spaces. The card is then removed and
the blanks filled up, so as to make out a signification
62
Cryptography
different from the real one. When the person ad
dressed receives the cipher he has merely to apply to
it his own card, when the superfluous words are con
cealed, and the significant ones alone appear. The
chief objection to this cryptograph is the difficulty of
so filling the blanks as not to give a forced appearance
to the sentences. Differences also in the handwriting
between the words written in the spaces and those in
scribed upon removal of the card will always be de
tected by a close observer.
A pack of cards is sometimes made the vehicle of a
cipher in this manner: The parties determine, in the
first place, upon certain arrangements of the pack.
For example, it is agreed that, when a writing is to be
commenced, a natural sequence of the spots shall be
made, with spades at top, hearts next, diamonds next,
and clubs last. This order being obtained, the writer
proceeds to inscribe upon the top card the first letter
of his epistle, upon the next the second, upon the next
the third, and so on until the pack is exhausted, when,
of course, he will have written fifty-two letters. He
now shuffles the pack according to a preconcerted plan.
For example : He takes three cards from the bottom
and places them at top, then one from top, placing it
at bottom, and so on, for a given number of times. This
done, he again inscribes fifty-two characters as be
fore, proceeding thus until his epistle is written. The
pack being received by the correspondent, he has only
63
Cryptography
to place the cards in the order agreed upon for com
mencement to read, letter by letter, the first fifty-two
characters as intended. He has then only to shuffle
in the manner pre-arranged for the second perusal to
decipher the series of the next fifty-two letters, and so
on to the end. The objection to this cryptograph lies
in the nature of the missive. A pack of cards, sent
from one party to another, would scarcely fail to ex
cite suspicion, and it cannot be doubted that it is far
better to secure ciphers from being considered as such
than to waste time in attempts at rendering them
scrutiny-proof when intercepted. Experience shows
that the most cunningly constructed cryptograph, if
suspected, can and will be unriddled.
An unusually secure mode of secret intercommuni
cation might be thus devised: Let the parties each
furnish themselves with the copy of the same edition
of a book, the rarer the edition the better, as also the
rarer the book. In the cryptograph numbers are used
altogether, and these numbers refer to the locality of
letters in the volume. For example, a cipher is re
ceived commencing, 121-6-8. The party addressed
refers to page 121, and looks at the sixth letter from
the left of the page in the eighth line from the top.
Whatever letter he there finds is the initial letter of
the epistle, and so on. This method is very secure;
yet it is possible to decipher any cryptograph written
by its means, and it is greatly objectionable otherwise
64
Cryptography
on account of the time necessarily required for its
solution, even with the key-volume.
It is not to be supposed that cryptography, as a seri
ous thing, as the means of imparting important infor
mation, has gone out of use at the present day. It is
still commonly practised in diplomacy; and there are
individuals, even now, holding office in the eye of
various foreign governments, whose real business is
that of deciphering. We have already said that a
peculiar mental action is called into play in the solu
tion of cryptographical problems, at least in those of
the higher order. Good cryptographists are rare in
deed; and thus their services, although seldom re
quired, are necessarily well requited.
An instance of the modern employment of writing
in cipher is mentioned in a work lately published by
Messieurs Lea and Blanchard of this city, 1 Sketches of
Conspicuous Living Characters of France, In a notice
of Berryer, it is said that a letter being addressed by
the Duchess de Berri to the Legitimists of Paris, to in
form them of her arrival, it was accompanied by a
long note in cipher, the key of which she had forgotten
to give. " The penetrating mind of Berryer," says
the biographer, " soon discovered it. It was this
phrase substituted for the twenty-four letters of the
alphabet : Le gouvernement provisoire,
The assertion that Berryer " soon discovered the
1 Philadelphia. Ed.
VOL. X. 5. 6
Cryptography
key-phrase " merely proves that the writer of these
memoirs is entirely innocent of cryptographical know
ledge. Monsieur B. no doubt ascertained the key-
phrase ; but it was merely to satisfy his curiosity, after
the riddle had been read. He made no use of the key
in deciphering. The lock was picked.
In our notice of the book in question (published in
the April number of this magazine) 1 we alluded to this
subject thus :
" The phrase Le gouvernement provisoire is French,
and the note in cipher was addressed to Frenchmen.
The difficulty of deciphering may well be supposed
much greater had the key been in a foreign tongue ;
yet any one who will take the trouble may address us
a note, in the same manner as here proposed, and the
key-phrase may be either in French, Italian, Spanish,
German, Latin, or Greek (or in any of the dialects of
these languages), and we pledge ourselves for the
solution of the riddle."
This challenge has elicited but a single response,
which is embraced in the following letter. The only
quarrel we have with the epistle is, that its writer has
declined giving us his name in full. We beg that he
will take an early opportunity of doing this, and thus
relieve us of the chance of that suspicion which was
attached to the cryptography of the weekly journal
1 Graham's. Ed.
66
Cryptography
above mentioned the suspicion of inditing ciphers to
ourselves. The postmark of the letter is " Stonington,
Conn."
S , Ct., April, 1841.
To the Editor of Graham's Magazine t
Sir In the April number of your magazine, while review
ing the translation by Mr. Walsh of Sketches of Conspicuous
Living Characters of France, you invite your readers to
address you a note in cipher, * the key-phrase to which may
be either in French, Italian, Spanish, German, Latin, or
Greek,' and pledge yourself for its solution. My attention
being called, by your remarks, to this species of cipher-writing,
I composed for my own amusement the following exercises,
in the first part of which the key-phrase is in English, in the
second in Latin. As I did not see (by the number for May)
that any of your correspondents had availed himself of your
offer, I take the liberty to send the enclosed, on which, if you
should think it worth your while, you can exercise your in
genuity.
I am, yours respectfully,
S. D. L.
No. i
" Cauhiif aud ftd sdftirf ithot tacd wdde rdchfdr tiu
fuaefshffheo fdoudf hetiusafhie tuis ied herhchriai fi
aeiftdu wn sdaef it iuhfheo hiidohwid fi aen deodsf ths
tiu itis hf iaf iuhoheaiin rdffhedr; aer ftd auf it ftif
f doudfin oissiehoafheo hefdiihodeod taf wdde odeduaiin
fdusdr ounsfiouastn. Saen fsdohdf it fdoudf iuhfheo
idud weiie fi ftd aeohdeff; fisdfhsdf a fiacdf tdar iaf
ftacdr aer ftd ouiie iuhffde isie ihft fisd herdihwid
oiiiuheo tiihr, atfdu ithot ftd tahu wdheo sdushffdr fi
67
Cryptography
ouii aoahe, hetiusafhie oiiir wd fuaefshffdr ihft ihffid
raeodu ftaf rhfoicdun iiiir defid iefhi ftd aswiiafiun
dshffid fatdin udaotdr hff rdffheafhie. Ounsfiouastn
tiidcdu siud suisduin dswuaodf ftifd sirdf it iuhfheo
ithot aud uderdudr idohwid iein wn sdaef it fisd de-
siaeafiun wdn ithot sawdf weiie ftd udai fhoehthoafhie
it ftd ohstduf dssiindr fi hff siffdffiu."
No. 2
" Ofoiioiiaso ortsiii sov eodisoioe afduiostifoi ft iftvi
si tri oistoiv oiniafetsorit ifeov rsri afotiiiiv ridiiot irio
riwio eovit atrotfetsoria aioriti iitri tf oitovin tri aeti-
f ei ioreitit sov usttoi oioittstif o dfti afdooitior trso ifeov
tri dfit otftfeov softriedi ft oistoiv oriofiforiti suitteii
viireiiitif oi ft tri iarf oisiti iiti trir uet otiiiotiv uitfti rid
io tri eoviieeiiiv rfasueostr ft rii dftrit tfoeei."
In the solution of the first of these ciphers we had
little more than ordinary trouble. The second proved
to be exceedingly difficult, and it was only by calling
every faculty into play that we could read it at all.
The first runs thus:
" Various are the methods which have been devised
for transmitting secret information from one individ
ual to another by means of writing, illegible to any
except him for whom it was originally destined; and
the art of thus secretly communicating intelligence has
been generally termed " cryptography." Many species
68
Cryptography
of secret writing were known to the ancients. Some
times a slave's head was shaved and the crown written
upon with some indelible coloring fluid; after which,
the hair being permitted to grow again, information
could be transmitted with little danger that discovery
would ensue until the ambulatory epistle safely
reached its destination. Cryptography, however pure,
properly embraces those modes of writing which are
rendered legible only by means of some explanatory
key which makes known the real signification of the
ciphers employed to its possessor."
The key-phrase of this cryptograph is, " A word to
the wise is sufficient."
The second is thus translated :
" Nonsensical phrases and unmeaning combinations
of words, as the learned lexicographer would have
confessed himself, when hidden under cryptographic
ciphers, serve to perpdex the curious enquirer, and
baffle penetration more completely than would the
most profound apothegms of learned philosophers.
Abstruse disquisitions of the scholiasts were they but
presented before him in the undisguised vocabulary of
his mother tongue "
The last sentence here as will be seen is broken off
short. The spelling we have strictly adhered to. "D,"
by mistake, has been put for " 1 " in " perplex."
69
Cryptography
The key-phrase is, Suaviter in modo, farther in re,
In the ordinary cryptograph, as will be seen in refer
ence to most of those we have specified above, the
artificial alphabet agreed upon by the correspondents
is employed, letter for letter, in place of the usual or
natural one. For example, two parties wish to com
municate secretly. It is arranged before parting that
) shall stand for a
(
tt
it
it
b
tt
it
ti
c
*
tt
ft
d
.
it
tt
e
1
tt
tt
it
f
;
ft
tt
ti
g
:
tt
tt
it
h
?
tt
it
t
i or j
!
"
tt
it
k
&
tt
it
tt
1
o
"
tt
it
m
tt
tt
tt
n
t
it
tt
tt
o
I
it
tt
tt
P
1
ti
tf
tt
q
JT
tt
tt
ft
r
]
tt
tt
it
s
C
tt
tt
it
t
ft
tt
tt
u or v
$
tt
tt
it
w
i
tt
tt
tt
X
\
it
it
it
y
70
Cryptography
Now, the following note is to be communicated :
" We must see you immediately upon a matter of
great importance. Plots have been discovered, and
the conspirators are in our hands. Hasten! "
These words would be written thus :
. )E Fotttt^l!)' .t&tC3:). (..'*?] t
This certainly has an intricate appearance, and
would prove a most difficult cipher to any one not con
versant with cryptography. But it will be observed that
" a," for example, is never represented by any other
character than ), " b " never by any other character
than (, and so on. Thus by the discovery, accidental or
otherwise, of any one letter, the party intercepting the
epistle would gain a permanent and decided advantage*
and could apply his knowledge to all the instances in
which the character in question was employed through
out the cipher.
In the cryptographs, on the other hand, which have
been sent us by our correspondent at Stonington, and
which are identical in conformation with the cipher re
solved by Berryer, no such permanent advantage is to
be obtained.
Let us refer to the second of these puzzles. Its key-
phrase runs thus :
Cryptography
Suaviter in mode, fortiter in re,
Let us now place the alphabet beneath the phrase,
letter beneath letter:
ui a v i t e
blc d e f g
r iin m oldlo f loir
h il j k llmln olplq
We here see that
a stands for
d " " E
e " " g, u, and
f <i
i " " e, i, s, and\
m " " ]
n " " j and
o " " 1, n, and
r " " h,q,v, and
s " "
t " " f, r, and
u " "
v
t|i|t|e|rl i In] rie
rlsltlulvlwlxlylz
In this manner " n " stands for two letters, and " e,"
" o," and " t " for three each, while " i " and " r " rep
resent each as many as four. Thirteen characters are
made to perform the operations of the whole alphabet.
The result of such a key-phrase upon the cipher is to give
it the appearance of a mere medley of the letters, " e,"
" o," " t," " r," and " i," the latter character greatly
predominating through the accident of being employed
for letters, which, themselves, are inordinately preva
lent in most languages we mean " e " and " i."
72
Cryptography
A letter thus written being intercepted, and the key-
phrase unknown, the individual who should attempt to
decipher it may be imagined guessing, or otherwise at
tempting to convince himself, that a certain character
(" i," for example), represented the letter " e." Look
ing throughout the cryptograph for confirmation of
this idea he would meet with nothing but a negation
of it. He would see the character in situations where
it could not possibly represent " e." He might, for in
stance, be puzzled by four " i's" forming of themselves
a single word, without the intervention of any other
character, in which case, of course, they could not be
all " e's." It will be seen that the word " wise " might
be thus constructed. We say this may be seen now, by
us, in possession of the key-phrase, but the question
will no doubt occur, how, without the key-phrase, and
without cognizance of any single letter in the cipher,
it would be possible for the intercepter of such a crypto
graph to make anything of such a word as " iiii " ?
But again. A key-phrase might easily be con
structed in which one character would represent seven,
eight, or ten letters. Let us then imagine the word
" iiiiiiiiii " presenting itself in a cryptograph to an in
dividual without the proper key-phrase, or, if this be
a supposition somewhat too perplexing, let us suppose
it occurring to the person for whom the cipher is de
signed and who has the key-phrase. What is he to
do with such a word as " iiiiiiiiii " ? In any of the
73
Cryptography
ordinary books upon algebra will be found a very con
cise formula (we have not the necessary type for its
insertion here) for ascertaining the number of arrange
ments in which m letters may be placed, taken n at a
time. But no doubt there are none of our readers
ignorant of the innumerable combinations which may
be made from these ten " i's." Yet, unless it occur
otherwise by accident, the correspondent receiving the
cipher would have to write down all these combina
tions before attaining the word intended, and even
when he had written them he would be inexpressibly
perplexed in selecting the word designed from the vast
number of other words arising in the course of the
permutation.
To obviate, therefore, the exceeding difficulty of de
ciphering this species of cryptograph on the part of the
possessors of the key-phrase, and to confine the deep
intricacy of the puzzle to those for whom the cipher
was not designed, it becomes necessary that some
order should be agreed upon by the parties correspond
ing, some order in reference to which those charac
ters are to be read which represent more than one
letter, and this order must be held in view by the
writer of the cryptograph. It may be agreed, for ex
ample, that the first time an " i " occurs in the cipher
it is to be understood as representing the character
which stands against the first " i " in the key-phrase ;
that the second time an " i " occurs it must be sup-
74
Cryptography
posed to represent that letter which stands opposed to
the second " i " in the key-phrase, etc., etc. Thus the
location of each cipherical letter must be considered in
connection with the character itself in order to de
termine its exact signification.
We say that some preconcerted order of this kind is
necessary lest the cipher prove too intricate a lock to
yield even to its true key. But it will be evident, upon
inspection, that our correspondent at Stonington has
inflicted upon us a cryptograph in which no order has
been preserved, in which many characters respectively
stand, at absolute random, for many others. If, there
fore, in regard to the gauntlet we threw down in April,
he should be half-inclined to accuse us of braggadocio,
he will yet admit that we have more than acted up to
our boast. If what we then said was not said suavlter
in modot what we now do is at least done fortiter
in re.
In these cursory observations we have by no means
attempted to exhaust the subject of cryptography.
With such object in view a folio might be required.
We have, indeed, mentioned only a few of the ordinary
modes of cipher. Even two thousand years ago
JEneas Tacticus detailed twenty distinct methods, and
modern ingenuity has added much to the science. Our
design has been chiefly suggestive, and perhaps we
have already bored the readers of the magazine. To
those who desire further information upon this topic
75
Cryptography
we may say that there are extant treatises by Trith-
emius, Cap. Porta, Vigenere, and P. Nice*ron. The
works of the two latter may be found, we believe, in
the library of the Harvard University. If, however,
there should be sought in these disquisitions, or in any,
rules for the solution of cipher, the seeker will be dis
appointed. Beyond some hints in regard to the gen
eral structure of language, and some minute exercises
in their practical application, he will find nothing upon
record which he does not in his own intellect possess.
76
A Chapter on Autography
BY
NDER this head, some years ago, there ap
peared in the Southern Literary Messenger
an article which attracted very general
attention, not less from the nature of its subject than
from the peculiar manner in which it was handled.
The editor introduces his readers to a certain Mr.
Joseph Miller, who, it is hinted, is not merely a descen
dant of the illustrious Joe of jest-book notoriety, but
is that identical individual in proper person. Upon
this point, however, an air of uncertainty is thrown by
means of an equivoque, maintained throughout the
77
A Chapter on Autography
paper, in respect to Mr. Miller's middle name. This
equivoque is put into the mouth of Mr. M. himself.
He gives his name, in the first instance, as Joseph A.
Miller, but in the course of conversation shifts it to
Joseph B., then to Joseph C., and so on through the
whole alphabet, until he concludes by desiring a copy
of the magazine to be sent to his address as Joseph Z.
Miller, Esquire.
The object of his visit to the editor is to place in
his hands the autographs of certain distinguished
American literati, To these persons he had written
rigmarole letters on various topics, and in all cases
had been successful in eliciting a reply. The re
plies only (which it is scarcely necessary to say are all
fictitious) are given in the magazine with a genuine
autograph facsimile appended, and are either bur
lesques of the supposed writer's usual style, or ren
dered otherwise absurd by reference to the nonsensical
questions imagined to have been propounded by Mr.
Miller. The autographs thus given are twenty-six in
all, corresponding to the twenty-six variations in the
initial letter of the hoaxer's middle name.
With the public this article took amazingly well, and
many of our principal papers were at the expense of
reprinting it with the wood-cut autographs. Even
those whose names had been introduced, and whose
style had been burlesqued, took the joke, generally
speaking, in good part. Some of them were at a loss
78
A Chapter on Autography
what to make of the matter. Dr. W. E. Channing, of
Boston, was at some trouble, it is said, in calling to
mind whether he had or had not actually written to
some Mr. Joseph Miller the letter attributed to him in
the article. This letter was nothing more than what
follows :
BOSTON, .
Dear Sir, No such person as Philip Philpot has ever been
in my employ as a coachman, or otherwise. The name is
an odd one, and not likely to be forgotten. The man must
have reference to some other Doctor Channing. It would
be as well to question him closely.
Respectfully yours,
W. E. CHANNING.
To Joseph X. Miller, Esq.
The precise and brief sententiousness of the divine
is here, it will be seen, very truly adopted or " hit off."
In one instance only was the jeu d'esprit taken in
serious dudgeon. Colonel Stone and the Messenger
had not been upon the best of terms. Some one of the
Colonel's little brochures had been severely treated by
that journal, which declared that the work would have
been far more properly published among the quack
advertisements in a spare corner of the Commercial
The Colonel had retaliated by wholesale vituperation
of the Messenger, This being the state of affairs, it
was not to be wondered at that the following epistle
was not quietly received on the part of him to whom
it was attributed :
79
A Chapter on Autography
NEW YORK,
Dear Sir, I am exceedingly and excessively sorry that
it is out of my power to comply with your rational and
reasonable request. The subject you mention is one with
which I am utterly unacquainted. Moreover, it is one
about which I know very little.
Respectfully,
W. L. STONE.
Joseph V. Miller, Esq.
These tautologies and anti-climaxes were too much
for the Colonel, and we are ashamed to say that he
committed himself by publishing in the Commercial
an indignant denial of ever having indited such an
epistle.
The principal feature of this autograph article, al
though perhaps the least interesting, was that of the
editorial comment upon the supposed MSS., regarding
them as indicative of character. In these comments
the design was never more than semi-serious. At
times, too, the writer was evidently led into error or
injustice through the desire of being pungent, not un-
frequently sacrificing truth for the sake of a boo.*
mot In this manner qualities were often attributed
to individuals, which were not so much indicated by
their handwriting as suggested by the spleen of the
commentator. But that a strong analaogy does gen
erally and naturally exist between every man's chirog-
raphy and character will be denied by none but the
80
A Chapter on Autography
unreflecting. It is not our purpose, however, to enter
into the philosophy of this subject, either in this por
tion of the present paper or in the abstract. What we
may have to say will be introduced elsewhere, and in
connection with particular MSS. The practical appli
cation of the theory will thus go hand in hand with the
theory itself.
Our design is threefold: In the first place, seriously
to illustrate our position that the mental features are
indicated (with certain exceptions) by the handwrit
ing; secondly, to indulge in a little literary gossip;
and, thirdly, to furnish our readers with a more accu
rate and at the same time a more general collection of
the autographs of our literati than is to be found else
where. Of the first portion of this design we have
already spoken. The second speaks for itself. Of the
third it is only necessary to say that we are confident
of its interest for all lovers of literature. Next to the
person of a distinguished man of letters, we desire to
see his portrait; next to his portrait, his autograph.
In the latter, especially, there is something which
seems to bring him before us in his true idiosyncrasy
in his character of scribe. The feeling which prompts
to the collection of autographs is a natural and ra
tional one. But complete, or even extensive collec
tions are beyond the reach of those who themselves
do not dabble in the waters of literature. The writer
of this article has had opportunities in this way
81
A Chapter on Autography
enjoyed by few. The MSS. now lying before him are
a motley mass indeed. Here are letters, or other com
positions, from every individual in America who has
the slightest pretensions to literary celebrity. From
these we propose to select the most eminent names,
as to give all would be a work of supererogation. Un
questionably, among those whose claims we are forced
to postpone, are several whose high merit might justly
demand a different treatment ; but the rule applicable
in a case like this seems to be that of celebrity rather
than that of true worth. It will be understood that,
in the necessity of selection which circumstances im
pose upon us, we confine ourselves to the most noted
among the living literati of the country. The article
above alluded to embraced, as we have already stated,
only twenty-six names, and was not occupied exclu
sively either with living persons, or, properly speaking,
with literary ones. In fact, the whole paper seemed
to acknowledge no law beyond that of whim. Our
present essay will be found to include one hundred
autographs. We have thought it unnecessary to pre
serve any particular order in their arrangement.
Professor Charles Anthon, of Columbia College,
New York, is well known as the most erudite of our
classical scholars; and, although still a young man,
82
A Chapter on Autography
there are few, if any, even in Europe, who surpass him
in his peculiar path of knowledge. In England his
supremacy has been tacitly acknowledged by the im
mediate republication of his editions of Caesar, Sallust,
and Cicero, with other works, and their adoption as
text-books at Oxford and Cambridge. His amplifica
tion of Lempriere did him high honor, but of late has
been entirely superseded by a Classical Dictionary of
his own, a work most remarkable for the extent and
comprehensiveness of its details, as well as for its his
torical, chronological, mythological, and philological
accuracy. It has at once completely overshadowed
everything of its kind. It follows, as a matter of
course, that Mr. Anthon has many little enemies among
the inditers of merely big books. He has not been
unassailed, yet has assuredly remained uninjured in
the estimation of all those whose opinion he would be
likely to value. We do not mean to say that he is
altogether without faults, but a certain antique John-
sonism of style is perhaps one of his worst. He was
mainly instrumental (with Professor Henry and Dr.
Hawks) in setting on foot the New York Review, a
journal of which he is the most efficient literary sup
port, and whose most erudite papers have always been
furnished by his pen.
The chirography of Professor Anthon is the most
regularly beautiful of any in our collection. We see
the most scrupulous precision, finish, and neatness
83
A Chapter on Autography
about every portion of it in the formation of indi
vidual letters, as well as in the tout'ensemble. The
perfect symmetry of the MS. gives it, to a casual
glance, the appearance of Italic print. The lines are
quite straight, and at exactly equal distances, yet are
written without black rules or other artificial aid. There
is not the slightest superfluity in the way of flourish or
otherwise, with the exception of the twirl in the C of
the signature. Yet the whole is rather neat and grace
ful than forcible. Of four letters now lying before us,
one is written on pink, one on a faint blue, one on
green, and one on yellow paper all of the finest qual
ity. The seal is of green wax, with an impression of
the head of Caesar.
It is in the chirography of such men as Professor
Anthon that we look with certainty for indication of
character. The life of a scholar is mostly undisturbed
by those adventitious events which distort the natural
disposition of the man of the world, preventing his
real nature from manifesting itself in his MS. The
lawyer, who, pressed for time, is often forced to em
body a world of heterogeneous memoranda on scraps
of paper, with the stumps of all varieties of pen, will
soon find the fair characters of his boyhood degen
erate into hieroglyphics which would puzzle Dr. Wallis
or Champollion; and from chirography so disturbed
it is nearly impossible to decide anything. In a simi
lar manner men who pass through many striking vicis-
84
A Chapter on Autography
situdes of life acquire in each change of circumstance
a temporary inflection of the handwriting, the whole
resulting, after many years, in unformed or variable
MS. scarcely to be recognized by themselves from one
day to the other. In the case of literary men gener
ally, we may expect some decisive token of the mental
influence upon the MS., and in the instance of the
classical devotee we may look with especial certainty
for such token. We see, accordingly, in Professor
Anthon's autography each and all the known idiosyn
crasies of his taste and intellect. We recognize at
once the scrupulous precision and finish of his scholar
ship and of his style, the love of elegance which
prompts him to surround himself in his private study
with gems of sculptural art and beautifully bound vol
umes, all arranged with elaborate attention to form,
and in the very pedantry of neatness. We perceive,
too, the disdain of superfluous embellishment which
distinguishes his compilations, and which gives to their
exterior appearance so marked an air of Quakerism.
We must not forget to observe that the " want of
force " is a want as perceptible in the whole character
of the man as in that of the MS.
The MS. of Mr. Irving has little about it indicative
of his genius. Certainly, no one could suspect from
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it any nice finish in the writer's compositions ; nor is
this nice finish to be found. The letters now before
us vary remarkably in appearance ; and those of late
date are not nearly so well written as the more an
tique. Mr. Irving has travelled much, has seen many
vicissitudes, and has been so thoroughly satiated with
fame as to grow slovenly in the performance of his
literary tasks. This slovenliness has affected his hand
writing. But even from his earlier MSS. there is little
to be gleaned, except the ideas of simplicity and pre
cision. It must be admitted, however, that this fact,
in itself, is characteristic of the literary manner, which,
however excellent, has no prominent or very remark
able features.
For the last six or seven years few men have occu
pied a more desirable position among us than Mr.
Benjamin. As the editor of the American Monthly
Magazine, of the New Yorker, and more lately of the
Signal and New World, he has exerted an influence
scarcely second to that of any editor in the country.
This influence Mr. B. owes to no single cause, but to his
combined ability, activity, causticity, fearlessness, and
independence. We use the latter term, however, with
some mental reservation. The editor of the World is
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it any nice finish in the writer's compositions; nor is
this nice finish to be found. The letters now before
us wy remarkably in appearance; and those of late
date are not nearly so well written as the more an
tique. Mr. Irving has travelled much, has seen many
vicissitudes, and has been so thoroughly satiated with
fame as to grow slovenly in the performance of his
literary tasks. This slovenliness has affected his hand
writing. But even from his earlier MSS. there is little
to be gleaned, except the ideas of simplicity and pre
cision. It must be admitted, however, that this fact,
in itself, is characteristic of the literary manner, which,
IUffc*ifct8^^ very remarh
V.- hedl v ja< ues Reicl rom the painl ':. ' y r R I. sli
S
For the fcMt * * ' ** nave occu "
pied a more de ^* among us than Mr.
Benjamin. A* r <* the American Monthly
Magazine, ot tn* flew Yorker, and more lately of the
Signal and New World, he has exerted an influence
scarcely second to that of any editor in the country.
This influence Mr. B. owes to no single cause, but to his
combined ability, activity, causticity, fearlessness, and
independence. We use the latter term, however, with
mental reservation. The editor of the World is
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independent so far as the word implies unshaken
resolution to follow the bent of one's own will, let the
consequences be what they may. He is no respecter
of persons, and his vituperation as often assails the
powerful as the powerless: indeed, the latter fall rarely
under his censure. But we cannot call his indepen
dence at all times that of principle. We can never be
sure that he will defend a cause merely because it is
the cause of truth, or even because he regards it as
such. He is too frequently biased by personal feelings
feelings now of friendship, now of vindictiveness.
He is a warm friend, and a bitter but not implacable
enemy. His judgment in literary matters should not
be questioned, but there is some difficulty in getting at
his real opinion. As a prose writer, his style is lucid,
terse, and pungent. He is often witty, often cuttingly
sarcastic, but seldom humorous. He frequently in
jures the force of his fiercest attacks by an indulgence
in merely vituperative epithets. As a poet, he is en
titled to far higher consideration than that in which
he is ordinarily held. He is skilful and passionate, as
well as imaginative. His sonnets have not been sur
passed. In short, it is as a poet that his better genius
is evinced; it is in poetry that his noble spirit breaks
forth, showing what the man is, and what, but for
unhappy circumstances, he would invariably appear.
Mr. Benjamin's MS. is not very dissimilar to Mr.
Irving's, and, like his, it has no doubt been greatly
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modified by the excitements of life, and by the neces
sity of writing much and hastily, so that we can predi
cate but little respecting it. It speaks of his exquisite
sensibility and passion. These betray themselves in
the nervous variation of the MS. as the subject is
diversified. When the theme is an ordinary one the
writing is legible and has force; but when it verges
upon any thing which may be supposed to excite, we
see the characters falter as they proceed. In the MSS.
of some of his best poems this peculiarity is very re
markable. The signature conveys the idea of his
usual chirography.
Mr. Kennedy is well known as the author of
low Barn, Horse'Shoe Robinson, and Fob of the
Bowl, three works whose features are strongly and
decidedly marked. These features are boldness and
force of thought (disdaining ordinary embellishment,
and depending for its effect upon masses rather than
upon details), with a predominant sense of the pic
turesque pervading and giving color to the whole. His
Swallow Barn in especial (and it is by the first effort
of an author that we form the truest idea of his mental
bias) is but a rich succession of picturesque still-life
pieces. Mr. Kennedy is well to do in the world and
has always taken the world easily. We may therefore
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expect to find in his chirography, if ever in any, a full
indication of the chief features of his literary style,
especially as this chief feature is so remarkably promi
nent. A glance at his signature will convince any one
that the indication is to be found. A painter called
upon to designate the main peculiarity of this MS.
would speak at once of the picturesque. This charac
ter is given it by the absence of hair-strokes, and by
the abrupt termination of every letter without taper
ing; also in great measure by varying the size and slope
of the letters. Great uniformity is preserved in the
whole air of the MS., with great variety in the con
stituent parts. Every character has the clearness,
boldness, and precision of a wood-cut. The long let
ters do not rise or fall in an undue degree above the
others. Upon the whole, this is a hand which pleases
us much, although its bizarrerie is rather too piquant
for the general taste. Should its writer devote him
self more exclusively to light letters we predict his
future eminence. The paper on which our epistles are
written is very fine, clear, and white, with gilt edges.
The seal is neat, and just sufficient wax has been used
for the impression. All this betokens a love of the
elegant without effeminacy.
The handwriting of Grenville Mellen is somewhat
peculiar, and partakes largely of the character of his
A Chapter on Autography
signature as seen on page 89. The whole is highly
indicative of the poet's flighty, hyperfanciful character,
with his unsettled and often erroneous ideas of the
beautiful. His straining after effect is well paralleled
in the formation of the preposterous G in the signature,
with the two dots by its side. Mr. Mellen has genius
unquestionably, but there is something in his tempera
ment which obscures it.
No correct notion of Mr. Paulding's literary pecul
iarities can be obtained from an inspection of his MS.,
which no doubt has been strongly modified by adven
titious circumstances. His small " a's," " t's," and
" c's " are all alike, and the style of the characters
generally is French, although the entire MS. has much
the appearance of Greek text. The paper which he
ordinarily uses is of a very fine, glossy texture, and of
a blue tint, with gilt edges. His signature is a good
specimen of his general hand.
X7c&
Mrs. Sigourney seems to take much pains with her
MSS. Apparently she employs black lines. Every " t "
is crossed and every "i" dotted with precision, while the
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punctuation is faultless. Yet the whole has nothing
of effeminacy or formality. The individual characters
are large, well, and freely formed, and preserve a per
fect uniformity throughout. Something in her hand
writing puts us in mind of Mr. Paulding's. In both
MSS. perfect regularity exists, and in both the style is
formed or decided. Both are beautiful, yet Mrs.
Sigourney's is the most legible, and Mr. Paulding's
nearly the most illegible, in the world. From that of
Mrs. S. we might easily form a true estimate of her
compositions. Freedom, dignity, precision, and grace,
without originality, may be properly attributed to her.
She has fine taste without genius. Her paper is usu
ally good, the seal small, of green and gold wax, and
without impression.
Mr. Walsh's MS. is peculiar, from its large, sprawl
ing, and irregular appearance rather rotund than
angular. It always seems to have been hurriedly
written. The " t's " are crossed with a sweeping
scratch of the pen, which gives to his epistles a some
what droll appearance. A dictatorial air pervades the
whole. His paper is of ordinary quality. His seal is
commonly of brown wax mingled with gold, and bears
a Latin motto, of which only the words trans and
mortuus are legible.
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Mr. Walsh cannot be denied talent, but his reputa
tion, which has been bolstered into being by a clique,
is not a thing to live. A blustering self-conceit be
trays itself in his chirography, which upon the whole
is not very dissimilar to that of Mr. E. Everett, of
whom we will speak hereafter.
Mr. Ingraham, or Ingrahame (for he writes his
name sometimes with and sometimes without the " e,"
is one of our most popular novelists, if not one of our
best. He appeals always to the taste of the ultra-
romancists (as a matter, we believe, rather of pecuni
ary policy than of choice), and thus is obnoxious to
the charge of a certain cut-and-thrust, blue-fire melo-
dramaticism. Still, he is capable of better things. His
chirography is very unequal, at times sufficiently clear
and flowing, at others shockingly scratchy and un
couth. From it nothing whatever can be predicated
except an uneasy vacillation of temper and of purpose.
Mr. Bryant's MS. puts us entirely at fault. It is
one of the most commonplace clerk's hands which we
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ever encountered, and has no character about it be
yond that of the day-book and ledger. He writes, in
short, what mercantile men and professional penmen
call a fair hand, but what artists would term an abom
inable one. Among its regular up-and-down strokes,
waving lines and hair-lines, systematic taperings and
flourishes, we look in vain for the force, polish, and
decision of the poet. The picturesque, to be sure, is
equally deficient in his chirography and in his poetical
productions.
Mr. Halleck's hand is strikingly indicative of his
genius. We see in it some force, more grace, and
little of the picturesque. There is a great deal of free
dom about it, and his MSS. seem to be written currente
calamo, but without hurry. His flourishes, which are
not many, look as if thoughtfully planned and delib
erately yet firmly executed. His paper is very good,
and of a bluish tint ; his seal of red wax.
Mr. Willis when writing carefully would write a
hand nearly resembling that of Mr. Halleck, although
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no similarity is perceptible in the signatures. His
usual chirography is dashing, free, and not ungrace
ful, but is sadly deficient in force and picturesqueness.
It has been the fate of this gentleman to be alternately
condemned ad infmitum, and lauded ad nauseam, a
fact which speaks much in his praise. We know of
no American writer who has evinced greater versa
tility of talent, that is to say, of high talent often
amounting to genius, and we know of none who has
more narrowly missed placing himself at the head of
our letters.
The paper of Mr. Willis's epistles is always fine and
glossy. At present he employs a somewhat large seal,
with a dove or carrier-pigeon at the top, the word
" Glenmary" at the bottom, and the initials "N. P.
W." in the middle.
Mr. Dawes has been long known as a poet, but his
claims are scarcely yet settled, his friends giving him
rank with Bryant and Halleck, while his opponents
treat his pretensions with contempt. The truth is that
the author of Getaldme and Athenia of Damascus has
written occasional verses very well, so well that some
of his minor pieces may be considered equal to any of
the minor pieces of either of the two gentlemen above
mentioned. His longer poems, however, will not
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bear examination. Athenia of Damascus is pompous
nonsense, and Geraldine a most ridiculous imitation of
Don Juan, in which the beauties of the original have
been as sedulously avoided as the blemishes have been
blunderingly culled. In style he is perhaps the most
inflated, involved, and falsely figurative of any of our
more noted poets. This defect, of course, is only fully
appreciable in what are termed his " sustained efforts,"
and thus his shorter pieces are often exceedingly good.
His apparent erudition is mere verbiage, and were it
real would be lamentably out of place where we see it.
He seems to have been infected with a blind admira
tion of Coleridge, especially of his mysticism and cant.
A/v
H. W. Longfellow (Professor of Moral Philosophy
at Harvard) is entitled to the first place among the
poets of America certainly to the first place among
those who have put themselves prominently forth as
poets. His good qualities are all of the highest order,
while his sins are chiefly those of affectation and imi
tationan imitation sometimes verging upon down
right theft.
His MS. is remarkably good, and is fairly exempli
fied in the signature. We see here plain indications of
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the force, vigor, and glowing richness of his literary
style ; the deliberate and steady finish of his composi
tions. The man who writes thus may not accom
plish much, but what he does will always be thoroughly
done. The main beauty, or at least one great beauty
of his poetry, is that of proportion ; another is a free
dom from extraneous embellishment. He oftener
runs into affectation through his endeavors at sim
plicity than through any other cause. Now, this rigid
simplicity and proportion are easily perceptible in the
MS. which, altogether, is a very excellent one.
The Rev. J. Pierpont, who, of late, has attracted so
much of the public attention, is one of the most ac
complished poets in America. His Airs of Palestine is
distinguished by the sweetness and vigor of its versifi
cation and by the grace of its sentiments. Some of
its shorter pieces are exceedingly terse and forcible, and
none of our readers can have forgotten his Lines on
Napoleon. His rhythm is at least equal in strength
and modulation to that of any poet in America. Here
he resembles Milman and Croly.
His chirography, nevertheless, indicates nothing
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beyond the commonplace. It is an ordinary clerk's
hand, one which is met with more frequently than any
other. It is decidedly formed ; and we have no doubt
that he never writes otherwise than thus. The MS. of
his school-days has probably been persisted in to the
last. If so, the fact is in full consonance with the
steady precision of his style. The flourish at the end
of the signature is but a part of the writer's general
enthusiasm.
Mr. Simms is the author of Martin Faber, Atalantis,
Guy Rivers f The Partisan, Mellichampe, The Yemas*
see, The Damsel of Darien, The Black Riders of the
Congaree, and one or two other productions, among
which we must not forget to mention several fine
poems. As a poet, indeed, we like him far better than
as a novelist. His qualities in this latter respect re
semble those of Mr. Kennedy, although he equals him
in no particular except in his appreciation of the
graceful. In his sense of beauty he is Mr. K.'s su
perior, but falls behind him in force, and the other
attributes of the author of Swallow Barn, These
differences and resemblances are well shown in the
VOL. X. 7.
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MSS. That of Mr. S. has more slope and more uni
formity in detail, with less in the mass, while it has
also less of the picturesque, although still much.
The middle name is Gilmore : in the cut it looks like
Gilmere.
The Rev. Orestes A. Brownson is chiefly known
to the literary world as the editor of the Boston Quar**
terly Review, a work to which he contributes, each
quarter, at least two thirds of the matter. He has pub
lished little in book-form, his principal works being
Charles Edwood and New Views. Of these, the former
production is, in many respects, one of the highest
merit. In logical accuracy, in comprehensiveness of
thought, and in the evident frankness and desire for
truth in which it is composed we know of few theo
logical treatises which can be compared with it. Its
conclusion, however, bears about it a species of hesi
tation and inconsequence which betray the fact that
the writer has not altogether succeeded in convincing
himself of those important truths which he is so
anxious to impress upon his readers. We must bear
in mind, however, that this is the fault of Mr. Brown-
son's subject, and not of Mr. Brownson. However
well a man may reason on the great topics of God and
immortality, he will be forced to admit tacitly, in the
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end, that God and immortality are things to be felt
rather than demonstrated.
On subjects less indefinite, Mr. B. reasons with the
calm and convincing force of a Combe. He is, in
every respect, an extraordinary man, and with the
more extensive resources which would have been
afforded him by early education, could not have
failed to bring about important results.
His MS. indicates, in the most striking manner, the
unpretending simplicity, directness, and especially the
indef atigability of his mental character. His signature
is more petite than his general chirography.
Judge Beverly Tucker, of the College of William and
Mary, Virginia, is the author of one of the best novels
ever published in America, George Balcombe, although
for some reason the book was never a popular favor
ite. It was, perhaps, somewhat too didactic for the
general taste.
He has written a great deal also for the Southern
Literary Messenger at different times; and at one
period acted in part, if not altogether, as editor of that
magazine, which is indebted to him for some very racy
articles, in the way of criticism especially. He is apt,
however, to be led away by personal feelings, and is
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more given to vituperation for the mere sake of point
or pungency than is altogether consonant with his
character as judge. Some five years ago there ap
peared in the Messenger under the editorial head, an
article on the subject of the Pickwick Papers and some
other productions of Mr. Dickens. This article, which
abounded in well-written but extravagant denuncia
tion of everything composed by the author of The Old
Curiosity Shop/ and which prophesied his immediate
downfall, we have reason to believe was from the pen
of Judge Beverly Tucker. We take this opportunity
of mentioning the subject, because the odium of the
paper in question fell altogether upon our shoulders,
and it is a burden we are not disposed and never in
tended to bear. The review appeared in March, we
think, and we had retired from the Messenger in the
January preceding. About eighteen months pre
viously, and when Mr. Dickens was scarcely known
to the public at all, except as the author of some brief
tales and essays, the writer of this article took occa
sion to predict in the Messenger f and in the most
emphatic manner, that high and just distinction which
the author in question has attained. Judge Tucker's
MS. is diminutive, but neat and legible, and has much
force and precision, with little of the picturesque. The
care which he bestows upon his literary compositions
makes itself manifest also in his chirography. The
signature is more florid than the general hand.
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Mr. Sanderson, Professor of the Greek and Latin
Languages in the High School of Philadelphia, is well
known as the author of a series of letters entitled The
American in Paris, These are distinguished by ease
and vivacity of style, with occasional profundity of
observation, and, above all, by the frequency of their
illustrative anecdotes and figures. In all these par
ticulars Professor Sanderson is the precise counterpart
of Judge Beverly Tucker, author of George Balcombe.
The MSS. of the two gentlemen are nearly identical.
Both are neat, clear, and legible. Mr. Sanderson's is
somewhat the more crowded.
About Miss Gould's MS. there are great neatness,
picturesqueness, and finish, without over-effeminacy.
The literary style of one who writes thus will always
be remarkable for sententiousness and epigrammatism ;
and these are the leading features of Miss Gould's poetry.
Professor Henry, of Bristol College, is chiefly known
by his contributions to our quarterlies, and as one of
the originators of the New York Review in conjunction
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with Dr. Hawks and Professor Anthon. His chirog-
raphy is now neat and picturesque (much resemb
ling that of Judge Tucker), and now excessively
scratchy, clerky, and slovenly, so that it is nearly im
possible to say anything respecting it, except that it
indicates a vacillating disposition with unsettled ideas
of the beautiful. None of his epistles, in regard to
their chirography, end as well as they begin. This
trait denotes fatigability. His signature, which is bold
and decided, conveys not the faintest idea of the gen
eral MS.
Mrs. Embury is chiefly known by her contributions
to the periodicals of the country. She is one of the
most nervous of our female writers, and is not desti
tute of originality, that rarest of all qualities in a
woman, and especially in an American woman.
Her MS. evinces a strong disposition to fly off at a
tangent from the old formulae of the boarding acad
emies. But in it, and in her literary style, it would be
well that she should no longer hesitate to discard the
absurdities of mere fashion.
Miss Leslie is celebrated for the homely natural
ness of her stories and for the broad satire of her
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comic style. She has written much for the magazines.
Her chirography is distinguished for neatness and fin
ish, without over-effeminacy. It is rotund and some
what diminutive, the letters being separate and the
words always finished with an inward twirl. She is
never particular about the quality of her paper or the
other externals of epistolary correspondence. From
her MSS. in general, we might suppose her solicitous
rather about the effect of her compositions as a whole
than about the polishing of the constituent parts.
There is much of the picturesque both in her chirog
raphy and in her literary style.
Mr. Neal has acquired a very extensive reputation
through his Charcoal Sketches, a series of papers or
iginally written for the Saturday News of this city, and
afterward published in book form, with illustrations
by Johnston. The whole design of the Charcoal
Sketches may be stated as the depicting of the wharf
and street loafer; but this design has been executed
altogether in caricature. The extreme of burlesque
runs throughout the work, which is also chargeable
with a tedious repetition of slang and incident. The
loafer always declaims the same nonsense in the same
style, gets drunk in the same way, and is taken to the
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watch-house after the same fashion. Reading one
chapter of the book we read all. Any single descrip
tion would have been an original idea well executed,
but the dose is repeated ad nauseam, and betrays a
woful poverty of invention. The manner in which
Mr. NeaPs book was belauded by his personal friends
of the Philadelphia press speaks little for their inde
pendence or less for their taste. To dub the author
of these Charcoal Sketches (which are really very ex
cellent police reports) with the title of " the American
Boz " is either outrageous nonsense or malevolent
irony.
In other respects Mr. N. has evinced talents which
cannot be questioned. He has conducted the Penn
sylvanian with credit, and, as a political writer, he
stands deservedly high. His MS. is simple and legi
ble, with much space between the words. It has
force, but little grace. Altogether, his chirography is
good ; but as he belongs to the editorial corps, it would
not be just to suppose that any deductions in respect
to character could be gleaned from it. His signature
conveys the general MS. with accuracy.
Mr. Seba Smith has become somewhat widely cele
brated as the author, in part, of the Letters of Major
Jack Downing. These were very clever productions,
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coarse, but full of fun, wit, sarcasm, and sense. Their
manner rendered them exceedingly popular, until their
success tempted into the field a host of brainless imi
tators. Mr. S. is also the author of several poems;
among others, of Powhatan s A Metrical Romance t
which we do not very particularly admire. His MS. is
legible, and has much simplicity about it. At times
it vacillates and appears unformed. Upon the whole,
it is much such a MS. as David Crockett wrote, and
precisely such a one as we might imagine would be
written by a veritable Jack Downing by Jack Down
ing himself, had this creature of Mr. Smith's fancy
been endowed with a real entity. The fact is that
the " Major " is not all a creation ; at least one half
of his character actually exists in the bosom of his
originator. It was the Jack Downing half that com
posed Powhatan,
Lieutenant Slidell some years ago took the addi
tional name of Mackenzie. His reputation at one
period was extravagantly high, a circumstance owing,
in some measure, to the esprit de corps of the navy, of
which he is a member, and to his private influence,
through his family, with the review cliques. Yet his
fame was not altogether undeserved ; although it can
not be denied that his first book, A Year in Spain t was
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in some danger of being overlooked by his country
men, until a benignant star directed the attention of
the London bookseller, Murray, to its merits. Cock
ney octavos prevailed; and the clever young writer,
who was cut dead in his Yankee habiliments, met with
bows innumerable in the gala dress of an English im*
primatur. The work now ran through several edi
tions, and prepared the public for the kind reception of
The American in. England which exalted his reputa
tion to its highest pinnacle. Both these books abound
in racy descriptions, but are chiefly remarkable for
their gross deficiencies in grammatical construction.
Lieutenant Slidell's MS. is peculiarly neat and even
quite legible, but altogether too petite and effeminate.
Few tokens of his literary character are to be found
beyond the petiteness f which is exactly analogous with
the minute detail of his descriptions.
Francis Lieber is Professor of History and Politi
cal Economy hi the College of South Carolina, and has
published many works distinguished by acumen and
erudition. Among these we may notice a Journal of
a Residence in Greece, written at the instigation of the
historian Niebuhr ; The Stranger in America, a piquant
book abounding in various information relative to the
United States ; a treatise on Education / Reminist
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cences of an Intercourse with Niebuhr ; and an Essay
on International Copyright, this last a valuable work.
Professor Lieber's personal character is that of the
frankest and most unpretending bonhomie, while his
erudition is rather massive than minute. We may
therefore expect his MS. to differ widely from that of
his brother scholar, Professor Anthon ; and so in truth
it does. His chirography is careless, heavy, black, and
forcible, without the slightest attempt at ornament,
very similar, upon the whole, to the well-known chirog
raphy of Chief- Justice Marshall. His letters have the
peculiarity of a wide margin left at the top of each
page.
Mrs. Hale is well known for her masculine style of
thought. This is clearly expressed in her chirography,
which is far larger, heavier, and altogether bolder than
that of her sex generally. It resembles in a great
degree that of Professor Lieber, and is not easily
deciphered.
Mr. Everett's MS. is a noble one. It has about it
an air of deliberate precision emblematic of the states
man and a mingled grace and solidity betokening the
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scholar. Nothing can be more legible, and nothing
need be more uniform. The man who writes thus will
never grossly err in judgment or otherwise; but we
may also venture to say that he will never attain the
loftiest pinnacle of renown. The letters before us have
a seal of red wax, with an oval device bearing the
initials E. . and surrounded with a scroll, inscribed
with some Latin words which are illegible.
Dr. Bird is well known as the author of The Gladi*
atof f Calavar, The Infidel t Nick of the Woods, and
some other works, Calavar being, we think, by far
the best of them, and beyond doubt one of the best of
American novels.
His chirography resembles that of Mr. Benjamin
very closely, the chief difference being in a curl of the
final letters in Dr. B.'s. The characters, too, have the
air of not being able to keep pace with the thought,
and an uneasy want of finish seems to have been the
consequence. A vivid imagination might easily be
deduced from such a MS.
Mr. John Neal's MS. is exceedingly illegible and
careless. Many of his epistles are perfect enigmas,
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flothing can be more legible, and nothing
be more uniform. The man who writes thus will
mnrer grossly err in judgment or otherwise; but we
My also venture to say that he will never attain the
loftiest pinnacle of renown. The letters before us have
a seal of red wax, with an oval device bearing the
initials . . and surrounded with a scroll, inscribed
with some Latin words which are illegible.
Dr. Bird is well known as the author of The
ator. C*/*w, 7l<tall& RHFSPtte Woods, and
some ater workFrom a steel engreyiuge think, by far
the best of them,
American
very closl v . tfcr
final letters m 0r.
air of not MM a
and an uneasy VM
consequence. A ->
deduced from
one of the best of
ki aid of the
e ifcarauli in, too, have the
t? IMM nM ttM thought,
** HMHHI to have been the
^ptuition might easily be
Mr. John Weal's MS. is exceedingly illegible and
Many of Mi epistles are perfect enigmas,
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and we doubt whether he could read them himself in
half an hour after they are penned. Sometimes four
or five words are run together. Any one, from Mr.
Neal's penmanship, might suppose his mind to be what
it really is excessively flighty and irregular, but active
and energetic.
The penmanship of Miss Sedgwick is excellent. The
characters are well-sized, distinct, elegantly but not
ostentatiously formed, and, with perfect freedom of
manner, are still sufficiently feminine. The hair-
strokes differ little from the downward ones, and the
MSS. have thus a uniformity they might not otherwise
have. The paper she generally uses is good, blue, and
machine-ruled. Miss Sedgwick's handwriting points
unequivocally to the traits of her literary style, which
are strong common sense and a masculine disdain of
mere ornament. The signature conveys the general
chirography.
Mr. Cooper's MS. is very bad unformed, with little
of distinctive character about it, and varying greatly
in different epistles. In most of those before us a
steel pen has been employed, the lines are crooked, and
IOQ
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the whole chirography has a constrained and school-
boyish air. The paper is fine and of a bluish tint. A
wafer is always used. Without appearing ill-natured
we could scarcely draw any inferences from such a
MS. Mr. Cooper has seen many vicissitudes, and it
is probable that he has not always written thus. What
ever are his faults, his genius cannot be doubted.
Dr. Hawks is one of the originators of the New York
Review, to which journal he has furnished many ar
ticles. He is also known as the author of The ///$/
tory of the Episcopal Church of Virginia and one or
two minor works. He now edits the Church Record,
His style, both as a writer and as a preacher, is charac
terized rather by a perfect fluency than by any more
lofty quality, and this trait is strikingly indicated in
his chirography, of which the signature is a fair spe
cimen.
This gentleman is the author of Cromwell, The
Brothers, Ringwood the Rover, and some other minor
productions. He at one time edited the American
Monthly Magazine in connection with Mr. Hoffman.
In his compositions for the magazines, Mr. Herbert
no
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is in the habit of doing both them and himself gross
injustice by neglect and hurry. His longer works
evince much ability, although he is rarely entitled to
be called original. His MS. is exceedingly neat, clear,
and forcible, the signature affording a just idea of it.
It resembles that of Mr. Kennedy very nearly, but has
more slope and uniformity, with, of course, less spirit,
and less of the picturesque. He who writes as Mr.
Herbert will be found always to depend chiefly upon
his merits of style for a literary reputation and will
not be unapt to fall into a pompous grandiloquence.
The author of Cromwell is sometimes wofully turgid.
Professor Palfrey is known to the public principally
through his editorship of the North American Review.
He has a reputation for scholarship ; and many of the
articles which are attributed to his pen evince that this
reputation is well based, so far as the common notion
of scholarship extends. For the rest, he seems to
dwell altogether within the narrow world of his own
conceptions, imprisoning them by the very barrier
which he has erected against the conceptions of others.
His MS. shows a total deficiency in the sense of the
in
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beautiful. It has great pretension, great straining
after effect, but is altogether one of the most miserable
MSS. in the world, forceless, graceless, tawdry, vacil
lating, and unpicturesque. The signature conveys but
a faint idea of its extravagance. However much we
may admire the mere knowledge of the man who
writes thus, it will not do to place any dependence upon
his wisdom or upon his taste.
F. W. Thomas, who began his literary career at
the early age of seventeen, by a poetical lampoon upon
certain Baltimore fops, has since more particularly
distinguished himself as a novelist. His Clinton Brad*
shawe is perhaps better known than any of his later
fictions. It is remarkable for a frank, unscrupulous
portraiture of men and things, in high life and low,
and by unusual discrimination and observation in re
spect to character. Since its publication he has pro
duced East and West and Howard Pinckney f neither
of which seems to have been so popular as his first
essay, although both have merit.
East and West, published in 1836, was an attempt
to portray the every-day events occurring to a fallen
family emigrating from the East to the West. In it,
as in Clinton Bradshawe f most of the characters are
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drawn from life. Howard Pinckney was published in
1840.
Mr. Thomas was at one period the editor of the Cin
cinnati Commercial Advertiser. He is also well known
as a public lecturer on a variety of topics. His con
versational powers are very great. As a poet, he has
also distinguished himself. His Emigrant will be read
with pleasure by every person of taste.
His MS. is more like that of Mr. Benjamin than that
of any other literary person of our acquaintance. It
has even more than the occasional nervousness of
Mr. B.'s, and, as in the case of the editor of the New
World/ indicates the passionate sensibility of the man.
Mr. Morris ranks, we believe, as the first of our
Philadelphia poets since the death of Willis Gaylord
Clark. His compositions, like those of his late la
mented friend, are characterized by sweetness rather
than strength of versification, and by tenderness and
delicacy rather than by vigor or originality of thought.
A late notice of him in the Boston Notion, from the
pen of Rufus W. Griswold, did his high qualities no
VOL. X. 8.
A Chapter on Autography
more than justice. As a prose writer, he is chiefly
known by his editorial contributions to the Philadel
phia Inquirer, and by occasional essays for the maga
zines.
His chirography is usually very illegible, although at
times sufficiently distinct. It has no marked charac
teristics, and, like that of almost every editor in the
country, has been so modified by the circumstances of
his position as to afford no certain indication of the
mental features.
Ezra Holden has written much, not only for his
paper, the Saturday Courier, but for our periodicals
generally, and stands high in the public estimation as
a sound thinker, and still more particularly as a fear
less expresser of his thoughts.
His MS. (which we are constrained to say is a shock
ingly bad one, and whose general features may be
seen in his signature) indicates the frank and naive
manner of his literary style, a style which not unfre-
quently flies off into whimsicalities.
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Mr. Graham is known to the literary world as the
editor and proprietor of Graham's Magazine, the most
popular periodical hi America, and also of the Satuf
day Evening Post of Philadelphia. For both of these
journals he has written much and well.
His MS. generally is very bad, or at least very illeg
ible. At times it is sufficiently distinct, and has force
and picturesqueness, speaking plainly of the energy
which particularly distinguishes him as a man. The
signature above is more scratchy than usual.
Colonel Stone, the editor of the New York Com*
mercial Advertiser, is remarkable for the great differ
ence which exists between the apparent public opinion
respecting his abilities and the real estimation in which
he is privately held. Through his paper, and the
bustling activity always prone to thrust itself forward,
he has attained an unusual degree of influence in New
York, and, not only this, but what appears to be a
reputation for talent. But this talent we do not re
member ever to have heard assigned him by any hon
est man's private opinion. We place him among our
"5
A Chapter on Autography
literati because he has published certain books. Per
haps the best of these are his Life of Brandt and Life
and Times of Red Jacket Of the rest, his story called
Ups and Downs, his defence of animal magnetism, and
his pamphlets concerning Maria Monk are scarcely
the most absurd. His MS. is heavy and sprawling, re
sembling his mental character in a species of utter
unmeaningness, which lies, like the nightmare, upon
his autograph.
The labors of Mr. Sparks, Professor of History at
Harvard, are well known and justly appreciated. His
MS. has an unusually odd appearance. The characters
are large, round, black, irregular, and perpendicular,
the signature, as above, being an excellent specimen
of his chirography in general. In all his letters now
before us, the lines are as close together as possible,
giving the idea of irretrievable confusion; still, none
of them are illegible upon close inspection. We can
form no guess in regard to any mental peculiarities
from Mr. Sparks's MS., which has been, no doubt,
modified by the hurrying and intricate nature of his
researches. We might imagine such epistles as these
to have been written in extreme haste, by a man ex
ceedingly busy, among great piles of books and papers
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A Chapter on Autography
huddled up around him, like the chaotic tomes of
Magliabecchi. The paper used in all our epistles is
uncommonly fine.
The name of H. S. Legare is written without an
accent on the final " e," yet is pronounced as if this
letter were accented Legaray. He contributed many
articles of merit to the Southern Review, and has a
wide reputation for scholarship and talent. His MS.
resembles that of Mr. Palfrey of the North American
Review, and their mental features appear to us nearly
identical. What we have said in regard to the chirog-
raphy of Mr. Palfrey will apply with equal force to
that of the present secretary.
Mr. George Lunt, of Newburyport, Massachusetts,
is known as a poet of much vigor of style and massive-
ness of thought. He delights in the grand rather than
hi the beautiful, and is not unfrequently turgid, but
never feeble. The traits here described impress them-
117
A Chapter on Autography
selves with remarkable distinctness upon his chirog-
raphy, of which the signature gives a perfect idea.
Mr. Chandler's reputation as the editor of one of
the best daily papers in the country, and as one of our
finest belles-lettres scholars, is deservedly high. He is
well known through his numerous addresses, essays,
miscellaneous sketches, and prose tales. Some of
these latter evince imaginative powers of a superior
order.
His MS. is not fairly shown in his signature, the lat
ter being much more open and bold than his general
chirography. His handwriting must be included in
the editorial category; it seems to have been ruined
by habitual hurry.
H. T. Tuckerman has written one or two books
consisting of Sketches of Travels, His Isabel is, per
haps, better known than any of his other productions,
but was never a popular work. He is a correct writer
so far as mere English is concerned, but an insuffer
ably tedious and dull one. He has contributed much
of late days to the Southern Literary Messenger, with
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which journal, perhaps, the legibility of his MS. has
been an important, if not the principal, recommenda
tion. His chirography is neat and distinct, and has
some grace, but no force, evincing, in a remarkable
degree, the idiosyncrasies of the writer.
Mr. Godey is only known to the literary world as
editor and publisher of The Lady's Book, but his celeb
rity in this regard entitles him to a place in this collec
tion. His MS. is remarkably distinct and graceful,
the signature affording an excellent idea of it. The
man who invariably writes so well as Mr. G. invariably
does, gives evidence of a fine taste, combined with an
indef atigability which will insure his permanent success
in the world's affairs. No man has warmer friends or
fewer enemies.
Mr. Du Solle is well known through his connection
with the Spirit of the Times, His prose is forcible, and
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often excellent in other respects. As a poet he is en
titled to higher consideration. Some of his Pindaric
pieces are unusually good, and it may be doubted if
we have a better versifier in America.
Accustomed to the daily toil of an editor, he has
contracted a habit of writing hurriedly, and his MS.
varies with the occasion. It is impossible to deduce
any inferences from it as regards the mental character.
The signature shows rather how he can write than
how he does.
Mr. French is the author of a life of David Crockett
and also of a novel called Elkswattawa, a denun
ciatory review of which, in the Southern Messenger
some years ago, deterred him from further literary
attempts. Should he write again, he will probably
distinguish himself, for he is unquestionably a man of
talent. We need no better evidence of this than his
MS., which speaks of force, boldness, and originality.
The flourish, however, betrays a certain floridity of
taste.
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3^*
The author of Norman Leslie and The Countess Ida
has been more successful as an essayist about small
matters than as a novelist. Norman Leslie is more
familiarly remembered as The Great Used Up f while
The Countess made no definite impression whatever.
Of course we are not to expect remarkable features hi
Mr. Fay's MS. It has a wavering, finicky, and over-
delicate air, without pretension to either grace or force ;
and the description of the chirography would answer,
without alteration, for that of the literary character.
Mr. F. frequently employs an amanuensis, who writes
a beautiful French hand. The one must not be con
founded with the other.
Dr. Mitchell has published several pretty songs
which have been set to music and become popular.
He has also given to the world a volume of poems, of
which the longest was remarkable for an old-fashioned
polish and vigor of versification. His MS. is rather
graceful than picturesque or forcible, and these words
apply equally well to his poetry in general. The sig
nature indicates the hand.
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General Morris has composed many songs which
have taken fast hold upon the popular taste, and which
are deservedly celebrated. He has caught the true
tone for these things and hence his popularity a pop
ularity which his enemies would fain make us believe
is altogether attributable to his editorial influence.
The charge is true only hi a measure. The tone of
which we speak is that kind of frank, free, hearty sen
timent (rather than philosophy) which distinguishes
Be*ranger, and which the critics, for want of a better
term, call " nationality."
His MS. is a simple unornamented hand, rather ro
tund than angular, very legible, forcible, and altogether
in keeping with his style.
Mr. Calvert was at one time principal editor of the
Baltimore American, and wrote for that journal some
good paragraphs on the common topics of the day.
He has also published many translations from the
German and one or two original poems, among others
an imitation of Don Juan called Pelayo, which did him
no credit. He is essentially a feeble and common-
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place writer of poetry, although his prose composi
tions have a certain degree of merit. His chirography
indicates the " commonplace " upon which we have
commented. It is a very usual, scratchy, and taper
ing clerk's hand a hand which no man of talent ever
did or could indite, unless compelled by circumstances
of more than ordinary force. The signature is far
better than the general manuscript of his epistles.
Mr. Mcjilton is better known from his contributions
to the journals of the day than from any book-publi
cations. He has much talent, and it is not improb
able that he will hereafter distinguish himself, although
as yet he has not composed anything of length which,
as a whole, can be styled good. His MS. is not unlike
that of Dr. Snodgrass, but it is somewhat clearer and
better. We can predicate little respecting it beyond
a love of exaggeration and bizarrerie.
Mr. Gallagher is chiefly known as a poet. He is
the author of some of our most popular songs, and has
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written many long pieces of high but unequal merit.
He has the true spirit, and will rise into a just dis
tinction hereafter. His manuscript tallies well with
our opinion. It is a very fine one clear, bold, de
cided, and picturesque. The signature above does not
convey, in full force, the general character of his
chirography, which is more rotund, and more decidedly
placed upon the paper.
Mr. Dana ranks among our most eminent poets,
and he has been the frequent subject of comment hi
our reviews. He has high qualities, undoubtedly, but
his defects are many and great.
His MS. resembles that of Mr. Gallagher very nearly,
but is somewhat more rolling, and has less boldness
and decision. The literary traits of the two gentle
men are very similar, although Mr. Dana is by far the
more polished writer and has a scholarship which Mr.
Gallagher wants.
Mr. McMichael is well known to the Philadelphia
public by the number and force of his prose com
positions, but he has seldom been tempted into
book-publication. As a poet, he has produced some
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remarkably vigorous things. We have seldom seen
a finer composition than a certain celebrated Monody
of his.
His MS., when not hurried, is graceful and flowing,
without picturesqueness. At times it is totally illeg
ible. His chirography is one of those which have been
so strongly modified by circumstances that it is nearly
impossible to predicate anything with certainty re
specting them.
Mr. N. C. Brooks has acquired some reputation as
a magazine writer. His serious prose is often very
good, is always well worded ; but in his comic attempts
he fails, without appearing to be aware of his failure.
As a poet he has succeeded far better. In a work
which he entitled Scriptural Anthology, among many
inferior compositions of length there were several
shorter pieces of great merit; for example, Shelley's
Obsequies and The Nicthanthes, Of late days we have
seen little from his pen.
His MS. has much resemblance to that of Mr. Bry
ant, although altogether it is a better hand, with much
more freedom and grace. With care Mr. Brooks can
write a fine MS., just as, with care, he can compose a
fine poem.
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The Rev. Thomas H. Stockton has written many
pieces of fine poetry, and has lately distinguished him
self as the editor of the Christian World.
His MS. is fairly represented by his signature, and
bears much resemblance to that of Mr. N. C. Brooks
of Baltimore. Between these two gentlemen there
exists also a remarkable similarity, not only of thought
but of personal bearing and character. We have
already spoken of the peculiarities of Mr. B.'s chirog-
raphy.
Mr. Thomson has written many short poems, and
some of them possess merit. They are characterized
by tenderness and grace. His MS. has some resem
blance to that of Professor Longfellow, and by many
persons would be thought a finer hand. It is clear,
legible, and open what is called a rolling hand. It
has too much tapering and too much variation between
the weight of the hair-strokes and the downward ones
to be forcible or picturesque. In all those qualities
which we have pointed out as especially distinctive of
Professor Longfellow's MS. it is remarkably deficient;
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and, in fact, the literary character of no two individ
uals could be more radically different.
The Reverend W. E. Channing is at the head of
our moral and didactic writers. His reputation both
at home and abroad is deservedly high, and in regard
to the matters of purity, polish, and modulation of
style he may be said to have attained the dignity of a
standard and a classic. He has, it is true, been se
verely criticised, even in respect to these very points,
by the Edinburgh Review, The critic, however, made
out his case but lamely, and proved nothing beyond
his own incompetence. To detect occasional or even
frequent inadvertences in the way of bad grammar,
faulty construction, or misusage of language, is not to
prove impurity of style, a word which happily has a
bolder signification than any dreamed of by the Zoilus
of the review in question. Style regards, more than
anything else, the tone of a composition. All the rest
is not unimportant, to be sure, but appertains to the
minor morals of literature and can be learned by rote
by the meanest simpletons in letters; can be carried
to its highest excellence by dolts, who, upon the whole,
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are despicable as stylists. Irving's style is inimitable
in its grace and delicacy, yet few of our practised
writers are guilty of more frequent inadvertences of
language. In what may be termed his mere English,
he is surpassed by fifty whom we could name. Mr.
Tuckerman's English, on the contrary, is sufficiently
pure, but a more lamentable style than that of his
Sicily it would be difficult to point out.
Besides those peculiarities which we have already
mentioned as belonging to Dr. Channing's style, we
must not fail to mention a certain calm, broad delib-
erateness, which constitutes force in its highest char
acter and approaches to majesty. All these traits will
be found to exist plainly in his chirography, the charac
ter of which is exemplified by the signature, although
this is somewhat larger than the general manuscript.
Mr. Wilmer has written and published much; but
he has reaped the usual fruits of a spirit of indepen
dence, and has thus failed to make that impression on
the popular mind which his talents, under other cir
cumstances, would have effected. But better days are
in store for him, and for all who " hold to the right
way," despising the yelpings of the small dogs of our
128
after wi Autography
tt* at stytitte. Inriaf** atyii ts tmitable
e and delicacy, yet few of our practised
guilty of more frequent inadvertences of
In what may be termed his mere English,
be is surpassed by fifty whom we could name. Mr.
Tuckerman's English, on the contrary, is sufficiently
pure, but a more lamentable style than that of his
Sicily it would be difficult to point out.
Besides those peculiarities which we have already
mentioned as belonging to Dr. Channing's style, we
must not fail to mention a certain calm, broad delib-
erateness, whWiltiantitfinkf^c^toiteiiighest char
acter and approaches to majesty. All these traits will
be found to tiiat plainly in his chirography, the charac
ter of wbkfe It MWMfiified by the stftatare, although
this it soawrhat tnpt flMsB tbt fHHMl niMMMfipt
Mr. Wilmer IMS iiiiUMi and published much; but
he has reaped the usual fruits of a spirit of indepen
dence, and has thus failed to make that impression on
the popular mind which his talents, under other cir
cumstances, would have effected. But better days are
in store for him, and for all who " hold to the right
way," despising the yelpings of the small dogs of our
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literature. His prose writings have all merit, always
the merit of a chastened style. But he is more favor
ably known by his poetry, in which the student of the
British classics will find much for warm admiration.
We have few better versifiers than Mr. Wilmer.
His chirography plainly indicates the cautious polish
and terseness of his style, but the signature does not
convey the print-like appearance of the MS.
Mr. Dow is distinguished as the author of many fine
sea-pieces, among which will be remembered a series
of papers called The Log of" Old Ironsides" His land
sketches are not generally so good. He has a fine
imagination, which as yet is undisciplined, and leads
him into occasional bombast. As a poet he has done
better things than as a writer of prose.
His MS., which has been strongly modified by cir
cumstances, gives no indication of his true character,
literary or moral.
Mr. Weld is well known as the present working
editor of the New York Tattler and Brother Jonathan.
His attention was accidentally directed to literature
VOL.X. Q. I2
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about ten years ago, after a minority, to use his own
words, " spent at sea, in a store, in a machine-shop,
and in a printing-office." He is now, we believe,
about thirty-one years of age. His deficiency of what
is termed regular education would scarcely be gleaned
from his editorials, which, in general, are usually well
written. His Corrected Proofs is a work which does
him high credit, and which has been extensively cir
culated, although " printed at odd times by himself,
when he had nothing else to do."
His MS. resembles that of Mr. Joseph C. Neal in
many respects, but is less open and less legible. His
signature is altogether much better than his general
chirography.
Mrs. M. St. Leon Loud is one of the finest poets of
this country, possessing, we think, more of the true
divine afflatus than any of her female contemporaries.
She has, hi especial, imagination of no common order,
and, unlike many of her sex whom we could mention,
is not
Content to dwell in decencies forever.
While she can, upon occasion, compose the ordinary
metrical sing-song with all the decorous proprieties
which are in fashion, she yet ventures very frequently
into a more ethereal region. We refer our readers to
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a truly beautiful little poem entitled the Dream of the
Lonely Isle, lately published in this magazine.
Mrs. Loud's MS. is exceedingly clear, neat, and for
cible, with just sufficient effeminacy and no more.
Dr. Pliny Earle, of Frankfort, Pa., has not only
distinguished himself by several works on medical and
general science, but has become well known to the
literary world of late by a volume of very fine poems,
the longest, but by no means the best, of which was
entitled Marathon, This latter is not greatly inferior
to the Marco Bozzarls of Halleck, while some of the
minor pieces equal any American poems. His chirog-
raphy is peculiarly neat and beautiful, giving indication
of the elaborate finish which characterizes his com
positions. The signature conveys the general hand.
David Hoffman, of Baltimore, has not only con
tributed much and well to monthly magazines and
reviews, but has given to the world several valuable
publications in book form. His style is terse, pun
gent, and otherwise excellent, although disfigured by
a half -comic, half -serious pedantry.
A Chapter on Autography
His MS. has about it nothing strongly indicative of
character*
S. D. Langtree has been long and favorably known
to the public as editor of the Georgetown Metropolitan,
and more lately of the Democratic Review, both of
which journals he has conducted with distinguished
success. As a critic he has proved himself just, bold,
and acute, while his prose compositions generally
evince the man of talent and taste.
His MS. is not remarkably good, being somewhat
too scratchy and tapering. We include him, of course,
in the editorial category.
Judge Conrad occupies, perhaps, the first place
among our Philadelphia literati He has distinguished
himself both as a prose writer and a poet, not to speak
of his high legal reputation. He has been a frequent
contributor to the periodicals of this city, and we be
lieve to one at least of the Eastern reviews. His first
production which attracted general notice was a
tragedy entitled Conrad, King of Naples. It was
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performed at the Arch Street Theatre, and elicited ap
plause from the more judicious. This play was suc
ceeded by Jack Cade, performed at the Walnut Street
Theatre, and lately modified and reproduced under the
title of Aylmere, In its new dress, this drama has
been one of the most successful ever written by an
American, not only attracting crowded houses, but
extorting the good word of our best critics. In occa
sional poetry, Judge Conrad has also done well. His
lines, On a Blind Boy Soliciting Charity, have been
greatly admired, and many of his other pieces evince
ability of a high order. His political fame is scarcely
a topic for these pages, and is, moreover, too much a
matter of common observation to need comment from
us.
His MS. is neat, legible, and forcible, evincing com
bined caution and spirit in a very remarkable degree.
The chirography of ex-President Adams (whose
poem, The Wants of Man, has of late attracted so
much attention) is remarkable for a certain steadiness
of purpose pervading the whole, and overcoming even
the constitutional tremulousness of the writer's hand.
Wavering in every letter, the entire MS. has yet a
firm, regular, and decisive appearance. It is also very
legible.
A Chapter on Autography
P. P. Cooke, of Winchester, Virginia, is well known,
especially in the South, as the author of numerous
excellent contributions to the Southern Literary Mess
senger. He has written some of the finest poetry of
which America can boast. A little piece of his, en
titled Florence Vane t and contributed to the Gentle*
man's Magazine of this city, during our editorship of
that journal, was remarkable for the high ideality it
evinced and for the great delicacy and melody of its
rhythm. It was universally admired and copied, as
well here as hi England. We saw it not long ago, as
original, in Bentley's Miscellany, Mr. Cooke has, we
believe, nearly ready for press a novel called Maurice
Werterbern, whose success we predict with confidence.
His MS. is clear, forcible, and legible, but disfigured by
some of that affectation which is scarcely a blemish in
his literary style.
Mr. J. Beauchamp Jones has been, we believe,
connected for many years past with the lighter litera
ture of Baltimore, and at present edits the Baltimore
Saturday Visitor with much judgment and general
ability. He is the author of a series of papers of high
A Chapter on Autography
merit now in course of publication in the Visitor t and
entitled Wild Western Scenes,
His MS. is distinct, and might be termed a fine one ;
but is somewhat too much in consonance with the
ordinary clerk style to be either graceful or forcible.
Mr. Burton is better known as a comedian than as a
literary man, but he has written many short prose
articles of merit, and his quondam editorship of the
Gentleman's Magazine would, at all events, entitle him
to a place in this collection. He has, moreover, pub
lished one or two books. An annual issued by Carey
& Hart in 1840 consisted entirely of prose contribu
tions from himself, with poetical ones from Charles
West Thomson, Esq. In this work many of the tales
were good.
Mr. Burton's MS. is scratchy and petite t betokening
indecision and care or caution.
Richard Henry Wilde of Georgia has acquired
much reputation as a poet, and especially as the
A Chapter on Autography
author of a little piece entitled My Life Is Like the Sum*
mer Rose f whose claim to originality has been made
the subject of repeated and reiterated attack and de
fence. Upon the whole it is hardly worth quarrelling
about. Far better verses are to be found in every
second newspaper we take up. Mr. Wilde has also
lately published, or is about to publish, a life of Tasso,
for which he has been long collecting material.
His MS. has all the peculiar sprawling and elaborate
tastelessness of Mr. Palfrey's, to which altogether it
bears a marked resemblance. The love of effect, how
ever, is more perceptible in Mr. Wilde's than even in
Mr. Palfrey's.
Lewis Cass, the ex-Secretary of War, has distin
guished himself as one of the finest belles-lettres
scholars of America. At one period he was a very reg
ular contributor to the Southern Literary Messenger.
and even lately he has furnished that journal with one
or two very excellent papers.
His MS. is clear, deliberate, and statesmanlike, re
sembling that of Edward Everett very closely. It is
not often that we see a letter written altogether by him
self. He generally employs an amanuensis, whose
chirography does not differ materially from his own,
but is somewhat more regular.
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Mr. James Brooks enjoys rather a private than a
public literary reputation; but his talents are un
questionably great, and his productions have been
numerous and excellent. As the author of many of
the celebrated " Jack Downing " letters, and as the
reputed author of the whole of them, he would at all
events be entitled to a place among our literati
His chirography is simple, clear, and legible, with
little grace and less boldness. These traits are pre
cisely those of his literary style.
As the authorship of the " Jack Downing " letters is
even still considered by many a moot point (although,
in fact, there should be no question about it), and as
we have already given the signature of Mr. Seba Smith
and (just above) of Mr. Brooks, we now present our
readers with a facsimile signature of the " veritable
Jack " himself, written by him individually in our
own bodily presence. Here, then, is an opportunity
of comparison.
The chirography of the " veritable Jack " is a very
good, honest, sensible hand, and not very dissimilar
to that of ex-President Adams.
A Chapter on Autography
Mr. J. R. Lowell, of Massachusetts, is entitled, in
our opinion, to at least the second or third place among
the poets of America. We say this on account of the
vigor of his imagination, a faculty to be first considered
in all criticism upon poetry. In this respect he sur
passes, we think, any of our writers (at least any of
those who have put themselves prominently forth as
poets) with the exception of Longfellow, and perhaps
one other. His ear for rhythm, nevertheless, is imper
fect, and he is very far from possessing the artistic
ability of either Longfellow, Bryant, Halleck, Sprague,
or Pierpont. The reader desirous of properly estimat
ing the powers of Mr. Lowell will find a very beautiful
little poem from his pen in the October number of this
magazine. There is one also (not quite so fine) in the
number for last month. He will contribute regularly.
His MS. is strongly indicative of the vigor and pre
cision of his poetical thought. The man who writes
thus, for example, will never be guilty of metaphorical
extravagance, and there will be found terseness as well
as strength in all that he does.
Mr. L. J. Cist, of Cincinnati, has not written much
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prose, and is known especially by his poetical com
positions, many of which have been very popular, al
though they are at times disfigured by false metaphor,
and by a meretricious straining after effect. This lat
ter foible makes itself clearly apparent in his chirog-
raphy, which abounds in ornamental flourishes, not ill
executed, to be sure, but in very bad taste.
Mr. Arthur is not without a rich talent for descrip
tion of scenes in low life, but is uneducated and too
fond of mere vulgarities to please a refined taste. He
has published The Subordinate and Insubordination
two tales distinguished by the peculiarities above men
tioned. He has also written much for our weekly
papers and The Lady's Book.
His hand is a commonplace clerk's hand, such as we
might expect him to write. The signature is much
better than the general MS.
Mr. Heath is almost the only person of any literary
distinction residing in the chief city of the Old Do
minion. He edited the Southern Literary Messenger
A Chapter on Autography
in the five or six first months of its existence; and,
since the secession of the writer of this article, has fre
quently aided in its editorial conduct. He is the author
of Edge'Hillt a well-written novel, which, owing to the
circumstances of its publication, did not meet with the
reception it deserved. His writings are rather polished
and graceful than forcible or original, and these pe
culiarities can be traced in his chirography.
Dr. Thomas Holley Chivers, of New York, is at
the same time one of the best and one of the worst
poets in America. His productions affect one as a
wild dream strange, incongruous, full of images of
more than arabesque monstrosity and snatches of
sweet, unsustained song. Even his worst nonsense (and
some of it is horrible) has an indefinite charm of sen
timent and melody. We can never be sure that there
is any meaning in his words, neither is there any mean
ing in many of our finest musical airs, but the effect is
very similar in both. His figures of speech are meta
phor run mad, and his grammar is often none at all.
Yet there are as fine individual passages to be found
in the poems of Dr. Chivers as in those of any poet
whatsoever.
His MS. resembles that of P. P. Cooke very nearly,
and in poetical character the two gentlemen are closely
140
A Chapter on Autography
in the five or six first months of its existence; and,
since the secession of the writer of this article, has fre
quently aided in its editorial conduct. He is the author
of Edge'Hillt a. well-written novel, which, owing to the
circumstances of its publication, did not meet with the
reception it deserved. His writings are rather polished
and graceful than forcible or original, and these pe
culiarities can be traced in his chirography.
Dr. ThomaHbaes^fc. York, is at
the same time one of th^J^est and one of the worst
poets in America. His productions affect one as a
wild dream *tr*aft, tMjSjBjgruous, full of images of
more than araWaqi* SMMtrot&y and snatches of
sweet, unsustia4 song* * fell <wmt *MWMe i and
some of it is horrible) fcp 4* MMMfe *fc*rm if sen
timent and melody. Wt can never be tore that there
is any meaning in his words, neither is there any mean
ing in many of our finest musical airs, but the effect is
very similar in both. His figures of speech are meta
phor run mad, and his grammar is often none at all.
Yet there are as fine individual passages to be found
in the poems of Dr. Olivers as in those of any poet
whatsoever.
His MS. resembles that of P. P. Cooke very nearly,
and in poetical character the two gentlemen are closely
*
A Chapter on Autography
akin. Mr. Cooke is, by much, the more correct, while
Dr. Chivers is sometimes the more poetic.
Mr. C. always sustains himself; Dr. C. never.
Judge Story and his various literary and political
labors are too well known to require comment.
His chirography is a noble one bold, clear, mas
sive, and deliberate, betokening in the most unequivo
cal manner all the characteristics of his intellect. The
plain, unornamented style of his compositions is im
pressed with accuracy upon his handwriting, the whole
air of which is well conveyed in the signature.
Mr. John Frost, Professor of Belles-Lettres in the
High School of Philadelphia, and at present editor of
The Young People's Book f has distinguished himself
by numerous literary compositions for the periodicals
of the day, and by a great number of published works
which come under the head of the utile rather than
that of the dulce t at least in the estimation of the
young. He is a gentleman of fine taste, sound scholar
ship, and great general ability.
His chirography denotes his mental idiosyncrasy
141
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with great precision. Its careful neatness, legibility,
and finish are but a part of that turn of mind which
leads him so frequently into compilation. The signa
ture here given is more diminutive than usual.
Mr. J. F. Otis is well known as a writer for the
magazines ; and has, at various times, been connected
with many of the leading newspapers of the day, espe
cially with those in New York and Washington. His
prose and poetry are equally good; but he writes too
much and too hurriedly to write invariably well. His
taste is fine, and his judgment in literary matters is to
be depended upon at all times when not interfered with
by his personal antipathies or predilections.
His chirography is exceedingly illegible, and, like his
style, has every possible fault except that of the com
monplace.
Mr. Reynolds occupied at one time a distinguished
position in the eye of the public, on account of his
great and laudable exertions to get up the American
South Polar expedition, from a personal participation
in which he was most shamefully excluded. He has
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written much and well. Among other works, the pub
lic are indebted to him for a graphic account of the
noted voyage of the frigate Potomac to Madagascar.
His MS. is an ordinary clerk's hand, giving no in
dication of character.
David Paul Brown is scarcely more distinguished
in his legal capacity than by his literary compositions.
As a dramatic writer he has met with much success.
His Sertorius has been particularly well received both
upon the stage and in the closet. His fugitive produc
tions, both in prose and verse, have also been nu
merous, diversified, and excellent.
His chirography has no doubt been strongly modi
fied by the circumstances of his position. No one can
expect a lawyer in full practice to give in his MS. any
true indication of his intellect or character.
Mrs. E. Clementine Stedman has lately attracted
much attention by the delicacy and grace of her poeti
cal compositions, as well as by the piquancy and spirit
of her prose. For some months past we have been
proud to rank her among the best of the contributors to
Graham's Magazine,
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Her chirography differs as materially from that of
her sex in general as does her literary manner from
the usual namby-pamby of our blue-stockings. It is
indeed a beautiful MS., very closely resembling that of
Professor Longfellow, but somewhat more diminutive
and far more full of grace.
J. Greenleaf Whittier is placed by his particular
admirers in the very front rank of American poets.
We are not disposed, however, to agree with their de
cision in every respect. Mr. Whittier is a fine versifier,
so far as strength is regarded independently of modu
lation. His subjects, too, are usually chosen with the
view of affording scope to a certain vivida vis of ex
pression which seems to be his forte ; but in taste, and
especially in imagination, which Coleridge has justly
styled the soul of all poetry, he is ever remarkably
deficient. His themes are never to our liking.
His chirography is an ordinary clerk's hand, afford
ing little indication of character.
Mrs. Ann S. Stephens was at one period the editor
of the Portland Magazine t a periodical of which we
144
A Chapter on Autography
have not heard for some time, and which, we presume,
has been discontinued. More lately her name has been
placed upon the title-page of the Lady's Companion
of New York as one of the conductors of that journal,
to which she has contributed many articles of merit and
popularity. She has also written much and well for
various other periodicals, and will hereafter enrich
this magazine with her compositions, and act as one
of its editors.
Her MS. is a very excellent one and differs from that
of her sex in general by an air of more than usual force
and freedom.
Note. The foregoing Chapter on Autography, as will be seen from a
reference in the following appendix, originally appeared in two parts. Ed.
APPENDIX
In the foregoing facsimile signatures of the most
distinguished American literati our design was to fur
nish a complete series of autographs, embracing a
specimen of the MS. of each of the most noted among
our living male and female writers. For obvious
reasons, we made no attempt at classification or ar
rangement, either in reference to reputation or our
own private opinion of merit. Our second article will
be found to contain as many of the Dii majorum
VOL. X. JO. ,|-
A Chapter on Autography
gentium as our first; and this, our third and last, as
many as either, although fewer names, upon the
whole, than the preceding papers. The impossibility
of procuring the signatures now given, at a period suf
ficiently early for the immense edition of December,
has obliged us to introduce this Appendix.
It is with great pleasure that we have found our
anticipations fulfilled in respect to the popularity of
these chapters, our individual claim to merit is so
trivial that we may be permitted to say so much, but
we confess it was with no less surprise than pleasure
that we observed so little discrepancy of opinion mani
fested in relation to the hasty critical, or, rather, gos
siping, observations which accompanied the signatures.
Where the subject was so wide and so necessarily per
sonal, where the claims of more than one hundred
Utetati, summarily disposed of, were turned over for
readjudication to a press so intricately bound up in
their interests as is ours, it is really surprising
how little of dissent was mingled with so much of
general comment. The fact, however, speaks loudly
to one point to the unity of truth. It assures us
that the differences which exist among us are differ
ences not of real, but of affected, opinion, and that
the voice of him who maintains fearlessly what he
believes honestly is pretty sure to find an echo (if
the speaking be not mad) in the vast heart of the
world at large.
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The Writings of Charles Sprague were first col
lected and published about nine months ago by Mr.
Charles S. Francis of New York. At the time of the
issue of the book we expressed our opinion frankly in
respect to the general merits of the author, an opinion
with which one or two members of the Boston press
did not see fit to agree, but which, as yet, we have
found no reason for modifying. What we say now is,
in spirit, merely a repetition of what we said then.
Mr. Sprague is an accomplished belles-lettres scholar,
so far as the usual ideas of scholarship extend. He is
a very correct rhetorician of the old school. His versi
fication has not been equalled by that of any American
has been surpassed by no one living or dead. In
this regard there are to be found finer passages in his
poems than any elsewhere. These are his chief merits.
In the essentials of poetry he is excelled by twenty of
our countrymen whom we could name. Except in a
very few instances he gives no evidence of the loftier
ideality. His Winged Worshippers and Lines on the
Death of M, S. C, are beautiful poems ; but he has
written nothing else which should be called so. His
Shakespeare Ode f upon which his high reputation
mainly depended, is quite a second-hand affair, with
A Chapter on Autography
no merit whatever beyond that of a polished and vig
orous versification. Its imitation of Collins's Ode to
the Passions is obvious. Its allegorical conduct is
mawkish, passe, and absurd. The poem, upon the
whole, is just such a one as would have obtained its
author an Etonian prize some forty or fifty years ago.
It is an exquisite specimen of mannerism, without
meaning and without merit ; of an artificial, but most
inartistical, style of composition, of which conven
tionality is the soul, taste, nature, and reason the
antipodes. A man may be a clever financier without
being a genius.
It requires but little effort to see in Mr. Sprague's
MS. all the idiosyncrasy of his intellect. Here are
distinctness, precision, and vigor, but vigor employed
upon grace rather than upon its legitimate functions.
The signature fully indicates the general hand, in
which the spirit of elegant imitation and conversation
may be seen reflected as in a mirror.
Mr. Cornelius Mathews is one of the editors of
Arcturus, a monthly journal which has attained much
reputation during the brief period of its existence. He
is the author of Puffer Hopkins, a clever satirical tale
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somewhat given to excess in caricature, and also of the
well-written retrospective criticisms which appear in
his magazine. He is better known, however, by The
Motley Book, published some years ago, a work which
we had no opportunity of reading. He is a gentleman
of taste and judgment unquestionably.
His MS. is much to our liking, bold, distinct, and
picturesque, such a hand as no one destitute of talent
indites. The signature conveys the hand.
Mr. Charles Fenno Hoffman is the author of A
Winter in the West f Greyslaer t and other productions
of merit. At one time he edited, with much ability, the
American Monthly Magazine in conjunction with Mr.
Benjamin, and subsequently with Dr. Bird. He is a
gentleman of talent.
His chirography is not unlike that of Mr. Mathews.
It has the same boldness, strength, and picturesque-
ness, but is more diffuse, more ornamented, and less
legible. Our facsimile is from a somewhat hurried sig
nature, which fails in giving a correct idea of the
general hand.
Mr. Horace Greeley, present editor of the Ttibune t
and formerly of the New Yorker t has for many years
149
A Chapter on Autography
been remarked as one of the most able and honest of
American editors. He has written much and invari
ably well. His political knowledge is equal to that of
any of his contemporaries, his general information
extensive. As a belles-lettres critic he is entitled to
high respect.
His manuscript is a remarkable one, having about it
a peculiarity which we know not how better to desig
nate than as a converse of the picturesque. His char
acters are scratchy and irregular, ending with an abrupt
taper, if we may be allowed this contradiction in terms,
where we have the facsimile to prove that there is no
contradiction hi fact. All abrupt MSS., save this, have
square or concise terminations of the letters. The
whole chirography puts us in mind of a jig. We can
fancy the writer jerking up his hand from the paper
at the end of each word, and, indeed, of each letter.
What mental idiosyncrasy lies perdu beneath all this
is more than we can say, but we will venture to assert
that Mr. Greeley (whom we do not know personally) is,
personally, a very remarkable man.
The name of Mr. Prosper M. Wetmore is familiar
to all readers of American light literature. He has
written a great deal, at various periods, both in prose
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A Chapter on Autography
and poetry (but principally in the latter) for our papers,
magazines, and annuals. Of late days we have seen
but little, comparatively speaking, from his pen.
His MS. is not unlike that of Fitz-Greene Halleck,
but is by no means so good. Its clerky flourishes in
dicate a love of the beautiful with an undue straining
for effect, qualities which are distinctly traceable in
his poetic efforts. As many as five or six words are
occasionally run together; and no man who writes
thus will be noted for finish of style. Mr. Wetmore is
sometimes very slovenly in his best compositions.
Professor Ware, of Harvard, has written some very
excellent poetry, but is chiefly known by his Life of
the Saviour, Hints on Extemporaneous Preaching, and
other religious works.
His MS. is fully shown in the signature. It evinces
the direct, unpretending strength and simplicity which
characterizes the man, not less than his general com
positions.
The name of William B. 0. Peabody, like that of
Mr. Wetmore, is known chiefly to the readers of our
A Chapter on Autography
light literature, and much more familiarly to Northern
than to Southern readers. He is a resident of Spring
field, Mass. His occasional poems have been much
admired.
His chirography is what would be called beautiful
by the ladies universally, and, perhaps, by a large
majority of the bolder sex. Individually, we think it
a miserable one too careful, undecided, tapering, and
effeminate. It is not unlike Mr. Paulding's, but is
more regular and more legible, with less force. We
hold it as undeniable that no man of genius ever wrote
such a hand.
Epes Sargent, Esq., has acquired high reputation as
the author of Velasco, a tragedy full of beauty as a
poem, but not adapted perhaps not intended for
representation. He has written, besides, many very
excellent poems ; The Missing Ship, for example, pub
lished in the Knickerbocker, the Night Storm at Sea,
and, especially, a fine production entitled Shells and
Sea'Weeds, One or two theatrical addresses from
his pen are very creditable in their way, but the way
itself is, as we have before said, execrable. As an
editor, Mr. Sargent has also distinguished himself. He
is a gentleman of taste and high talent.
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His MS. is too much in the usual clerk style to be
either vigorous, graceful, or easily read. It resembles
Mr. Wetmore's, but has somewhat more force. The
signature is better than the general hand, but conveys
its idea very well.
The name of Washington Allston, the poet and
painter, is one that has been long before the public.
Of his paintings we have here nothing to say, except
briefly, that the most noted of them are not to our
taste. His poems are not all of a high order of merit ;
and, in truth, the faults of his pencil and of his pen are
identical. Yet every reader will remember his Span*
ish Maid with pleasure; and the Address to Great
Britain, first published in Coleridge's Sibylline Leaves,
and attributed to an English author, is a production of
which Mr. Allston may be proud.
His MS., notwithstanding an exceedingly simple and
boyish air, is one which we particularly admire. It is
forcible, picturesque, and legible, without ornament of
any description. Each letter is formed with a thor
ough distinctness and individuality. Such a MS. in
dicates caution and precision, most unquestionably;
but we say of it, as we say of Mr. Peabody's (a very
different MS.), that no man of original genius ever did
A Chapter on Autography
or could habitually indite it under any circumstances
whatever. The signature conveys the general hand
with accuracy.
Mr. Alfred B. Street has been long before the public
as a poet. At as early an age as fifteen, some of his
pieces were published by Bryant in the Evening Post /
among these was one of much merit, entitled a Winter
Scene. In the New "York Book, and in the collections
of American poetry by Messieurs Keese and Bryant,
will be found many excellent specimens of his maturer
powers. The Willewemock f The Forest Tree, The
Indian's Vigil, The Lost Hunter, and White Lake we
prefer to any of his other productions which have met
our eye. Mr. Street has fine taste and a keen sense
of the beautiful. He writes carefully, elaborately, and
correctly. He has made Mr. Bryant his model, and
in all Mr. Bryant's good points would be nearly his
equal, were it not for the sad and too perceptible stain
of the imitation. That he has imitated at all or
rather that, in mature age, he has persevered in his
imitations is sufficient warranty for placing him
among the men of talent rather than among the men
of genius.
His MS. is full corroboration of this warranty. It
A Chapter on Autography
is a very pretty chirography, graceful, legible, and neat.
By most persons it would be called beautiful. The
fact is, it is without fault, but its merits, like those
of his poems, are chiefly negative.
Mr. Richard Penn Smith, although perhaps better
known in Philadelphia than elsewhere, has acquired
much literary reputation. His chief works are The
Forsaken, a novel; a pseudo-autobiography called
Colonel Crockett's Tour in Texas, the tragedy of Caius
Marias, and two domestic dramas entitled The Dis*
owned and The Deformed, He has also published two
volumes of miscellanies under the titles of The Actress
of Padua and Other Tales, besides occasional poetry.
We are not sufficiently cognizant of any of these works
to speak with decision respecting their merits. In a
biography of Mr. Smith, however, very well written, by
his friend, Mr. McMichael, of this city, we are informed,
of The Forsaken, that " a large edition of it was speed
ily exhausted " ; of The Actress of Padua, that it " had
an extensive sale and was much commended " ; of the
Tour of Texas, that " few books attained an equal
popularity " ; of Caius Marius, that " it has great
capabilities for an acting play " ; of The Disowned and
A Chapter on Autography
The Deformed that they " were performed at the
London theatres, where they both made a favorable
impression " ; and of his poetry in general, " that it
will be found superior to the average quality of that
commodity." " It is by his dramatic efforts," says the
biographer, " that his merits as a poet must be deter
mined, and judged by these he will be assigned a place
in the foremost rank of American writers." We have
only to add that we have the highest respect for the
judgment of Mr. McMichael.
Mr. Smith's MS. is clear, graceful, and legible, and
would generally be called a fine hand, but is somewhat
too clerky for our taste.
Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, of Boston, late Pro
fessor of Anatomy and Physiology at Dartmouth Col
lege, has written many productions of merit and has
been pronounced by a very high authority the best of
the humorous poets of the day.
His chirography is remarkably fine, and a quick
fancy might easily detect, in its graceful yet pictur
esque quaintness, an analogy with the vivid drollery
of his style. The signature is a fair specimen of the
general MS.
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A Chapter on Autography
Bishop Doane, of New Jersey, is somewhat more
extensively known in his clerical than in a literary
capacity, but has accomplished much more than suffi
cient in the world of books to entitle him to a place
among the most noted of our living men of letters.
The compositions by which he is best known were pub
lished, we believe, during his professorship of Rhetoric
and Belles-Lettres in Washington College, Hartford.
His MS. has some resemblance to that of Mr. Greeley
of the Tribune, The signature is far bolder and alto
gether better than the general hand.
We believe that Mr. Albert Pike has never pub
lished his poems in book form; nor has he written
anything since 1834. His Hymns fo the Gods and
Ode to the Mocking Bird, being printed in Blackwood,
are the chief basis of his reputation. His lines To
Spring are, however, much better in every respect, and
a little poem from his pen, entitled Ariel, originally
published in the Boston Pearl, is one of the finest of
American compositions. Mr. Pike has unquestionably
merit, and that of a high order. His ideality is rich
and well disciplined. He is the most classic of our
A Chapter on Autography
poets in the best sense of the term, and, of course, his
classicism is very different from that of Mr. Sprague,
to whom, nevertheless, he bears much resemblance in
other respects. Upon the whole, there are few of our
native writers to whom we consider him inferior.
His MS. shows clearly the spirit of his intellect. We
observe in it a keen sense not only of the beautiful
and graceful, but of the picturesque neatness, pre
cision, and general finish, verging upon effeminacy.
In force it is deficient. The signature fails to convey
the entire MS., which depends upon masses for its
peculiar character.
^^
Dr. James McHenry, of Philadelphia, is well known
to the literary world as the writer of numerous articles
in our reviews and lighter journals, but more espe
cially as the author of The Antediluvians, an epic poem
which has been the victim of a most shameful cabal
in this country and the subject of a very disgraceful
pasquinade on the part of Professor Wilson. What
ever may be the demerits, in some regard, of this poem,
there can be no question of the utter want of fairness,
and even of common decency, which distinguished the
philippic in question. The writer of a just review of
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The Antediluvians the only tolerable American epic
would render an important service to the literature
of his country.
Dr. McHenry's MS. is distinct, bold, and simple,
without ornament or superfluity. The signature well
conveys the idea of the general hand.
MUL,
Mrs. R. S. Nichols has acquired much reputation
of late years by frequent and excellent contributions
to the magazines and annuals. Many of her com
positions will be found in our pages.
Her MS. is fair, neat, and legible, but formed some
what too much upon the ordinary boarding-school
model to afford any indication of character. The sig
nature is a good specimen of the hand.
Mr. Richard Adams Locke is one among the few
men of unquestionable genius whom the country pos
sesses. Of the " Moon Hoax " it is supererogatory to
say one word not to know that argues one's self un
known. Its rich imagination will long dwell in the
memory of every one who reads it, and surely if
A Chapter on Autography
the worth of anything
Is just so much as it will bring
if, in short, we are to judge of the value of a literary
composition in any degree by its effect then was the
" Hoax " most precious.
But Mr. Locke is also a poet of high order. We
have seen nay, more, we have heard him read
verses of his own which would make the fortune of
two thirds of our poetasters ; and he is yet so modest
as never to have published a volume of poems. As
an editor, as a political writer, as a writer in general,
we think that he has scarcely a superior in America.
There is no man among us to whose sleeve we would
rather pin, not our faith (of that we say nothing), but
our judgment.
His MS. is clear, bold, and forcible, somewhat modi
fied, no doubt, by the circumstance of his editorial
position but still sufficiently indicative of his fine in
tellect.
Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson belongs to a class of
gentlemen with whom we have no patience whatever
the mystics for mysticism's sake. Quintilian men
tions a pedant who taught obscurity, and who once
said to a pupil, " This is excellent, for I do not under
go
A Chapter on Autography
the worth of
Is just so much as it will bring
if, in short, we are to judge of the value of a literary
composition in any degree by its effect then was the
" Hoax " most precious.
But Mr. Locke is also a poet of high order. We
have seen nay, more, we have heard him read
verses of his own which would make the fortune of
two thirds of our poetasters ; and he is yet so modest
as never to have published a volume of poems. As
an editor, as a political writer, as a writer in general,
e think thata* * * America.
rather pin, not
our judgment.
His MS. to
fied, no dm
position but
teilect
say nothing), but
fe
is fine in*
Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson belongs to a class of
gentlemen with whom we have no patience whatever
the mystics for mysticism's sake. Quintilian men
tions a pedant who taught obscurity, and who once
said to a pupil, " This is excellent, for I do not under-
160
A Chapter on Autography
stand it myself." How the good man would have
chuckled over Mr. E.! His present role seems to be
the out-Carlyling Carlyle. Lycophron Tenebrosus is a
fool to him. The best answer to his twaddle is cui
bono / a very little Latin phrase very generally mis
translated and misunderstood cm bono / to whom
is it a benefit ? If not to Mr. Emerson individually,
then surely to no man living.
His love of the obscure does not prevent him, never
theless, from the composition of occasional poems in
which beauty is apparent by flashes. Several of his
effusions appeared in the Western Messenger / more
in the Dial, of which he is the soul, or the sun, or the
shadow. We remember The Sphynx, The Problem,
The Snow Storm f and some fine old-fashioned verses,
entitled O Fair and Stately Maid Whose Eye,
His MS. is bad, sprawling, illegible, and irregular,
although sufficiently bold. This latter trait may be,
and no doubt is, only a portion of his general affecta
tion.
VOL. X. II.
Anastatic Printing
T is admitted by every one that of late there
has been a rather singular invention, called
Anastatic Printing, and that this invention
may possibly lead, in the course of time, to some
rather remarkable results, among which the one chiefly
insisted upon is the abolition of the ordinary stereotyping
process ; but this seems to be the amount, in America
at least, of distinct understanding on this subject.
" There is no exquisite beauty," says Bacon, " with
out some strangeness in the proportions." The phi
losopher had reference, here, to beauty in its common
acceptation, but the remark is equally applicable to
all the forms of beauty, that is to say, to everything
which arouses profound interest in the heart or intel
lect of man. In every such thing, strangeness in
other words, novelty will be found a principal ele
ment; and so universal is this law that it has no
exception even in the case of this principal element
itself. Nothing unless it be novel, not even novelty
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Anastatic Printing
itself, will be the source of very intense excitement
among men. Thus the eanaye who travels in the hope
of dissipating his ennui by the perpetual succession of
novelties will invariably be disappointed in the end.
He receives the impression of novelty so continuously
that it is at length no novelty to receive it. And the
man, in general, of the nineteenth century more espe
cially of our own particular epoch of it is very much
in the predicament of the traveller in question. We
are so habituated to new inventions that we no longer
get from newness the vivid interest which should ap
pertain to the new, and no example could be adduced
more distinctly showing that the mere importance of
a novelty will not suffice to gain for it universal atten
tion than we find in the invention of anastatic print
ing. It excites not one fiftieth part of the comment
which was excited by the comparatively frivolous in
vention of Sennef elder; but he lived in the good old
days when a novelty was novel. Nevertheless, while
lithography opened the way for a very agreeable pas
time, it is the province of anastatic printing to revolu
tionize the world.
By means of this discovery anything written, drawn,
or printed can be made to stereotype itself, with abso
lute accuracy, in five minutes.
Let us take, for example, a page of this Journal,
supposing only one side of the leaf to have printing on
it. We damp the leaf with a certain acid, diluted, and
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Anastatic Printing
then place it between two leaves of blotting-paper to
absorb superfluous moisture. We then place the
printed side in contact with a zinc plate that lies on
the table. The acid in the interspaces between the
letters immediately corrodes the zinc, but the acid on
the letters themselves has no such effect, having been
neutralized by the ink. Removing the leaf at the end
of five minutes we find a reversed copy, in slight relief,
of the printing on the page, in other words, we have
a stereotype-plate, from which we can print avast
number of absolute facsimiles of the original printed
page, which latter has not been at all injured in the
process; that is to say, we can still produce from it (or
from any impression of the stereotype-plate) new
stereotype-plates ad libitum, Any engraving, or any
pen-and-ink drawing, or any MS. can be stereotyped in
precisely the same manner.
The facts of the invention are established. The
process is in successful operation both in London and
Paris. We have seen several specimens of printing
done from the plates described, and have now lying
before us a leaf (from the London Art-Union) covered
with drawing, MS., letterpress, and impressions from
woodcuts, the whole printed from the anastatic
stereotypes, and warranted by the Art-Union to be
absolute facsimiles of the originals.
The process can scarcely be regarded as a new in
vention, and appears to be rather the modification and
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Anastatic Printing
successful application of two or three previously ascer
tained principles those of etching, electrography,
lithography, etc. It follows from this that there will
be much difficulty in establishing or maintaining a
right of patent, and the probability is that the benefits
of the process will soon be thrown open to the world.
As to the secret, it can only be a secret in name.
That the discovery (if we may so call it) has been
made, can excite no surprise in any thinking person;
the only matter for surprise is that it has not been
made many years ago. The obviousness of the pro
cess, however, in no degree lessens its importance.
Indeed, its inevitable results enkindle the imagination
and embarrass the understanding.
Every one will perceive at once that the ordinary
process of stereotyping will be abolished. Through
this ordinary process a publisher, to be sure, is en
abled to keep on hand the means of producing edition
after edition of any work the certainty of whose sale
will justify the cost of stereotyping, which is trifling
in comparison with that of resetting the matter. But
still, positively, this cost (of stereotyping) is great.
Moreover, there cannot always be certainty about
sales. Publishers frequently are forced to reset works
which they have neglected to stereotype, thinking
them unworthy the expense ; and many excellent works
are not published at all, because small editions do not
pay, and the anticipated sales will not warrant the cost
165
Anastatic Printing
of stereotype. Some of these difficulties will be at
once remedied by the anastatic printing, and all will
be remedied in a brief time. A publisher has only to
print as many copies as are immediately demanded.
He need print no more than a dozen, indeed, unless he
feels perfectly confident of success. Preserving one
copy, he can from this, at no other cost than that of
the zinc, produce with any desirable rapidity as many
impressions as he may think proper. Some idea of the
advantages thus accruing may be gleaned from the
fact that in several of the London publishing ware
houses there is deposited in stereotype-plates alone
property to the amount of a million sterling.
The next view of the case, in point of obviousness,
is, that if necessary a hundred thousand impressions
per hour, or even infinitely more, can be taken of any
newspaper or similar publication. As many presses
can be put in operation as the occasion may require,
indeed, there can be no limit to the number of copies
producible, provided we have no limit to the number
of presses.
The tendency of all this to cheapen information, to
diffuse knowledge and amusement, and to bring before
the public the very class of works which are most valu
able, but least in circulation on account of unsalability,
is what need scarcely be suggested to any one. But
benefits such as these are merely the immediate and
most obvious by no means the most important.
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Anastatic Printing
For some years, perhaps, the strong spirit of conven
tionality, of conservation, will induce authors in gen
eral to have recourse, as usual, to the setting of type.
A printed book now is more sightly and more legible
than any MS., and for some years the idea will not be
overthrown that this state of things is one of necessity.
But by degrees it will be remembered that, while MS.
was a necessity, men wrote after such fashion that no
books printed in modern times have surpassed their
MSS. either in accuracy or in beauty. This considera
tion will lead to the cultivation of a neat and distinct
style of handwriting, for authors will perceive the
immense advantage of giving their own MSS. directly
to the public without the expensive interference of the
typesetter, and the often ruinous intervention of the
publisher. All that a man of letters need do will be
to pay some attention to legibility of MS., arrange his
pages to suit himself, and stereotype them instan
taneously as arranged. He may intersperse them with
his own drawings, or with anything to please his own
fancy, in the certainty of being fairly brought before
his readers with all the freshness of his original con
ception about him.
And at this point we are arrested by a consideration
of infinite moment, although of a seemingly shadowy
character. The cultivation of accuracy in MS. thus
enforced will tend, with an inevitable impetus, to every
species of improvement in style, more especially in the
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Anastatic Printing
points of concision and distinctness ; and this, again, in
a degree even more noticeable, to precision of thought
and luminous arrangement of matter. There is a very
peculiar and easily intelligible reciprocal influence be
tween the thing written and the manner of writing,
but the latter has the predominant influence of the
two. The more remote effect on philosophy at large,
which will inevitably result from improvement of style
and thought in the points of concision, distinctness,
and accuracy, need only be suggested to be conceived.
As a consequence of attention being directed to neat
ness and beauty of MS., the antique profession of the
scribe will be revived, affording abundant employment
to women, their delicacy of organization fitting them
peculiarly for such tasks. The female amanuensis,
indeed, will occupy very nearly the position of the
present male typesetter, whose industry will be di
verted perforce into other channels.
These considerations are of vital importance, but
there is yet one beyond them all. The value of every
book is a compound of its literary value and its physi
cal or mechanical value, as the product of physical
labor applied to the physical material. But at present
the latter value immensely predominates even in the
works of the most esteemed authors. It will be seen,
however, that the new condition of things will at once
give the ascendency to the literary values, and thus, by
their literary values, will books come to be estimated
168
Anastatic Printing
among men. The wealthy gentleman of " elegant
leisure " will lose the vantage-ground now afforded
him, and will be forced to tilt on terms of equality with
the poor-devil author. At present the literary world
is a species of anomalous congress, in which the ma
jority of the members are constrained to listen in silence
while all the eloquence proceeds from a privileged few.
In the new regime the humblest will speak as often
and as freely as the most exalted, and will be sure of
receiving just that amount of attention which the in
trinsic merit of their speeches may deserve.
From what we have said it will be evident that the
discovery of anastatic printing will not only not ob
viate the necessity of copyright laws, and of an inter
national law in especial, but will render this necessity
more imperative and more apparent. It has been
shown that in depressing the value of the physique of
a book the invention will proportionately elevate the
value of its morale, and since it is the latter value alone
which the copyright laws are needed to protect, the
necessity of the protection will be only the more ur
gent and more obvious than ever.
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AN ESSAY ON THE MATERIAL AND SPIRITUAL
UNIVERSE
To the few who love me and whom I love, to those who
feel rather than to those who think, to the dreamers and those
who put faith in dreams as in the only realities, I offer this
book of truths, not in its character of truth-teller, but for
the beauty that abounds in its truth, constituting it true.
To these I present the composition as an art-product alone
let us say as a romance ; or, if I be not urging too lofty a
claim, as a poem.
What I here propound is true : therefore it cannot die ; or,
if by any means it be now trodden down so that it die, it will
" rise again to the Life Everlasting."
Nevertheless it is as a poem only that I wish this work to be
judged after I am dead.
T is with humility really unassumed, it is
with a sentiment even of awe, that I pen
the opening sentence of this work; for of
all conceivable subjects I approach the reader with
the most solemn, the most comprehensive, the most
difficult, the most august.
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What terms shall I find sufficiently simple in their
sublimity, sufficiently sublime in their simplicity, for
the mere enunciation of my theme ?
I design to speak of the physical, metaphysical, and
mathematical of the material and spiritual universe
of its essence, its origin, its creation, its present con
dition, and its destiny. I shall be so rash, moreover,
as to challenge the conclusions, and thus, in effect, to
question the sagacity, of many of the greatest and
most justly reverenced of men.
In the beginning, let me as distinctly as possible
announce, not the theorem which I hope to demon
strate for, whatever the mathematicians may assert,
there is, in this world at least, no such thing as demon
stration but the ruling idea which, throughout this
volume, I shall be continually endeavoring to suggest.
My general proposition, then, is this: In the orig
inal unity of the first thing lies the secondary cause
of all things, with the germ of their inevitable anni
hilation.
In illustration of this idea I propose to take such a
survey of the universe that the mind may be able
really to receive and to perceive an individual impres
sion.
He who from the top of ^Etna casts his eyes leisurely
around, is affected chiefly by the extent and diversity
of the scene. Only by a rapid whirling on his heel
could he hope to comprehend the panorama in the
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sublimity of its oneness. But as, on the summit of
^Etna, no man has thought of whirling on his heel, so
no man has ever taken into his brain the full unique
ness of the prospect; and so, again, whatever consid
erations lie involved in this uniqueness have as yet
no practical existence for mankind.
I do not know a treatise in which a survey of the
universe, using the word in its most comprehensive
and only legitimate acceptation, is taken at all; and
it may be as well here to mention that by the term
" universe," wherever employed without qualification
in this essay, I mean to designate the utmost conceiv
able expanse of space, with all things, spiritual and
material, that can be imagined to exist within the com
pass of that expanse. In speaking of what is ordi
narily implied by the expression, " universe," I shall
take a phrase of limitation " the universe of stars."
Why this distinction is considered necessary will be
seen in the sequel.
But even of treatises on the really limited, although
always assumed as the unlimited, universe of stars, I
I know none in which a survey, even of this limited
universe, is so taken as to warrant deductions from
its individuality. The nearest approach to such a work
is made in the Cosmos of Alexander von Humboldt.
He presents the subject, however, not in its individu
ality but in its generality. His theme, in its last result,
is the law of each portion of the merely physical uni-
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verse, as this law is related to the laws of every other
portion of this merely physical universe. His design
is simply synoeretical. In a word, he discusses the
universality of material relation, and discloses to the
eye of philosophy whatever inferences have hitherto
lain hidden behind this universality. But, however
admirable be the succinctness with which he has
treated each particular point of his topic, the mere
multiplicity of these points occasions, necessarily, an
amount of detail, and thus an involution of idea, which
preclude all individuality of impression.
It seems to me that, in aiming at this latter effect,
and, through it, at the consequences, the conclusions,
the suggestions, the speculations, or, if nothing better
offer itself, the mere guesses which may result from it,
we require something like a mental gyration on the
heel. We need so rapid a revolution of all things about
the central point of sight that, while the minutiae van
ish altogether, even the more conspicuous objects
become blended into one. Among the vanishing
minutiae, in a survey of this kind, would be all exclu
sively terrestrial matters. The earth would be con
sidered in its planetary relations alone. A man, in
this view, becomes mankind; mankind, a member of
the cosmical family of intelligences.
And now, before proceeding to our subject proper,
let me beg the reader's attention to an extract or two
from a somewhat remarkable letter, which appears
Eureka
to have been found corked in a bottle and floating on
the Mare Tenebrarum, an ocean well described by the
Nubian geographer, Ptolemy Hephestion, but little fre
quented in modern days unless by the transcendental-
ists and some other divers for crotchets. The date of
this letter, I confess, surprises me even more par
ticularly than its contents ; for it seems to have been
written in the year two thousand eight hundred and
forty-eight. As for the passages I am about to tran
scribe, they, I fancy, will speak for themselves.
" Do you know, my dear friend," says the writer,
addressing, no doubt, a contemporary, " do you know
that it is scarcely more than eight or nine hundred
years ago since the metaphysicians first consented to
relieve the people of the singular fancy that there exist
but two practicable roads to truth ? Believe it if you
can. It appears, however, that long, long ago, in the
night of time, there lived a Turkish philosopher called
Aries and surnamed Tottle. [Here, possibly, the
letter- writer means Aristotle; the best names are
wretchedly corrupted in two or three thousand years.]
The fame of this great man depended mainly upon
his demonstration that sneezing is a natural provision,
by means of which over-profound thinkers are en
abled to expel superfluous ideas through the nose ; but
he obtained a scarcely less valuable celebrity as the
founder, or at all events as the principal propagator, of
what was termed the deductive or a priori philosophy.
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He started with what he maintained to be axioms, or
self-evident truths ; and the now well-understood fact
that no truths are self-evident really does not make in
the slightest degree against his speculations; it was
sufficient for his purpose that the truths in question
were evident at all. From axioms he proceeded, logi
cally, to results. His most illustrious disciples were
one Tuclid, a geometrician [meaning Euclid], and one
Kant, a Dutchman, the originator of that species of
transcendentalism which, with the change merely of a
C for a K, now bears his peculiar name.
" Well, Aries Tottle flourished supreme, until the
advent of one Hog, surnamed * the Ettrick Shepherd,'
who preached an entirely different system, which he
called the a posteriori, or inductive. His plan referred
altogether to sensation. He proceeded by observing,
analyzing, and classifying facts, instantiac naturae, as
they were somewhat affectedly called, and arranging
them into general laws. In a word, while the mode of
Aries rested on noumena, that of Hog depended on
phenomena ; and so great was the admiration excited
by this latter system that, at its first introduction, Aries
fell into general disrepute. Finally, however, he re
covered ground and was permitted to divide the empire
of philosophy with his more modern rival, the savants
contenting themselves with proscribing all other com
petitors, past, present, and to come ; putting an end to
all controversy on the topic by the promulgation of a
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Median law, to the effect that the Aristotelian and
Baconian roads are, and of right ought to be, the sole
possible avenues to knowledge : ' Baconian,' you
must know, my dear friend," adds the letter-writer at
this point, " was an adjective invented as equivalent
to Hog-ian, and at the same time more dignified and
euphonious.
" Now, I do assure you most positively," proceeds
the epistle, " that I represent these matters fairly; and
you can easily understand how restrictions so absurd
on their very face must have operated, in those days,
to retard the progress of true science, which makes its
most important advances, as all history will show, by
seemingly intuitive leaps. These ancient ideas con
fined investigation to crawling ; and I need not suggest
to you that crawling, among varieties of locomotion,
is a very capital thing of its kind ; but because the tor
toise is sure of foot, for this reason must we clip the
wings of the eagles ? For many centuries so great was
the infatuation, about Hog especially, that a virtual
stop was put to all thinking, properly so called. No
man dared utter a truth for which he felt himself in
debted to his soul alone. It mattered not whether the
truth was even demonstrably such; for the dogma
tizing philosophers of that epoch regarded only the road
by which it professed to have been attained. The end,
with them, was a point of no moment whatever:
'the means!' they vociferated, 'let us look at the
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means ! ' and if, on scrutiny of the means, it was found
neither to come under the category Hog, nor under the
category Aries (which means ram), why, then, the
savants went no farther, but, calling the thinker a fool
and branding him a ' theorist,' would never, thencefor
ward, have anything to do either with him or with his
truths.
" Now, my dear friend," continues the letter-writer,
" it cannot be maintained that by the crawling system,
exclusively adopted, men would arrive at the maxi
mum amount of truth, even in any long series of ages ;
for the repression of imagination was an evil not to be
counterbalanced even by absolute certainty in the
snail processes. But their certainty was very far from
absolute. The error of our progenitors was quite
analogous with that of the wiseacre who fancies he
must necessarily see an object the more distinctly the
more closely he holds it to his eyes. They blinded
themselves, too, with the impalpable, titillating Scotch
snuff of detail ; and thus the boasted facts of the Hog-
ites were by no means always facts, a point of little
importance but for the assumption that they always
were. The vital taint, however, in Baconianism, its
most lamentable fount of error, lay in its tendency to
throw power and consideration into the hands of
merely perceptive men, of those inter-Tritonic min
nows, the microscopical savants, the diggers and ped-
lers of minute facts, for the most part in physical
VOL.
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science, facts, all of which they retailed at the same
price upon the highway, their value depending, it was
supposed, simply upon the fact of their fact, without
reference to their applicability or inapplicability in the
development of those ultimate and only legitimate
facts called law.
" Than the persons," the letter goes on to say,
" than the persons thus suddenly elevated by the Hog-
ian philosophy into a station for which they were
unfitted, thus transferred from the sculleries into the
parlors of science, from its pantries into its pulpits,
than these individuals a more intolerant, a more in
tolerable, set of bigots and tyrants never existed on the
face of the earth. Their creed, their text, and their
sermon were, alike, the one word * fact ' ; but, for the
most part, even of this one word they knew not even
the meaning. On those who ventured to disturb their
facts with the view of putting them in order and to
use, the disciples of Hog had no mercy whatever. All
attempts at generalization were met at once by the
words ' theoretical,' ' theory,' * theorist ' ; all thought,
to be brief, was very properly resented as a personal
affront to themselves. Cultivating the natural sci
ences to the exclusion of metaphysics, the mathe
matics, and logic, many of these Bacon-engendered
philosophers one-idea-ed, one-sided, and lame of a
leg were more wretchedly helpless, more miserably
ignorant, in view of all the comprehensible objects of
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knowledge, than the veriest unlettered hind who proves
that he knows something, at least, in admitting that he
knows absolutely nothing.
" Nor had our forefathers any better right to talk
about certainty, when pursuing, in blind confidence,
the a priori path of axioms, or of the Ram. At in
numerable points this path was scarcely as straight as
a ram's horn. The simple truth is, that the Aristotel
ians erected their castles upon a basis far less reliable
than air ; for no such things as axioms ever existed or
can possibly exist at all. This they must have been
very blind indeed not to see, or at least not to suspect ;
for, even in their own day, many of their long-admitted
* axioms ' had been abandoned ' ex nlhllo nihil fit/
for example, and a * thing cannot act where it is not,'
and * there cannot be antipodes,' and ' darkness cannot
proceed from light.' These and numerous similar
propositions formerly accepted, without hesitation, as
axioms, or undeniable truths, were, even at the period
of which I speak, seen to be altogether untenable ; how
absurd in these people, then, to persist in relying upon
a basis, as immutable, whose mutability had become so
repeatedly manifest!
" But, even through evidence afforded by them
selves against themselves, it is easy to convict these
a priori reasoners of the grossest unreason ; it is easy
to show the futility, the impalpability, of their axioms
in general. I have now lying before me," it will be
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observed that we still proceed with the letter, " I
have now lying before me a book printed about a
thousand years ago. Pundit assures me that it is de
cidedly the cleverest ancient work on its topic, which
is ' Logic.' The author, who was much esteemed in
his day, was one Miller, or Mill; and we find it re
corded of him, as a point of some importance, that he
rode a mill-horse whom he called Jeremy Bentham;
but let us glance at the volume itself.
" Ah ! * Ability or inability to conceive,' says Mr.
Mill, very properly, is in no case to be received as a
criterion of axiomatic truth.' Now, that this is a pal
pable truism no one in his senses will deny. Not to
admit the proposition is to insinuate a charge of vari
ability in truth itself, whose very title is a synonym
of the steadfast. If ability to conceive be taken as a
criterion of truth, then a truth to David Hume would
very seldom be a truth to Joe ; and ninety-nine hun-
dredths of what is undeniable in heaven would be
demonstrable falsity upon earth. The proposition of
Mr. Mill, then, is sustained. I will not grant it to be
an axiom ; and this merely because I am showing that
no axioms exist; but, with a distinction which could
not have been cavilled at even by Mr. Mill himself, I
am ready to grant that, if an axiom there be, then the
proposition of which we speak has the fullest right to
be considered an axiom, that no more absolute axiom
is, and, consequently, that any subsequent proposition
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which shall conflict with this one primarily advanced
must be either a falsity in itself, that is to say, no
axiom, or, if admitted axiomatic, must at once neu
tralize both itself and its predecessor.
" And now, by the logic of their own propounder, let
us proceed to test any one of the axioms propounded.
Let us give Mr. Mill the fairest of play. We will bring
the point to no ordinary issue. We will select for in
vestigation no commonplace axiom, no axiom of what,
not the less preposterously because only impliedly, he
terms his secondary class as if a positive truth by
definition could be either more or less positively a
truth; we will select, I say, no axiom of an unques-
tionability so questionable as is to be found in Euclid.
We will not talk, for example, about such propositions
as that two straight lines cannot enclose a space, or
that the whole is greater than any one of its parts. We
will afford the logician every advantage. We will
come at once to a proposition which he regards as the
acme of the unquestionable, as the quintessence of
axiomatic undeniability. Here it is : ' Contradictions
cannot both be true, that is, cannot coexist in nature.'
Here Mr. Mill means, for instance, and I give the
most forcible instance conceivable, that a tree must
be either a tree or not a tree, that it cannot be at the
same time a tree and not a tree: all which is quite
reasonable of itself, and will answer remarkably well
as an axiom, until we bring it into collation with an
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axiom insisted upon a few pages before; in other
words, words which I have previously employed,
until we test it by the logic of its own propounder. ' A
tree,' Mr. Mill asserts, ' must be either a tree or not a
tree.' Very well : and now let me ask him, Why ?
To this little query there is but one response; I defy
any man living to invent a second. The sole answer
is this : ' Because we find it impossible to conceive that
a tree can be anything else than a tree or not a tree.'
This, I repeat, is Mr. Mill's sole answer ; he will not pre
tend to suggest another ; and yet, by his own showing,
his answer is clearly no answer at all ; for has he not
already required us to admit, as an axiom, that ability
or inability to conceive is in no case to be taken as a
criterion of axiomatic truth ? Thus all, absolutely all,
his argumentation is at sea without a rudder. Let it
not be urged that an exception from the general rule is
to be made in cases where the ' impossibility to con
ceive ' is so peculiarly great, as when we are called
upon to conceive a tree both a tree and not a tree. Let
no attempt, I say, be made at urging this sotticism;
for, in the first place, there are no degrees of * impos
sibility,' and thus no one impossible conception can be
more peculiarly impossible than another impossible
conception; in the second place, Mr. Mill himself, no
doubt after thorough deliberation, has most distinctly
and most rationally excluded all opportunity for ex
ception by the emphasis of his proposition, that, in no
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case, is ability or inability to conceive to be taken as a
criterion of axiomatic truth; in the third place, even
were exceptions admissible at all, it remains to be
shown how any exception is admissible here. That a
tree can be both a tree and not a tree is an idea which
the angels or the devils may entertain, and which no
doubt many an earthly bedlamite or transcendental-
ist does.
" Now, I do not quarrel with these ancients," con
tinues the letter-writer, " so much on account of the
transparent frivolity of their logic, which, to be plain,
was baseless, worthless, and fantastic altogether, as
on account of their pompous and infatuate proscrip
tion of all other roads to truth than the two narrow
and crooked paths, the one of creeping and the other
of crawling, to which, in their ignorant perversity,
they have dared to confine the soul the soul which
loves nothing so well as to soar in those regions of
illimitable intuition which are utterly incognizant of
' path.'
" By the by, my dear friend, is it not an evidence of
the mental slavery entailed upon those bigoted people
by their Hogs and their Rams that, in spite of the eter
nal prating of their savants about roads to truth, none
of them fell, even by accident, into what we now so
distinctly perceive to be the broadest, the straightest,
and most available of all mere roads the great thor
oughfare, the majestic highway of the Consistent ? Is
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it not wonderful that they should have failed to de
duce from the works of God the vitally momentous
consideration that a perfect consistency can be noth
ing but an absolute truth ? How plain, how rapid our
progress since the late announcement of this proposi
tion! By its means investigation has been taken out
of the hands of the ground-moles and given as a duty,
rather than as a task, to the true, to the only true
thinkers, to the generally educated men of ardent
imagination. These latter our Keplers, our Laplaces
* speculate,' ' theorize ' : these are the terms. Can
you not fancy the shout of scorn with which they would
be received by our progenitors, were it possible for
them to be looking over my shoulders as I write ?
The Keplers, I repeat, speculate, theorize; and their
theories are merely corrected, reduced, sifted, cleared,
little by little, of their chaff of inconsistency, until at
length there stands apparent and unencumbered con
sistency a consistency which the most stolid admit,
because it is a consistency, to be an absolute and un
questionable truth.
" I have often thought, my friend, that it must have
puzzled these dogmaticians of a thousand years ago
to determine, even, by which of their two boasted
roads it is that the cryptographist attains the solution
of the more complicated ciphers; or by which of them
Champollion guided mankind to those important and
innumerable truths which, for so many centuries, have
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lain entombed amid the phonetical hieroglyphics of
Egypt. In especial, would it not have given these
bigots some trouble to determine by which of their
two roads was reached the most momentous and sub
lime of all their truths the truth, the fact, of gravita
tion ? Newton deduced it from the laws of Kepler.
Kepler admitted that these laws he guessed, these laws
whose investigation disclosed to the greatest of British
astronomers that principle, the basis of all (existing)
physical principle, in going behind which we enter at
once the nebulous kingdom of metaphysics. Yes!
these vital laws Kepler guessed; that is to say, he
imagined them. Had he been asked to point out
either the deductive or inductive route by which he
attained them, his reply might have been, * I know
nothing about routes, but I do know the machinery of
the universe. Here it is. I grasped it with my soul ;
I reached it by mere dint of intuition.' Alas, poor
ignorant old man ! Could not any metaphysician have
told him that what he called * intuition ' was but the
conviction resulting from deductions and inductions,
of which the processes were so shadowy as to have
escaped his consciousness, eluded his reason, or bidden
defiance to his capacity of expression ? How great a
pity it is that some ' moral philosopher ' had not en
lightened him about all this ! How it would have com
forted him on his death-bed to know that, instead of
having gone intuitively and thus unbecomingly, he
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had, in fact, proceeded decorously and legitimately,
that is to say, Hog-ishly, or at least Ram-ishly, into
the vast halls where lay gleaming, untended, and hith
erto untouched by mortal hand, unseen by mortal
eye, the imperishable and priceless secrets of the
universe !
"Yes, Kepler was essentially a theorist; but this
title, now of so much sanctity, was, in those ancient
days, a designation of supreme contempt. It is only
now that men begin to appreciate that divine old man,
to sympathize with the prophetical and poetical rhap
sody of his ever-memorable words. For my part,"
continues the unknown correspondent, " I glow with
a sacred fire when I even think of them, and I feel
that I shall never grow weary of their repetition. In
concluding this letter, let me have the real pleasure of
transcribing them once again : ' I care not whether my
work be read now or by posterity. I can afford to
wait a century for readers when God himself has
waited six thousand years for an observer. I triumph.
I have stolen the golden secret of the Egyptians. I
will indulge my sacred fury.' "
Here end my quotations from this very unaccount
able and, perhaps, somewhat impertinent epistle ; and
perhaps it would be folly to comment, hi any respect,
upon the chimerical, not to say revolutionary, fancies
of the writer, whoever he is, fancies so radically at war
with the well-considered and well-settled opinions of
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this age. Let us proceed, then, to our legitimate thesis,
" The Universe."
This thesis admits a choice between two modes of
discussion : we may ascend or descend. Beginning at
our own point of view, at the earth on which we
stand, we may pass to the other planets of our system,
thence to the sun, thence to our system considered
collectively, and thence, through other systems, in
definitely outward; or, commencing on high at some
point as definite as we can make it or conceive it, we
may come down to the habitation of man. Usually,
that is to say, in ordinary essays on astronomy, the
first of these two modes is, with certain reservation,
adopted ; this, for the obvious reason that astronomi
cal facts, merely, and principles, being the object, that
object is best fulfilled in stepping from the known,
because proximate, gradually onward to the point
where all certitude becomes lost in the remote. For
my present purpose, however, that of enabling the
mind to take in, as if from afar and at one glance, a
distant conception of the individual universe, it is
clear that a descent to small from great, to the out
skirts from the centre (if we could establish a centre),
to the end from the beginning (if we could fancy a
beginning), would be the preferable course, but for the
difficulty, if not impossibility, of presenting, in this
course, to the unastronomical, a picture at all com
prehensible in regard to such considerations as are
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involved in quantity, that is to say, in number, magni
tude, and distance.
Now, distinctness, intelligibility, at all points, is
a primary feature in my general design. On impor
tant topics it is better to be a good deal prolix than
even a very little obscure. But abstruseness is a
quality appertaining to no subject perse, All are
alike, in facility of comprehension, to him who ap
proaches them by properly graduated steps. It is
merely because a stepping-stone, here and there, is
heedlessly left unsupplied in our road to differential
calculus that this latter is not altogether as simple a
thing as a sonnet by Mr. Solomon Seesaw.
By way of admitting, then, no chance for misappre
hension, I think it advisable to proceed as if even the
more obvious facts of astronomy were unknown to the
reader. In combining the two modes of discussion to
which I have referred, I propose to avail myself of the
advantages peculiar to each, and very especially of
the iteration hi detail which will be unavoidable as a
consequence of the plan. Commencing with a de
scent, I shall reserve for the return upward those
indispensable considerations of quantity to which allu
sion has already been made.
Let us begin, then, at once, with that merest of
words, " infinity." This, like " God," " spirit," and
some other expressions of which the equivalents exist
in all languages, is by no means the expression of an
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idea, but of an effort at one. It stands for the possible
attempt at an impossible conception. Man needed a
term by which to point out the direction of this effort,
the cloud behind which lay, forever invisible, the ob
ject of this attempt. A word, in fine, was demanded,
by means of which one human being might put him
self in relation at once with another human being and
with a certain tendency of the human intellect. Out
of this demand arose the word " infinity," which is
thus the representative but of the thought of a thought.
As regards that infinity now considered, the infinity
of space, we often hear it said that " its idea is ad
mitted by the mind, is acquiesced in, is entertained, on
account of the greater difficulty which attends the
conception of a limit." But this is merely one of
those phrases by which even profound thinkers, time
out of mind, have occasionally taken pleasure in de
ceiving themselves. The quibble lies concealed in the
word " difficulty." " The mind," we are told, " en
tertains the idea of limitless, through the greater
difficulty which it finds in entertaining that of limited,
space." Now, were the proposition but fairly put, its
absurdity would become transparent at once. Clearly,
there is no more difficulty in the case. The assertion
intended, if presented according to its intention and
without sophistry, would run thus : " The mind admits
the idea of limitless, through the greater impossibility
of entertaining that of limited, space."
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It must be immediately seen that this is not a ques
tion of two statements between whose respective credi
bilities, or of two arguments between whose respective
validities, the reason is called upon to decide; it is a
matter of two conceptions, directly conflicting, and
each avowedly impossible, one of which the intellect
is supposed to be capable of entertaining, on account
of the greater impossibility of entertaining the other.
The choice is not made between two difficulties ; it is
merely fancied to be made between two impossibilities.
Now, of the former there are degrees, but of the latter,
none, just as our impertinent letter-writer has al
ready suggested. A task may be more or less difficult ;
but it is either possible or not possible, there are no
gradations. It might be more difficult to overthrow
the Andes than an ant-hill, but it can be no more im
possible to annihilate the matter of the one than the
matter of the other. A man may jump ten feet with
less difficulty than he can jump twenty, but the im
possibility of his leaping to the moon is not a whit less
than that of his leaping to the dog-star.
Since all this is undeniable ; since the choice of the
mind is to be made between impossibilities of concep
tion; since one impossibility cannot be greater than
another; and since, thus, one cannot be preferred to
another, the philosophers who not only maintain, on
the grounds mentioned, man's idea of infinity, but, on
account of such supposititious idea, infinity itself, are
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plainly engaged in demonstrating one impossible thing
to be possible by showing how it is that some one
other thing is impossible too. This, it will be said, is
nonsense, and perhaps it is; indeed, I think it very
capital nonsense, but forego all claim to it as nonsense
of mine.
The readiest mode, however, of displaying the fal
lacy of the philosophical argument on this question
is by simply adverting to a fact respecting it which has
been hitherto quite overlooked the fact that the ar
gument alluded to both proves and disproves its own
proposition. " The mind is impelled," say the theo
logians and others, " to admit a First Cause, by the
superior difficulty it experiences in conceiving cause
beyond cause without end." The quibble, as before,
lies in the word " difficulty," but here what is it em
ployed to sustain ? A First Cause. And what is a
First Cause ? An ultimate termination of causes.
And what is an ultimate termination of causes ? Fin-
ity the finite. Thus the one quibble, in two pro
cesses, by God knows how many philosophers, is made
to support now finity and now Infinity; could it not
be brought to support something besides ? As for the
quibbles, they, at least, are insupportable. But, to
dismiss them, what they prove in the one case is the
identical nothing which they demonstrate in the other.
Of course, no one will suppose that I here contend
for the absolute impossibility of that which we attempt
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to convey in the word " infinity." My purpose is but
to show the folly of endeavoring to prove infinity
itself, or even our conception of it, by any such blun
dering ratiocination as that which is ordinarily em
ployed.
Nevertheless, as an individual, I may be permitted
to say that I cannot conceive infinity, and am
convinced that no human being can. A mind not
thoroughly self-conscious, not accustomed to the
introspective analysis of its own operations, will,
it is true, often deceive itself by supposing that it
has entertained the conception of which we speak.
In the effort to entertain it, we proceed step beyond
step, we fancy point still beyond point; and so long
as we continue the effort it may be said, in fact, that
we are tending to the formation of the idea designed ;
while the strength of the impression that we actually
form or have formed is in the ratio of the period during
which we keep up the mental endeavor. But it is in
the act of discontinuing the endeavor, of fulfilling (as
we think) the idea, of putting the finishing stroke (as
we suppose) to the conception, that we overthrow at
once the whole fabric of our fancy by resting upon
some one ultimate, and therefore definite, point. This
fact, however, we fail to perceive, on account of the
absolute coincidence, in time, between the settling
down upon the ultimate point and the act of cessation
in thinking. In attempting, on the other hand, to
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frame the idea of a limited space, we merely converse
the processes which involve the impossibility.
We believe in a God. We may or may not believe
in finite or in infinite space; but our belief, in such
cases, is more properly designated as faith, and is a
matter quite distinct from that belief proper, from
that intellectual belief, which presupposes the mental
conception.
The fact is, that, upon the enunciation of any one
of that class of terms to which " infinity " belongs, the
class representing thoughts of thought, he who has a
right to say that he thinks at all feels himself called
upon not to entertain a conception, but simply to
direct his mental vision toward some given point, in
the intellectual firmament, where lies a nebula never
to be resolved. To solve it, indeed, he makes no
effort; for with a rapid instinct he comprehends, not
only the impossibility, but, as regards all human pur
poses, the inessentiality, of its solution. He perceives
that the Deity has not designed it to be solved. He
sees, at once, that it lies out of the brain of man, and
even how, if not exactly why, it lies out of it. There
are people, I am aware, who, busying themselves in
attempts at the unattainable, acquire very easily, by
dint of the jargon they emit, among those think-
ers-that-they-think, with whom darkness and depth
are synonymous, a kind of cuttlefish reputation for
profundity; but the finest quality of thought is its
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self -cognizance ; and with some little equivocation it
may be said that no fog of the mind can well be greater
than that which, extending to the very boundaries of
the mental domain, shuts out even these boundaries
themselves from comprehension.
It will now be understood that, in using the phrase,
" infinity of space," I make no call upon the reader
to entertain the impossible conception of an absolute
infinity. I refer simply to the " utmost conceivable
expanse" of space a shadowy and fluctuating do
main, now shrinking, now swelling, in accordance with
the vacillating energies of the imagination.
Hitherto, the universe of stars has always been con
sidered as coincident with the universe proper, as I
have defined it in the commencement of this discourse.
It has been always either directly or indirectly as
sumed, at least since the dawn of intelligible astron
omy, that, were it possible for us to attain any given
point in space, we should still find, on all sides of us,
an ^terminable succession of stars. This was the un
tenable idea of Pascal when making perhaps the most
successful attempt ever made at periphrasing the con
ception for which we struggle in the word " universe."
" It is a sphere," he says, " of which the centre is
everywhere, the circumference nowhere." But al
though this intended definition is, in fact, no definition
of the universe of stars, we may accept it, with some
mental reservation, as a definition (rigorous enough
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for all practical purposes) of the universe proper, that
is to say, of the universe of space. This latter, then,
let us regard as " a sphere of which the centre is every
where, the circumference nowhere." In fact, while
we find it impossible to fancy an end to space, we have
no difficulty in picturing to ourselves any one of an
infinity of beginnings.
As our starting-point, then, let us adopt the God
head. Of this Godhead, in itself, he alone is not im
becile, he alone is not impious, who propounds
nothing. " Nous ne connaissons rien," says the Baron
de Bielfeld " Nous ne connaissons rien de la nature
ou de Pessence de Dieu : pour savoir ce qu'il est, il f aut
tre Dieu meme." " We know absolutely nothing
of the nature or essence of God : in order to compre
hend what He is, we should have to be God ourselves."
" We should have to be God ourselves! " With a
phrase so startling as this yet ringing in my ears, I
nevertheless venture to demand if this our present
ignorance of the Deity is an ignorance to which the
soul is everlastingly condemned.
By Him, however, now, at least, the Incomprehen
sible ; by Him, assuming Him as Spirit, that is to say,
as not matter, a distinction which, for all intelligible
purposes, will stand well instead of a definition; by
Him, then, existing as Spirit, let us content ourselves,
to-night, with supposing to have been created, or made
out of nothing, by dint of His volition, at some point
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of space which we will take as a centre, at some period
into which we do not pretend to inquire, but at all
events immensely remote ; by Him, then, again, let us
suppose to have been created what ? This is a vi
tally momentous epoch in our considerations. What
is it that we are justified, that alone we are justified,
in supposing to have been, primarily and solely,
created ?
We have attained a point where only intuition can
aid us; but now let me recur to the idea which I have
already suggested as that alone which we can properly
entertain of intuition. It is but the conviction arising
from those inductions or deductions of which the pro
cesses are so shadowy as to escape our consciousness,
elude our reason, or defy our capacity of expression.
With this understanding, I now assert that an intui
tion altogether irresistible, although inexpressible,
forces me to the conclusion that what God originally
created, that that matter which, by dint of His voli
tion, He first made from His Spirit or from nihility,
could have been nothing but matter in its utmost con
ceivable state of what ? of simplicity ?
This will be found the sole absolute assumption of
my discourse. I use the word " assumption " in its
ordinary sense; yet I maintain that even this my
primary proposition is very, very far indeed from
being really a mere assumption. Nothing was ever
more certainly no human conclusion was ever, in
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fact, more regularly, more rigorously deduced; but,
alas! the processes lie out of the human analysis, at
all events are beyond the utterance of the human
tongue.
Let us now endeavor to conceive what matter must
be when, or if, hi its absolute extreme of simplicity.
Here the reason flies at once to imparticularity, to a
particle, to one particle, a particle of one kind, of one
character, of one nature, of one size, of one form, a
particle, therefore, " without form and void," a par
ticle positively a particle at all points, a particle abso
lutely unique, individual, undivided, and not indivisible
only because He who created it, by dint of His will, can
by an infinitely less energetic exercise of the same will,
as a matter of course, divide it.
Oneness, then, is all that I predicate of the originally
created matter; but I propose to show that this one
ness is a principle abundantly sufficient to account
for the constitution, the existing phenomena, and the
plainly inevitable annihilation of at least the material
universe.
The willing into being the primordial particle has
completed the act, or more properly the conception, of
Creation. We now proceed to the ultimate purpose
for which we are to suppose the particle created, that
is to say, the ultimate purpose so far as our considera
tions yet enable us to see it, the constitution of the
universe from it, the particle.
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This constitution has been effected by forcing the
originally and therefore normally one into the abnor
mal condition of many. An action of this character
implies reaction. A diffusion from unity, under the
conditions, involves a tendency to return into unity
a tendency ineradicable until satisfied. But on these
points I will speak more fully hereafter.
The assumption of absolute unity in the primordial
particle includes that of infinite divisibility. Let us
conceive the particle, then, to be only not totally
exhausted by diffusion into space. From the one par
ticle, as a centre, let us suppose to be irradiated spheri
cally, in all directions, to immeasurable but still
definite distances in the previously vacant space, a
certain inexpressibly great yet limited number of un
imaginably yet not infinitely minute atoms.
Now, of these atoms, thus diffused, or upon diffusion,
what conditions are we permitted, not to assume, but
to infer, from consideration as well of their source as
of the character of the design apparent in their diffu
sion ? Unity being their source, and difference from
unity the character of the design manifested in their
diffusion, we are warranted in supposing this charac
ter to be at least generally preserved throughout the
design, and to form a portion of the design itself ; that
is to say, we shall be warranted in conceiving con
tinual differences at all points from the uniquity and
simplicity of the origin. But, for these reasons, shall
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we be justified in imagining the atoms heterogeneous,
dissimilar, unequal, and inequidistant ? More expli
citly, are we to consider no two atoms as, at their dif
fusion, of the same nature, or of the same form, or of
the same size ? and, after fulfilment of their diffusion
into space, is absolute inequidistance, each from each,
to be understood of all of them ? In such arrange
ment, under such conditions, we most easily and im
mediately comprehend the subsequent most feasible
carrying out to completion of any such design as that
which I have suggested the design of variety out of
unity, diversity out of sameness, heterogeneity out of
homogeneity, complexity out of simplicity, in a word,
the utmost possible multiplicity of relation out of the
emphatically irrelative one. Undoubtedly, therefore,
we should be warranted hi assuming all that has been
mentioned but for the reflection, first, that superero
gation is not presumable of any Divine Act; and,
secondly, that the object supposed in view appears as
feasible when some of the conditions hi question are
dispensed with, in the beginning, as when all are un
derstood immediately to exist. I mean to say that some
are involved in the rest, or so instantaneous a conse
quence of them as to make the distinction inappre
ciable. Difference of size, for example, will at once
be brought about through the tendency of one atom
to a second, in preference to a third, on account of par
ticular inequidistance; which is to be comprehended
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as particular inequidistances between centres of quan
tity, in neighboring atoms of different form a matter
not at all interfering with the generally equable dis
tribution of the atoms. Difference of kind, too, is
easily conceived to be merely a result of differences in
size and form, taken more or less conjointly ; in fact,
since the unity of the particle proper implies absolute
homogeneity, we cannot imagine the atoms, at their
diffusion, differing in kind, without imagining, at the
same time, a special exercise of the Divine Will, at the
emission of each atom, for the purpose of effecting, in
each, a change of its essential nature : so fantastic an
idea is the less to be indulged, as the object proposed is
seen to be thoroughly attainable without such minute
and elaborate interposition. We perceive, therefore,
upon the whole, that it would be supererogation, and
consequently unphilosophical, to predicate of the at
oms, in view of their purposes, anything more than
difference of form at their dispersion, with particular
inequidistance after it, all other differences arising at
once out of these, in the very first processes of mass
constitution. We thus establish the universe on a
purely geometrical basis. Of course, it is by no means
necessary to assume absolute difference, even of form,
among all the atoms irradiated, any more than abso
lute particular inequidistance of each from each. We
are required to conceive merely that no neighboring
atoms are of similar form, no atoms which can ever
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a* particular inequidistances between centres of qui
tity, in neighboring atoms of different form a mal
not at all interfering with the generally equable c
tribution of the atoms. Difference of kind, too,
easily conceived to be merely a result of differences
size and form, taken more or less conjointly ; in f i
since the unity of the particle proper implies absol
homogeneity, we cannot imagine the atoms, at tt
diffusion, differing in kind, without imagining, at
same time, a special exercise of the Divine Will, at
emission of each atom, for the purpose of effecting,
each, a change of its ellftpifilS^ure : so fantastic
11 1 il iTiihaljaatlaily ihdniptijM tin qbjecta&f$c$
site r tftPB a aHEfcughly attainable without such min
and elaborate interpoefelea. We perceive, therefc
upon the whote, tfcMtt it WiM it ffiftrerogation, i
consequently uapteftaaopfcicai, to frattcate el fee
oms, in vi*w of tMr fMpMe* aaqpMQ( more tt
difference of fern *t ifeeir dtapersion, with particu
inequidistanct dtr it, all other differences arising
once out of that*, in the very first processes of m
constitution. We thus establish the universe or
purely geometrical basis. Of course, it is by no me;
necessary to assume absolute difference, even of foi
among all the atoms irradiated, any more than ab
lute particular inequidistance of each from each,
are required to conceive merely that no neighbor
atoms are of similar form, no atoms which can e
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approximate until their inevitable reunition at the
end.
Although the immediate and perpetual tendency of
the disunited atoms to return into their normal unity
is implied, as I have said, in their abnormal diffusion,
still it is clear that this tendency will be without con
sequence a tendency and no more until the diffu
sive energy, in ceasing to be exerted, shall leave it, the
tendency, free to seek its satisfaction. The Divine
Act, however, being considered determinate, and dis
continued on fulfilment of the diffusion, we under
stand, at once, a reaction, in other words, a satisfi-
able tendency of the disunited atoms to return into
one.
But the diffusive energy being withdrawn, and the
reaction having commenced in furtherance of the ulti
mate design, that of the utmost possible relation,
this design is now in danger of being frustrated, in de
tail, by reason of that very tendency to return which
is to effect its accomplishment in general. Multi
plicity is the object; but there is nothing to prevent
proximate atoms from lapsing at once, through the
now satisfiable tendency, before the fulfilment of any
ends proposed in multiplicity, into absolute oneness
among themselves; there is nothing to impede the
aggregation of various unique masses, at various points
of space ; in other words, nothing to interfere with the
accumulation of various masses, each absolutely one.
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For the effectual and thorough completion of the
general design, we thus see the necessity for a repul
sion of limited capacity, a separative something which,
on withdrawal of the diffusive Volition, shall at the same
time allow the approach, and forbid the junction, of
the atoms, suffering them infinitely to approximate,
while denying them positive contact ; in a word, hav
ing the power, up to a certain epoch, of preventing
their coalition, but no ability to interfere with their
coalescence in any respect or degree. The repulsion,
already considered as so peculiarly limited in other
regards, must be understood, let me repeat, as having
power to prevent absolute coalition, only up to a cer
tain epoch. Unless we are to conceive that the ap
petite for unity among the atoms is doomed to be
satisfied never ; unless we are to conceive that what
had a beginning is to have no end, a conception
which cannot really be entertained, however much
we may talk or dream of entertaining it, we are forced
to conclude that the repulsive influence imagined, will,
finally, under pressure of the uni-tendency collectively
applied, but never and in no degree until, on fulfil
ment of the Divine purposes, such collective applica
tion shall be naturally made, yield to a force which,
at that ultimate epoch, shall be the superior force
precisely to the extent required, and thus permit the
universal subsidence into the inevitable, because
original and therefore normal, one. The conditions
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here to be reconciled are difficult indeed; we cannot
even comprehend the possibility of their conciliation ;
nevertheless, the apparent impossibility is brilliantly
suggestive.
That the repulsive something actually exists, we see.
Man neither employs, nor knows a force sufficient to
bring two atoms into contact. This is but the well-
established proposition of the impenetrability of matter.
All experiment proves, all philosophy admits it. The
design of the repulsion, the necessity for its existence,
I have endeavored to show, but from all attempt at in
vestigating its nature have religiously abstained, this
on account of an intuitive conviction that the prin
ciple at issue is strictly spiritual; lies in a recess im
pervious to our present understanding; lies involved
in a consideration of what now, in our human state ; is
not to be considered in a consideration of Spirit in
itself. I feel, in a word, that here the God has inter
posed, and here only, because here and here only the
knot demanded the interposition of the God.
In fact, while the tendency of the diffused atoms to
return into unity will be recognized at once as the
principle of the Newtonian gravity, what I have spoken
of as a repulsive influence prescribing limits to the
(immediate) satisfaction of the tendency will be un
derstood as that which we have been hi the practice
of designating now as heat, now as magnetism, now
as electricity, displaying our ignorance of its awful
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character in the vacillation of the phraseology with
which we endeavor to circumscribe it.
Calling it, merely for the moment, electricity, we
know that all experimental analysis of electricity has
given, as an ultimate result, the principle, or seeming
principle, heterogeneity. Only where things differ is
electricity apparent; and it is presumable that they
never differ where it is not developed at least, if not
apparent. Now, this result is in the fullest keeping
with that which I have reached unempirically. The
design of the repulsive influence I have maintained to
be that of preventing immediate unity among the dif
fused atoms ; and these atoms are represented as dif
ferent each from each. Difference is their character,
their essentiality, just as no-difference was the essen
tiality of their course. When we say, then, that an at
tempt to bring any two of these atoms together would
induce an effort, on the part of the repulsive influence,
to prevent the contact, we may as well use the strictly
convertible sentence that an attempt to bring together
any two differences will result in a development of
electricity. All existing bodies, of course, are com
posed of these atoms in proximate contact, and are
therefore to be considered as mere assemblages of more
or fewer differences; and the resistance made by the
repulsive spirit, on bringing together any two such
assemblages, would be in the ratio of the two sums of
the differences in each, an expression which, when
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reduced, is equivalent to this: The amount of elec
tricity developed on the approximation of two bodies is
proportional to the difference between the respective
sums of the atoms of which the bodies are composed.
That no two bodies are absolutely alike is a simple
corollary from all that has been here said. Electricity,
therefore, existing always, is developed whenever any
bodies, but manifested only when bodies of appreciable
difference, are brought into approximation.
To electricity so, for the present, continuing to call
it we may not be wrong in referring the various
physical appearances of light, heat, and magnetism;
but far less shall we be liable to err in attributing to
this strictly spiritual principle the more important phe
nomena of vitality, consciousness, and thought. On
this topic, however, I need pause here merely to sug
gest that these phenomena, whether observed gener
ally or in detail, seem to proceed at least hi the ratio
of the heterogeneous.
Discarding, now, the two equivocal terms " gravita
tion " and " electricity," let us adopt the more definite
expressions " attraction " and " repulsion." The for
mer is the body, the latter the soul; the one is the
material, the other the spiritual, principle of the uni
verse. No other principles exist. All phenomena are
referable to one or to the other, or to both combined.
So rigorously is this the case, so thoroughly demon
strable is it that attraction and repulsion are the sole
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properties through which we perceive the universe, in
other words, by which matter is manifested to mind,
that, for all merely argumentative purposes, we are
fully justified in assuming that matter exists only as
attraction and repulsion that attraction and repul
sion are matter, there being no conceivable case in
which we may not employ the term " matter," and the
terms " attraction " and " repulsion," taken together,
as equivalent, and therefore convertible, expressions in
logic.
I said, just now, that what I have described as the
tendency of the diffused atoms to return into their
original unity would be understood as the principle of
the Newtonian law of gravity; and, in fact, there can
be but little difficulty in such an understanding, if we
look at the Newtonian gravity in a merely general
view, as a force impelling matter to seek matter ; that
is to say, when we pay no attention to the known
modus operand! of the Newtonian force. The general
coincidence satisfies us ; but, upon looking closely, we
see in detail much that appears in coincident, and
much in regard to which no coincidence, at least, is
established. For example: the Newtonian gravity,
when we think of it in certain moods, does not seem
to be a tendency to oneness at all, but rather a ten
dency of all bodies in all directions a phrase appar
ently expressive of a tendency to diffusion. Here,
then, is an /^coincidence. Again; when we reflect
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on the mathematical law governing the Newtonian
tendency, we see clearly that no coincidence has been
made good, in respect of the modus operand*', at
least, between gravitation as known to exist and that
seemingly simple and direct tendency which I have
assumed.
In fact, I have attained a point at which it will be
advisable to strengthen my position by reversing my
processes. So far, we have gone on a priori, from an
abstract consideration of simplicity, as that quality
most likely to have characterized the original action
of God. Let us now see whether the established facts
of the Newtonian gravitation may not afford us, a
posteriory some legitimate inductions.
What does the Newtonian law declare ? That all
bodies attract each other with forces proportional to
the squares of their distances. Purposely, I have given,
in the first place, the vulgar version of the law; and I
confess that in this, as in most other vulgar versions of
great truths, we find little of a suggestive character.
Let us now adopt a more philosophical phraseology:
Every atom, of every body, attracts every other atom,
both of its own and of every other body, with a force
which varies inversely as the squares of the distances
.between the attracting and attracted atom. Here, in
deed, a flood of suggestion bursts upon the mind.
But let us see distinctly what it was that Newton
proved, according to the grossly irrational definitions
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of proof prescribed by the metaphysical schools. He
was forced to content himself with showing how
thoroughly the motions of an imaginary universe, com
posed of attracting and attracted atoms obedient to the
law he announced, coincide with those of the actually
existing universe so far as it comes under our observa
tion. This was the amount of his demonstration, that
is to say, this was the amount of it, according to the
conventional cant of the " philosophies." His suc
cesses added proof multiplied by proof, such proof as a
sound intellect admits; but the demonstration of the
law itself, persist the metaphysicians, had not been
strengthened in any degree. " Ocular physical proof,"
however, of attraction, here upon earth, in accord
ance with the Newtonian theory, was, at length, much
to the satisfaction of some intellectual grovellers,
afforded. This proof arose collaterally and incident
ally (as nearly all important truths have arisen) out
of an attempt to ascertain the mean density of the
earth. In the famous Maskelyne, Cavendish, and
Bailly experiments for this purpose, the attraction of
the mass of a mountain was seen, felt, measured, and
found to be mathematically consistent with the im
mortal theory of the British astronomer.
But in spite of this confirmation of that which
needed none, in spite of the so-called corroboration of
the " theory " by the so-called " ocular and physical
proof," in spite of the character of this corroboration,
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the ideas which even really philosophical men cannot
help imbibing of gravity, and, especially, the ideas of
it which ordinary men get and contentedly maintain,
are seen to have been derived, for the most part, from
a consideration of the principle as they find it devel
oped, merely in the planet upon which they stand.
Now, to what does so partial a consideration tend,
to what species of error does it give rise ? On the
earth we see and feel only that gravity impels all
bodies toward the centre of the earth. No man in the
common walks of life could be made to see or feel any
thing else, could be made to perceive that anything,
anywhere, has a perpetual gravitating tendency in any
other direction than to the centre of the earth; yet
(with an exception hereafter to be specified) it is a
fact that every earthly thing (not to speak now of every
heavenly thing) has a tendency not only to the earth's
centre, but in every conceivable direction besides.
Now, although the philosophic cannot be said to err
with the vulgar in this matter, they nevertheless per
mit themselves to be influenced, without knowing it,
by the sentiment of the vulgar idea. " Although the
pagan fables are not believed," says Bryant, in his very
erudite Mythology t " yet we forget ourselves continu
ally and make inferences from them as from existing
realities." I mean to assert that the merely sensitive
perception of gravity as we experience it upon earth
beguiles mankind into the fancy of concentralization
VOL. X. 14. 20
Eureka
or especially respecting it, has been continually bias
ing toward this fancy even the mightiest intellects,
perpetually, although imperceptibly, leading them
away from the real characteristics of the principle,
thus preventing them, up to this date, from ever get
ting a glimpse of that vital truth which lies in a dia
metrically opposite direction, behind the principle's
essential characteristics, those not of concentraliza-
tion or especiality, but of universality and diffusion.
This " vital truth " is unity as the source of the phe
nomenon.
Let me now repeat the definition of gravity : Every
atom, of every body, attracts every other atom, both
of its own and of every other body, with a force which
varies inversely as the squares of the distances of the
attracting and attracted atom.
Here let the reader pause with me, for a moment, in
contemplation of the miraculous, of the ineffable, of
the altogether unimaginable, complexity of relation
involved hi the fact that each atom attracts every
other atom ; involved merely hi this fact of the attrac
tion, without reference to the law or mode in which
the attraction is manifested; involved merely in the
fact that each atom attracts every other atom at all, in
a wilderness of atoms so numerous that those which
go to the composition of a cannon-ball exceed, prob
ably, in mere point of number, all the stars which go
to the constitution of the universe.
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Had we discovered, simply, that each atom tended
to some one favorite point, to some especially attrac
tive atom, we should still have fallen upon a discovery
which, in itself, would have sufficed to overwhelm the
mind ; but what is it that we are actually called upon
to comprehend? That each atom attracts, sympa
thizes with the most delicate movements of every other
atom, and with each and with all at the same time
and forever, and according to a determinate law of
which the complexity, even considered by itself solely,
is utterly beyond the grasp of the imagination of man.
If I propose to ascertain the influence of one mote in
a sunbeam upon its neighboring mote, I cannot accom
plish my purpose without first counting and weighing
all the atoms in the universe and defining the precise
positions of all at one particular moment. If I ven
ture to displace, by even the billionth part of an inch,
the microscopical speck of dust which lies now upon
the point of my finger, what is the character of that
act upon which I have adventured ? I have done a
deed which shakes the moon in her path, which causes
the sun to be no longer the sun, and which alters for
ever the destiny of the multitudinous myriads of stars
that roll and glow in the majestic presence of their
Creator.
These ideas, conceptions such as these, unthought-
like thoughts, soul-reveries rather than conclusions, or
even considerations of the intellect, ideas, I repeat,
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such as these, are such as we can alone hope profit
ably to entertain in any effort at grasping the great
principle, attraction.
But now, with such ideas, with such a vision of the
marvellous complexity of attraction fairly in his mind,
let any person competent of thought on such topics as
these set himself to the task of imagining a principle
for the phenomena observed, a condition from which
they sprang.
Does not so evident a brotherhood among the atoms
point to a common parentage ? Does not a sym
pathy so omniprevalent, so ineradicable, and so thor
oughly irrespective, suggest a common paternity as its
source ? Does not one extreme impel the reason to
the other ? Does not the infinitude of division refer
to the utterness of individuality ? Does not the en-
tireness of the complex hint at the perfection of the
simple ? It is not that the atoms, as we see them, are
divided or that they are complex in their relations, but
that they are inconceivably divided and unutterably
complex; it is the extremeness of the conditions to
which I now allude, rather than to the conditions
themselves. In a word, is it not because the atoms
were, at some remote epoch of time, even more than
together; is it not because originally, and therefore
normally, they were one, that now, in all circum
stances, at all points, in all directions, by all modes of
approach, in all relations and through all conditions,
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they struggle back to this absolutely, this irrelatively,
this unconditionally one ?
Some person may here demand : " Why, since it is
to the one that the atoms struggle back, do we not
find and define attraction * a merely general tendency
to a centre ' ? why, in especial, do not your atoms,
the atoms which you describe as having been irradi
ated from a centre, proceed at once, rectilinearly, back
to the central point of their origin ? "
I reply that they do, as will be distinctly shown ; but
that the cause of their so doing is quite irrespective of
the centre as such. They all tend rectilinearly toward
a centre, because of the sphericity with which they
have been irradiated into space. Each atom, forming
one of a generally uniform globe of atoms, finds more
atoms in the direction of the centre, of course, than in
any other, and in that direction, therefore, is impelled,
but is not thus impelled because the centre is the point
of its origin. It is not to any point that the atoms are
allied. It is not any locality, either in the concrete or
in the abstract, to which I suppose them bound. Noth
ing like location was conceived as their origin. Their
source lies in the principle, unity. This is their lost
parent. This they seek always, immediately, in all
directions, wherever it is even partially to be found;
thus appeasing, in some measure, the ineradicable ten
dency, while on the way to its absolute satisfaction in
the end. It follows, from all this, that any principle
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which shall be adequate to account for the law, or
modus operand^ of the attractive force in general, will
account for this law in particular ; that is to say, any
principle which will show why the atoms should tend
to their general centre of irradiation with forces in
versely proportioned to the squares of the distances will
be admitted as satisfactorily accounting, at the same
time, for the tendency, according to the same law, of
these atoms each to each; for the tendency to the
centre is merely the tendency each to each, and not
any tendency to a centre as such. Thus it will be
seen, also, that the establishment of my propositions
would involve no necessity of modification in the terms
of the Newtonian definition of gravity, which declares
that each atom attracts each other atom, and so forth,
and declares this merely; but (always under the sup
position that what I propose be, in the end, admitted)
it seems clear that some error might occasionally be
avoided, in the future processes of science, were a
more ample phraseology adopted ; for instance, " Each
atom tends to every other atom, etc., with a force, etc.,
the general result being a tendency of all, with a simi
lar force, to a general centre."
The reversal of our processes has thus brought us to
an identical result; but while in the one process in
tuition was the starting-point, in the other it was the
goal. In commencing the former journey I could only
say that, with an irresistible intuition, I felt simplicity
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to have been made the characteristic of the original
action of God ; in ending the latter, I can only declare
that, with an irresistible intuition, I perceive unity to
have been the source of the observed phenomena of
the Newtonian gravitation. Thus, according to the
schools, I prove nothing. So be it; I design but to
suggest, and to convince through the suggestion. I
am proudly aware that there exist many of the most
profound and cautiously discriminative human intel
lects which cannot help being abundantly content with
my suggestions. To these intellects, as to my own,
there is no mathematical demonstration which could
bring the least additional true proof of the great truth
which I have advanced the truth of original unity as
the source, as the principle, of the universal phenom
ena. For my part I am not sure that I speak and see,
I am not so sure that my heart beats and that my soul
lives ; of the rising of to-morrow's sun a probability
that as yet lies in the future I do not pretend to be
one thousandth part as sure as I am of the irretrievably
bygone fact that all things and all thoughts of things,
with all their ineffable multiplicity of relation, sprang
at once into being from the primordial and irrelative
one.
Referring to the Newtonian gravity, Dr. Nichol, the
eloquent author of The Architecture of the Heavens,
says : " In truth we have no reason to suppose this
great law, as now revealed, to be the ultimate or
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simplest, and therefore the universal and all-compre
hensive, form of a great ordinance. The mode in
which its intensity diminishes with the element of dis
tance has not the aspect of an ultimate principle ; which
always assumes the simplicity and self-evidence of
those axioms which constitute the basis of geometry."
Now, it is quite true that " ultimate principles," in
the common understanding of the words, always
assume the simplicity of geometrical axioms (as for
" self -evidence," there is no such thing), but these
principles are clearly not " ultimate " ; in other terms,
what we are in the habit of calling principles are no
principles, properly speaking, since there can be but
one principle, the volition of God. We have no right
to assume, then, from what we observe in rules that
we choose foolishly to name " principles," anything at
all in respect to the characteristics of a principle proper.
The " ultimate principles," of which Dr. Nichol speaks
as having geometrical simplicity, may and do have
this geometrical turn, as being part and parcel of a
vast geometrical system, and thus a system of sim
plicity itself, in which, nevertheless, the truly ultimate
principle is, as we know, the consummation of the
complex, that is to say, of the unintelligible, for is it
not the spiritual capacity of God ?
I quoted Dr. Nichol's remark, however, not so much
to question its philosophy as by way of calling atten
tion to the fact that while all men have admitted some
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principle as existing behind the law of gravity, no
attempt has been yet made to point out what this prin
ciple in particular is, if we except, perhaps, occasional
fantastic efforts at referring it to magnetism, or mes
merism, or Swedenborgianism, or transcendentalism, or
some other equally delicious " ism" of the same species,
and invariably patronized by one and the same species
of people. The great mind of Newton, while boldly
grasping the law itself, shrank from the principle of
the law. The more fluent and comprehensive, at least,
if not the more patient and profound sagacity of La
place had not the courage to attack it. But hesitation
on the part of these two astronomers it is, perhaps,
not so very difficult to understand. They, as well as
all the first class of mathematicians, were mathema
ticians solely ; their intellect at least had a firmly pro
nounced mathematico-physical tone. What lay not
distinctly within the domain of physics or of mathe
matics seemed to them either non-entity or shadow.
Nevertheless, we may well wonder that Leibnitz, who
was a marked exception to the general rule in these
respects, and whose mental temperament was a singu
lar admixture of the mathematical with the physico-
metaphysical, did not at once investigate and establish
the point at issue. Either Newton or Laplace, seeking
a principle and discovering none physical, would have
rested contentedly in the conclusion that there was
absolutely none; but it is almost impossible to fancy
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of Leibnitz that, having exhausted in his search the
physical dominions, he would not have stepped at once,
boldly and hopefully, amid his old familiar haunts in
the kingdom of metaphysics. Here, indeed, it is clear
that he must have adventured in search of the treasure ;
that he did not find it after all, was, perhaps, because
his fairy guide, Imagination, was not sufficiently well
grown, or well educated, to direct him aright.
I observed just now that, in fact, there had been
certain vague attempts at referring gravity to some
very uncertain " isms." These attempts, however,
although considered bold, and justly so considered,
looked no further than to the generality, the merest
generality, of the Newtonian law. Its modus operand!
has never, to my knowledge, been approached in the
way of an effort at explanation. It is, therefore, with
no unwarrantable fear of being taken for a madman
at the outset, and before I can bring my propositions
fairly to the eye of those who alone are competent to
decide upon them, that I here declare the modus oper*
andi of the law of gravity to be an exceedingly simple
and perfectly explicable thing, that is to say, when we
make our advances toward it in just gradations and
in the true direction; when we regard it from the
proper point of view.
Whether we reach the idea of absolute unity as the
source of all things, from a consideration of simplicity
as the most probable characteristic of the original
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action of God; whether we arrive at it from an in
spection of the universality of the relation in the
gravitating phenomena, or whether we attain it as a
result of the mutual corroboration afforded by both
processes, still, the idea itself, if entertained at all, is
entertained in inseparable connection with another
idea, that of the condition of the universe of stars as we
now perceive it, that is to say, a condition of immeasur
able diffusion through space. Now, a connection
between these two ideas, unity and diffusion, can
not be established unless through the entertainment
of a third idea, that of irradiation. Absolute unity
being taken as a centre, then the existing universe of
stars is the result of irradiation from that centre.
Now, the laws of irradiation are known. They are
part and parcel of the sphere. They belong to the
class of indisputable geometrical properties. We say
of them, " They are true, they are evident." To de
mand why they are true would be to demand why the
axioms are true upon which their demonstration is
based. Nothing is demonstrable, strictly speaking;
but if anything be, then the properties, the laws in
question, are demonstrated.
But these laws, what do they declare ? Irradiation
how? by what steps does it proceed outwardly from
a centre ?
From a luminous centre light issues by irradiation ;
and the quantities of light received upon any given
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plane, supposed to be shifting its position so as to be
now nearer the centre and now farther from it, will be
diminished in the same proportion as the squares of
the distances of the plane from the luminous body are
increased; and will be increased in the same propor
tion as these squares are diminished.
The expression of the law may be thus generalized :
the number of light-particles (or, if the phrase be pre
ferred, the number of light-impressions) received upon
the shifting plane will be inversely proportional with
the squares of the distances of the plane. Generalizing
yet again, we may say that the diffusion, the scatter
ing, the irradiation, in a word, is directly propor
tional with the squares of the distances.
For example : at the distance B, from the luminous
centre A, a certain number of particles are so diffused
as to occupy the surface B. Then at double the dis
tance, that is to say, at C, they will be so much farther
diffused as to occupy four such surfaces; at treble the
distance, or at D, they will be so much farther sep-
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arated as to occupy nine such surfaces; while, at
quadruple the distance, or at E, they will have become
so scattered as to spread themselves over sixteen such
surfaces, and so on forever.
In saying, generally, that the irradiation proceeds in
direct proportion with the squares of the distances, we
use the term " irradiation " to express the degree of the
diffusion as we proceed outwardly from the centre.
Conversing the idea, and employing the word " con-
centralization " to express the degree of the drawing
together as we come back toward the centre from an
outward position, we may say that concentralization
proceeds inversely as the squares of the distances. In
other words, we have reached the conclusion that, on
the hypothesis that matter was originally irradiated
from a centre and is now returning to it, the concen
tralization, in the return, proceeds exactly as we know
the force of gravitation to proceed.
Now here, if we could be permitted to assume that
concentralization exactly represented the force of the
tendency to the centre, that the one was exactly pro
portional to the other, and that the two proceeded
together, we should have shown all that is required.
The sole difficulty existing, then, is to establish a direct
proportion between concentralization and the force
of concentralization; and this is done, of course, if
we establish such proportions between irradiation and
the force of irradiation.
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A very slight inspection of the heavens assures us
that the stars have a certain general uniformity, equa
bility, or equidistance of distribution through that re
gion of space in which, collectively, and in a roughly
globular form, they are situated; this species of very
general, rather than absolute, equability being in full
keeping with my deduction of inequidistance, within
certain limits, among the originally diffused atoms, as
a corollary from the evident design of infinite com
plexity of relation out of irrelation. I started, it will
be remembered, with the idea of a generally uniform
but particularly ununiform distribution of the atoms,
an idea, I repeat, which an inspection of the stars,
as they exist, confirms.
But even in the merely general equability of distribu
tion, as regards the atoms, there appears a difficulty
which, no doubt, has already suggested itself to those
among my readers who have borne in mind that I
suppose this equability of distribution effected through
irradiation from a centre. The very first glance at the
idea, irradiation, forces us to the entertainment of the
hitherto unseparated and seemingly inseparable idea of
agglomeration about a centre, with dispersion as we
recede from it, the idea, in a word, of inequability of
distribution in respect to the matter irradiated.
Now, I have elsewhere x observed that it is by just
such difficulties as the one now in question, such
1 Murders in the Rue Morgue,
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roughnesses, such peculiarities, such protuberances
above the plane of the ordinary, that Reason feels her
way, if at all, in her search for the true. By the diffi
culty, the " peculiarity," now presented, I leap at once
to the secret a secret which I might never have at
tained but for the peculiarity and the inferences which,
in its mere character of peculiarity, it affords me.
The process of thought, at this point, may be thus
roughly sketched. I say to myself : " Unity, as I have
explained it, is a truth ; I feel it. Diffusion is a truth ;
I see it. Irradiation, by which alone these two truths
are reconciled, is a consequent truth; I perceive it.
Equability of diffusion, first deduced a priori and
then corroborated by the inspection of phenomena, is
also a truth; I fully admit it. So far all is clear
around me; there are no clouds behind which the
secret the great secret of the gravitating modus oper*
andi can possibly lie hidden; but this secret lies
hereabouts, most assuredly; and were there but a
cloud in view I should be driven to suspicion of that
cloud." And now, just as I say this, there actually
comes a cloud into view. This cloud is the seeming
impossibility of reconciling my truth, irradiation, with
my truth, equability of diffusion. I say now : " Be
hind this seeming impossibility is to be found what
I desire." I do not say " real impossibility " ; for
invincible faith in my truths assures me that it is a
mere difficulty after all; but I go on to say, with
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unflinching confidence, that, when this difficulty shall
be solved, we shall find, wrapped up in the process of
solution, the key to the secret at which we aim. More
over, I feel that we shall discover but one possible
solution of the difficulty ; this for the reason that, were
there two, one would be supererogatory, would be
fruitless, would be empty, would contain no key, since
no duplicate key can be needed to any secret of nature.
And now, let us see : Our usual notions of irradia
tion, in fact, all our distinct notions of it, are caught
merely from the process as we see it exemplified in
light. Here there is a continuous outpouring of ray-
streams, and with a force which we have at least no
right to suppose ever varies at all. Now, in any such
irradiation as this, continuous and of unvarying force,
the regions nearer the centre must inevitably be always
more crowded with the irradiated matter than the
regions more remote. But I have assumed no such
irradiation as this. I assumed no continuous irra
diation ; and for the simple reason that such an as
sumption would have involved, first, the necessity of
entertaining a conception which I have shown no man
can entertain, and which (as I will more fully explain
hereafter) all observation of the firmament refutes
the conception of the absolute infinity of the universe
of stars; and would have involved, secondly, the im
possibility of understanding a reaction, that is, gravi
tation, as existing now, since, while an act is continued,
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no reaction, of course, can take place. My assump
tion, then, or rather my inevitable deduction from just
premises, was that of a determinate irradiation, one
finally discontinued.
Let me now describe the sole possible mode in which
it is conceivable that matter could have been diffused
through space, so as to fulfil the conditions at once of
irradiation and of generally equable distribution.
For convenience of illustration, let us imagine, in
the first place, a hollow sphere of glass, or anything
else, occupying the space throughout which the uni
versal matter is to be thus equally diffused, by means
of irradiation, from the absolute, irrelative, uncon
ditional particle, placed in the centre of the sphere.
Now, a certain exertion of the diffusive power (pre
sumed to be the Divine Volition) in other words, a
certain force, whose measure is the quantity of mat
ter, that is to say, the number of atoms emitted
emits, by irradiation, this certain number of atoms;
forcing them in all directions outwardly from the
centre, their proximity to each other diminishing as
they proceed, until, finally, they are distributed, loosely,
over the interior surface of the sphere.
When these atoms have attained this position, or
while proceeding to attain it, a second and inferior
exercise of the same force, or a second and inferior
force of the same character, emits, in the same man
ner, that is to say, by irradiation as before, a second
VOL. X. 15. 225
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stratum of atoms which proceeds to deposit itself upon
the first ; the number of atoms, in this case as in the
former, being, of course, the measure of the force
which emitted them; in other words, the force being
precisely adapted to the purpose it effects, the force,
and the number of atoms sent out by the force, being
directly proportional.
When this second stratum has reached its destined
position, or while approaching it, a third still inferior
exertion of the force, or a third inferior force of a simi
lar character the number of atoms emitted being in
all cases the measure of the force proceeds to deposit
a third stratum upon the second ; and so on, until these
concentric strata, growing gradually less and less,
come down at length to the central point; and the
diffusive matter, simultaneously with the diffusive
force, is exhausted.
We have now the sphere filled, through means of
irradiation, with atoms equably diffused. The two
necessary conditions, those of irradiation and of
equable diffusion, are satisfied, and by the sole pro
cess in which the possibility of their simultaneous
satisfaction is conceivable. For this reason, I confi
dently expect to find, lurking in the present condition
of the atoms as distributed throughout the sphere,
the secret of which I am in search the all-important
principle of the modus opetandi of the Newtonian law.
Let us examine, then, the actual condition of the atoms.
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They lie in a state of concentric strata. They are
equably diffused throughout the sphere. They have
been irradiated into these states.
The atoms being equably distributed, the greater
the superficial extent of any of these concentric strata,
or spheres, the more atoms will lie upon it. In other
words, the number of atoms lying upon the surface of
any one of the concentric spheres is directly propor
tional with the extent of that surface.
But in any series of concentric spheres the surfaces
are directly proportional with the squares of the dis
tances from the centre. 1
Therefore the number of atoms in any stratum is
directly proportional with the square of that stratum's
distance from the centre.
But the number of atoms in any stratum is the
measure of the force which emitted that stratum, that
is to say, is directly proportional with the force.
Therefore the force which irradiated any stratum is
directly proportional with the square of that stratum's
distance from the centre; or, generally:
The force of the irradiation has been directly pro
portional with the squares of the distances.
Now, reaction, as far as we know anything of it, is
action conversed. The general principle of gravity
being, in the first place, understood as the reaction of
an act, as the expression of a desire on the part of
1 Succinctly The surfaces of spheres are as the squares of their radii.
227
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matter, while existing in a state of diffusion, to return
into the unity whence it was diffused; and, in the
second place, the mind being called upon to determine
the character of the desire, the manner in which it
would naturally be manifested ; in other words, being
called upon to conceive a probable law, or modus
opetandi, for the return, could not well help arriving
at the conclusion that this law or return would be pre
cisely the converse of the law of departure. That such
would be the case, any one, at least, would be abun
dantly justified in taking for granted until such time
as some persons should suggest something like a plau
sible reason why it should not be the case ; until such
period as a law of return shall be imagined which the
intellect can consider as preferable.
Matter, then, irradiated into space with a force vary
ing as the squares of the distances, might, a priori, be
supposed to return toward its centre of irradiation
with a force varying inversely as the squares of the
distances : and I have already shown x that any prin
ciple which will explain why the atoms should tend,
according to any law, to the general centre, must be
admitted as satisfactorily explaining, at the same time,
why, according to the same law, they should tend each
to each. For, in fact, the tendency to the general
centre is not to a centre as such, but because of its
being a point in tending toward which each atom tends
1 Page 214.
228
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most directly to its real and essential centre, unity
the absolute and final union of all.
The consideration here involved presents to my own
mind no embarrassment whatever, but this fact does
not blind me to the possibility of its being obscure to
those who may have been less in the habit of dealing
with abstractions; and, upon the whole, it may be as
well to look at the matter from one or two other points
of view.
The absolute, irrelative particle primarily created by
the volition of God must have been in a condition of
positive normality, or rightf ulness ; for wrongfulness
implies relation. Right is positive; wrong is nega
tive, is merely the negation of right; as cold is the
negation of heat, darkness of light. That a thing
may be wrong, it is necessary that there be some other
thing in relation to which it is wrong, some condition
which it fails to satisfy; some law which it violates;
some being whom it aggrieves. If there be no such
being, law, or condition, in respect to which the thing
is wrong, and, still more especially, if no beings, laws,
or conditions exist at all, then the thing can not be
wrong, and consequently must be right. Any devi
ation from normality involves a tendency to return to
it. A difference from the normal, from the right, from
the just, can be understood as effected only by the
overcoming a difficulty; and if the force which over
comes the difficulty be not infinitely continued, the
229
Bureka
ineradicable tendency to return will at length be per
mitted to act for its own satisfaction. Upon with
drawal of the force, the tendency acts. This is the
principle of reaction as the inevitable consequence of
finite action. Employing a phraseology of which the
seeming affectation will be pardoned for its expressive
ness, we may say that reaction is the return from the
condition of " as it is and ought not to be " into the
condition of " as it was, originally, and therefore ought
to be " ; and let me add here that the absolute force
of reaction would, no doubt, be always found in direct
proportion with the reality, the truth, the absoluteness,
of the originality, if ever it were possible to measure
this latter ; and, consequently, the greatest of all con
ceivable reactions must be that produced by the ten
dency which we now discuss the tendency to return
into the absolutely original, into the supremely primi
tive. Gravity, then, must be the strongest of forces,
an idea reached a priori and abundantly confirmed by
induction. What use I make of the idea will be seen
in the sequel.
The atoms, now, having been diffused from their
normal condition of unity, seek to return to what ?
Not to any particular point, certainly; for it is clear
that if, upon the diffusion, the whole universe of mat
ter had been projected, collectively, to a distance from
the point of irradiation, the atomic tendency to the
general centre of the sphere would not have been dis-
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turbed in the least ; the atoms would not have sought
the point in absolute space from which they were
originally impelled. It is merely the condition, and
not the point or locality at which this condition took
its rise, that these atoms seek to re-establish; it is
merely that condition which is their normality that
they desire. " But they seek a centre," it will be said,
" and a centre is a point." True ; but they seek this
point not in its character of point (for, were the whole
sphere moved from its position, they would seek,
equally, the centre; and the centre then would be a
new point), but because it so happens, on account of
the form in which they collectively exist (that of the
sphere), that only through the point in question, the
sphere's centre, they can attain their true object,
unity. In the direction of the centre each atom per
ceives more atoms than hi any other direction. Each
atom is impelled toward the centre because along the
straight line joining it and the centre and passing on
to the circumference beyond, there lie a greater num
ber of atoms than along any other straight line, a
greater number of objects that seek it, the individual
atoms, a greater number of tendencies to unity, a
greater number of satisfactions for its own tendency
to unity, in a word, because in the direction of the
centre lies the utmost possibility of satisfaction, gen
erally, for its own individual appetite. To be brief, the
condition, unity, is all that is really sought; and if
231
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the atoms seem to seek the centre of the sphere it
is only impliedly, through implication, because such
centre happens to imply, to include, or to involve, the
only essential centre, unity. But on account of this
implication or involution, there is no possibility of
practically separating the tendency to unity in the
abstract from the tendency to the concrete centre.
Thus the tendency of the atoms to the general centre is,
to all practical intents and for all logical purposes, the
tendency each to each ; and the tendency each to each
is the tendency to the centre; and the one tendency
may be assumed as the other; whatever will apply to
the one must be thoroughly applicable to the other;
and, in conclusion, whatever principle will satisfac
torily explain the one cannot be questioned as an ex
planation of the other.
In looking carefully around me for a rational objec
tion to what I have advanced, I am able to discover
nothing; but of that class of objections usually urged
by the doubters for doubt's sake, I very readily per
ceive three; and proceed to dispose of them in
order.
It may be said, first: " That the proof that the force
of irradiation (in the case described) is directly pro
portional to the squares of the distances, depends upon
an unwarranted assumption, that of the number of
atoms in each stratum being the measure of the force
with which they are emitted."
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I reply, not only that I am warranted in such as
sumption, but that I should be utterly unwarranted in
any other. What I assume is, simply, that an effect
is the measure of its cause, that every exercise of the
Divine Will will be proportional to that which de
mands the exertion ; that the means of Omnipotence,
or Omniscience, will be exactly adapted to its purposes.
Neither can a deficiency nor an excess of cause bring
to pass any effect. Had the force which irradiated
any stratum to its position been either more or less
than was needed for the purpose, that is to say, not
directly proportional to the purpose, then to its posi
tion that stratum could not have been irradiated. Had
the force which, with a view to general equability of
distribution, emitted the proper number of atoms for
each stratum been not directly proportional to the
number, then the number would not have been the
number demanded for the equable distribution.
The second supposable objection is somewhat better
entitled to an answer.
It is an admitted principle in dynamics that every
body on receiving an impulse, or disposition to move,
will move onward in a straight line, in the direction
imparted by the impelling force, until deflected, or
stopped, by some other force. How then, it may be
asked, is my first or external stratum of atoms to be
understood as discontinuing their movement at the
circumference of the imaginary glass sphere, when no
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second force, of more than an imaginary character,
appears, to account for the discontinuance ?
I reply that the objection in this case actually does
arise out of " an unwarranted assumption," on the
part of the objector, the assumption of a principle,
in dynamics, at an epoch when no " principles," in
anything, exist. I use the word " principle," of
course, in the objector's understanding of the word.
" In the beginning " we can admit, indeed, we can
comprehend, but one First Cause, the truly ultimate
principle, the volition of God. The primary act, that
of irradiation from unity, must have been independent
of all that which the world now calls " principle,"
because all that we so designate is but a consequence
of the reaction of that primary act : I say " primary"
act; for the creation of the absolute material particle
is more properly to be regarded as a conception than
as an " act " in the ordinary meaning of the term.
Thus, we must regard the primary act as an act for
the establishment of what we now call " principle."
But this primary act itself is to be considered as con
tinuous Volition. The thought of God is to be under
stood as originating the diffusion, as proceeding with it,
as regulating it, and, finally, as being withdrawn from
it upon its completion. Then commences reaction,
and through reaction, " principle," as we employ the
word. It will be advisable, however, to limit the
application of this word to the two immediate results
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of the discontinuance of the Divine Volition, that is,
to the two agents, attraction and repulsion. Every
other natural agent depends, either more or less im
mediately, upon these two, and therefore would be
more conveniently designated as sub-principle.
It may be objected, thirdly, that, in general, the
peculiar mode of distribution which I have suggested
for the atoms is " an hypothesis and nothing
more."
Now, I am aware that the word hypothesis is a pon
derous sledge-hammer, grasped immediately, if not
lifted, by all very diminutive thinkers, upon the first
appearance of any proposition wearing, in any par
ticular, the garb of a theory. But " hypothesis " can
not be wielded here to any good purpose, even by those
who succeed in lifting it little men or great.
I maintain, first, that only in the mode described is
it conceivable that matter could have been diffused so
as to fulfil at once the conditions of irradiation and of
generally equable distribution. I maintain, secondly,
that these conditions themselves have been imposed
upon me, as necessities, in a train of ratiocination as
rigorously logical as that which establishes any demon
stration in Euclid ; and I maintain, thirdly, that even
if the charge of " hypothesis " were as fully sustained
as it is, in fact, unsustained and untenable, still the
validity and indisputability of my result would not,
even in the slightest particular, be disturbed.
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To explain: The Newtonian gravity, a law of
nature, a law whose existence as such no one out of
Bedlam questions, a law whose admission as such
enables us to account for nine tenths of the universal
phenomena, a law which, merely because it does so
enable us to account for these phenomena, we are per
fectly willing, without reference to any other consid
erations, to admit, and cannot help admitting, as a
law, a law, nevertheless, of which neither the prin
ciple nor the modus operand! of the principle has ever
yet been traced by the human analysis, a law, in
short, which, neither in its detail nor in its generality,
has been found susceptible of explanation at all, is
at length seen to be at every point thoroughly explic
able, provided we only yield our assent to what ? To
an hypothesis ? Why if an hypothesis, if the merest
hypothesis, if an hypothesis for whose assumption, as
in the case of that pure hypothesis the Newtonian law
itself, no shadow of a priori reason could be assigned;
if an hypothesis, even so absolute as all this implies,
would enable us to perceive a principle for the New
tonian law, would enable us to understand as satisfied
conditions so miraculously, so ineffably complex and
seemingly irreconcilable as those involved in the rela
tions of which gravity tells us, what rational being
could so expose his fatuity as to call even this absolute
hypothesis an hypothesis any longer, unless, indeed, he
were to persist in so calling it, with the understanding
236
Eureka
that he did so, simply for the sake of consistency in
words ?
But what is the true state of our present case ?
What is the fact ? Not only that it is not an hypoth
esis which we are required to adopt in order to admit
the principle at issue explained, but that it is a logical
conclusion which we are requested not to adopt if we
can avoid it, which we are simply invited to deny if we
can, a conclusion of so accurate a logicality that to
dispute it would be the effort to doubt its validity,
beyond our power; a conclusion from which we see
no mode of escape, turn as we will; a result which
confronts us either at the end of an inductive journey
from the phenomena of the very law discussed, or at
the close of a deductive career from the most rigor
ously simple of all conceivable assumptions the
assumption, in a word, of simplicity itself.
And if here, for the mere sake of cavilling, it be
urged that, although my starting-point is, as I assert,
the assumption of absolute simplicity, yet simplicity,
considered merely in itself, is no axiom; and that only
deductions from axioms are indisputable it is thus
that I reply :
Every other science than logic is the science of cer
tain concrete relations. Arithmetic, for example, is
the science of the relations of number; geometry, of
the relations of form ; mathematics in general, of the
relations of quantity in general, of whatever can be
237
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increased or diminished. Logic, however, is the sci
ence of relation in the abstract, of absolute relation, of
relation considered solely in itself. An axiom in any
particular science other than logic is, thus, merely
a proposition announcing certain concrete relations
which seem to be too obvious for dispute, as when we
say, for instance, that the whole is greater than its
part; and, thus again, the principle of the logical
axiom, in other words, of an axiom in the abstract, is,
simply, obviousness of relation. Now, it is clear, not
only that what is obvious to one mind may not be
obvious to another, but that what is obvious to one
mind at one epoch may be anything but obvious, at
another epoch, to the same mind. It is clear, more
over, that what to-day is obvious even to the majority
of mankind, or to the majority of the best intellects
of mankind, may to-morrow be, to either majority,
more or less obvious, or in no respect obvious at all.
It is seen, then, that the axiomatic principle itself is
susceptible of variation, and of course, that axioms
are susceptible of similar change. Being mutable, the
" truths " which grow out of them are necessarily
mutable too ; or, in other words, are never to be posi
tively depended upon as truths at all, since truth and
immutability are one.
It will now be readily understood that no axiomatic
idea, no idea founded in the fluctuating principle,
obviousness of relation, can possibly be so secure, so
238
Eureka
reliable a basis for any structure erected by the reason,
as that idea (whatever it is, wherever we can find it,
or if it be practicable to find it anywhere) which is
irrelative altogether, which not only presents to the
understanding no obviousness of relation, either
greater or less, to be considered, but subjects the in
tellect not hi the slightest degree to the necessity of
even looking at any relation at all. If such an idea be
not what we too heedlessly term " an axiom," it is at
least preferable, as a logical basis, to any axiom ever
propounded, or to all imaginable axioms combined;
and such, precisely, is the idea with which my deduc
tive process, so thoroughly corroborated by induc
tion, commences. My particle proper is but absolute
irrelation. To sum up what has been advanced : As a
starting-point I have taken it for granted, simply, that
the beginning had nothing behind it or before it, that
it was a beginning in fact, that it was a beginning and
nothing different from a beginning; in short, that this
beginning was that which it was. If this be a " mere
assumption," then a " mere assumption " let it be.
To conclude this branch of the subject: I am fully
warranted in announcing that the law which we have
been in the habit of calling gravity exists on account
of matter's having been irradiated, at its origin, atomi-
cally, into a limited r sphere of space, from one, indi-
1 " Limited sphere " a sphere is necessarily limited. I prefer tautology
to a chance of misconception.
2 39
Eureka
vidual, unconditional, irrelative, and absolute particle
proper, by the sole process in which it was possible to
satisfy, at the same time, the two conditions, irradia
tion, and generally equable distribution throughout the
sphere, that is to say, by a force varying in direct pro
portion with the squares of the distances between the
irradiated atoms, respectively, and the particular centre
of irradiation.
I have already given my reasons for presuming mat
ter to have been diffused by a determinate rather than
by a continuous or infinitely continued force. Sup
posing a continuous force, we should be unable, in the
first place, to comprehend a reaction at all; and we
should be required, in the second place, to entertain
the impossible conception of an infinite extension of
matter. Not to dwell upon the impossibility of the
conception, the infinite extension of matter is an idea
which, if not positively disproved, is at least not in
any respect warranted by telescopic observation of the
stars, a point to be explained more fully hereafter ; and
this empirical reason for believing in the original finity
of matter is unempirically confirmed. For example :
Admitting, for the moment, the possibility of under
standing space fitted with the irradiated atoms, that is
to say, admitting, as well as we can, for argument's
sake, that the succession of the irradiated atoms had
absolutely no end, then it is abundantly clear that, even
when the volition of God had been withdrawn from
240
Eureka
vidual, unconditional, irrelative, and absolute particle
r , by the sole process in which it was posttble to
% at the same time, the two conditions, irradia
tion, and generally equable distribution throughout the
sphere, that is to say, by a force varying in direct pro
portion with the squares of the distances between the
irradiated atoms, respectively, and the particular centre
of irradiation.
I have already given my reasons for presuming mat
ter to have been diffused by a determinate rather than
by a continuous or infinitely continued force. Sup
posing a continuous force, we should be unable, in the
first plaMfsto GieipHnfc'to<Htfm
should be rwtir 9 kV6^ffiptftf$*tto& entertain
the impossible conception of an infinite extension of
matter. Not to *M pm tkt tepMtfUttty f the
conception, tfc* MM* iMtoMte t flMtttr is an idea
which, if Ml fNMrttftvaty dbprwwi, is at least not in
any respect warranted %y telescopic observation of the
stars, a point to be explained more fully hereafter ; and
this empirical reason for believing in the original finity
of matter is unempirically confirmed. For example :
Admitting, for the moment, the possibility of under
standing space fitted with the irradiated atoms, that is
to say, admitting, as well as we can, for argument's
sake, that the succession of the irradiated atoms had
absolutely no end, then it is abundantly clear that, even
when the volition of God had been withdrawn from
240
Eureka
them, and thus the tendency to return into unity per
mitted (abstractly) to be satisfied, this permission
would have been nugatory and invalid, practically
valueless and of no effect whatever. No reaction could
have taken place; no movement toward unity could
have been made; no law of gravity could have ob
tained.
To explain : Grant the abstract tendency of any one
atom to any one other as the inevitable result of diffu
sion from the normal unity; or, what is the same
thing, admit any given atom as proposing to move in
any given direction, it is clear that, since there is an
infinity of atoms on all sides of the atom proposing to
move, it never can actually move toward the satisfac
tion of its tendency in the direction given, on account
of a precisely equal and counterbalancing tendency in
the direction diametrically opposite. In other words,
exactly as many tendencies to unity are behind the
hesitating atom as before it ; for it is a mere sotticism
to say that one infinite line is longer or shorter than
another infinite line, or that one infinite number is
greater or less than another number that is infinite.
Thus the atom in question must remain stationary
forever. Under the impossible circumstances which
we have been merely endeavoring to conceive for argu
ment's sake, there could have been no aggregate of
matter, no stars, no worlds, nothing but a perpetually
atomic and inconsequential universe. In fact, view
VOL. X. 16.
241
Eureka
it as we will, the whole idea of unlimited matter is not
only untenable, but impossible and preposterous.
With the understanding of a sphere of atoms, how
ever, we perceive at once a satisfiable tendency to
union. The general result of the tendency each to
each being a tendency of all to the centre, the general
process of condensation, or approximation, commences
immediately, by a common and simultaneous move
ment, on withdrawal of the Divine Volition; the
individual approximations, or coalescences not coa
litions of atom with atom, being subject to almost
infinite variations of time, degree, and conditions, on
account of the excessive multiplicity of relation, aris
ing from the differences of form assumed as character
izing the atoms at the moment of their quitting the
particle proper, as well as from the subsequent par
ticular inequidistance, each from each.
What I wish to impress upon the reader is the cer
tainty of there arising, at once (on withdrawal of the
diffusive force, or Divine Volition), out of the condition
of the atoms as described, at innumerable points
throughout the universal sphere, innumerable agglom
erations, characterized by innumerable specific differ
ences of form, size, essential nature, and distance each
from each. The development of repulsion (electricity)
must have commenced, of course, with the very
earliest particular efforts at unity, and must have
proceeded constantly in the ratio of coalescence, that
242
Eureka
is to say, in that of condensation, or, again, of
heterogeneity.
Thus the two principles proper, attraction and re
pulsion, the material and the spiritual, accompany
each other, in the strictest fellowship, forever. Thus
the body and the soul walk hand in hand.
If now, in fancy, we select any one of the agglomera
tions considered as in their primary stages throughout
the universal sphere, and suppose this incipient agglom
eration to be taking place at that point where the
centre of our sun exists, or rather where it did exist
originally, for the sun is perpetually shifting its posi
tion, we shall find ourselves met, and borne onward
for a time at least, by the most magnificent of theories,
by the Nebular Cosmogony of Laplace ; although " cos
mogony " is far too comprehensive a term for what he
really discusses, which is the constitution of our solar
system alone, of one among the myriad of similar
systems which make up the universe proper, that
universal sphere, that all-inclusive and absolute kos-
mos which forms the subject of my present discourse.
Confining himself to an obviously limited region,
that of our solar system with its comparatively imme
diate vicinity, and merely assuming, that is to say,
assuming without any basis whatever, either deductive
or inductive, much of what I have been just endeavor
ing to place upon a more stable basis than assumption ;
assuming, for example, matter as diffused (without
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pretending to account for the diffusion) throughout,
and somewhat beyond, the space occupied by our
system, diffused in a state of heterogenous nebulosity
and obedient to that omniprevalent law of gravity at
whose principle he ventured to make no guess,
assuming all this (which is quite true, although he had
no logical right to its assumption), Laplace has shown,
dynamically and mathematically, that the results in
such case necessarily ensuing are those and those
alone which we find manifested in the actually existing
condition of the system itself.
To explain : Let us conceive that particular agglom
eration of which we have just spoken, the one at the
point designated by our sun's centre, to have so far
proceeded that a vast quantity of nebulous matter
has here assumed a roughly globular form, its centre
being, of course, coincident with what is now, or rather
was originally, the centre of our sun, and its periph
ery extending out beyond the orbit of Neptune, the
most remote of our planets ; in other words, let us sup
pose the diameter of this rough sphere to be some six
thousand millions of miles. For ages, this mass of mat
ter has been undergoing condensation, until at length
it has become reduced into the bulk we imagine;
having proceeded gradually, of course, from its atomic
and imperceptible state into what we understand of
visible, palpable, or otherwise appreciable nebulosity.
Now, the condition of this mass implies a rotation
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about an imaginary axis, a rotation which, commenc
ing with the absolute incipiency of the aggregation,
has been ever since acquiring velocity. The very first
two atoms which met, approaching each other from
points not diametrically opposite, would, in rushing
partially past each other, form a nucleus for the rotary
movement described. How this would increase in
velocity is readily seen. The two atoms are joined by
others, an aggregation is formed. The mass con
tinues to rotate while condensing. But any atom at
the circumference has, of course, a more rapid motion
than one nearer the centre. The outer atom, how
ever, with its superior velocity, approaches the centre,
carrying this superior velocity with it as it goes. Thus
every atom, proceeding inwardly, and finally attach
ing itself to the condensed centre, adds something to
the original velocity of that centre, that is to say, in
creases the rotary movement of the mass.
Let us now suppose this mass so far condensed that
it occupies precisely the space circumscribed by the
orbit of Neptune, and that the velocity with which the
surface of the mass moves, in the general rotation, is
precisely that velocity with which Neptune now re
volves about the sun. At this epoch, then, we are to
understand that the constantly increasing centrifugal
force, having gotten the better of the non-increasing
centripetal, loosened and separated the exterior and
least condensed strata, at the equator of the sphere,
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where the tangential velocity predominated; so that
these strata formed about the main body an indepen
dent ring encircling the equatorial regions; just as
the exterior portion thrown off by excessive velocity of
rotation, from a grindstone, would form a ring about
the grindstone but for the solidity of the superficial
material; were this caoutchouc, or anything similar
in consistency, precisely the phenomenon I describe
would be presented.
The ring thus whirled from the nebulous mass, re
volved, of course, as a separate ring, with just that
velocity with which, while the surface of the mass, it
rotated. In the meantime, condensation still pro
ceeding, the interval between the discharged ring and
the main body continued to increase until the former
was left at a vast distance from the latter.
Now, admitting the ring to have possessed, by some
seemingly accidental arrangement of its heterogeneous
materials, a constitution nearly uniform, then this
ring, as such, would never have ceased revolving about
its primary; but, as might have been anticipated,
there appears to have been enough irregularity in the
disposition of the materials to make them cluster about
centres of superior solidity ; and thus the annular form
was destroyed. 1 No doubt the band was soon broken
1 Laplace assumed his nebulosity heterogeneous, merely that he might be
thus enabled to account for the breaking up of the rings; for had the nebu
losity been homogeneous, they would not have broken. I reach the same
result, heterogeneity of the secondary masses immediately resulting from the
atoms purely from an a priori consideration of their general design relation.
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up into several portions, and one of these portions,
predominating in mass, absorbed the others into itself,
the whole settling, spherically, into a planet. That
this latter, as a planet, continued the revolutionary
movement which characterized it while a ring is
sufficiently clear; and that it took upon itself, also,
an additional movement, in its new condition of sphere,
is readily explained. The ring being understood as
yet unbroken, we see that its exterior, while the whole
revolves about the parent body, moves more rapidly
than its interior. When the rupture occurred, then,
some portion in each fragment must have been moving
with greater velocity than the others. The superior
movement prevailing must have whirled each frag
ment round, that is to say, have caused it to rotate;
and the direction of the rotation must, of course, have
been the direction of the revolution whence it arose.
All the fragments having become subject to the rota
tion described, must, hi coalescing, have imparted it
to the one planet constituted by their coalescence.
This planet was Neptune. Its material continuing to
undergo condensation, and the centrifugal force gen
erated in its rotation, getting, at length, the better of
the centripetal, as before in the case of the parent orb,
a ring was whirled also from the equatorial surface of
this planet ; this ring, having been uniform in its con
stitution, was broken up, and its several fragments,
being absorbed by the most massive, were collectively
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spherified into a moon. Subsequently the operation
was repeated, and a second moon was the result. We
thus account for the planet Neptune, with the two
satellites which accompany him.
In throwing off a ring from its equator, the sun re
established that equilibrium between its centripetal and
centrifugal forces which had been disturbed in the pro
cess of condensation; but, as this condensation still
proceeded, the equilibrium was again immediately
disturbed, through the increase of rotation. By the
time the mass had so far shrunk that it occupied a
spherical space just that circumscribed by the orbit of
Uranus, we are to understand that the centrifugal
force had so far obtained the ascendency that new
relief was needed ; a second equatorial band was con
sequently thrown off, which, proving ununiform, was
broken up, as before in the case of Neptune, the frag
ments settling into the planet Uranus, the velocity of
whose actual revolution about the sun indicates, of
course, the rotary speed of that sun's equatorial sur
face at the moment of the separation. Uranus, adopt
ing a rotation from the collective rotations of the
fragments composing it, as previously explained, now
threw off ring after ring; each of which, becoming
broken up, settled into a moon, three moons, at differ
ent epochs, having been formed, hi this manner, by
the rupture and general spherification of as many dis
tinct ununiform rings.
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By the time the sun had shrunk until it occupied a
space just that circumscribed by the orbit of Saturn,
the balance, we are to suppose, between its centripetal
and centrifugal forces had again become so far dis
turbed, through increase of rotary velocity, the result
of condensation, that a third effort at equilibrium be
came necessary; and an annular band was therefore
whirled off, as twice before, which, on rupture through
ununif ormity, became consolidated into the planet Sat
urn. This latter threw off, in the first place, seven
uniform bands, which, on rupture, were spherified
respectively into as many moons; but, subsequently,
it appears to have discharged, at three distinct but not
very distant epochs, three rings whose equability of
constitution was, by apparent accident, so considerable
as to present no occasion for their rupture ; thus they
continue to revolve as rings. I use the phrase " ap
parent accident " ; for of accident in the ordinary
sense there was, of course, nothing; the term is prop
erly applied only to the result of indistinguishable or
not immediately traceable law.
Shrinking still farther, until it occupied just the
space circumscribed by the orbit of Jupiter, the sun
now found need of further effort to restore the coun
terbalance of its two forces, continually disarranged in
the still continued increase of rotation. Jupiter, ac
cordingly, was now thrown off, passing from the
annular to the planetary condition ; and, on attaining
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this latter, threw off in its turn, at four different
epochs, four rings, which finally resolved themselves
into so many moons.
Still shrinking, until its sphere occupied just the
space defined by the orbit of the Asteroids, the sun now
discarded a ring which appears to have had eight
centres of superior solidity, and, on breaking up, to
have separated into eight fragments, no one of which
so far predominated in mass as to absorb the others.
All, therefore, as distinct although comparatively small
planets, proceeded to revolve in orbits whose dis
tances, each from each, may be considered as in some
degree the measure of the force which drove them
asunder, all the orbits, nevertheless, being so closely
coincident as to admit of our calling them one, in view
of the other planetary orbits.
Continuing to shrink, the sun, on becoming so small
as just to fill the orbit of Mars, now discharged this
planet, of course by the process repeatedly described.
Having no moon, however, Mars could have thrown
off no ring. In fact, an epoch had now arrived in the
career of the parent body, the centre of the system.
The decrease of its nebulosity, which is the increase of
its density, and which again is the decrease of its con
densation, out of which latter arose the constant dis
turbance of equilibrium, must, by this period, have
attained a point at which the efforts for restoration
would have been more and more ineffectual just in
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proportion as they were less frequently needed. Thus
the processes of which we have been speaking would
everywhere show signs of exhaustion in the planets,
first; and, secondly, in the original mass. We must
not fall into the error of supposing the decrease of in
terval observed among the planets as we approach the
sun to be in any respect indicative of an increase of
frequency in the periods at which they were discarded.
Exactly the converse is to be understood. The longest
interval of time must have occurred between the dis
charges of the two interior; the shortest, between
those of the two exterior, planets. The decrease of the
interval of space is, nevertheless, the measure of the
density, and thus inversely of the condensation, of
the sun, throughout the processes detailed.
Having shrunk, however, so far as to fill only the
orbit of our earth, the parent sphere whirled from
itself still one other body, the earth, in a condition
so nebulous as to admit of this body's discarding, in
its turn, yet another, which is our moon; but here
terminated the lunar formations.
Finally, subsiding to the orbits first of Venus and
then of Mercury, the sun discarded these two interior
planets, neither of which has given birth to any moon.
Thus from his original bulk, or, to speak more accu
rately, from the condition in which we first considered
him, from a partially spherified nebular mass, cer
tainly much more than 5,600,000,000 of miles in
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diameter, the great central orb and origin of our solar-
planetary-lunar system, has gradually descended, by
condensation, in obedience to the law of gravity, to a
globe only 882,000 miles in diameter; but it by no
means follows, either that its condensation is yet com
plete, or that it may not still possess the capacity of
whirling from itself another planet.
I have here given, in outline, of course, but still with
all the detail necessary for distinctness, a view of the
Nebular Theory as its author himself conceived it.
From whatever point we regard it, we shall find it
beautifully true. It is by far too beautiful, indeed,
not to possess truth as its essentiality, and here I am
very profoundly serious in what I say. In the revolu
tion of the satellites of Uranus, there does appear
something seemingly inconsistent with the assump
tions of Laplace; but that one inconsistency can
invalidate a theory constructed from a million of in
tricate consistencies is a fancy fit only for the fantas
tic. In prophesying, confidently, that the apparent
anomaly to which I refer will, sooner or later, be
found one of the strongest possible corroborations of
the general hypothesis, I pretend to no especial spirit
of divination. It is a matter which the only difficulty
seems not to foresee. 1
The bodies whirled off in the processes described,
I 1 am prepared to show that the anomalous revolution of the satellites of
Uranus is a simply perspective anomaly arising from the inclination of the
axis of the planet.
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would exchange, it has been seen, the superficial rota
tion of the orbs whence they originated for a revolu
tion of equal velocity about these orbs as distant
centres; and the revolution thus engendered must
proceed, so long as the centripetal force, or that with
which the discarded body gravitates toward its parent,
is neither greater nor less than that by which it was
discarded; that is, than the centrifugal, or, far more
properly, than the tangential, velocity. From the
unity, however, of the origin of these two forces, we
might have expected to find them as they are found,
the one accurately counterbalancing the other. It has
been shown, indeed, that the act of whirling off is, in
every case, merely an act for the preservation of the
counterbalance.
After referring, however, the centripetal force to the
omniprevalent law of gravity, it has been the fashion
with astronomical treatises to seek beyond the limits
of mere nature, that is to say, of secondary cause, a
solution of the phenomenon of tangential velocity.
This latter they attribute directly to a First Cause, to
God. The force which carries a stellar body around
its primary they assert to have originated in an im
pulse given immediately by the finger, this is the
childish phraseology employed, by the finger of
Deity itself. In this view, the planets, fully formed,
are conceived to have been hurled from the Divine
hand to a position in the vicinity of the suns, with an
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impetus mathematically adapted to the masses, or
attractive capacities, of the suns themselves. An idea
so grossly unphilosophical, although so supinely
adopted, could have arisen only from the difficulty of
otherwise accounting for the absolutely accurate adap
tation, each to each, of two forces so seemingly inde
pendent, one of the other, as are the gravitating and
tangential. But it should be remembered that, for a
long time, the coincidence between the moon's rota
tion and her sidereal revolution, two matters seem
ingly far more independent than those now considered,
was looked upon as positively miraculous; and
there was a strong disposition, even among astron
omers, to attribute the marvel to the direct and con
tinual agency of God, who, in this case, it was said,
had found it necessary to interpose, specially, among
His general laws, a set of subsidiary regulations for the
purpose of forever concealing from mortal eyes the
glories, or perhaps the horrors, of the other side of
the moon, of that mysterious hemisphere which has
always avoided, and must perpetually avoid, the tele
scopic scrutiny of mankind. The advance of science,
however, soon demonstrated, what to the philosophi
cal instinct needed no demonstration, that the one
movement is but a portion, something more, even,
than a consequence, of the other.
For my part, I have no patience with fantasies at
once so timorous, so idle, and so awkward. They
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belong to the veriest cowardice of thought. That na
ture and the God of nature are distinct, no thinking
being can long doubt. By the former we imply merely
the laws of the latter. But with the very idea of God,
omnipotent, omniscient, we entertain, also, the idea
of the infallibility of His laws. With Him there being
neither past nor future, with Him all being now, do
we not insult Him in supposing His law so contrived
as not to provide for every possible contingency ? or,
rather, what idea can we have of any possible con
tingency except that it is at once a result and a mani
festation of His laws ? He who, divesting himself of
prejudice, shall have the rare courage to think abso
lutely for himself, cannot fail to arrive, in the end, at
the condensation " laws " into " Law," cannot fail of
reaching the conclusion that each law of nature is
dependent at all points upon all other laws, and that
all are but consequences of but one primary exercise of
the Divine Volition. Such is the principle of the
cosmogony which, with all necessary deference, I here
venture to suggest and to maintain.
In this view it will be seen that, dismissing as frivo
lous, and even impious, the fancy of the tangential
force having been imparted to the planets immediately
by " the finger of God," I consider this force as orig
inating in the rotation of the stars; this rotation as
brought about by the in-rushing of the primary atoms
toward their respective centres of aggregation; this
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in-rushing as the consequence of the law of gravity;
this law as but the mode in which is necessarily mani
fested the tendency of the atoms to return into im-
particularity ; this tendency to return as but the
inevitable reaction of the first and most sublime of
acts, that act by which a God, self-existing and alone
existing, became all things at once, through dint of His
volition, while all things were thus constituted a por
tion of God.
The radical assumptions of this discourse suggest to
me, and in fact imply, certain important modifications
of the Nebular Theory as given by Laplace. The efforts
of the repulsive power I have considered as made for
the purpose of preventing contact among the atoms,
and thus as made in the ratio of the approach to con
tact, that is to say, in the ratio of condensation. 1 In
other words, electricity, with its involute phenomena,
heat, light, and magnetism, is to be understood as
proceeding as condensation proceeds, and, of course,
inversely, as destiny proceeds, or the cessation to con
dense. Thus the sun, in the process of its aggregation,
must soon, in developing repulsion, have become ex
cessively heated, perhaps incandescent; and we can
perceive how the operation of discarding its rings must
have been materially assisted by the slight incrustation
of its surface consequent on cooling. Any common
experiment shows us how readily a crust of the char-
1 See page 242.
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acter suggested is separated, through heterogeneity,
from the interior mass. But, on every successive re
jection of the crust, the new surface would appear in
candescent as before ; and the period at which it would
again become so far incrusted as to be readily loosened
and discharged may well be imagined as exactly coin
cident with that at which a new effort would be needed,
by the whole mass, to restore the equilibrium of the
two forces, disarranged through condensation. In
other words, by the time the electric influence (repul
sion) has prepared the surface for rejection, we are
to understand that the gravitating influence (attrac
tion) is precisely ready to reject it. Here, then, as
everywhere, the body and the soul walk hand in hand.
These ideas are empirically confirmed at' all points.
Since condensation can never, in any body, be con
sidered as absolutely at an end, we are warranted in
anticipating that whenever we have an opportunity of
testing the matter, we shall find indications of resident
luminosity in all the stellar bodies, moons and planets
as well as suns. That our moon is strongly self-
luminous we see at every total eclipse, when, if not so,
she would disappear. On the dark part of the satel
lite, too, during her phases, we often observe flashes
like our own Auroras ; and that these latter, with our
various other so-called electrical phenomena, without
reference to any more steady radiance, must give
our earth a certain appearance of luminosity to an
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inhabitant of the moon, is quite evident. In fact, we
should regard all the phenomena referred to as mere
manifestations, in different moods and degrees, of the
earth's feebly continued condensation.
If my views are tenable, we should be prepared to
find the newer planets, that is to say, those nearer the
sun, more luminous than those older and more remote ;
and the extreme brilliancy of Venus (on whose dark
portions, during her phases, the Auroras are frequently
visible) does not seem to be altogether accounted for
by her proximity to the central orb. She is no doubt
vividly self-luminous, although less so than Mercury;
while the luminosity of Neptune may be comparatively
nothing.
Admitting what I have urged, it is clear that, from
the moment of the sun's discarding a ring, there must
be a continuous diminution both of his heat and light,
on account of the continuous incrustation of his sur
face ; and that a period would arrive, the period im
mediately previous to a new discharge, when a very
material decrease of both light and heat must become
apparent. Now, we know that tokens of such changes
are distinctly recognizable. On the Melville Islands, to
adduce merely one out of a hundred examples, we find
traces of ultra-tropical vegetation, of plants that never
could have flourished without immensely more light
and heat than are at present afforded by our sun to any
portion of the surface of the earth. Is such vegetation
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referable to an epoch immediately subsequent to the
whirling off of Venus ? At this epoch must have
occurred to us our greatest access of solar influence;
and, in fact, this influence must then have attained its
maximum, leaving out of view, of course, the period
when the earth itself was discarded the period of its
mere organization.
Again, we know that there exist non-luminous suns,
that is to say, suns whose existence we determine
through the movements of others, but whose lumin
osity is not sufficient to impress us. Are these suns
invisible merely on account of the length of time
elapsed since their discharge of a planet ? And yet
again : may we not, at least in certain cases, account
for the sudden appearances of suns where none had
been previously suspected, by the hypothesis that,
having rolled with incrusted surfaces throughout a few
thousand years of our astronomical history, each of
these suns, in whirling off a new secondary, has at
length been enabled to display the glories of its still
incandescent interior ? To the well-ascertained fact
of the proportional increase of heat as we descend into
the earth, I need of course do nothing more than refer ;
it comes in the strongest possible corroboration of all
that I have said on the topic now at issue.
In speaking, not long ago, of the repulsive or
electrical influence, I remarked that " the important
phenomena of vitality, consciousness, and thought,
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whether we observe them generally or in detail, seem
to proceed at least in the ratio of the heterogeneous." x
I mentioned, too, that I would recur to the suggestion,
and this is the proper point at which to do so. Look
ing at the matter first in detail, we perceive that not
merely the manifestation of vitality, but its importance,
consequences, and elevation of character, keep pace
very closely with the heterogeneity or complexity of
the animal structure. Looking at the question now
in its generality, and referring to the first movements
of the atoms toward mass-constitution, we find that
heterogeneousness, brought about directly through
condensation, is proportional with it forever. We
thus reach the proposition that the importance of the
development of the terrestrial vitality proceeds equably
with the terrestrial condensation.
Now, this is in precise accordance with what we
know of the succession of animals on the earth. As
it has proceeded in its condensation, superior and still
superior races have appeared. Is it impossible that
the successive geological revolutions which have at
tended, at least, if not immediately caused, these suc
cessive elevations of vitalic character is it improbable
that these revolutions have themselves been produced
by the successive planetary discharges from the sun,
in other words, by the successive variations in the
solar influence on the earth ? Were this idea tenable,
1 Page 203.
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we should not be unwarranted in the fancy that the
discharge of yet a new planet, interior to Mercury,
may give rise to yet a new modification of the terres
trial surface, a modification from which may spring a
race both materially and spiritually superior to man.
These thoughts impress me with all the force of truth,
but I throw them out, of course, merely in their obvi
ous character of suggestion.
The Nebular Theory of Laplace has lately received
far more confirmation than it needed at the hands
of the philosopher, Comte. These two have thus to
gether shown, not, to be sure, that matter at any
period actually existed as described, in a state of nebu
lar diffusion, but that, admitting it so to have existed
through the space and much beyond the space now
occupied by our solar system, and to have commenced
a movement toward a centre, it must gradually have
assumed the various forms and motions which are
now seen, in that system, to obtain. A demonstration
such as this, a dynamical and mathematical demon
stration, as far as demonstration can be, unques
tionable and unquestioned, unless, indeed, by that
unprofitable and disreputable tribe, the professional
questioners, the mere madmen who deny the New
tonian law of gravity on which the results of the
French mathematicians are based, a demonstration,
I say, such as this, would to most intellects be con
clusive, and I confess that it is so to mine, of the
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validity of the nebular hypothesis upon which the
demonstration depends.
That the demonstration does not prove the hypoth
esis, according to the common understanding of the
word " proof," I admit, of course. To show that cer
tain existing results, that certain established facts,
may be, even mathematically, accounted for by the
assumption of a certain hypothesis, is by no means to
establish the hypothesis itself. In other words, to
show that, certain data being given, a certain existing
result might, or even must, have ensued, will fail to
prove that this result did ensue, from the data, until
such time as it shall be also shown that there are, and
can be, no other data from which the result in ques
tion might equally have ensued. But, in the case now
discussed, although all must admit the deficiency, of
what we are in the habit of terming " proof," still
there are many intellects, and those of the loftiest
order, to which no proof could bring one iota of addi
tional conviction. Without going into details which
might impinge upon the cloud-land of metaphysics, I
may as well here observe that the force of conviction,
in cases such as this, will always, with the right-
thinking, be proportional to the amount of complexity
intervening between the hypothesis and the result. To
be less abstract : The greatness of the complexity found
existing among cosmical conditions, by rendering great
in the same proportion the difficulty of accounting for
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all these conditions, at once strengthens, also in the
same proportion, our faith in that hypothesis which
does, in such manner, satisfactorily account for them ;
and as no complexity can well be conceived greater
than that of the astronomical conditions, so no con
viction can be stronger, to my mind at least, than that
with which I am impressed by an hypothesis that not
only reconciles these conditions, with mathematical
accuracy, and reduces them into a consistent and in
telligible whole, but is, at the same time, the sole
hypothesis by means of which the human intellect has
been ever enabled to account for them at all.
A most unfounded opinion has been latterly current
in gossiping and even hi scientific circles, the opinion
that the so-called Nebular Cosmogony has been over
thrown. This fancy has arisen from the report of
late observations made, among what hitherto have
been termed the " nebulae," through the large tele
scope of Cincinnati and the world-renowned instrument
of Lord Rosse. Certain spots in the firmament which
presented, even to the most powerful of the old tele
scopes, the appearance of nebulosity or haze, had been
regarded for a long time as confirming the theory of
Laplace. They were looked upon as stars in that very
process of condensation which I have been attempting
to describe. Thus it was supposed that we " had oc
ular evidence " an evidence, by the way, which has
always been found very questionable of the truth of
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the hypothesis; and, although certain telescopic im
provements, every now and then, enabled us to per
ceive that a spot, here and there, which we had been
classing among the nebulae, was, in fact, but a cluster
of stars deriving its nebular character only from its
immensity of distance, still it was thought that no
doubt could exist as to the actual nebulosity of numer
ous other masses, the strongholds of the nebulists, bid
ding defiance to every effort at segregation. Of these
latter the most interesting was the great " nebula " in
the constellation Orion; but this, with innumerable
other miscalled " nebulas," when viewed through the
magnificent modern telescopes, has become resolved
into a simple collection of stars. Now this fact has
been very generally understood as conclusive against
the Nebular Hypothesis of Laplace ; and, on announce
ment of the discoveries in question, the most enthusi
astic defender and most eloquent popularizer of the
theory, Dr. Nichol, went so far as to " admit the ne
cessity of abandoning" an idea which had formed the
material of his most praiseworthy book. 1
Many of my readers will no doubt be inclined to say
that the result of these new investigations has at least
1 Views of the Architecture of the Heavens. A letter, purporting to be from
Dr. Nichol to a friend in America, went the rounds of our newspapers about
two years ago, I think, admitting the " necessity " to which I refer. In a
subsequent lecture, however, Dr. N. appears in some manner to have gotten
the better of the necessity and does not quite renounce the theory, although
he seems to wish that he could sneer at it as " a purely hypothetical one."
What else was the law of gravity before the Maskelyne experiments ? and
who questioned the law of gravity even then ?
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a strong tendency to overthrow the hypothesis ; while
some of them, more thoughtful, will suggest that,
although the theory is by no means disproved through
the segregation of the particular " nebulae " alluded to,
still a failure to segregate them, with such telescopes,
might well have been understood as a triumphant cor-
roboration of the theory: and this latter class will be
surprised, perhaps, to hear me say that even with them
I disagree. If the propositions of this discourse have
been comprehended, it will be seen that, in my view, a
failure to segregate the " nebulae " would have tended
to the refutation, rather than to the confirmation, of
the Nebular Hypothesis.
Let me explain: The Newtonian law of gravity we
may, of course, assume as demonstrated. This law, it
will be remembered, I have referred to the reaction of
the first Divine Act to the reaction of an exercise of
the Divine Volition temporarily overcoming a difficulty.
This difficulty is that of forcing the normal into the
abnormal, of impelling that whose originality, and
therefore whose rightful condition, was one, to take
upon itself the wrongful condition of many. It is only
by conceiving this difficulty as temporarily overcome
that we can comprehend a reaction. There could have
been no reaction had the act been infinitely continued.
So long as the act lasted, no reaction, of course, could
commence ; in other words, no gravitation could take
place, for we have considered the one as but the
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manifestation of the other. But gravitation has taken
place ; therefore the act of Creation has ceased ; and
gravitation has long ago taken place ; therefore the act
of Creation has long ago ceased. We can no more
expect, then, to observe the primary processes of Cre
ation ; and to these primary processes the condition of
nebulosity has already been explained to belong.
Through what we know of the propagation of light,
we have direct proof that the more remote of the stars
have existed, under the forms in which we now see
them, for an inconceivable number of years. So far
back at least, then, as the period when these stars
underwent condensation, must have been the epoch at
which the mass-constitutive processes began. That
we may conceive these processes, then, as still going
on in the case of certain " nebulae," while in all other
cases we find them thoroughly at an end, we are forced
into assumptions for which we have really no basis
whatever; we have to thrust in, again, upon the re
volting reason the blasphemous idea of special inter
position; we have to suppose that, in the particular
instances of these " nebulae," an unerring God found it
necessary to introduce certain supplementary regula
tions, certain improvements of the general law, certain
re-touchings and emendations, in a word, which had
the effect of deferring the completion of these individ
ual stars for centuries of centuries beyond the area
during which all the other stellar bodies had time, not
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only to be fully constituted, but to grow hoary with an
unspeakable old age.
Of course, it will be immediately objected that since
the light by which we recognize the nebulae now must
be merely that which left their surfaces a vast number
of years ago, the processes at present observed, or sup
posed to be observed, are, in fact, not processes now
actually going on, but the phantoms of processes com
pleted long in the past, just as I maintain all these
mass-constitutive processes must have been.
To this I reply that neither is the now-observed con
dition of the condensed stars their actual condition,
but a condition completed long in the past; so that
my argument drawn from the relative condition of the
stars and the " nebulae " is in no manner disturbed.
Moreover, those who maintain the existence of neb
ulae do not refer the nebulosity to extreme distance ;
they declare it a real and not merely a perspective
nebulosity. That we may conceive, indeed, a nebular
mass as visible at all, we must conceive it as very near
us in comparison with the condensed stars brought
into view by the modern telescopes. In maintaining
the appearances in question, then, to be really nebu
lous, we maintain their comparative vicinity to our
own point of view. Thus, their condition, as we see
them now, must be referred to an epoch far less remote
than that to which we may refer the now-observed
condition of at least the majority of the stars. In a
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word, should astronomy ever demonstrate a " nebula,"
in the sense at present intended, I should consider
the Nebular Cosmogony, not, indeed, as corroborated
by the demonstration, but as thereby irretrievably
overthrown.
By way, however, of rendering unto Caesar no more
than the things that are Caesar's, let me here remark
that the assumption of the hypothesis which led him
to so glorious a result seems to have been suggested
to Laplace in great measure by a misconception, by
the very misconception of which we have just been
speaking, by the generally prevalent misunderstanding
of the character of the nebulae, so mis-named. These
he supposed to be, in reality, what their designation
implies. The fact is, this great man had, very prop
erly, an inferior faith in his own merely perceptive
powers. In respect, therefore, to the actual existence
of nebulae, an existence so confidently maintained by
his telescopic contemporaries, he depended less upon
what he saw than upon what he heard.
It will be seen that the only valid objections to his
theory are those made to its hypothesis as such; to
what suggested it, not to what it suggests; to its prop
ositions rather than to its results. His most unwar
ranted assumption was that of giving the atoms a
movement toward a centre, in the very face of his
evident understanding that these atoms, in unlimited
succession, extended throughout the universal space.
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I have already shown that, under such circumstances,
there could have occurred no movement at all; and
Laplace, consequently, assumed one on no more philo
sophical ground than that something of the kind was
necessary for the establishment of what he intended to
establish.
His original idea seems to have been a compound of
the true Epicurean atoms with the false nebulae of his
contemporaries ; and thus his theory presents us with
the singular anomaly of absolute truth deduced, as a
mathematical result, from a hybrid datum of ancient
imagination intertangled with modern inacumen. Lap
lace's real strength lay, in fact, in an almost miracu
lous mathematical instinct; on this he relied, and in
no instance did it fail or deceive him : in the case of the
Nebular Cosmogony, it led him, blindfolded, through a
labyrinth of error into one of the most luminous and
stupendous temples of truth.
Let us now fancy, for the moment, that the ring first
thrown off by the sun, that is to say, the ring whose
breaking up constituted Neptune, did not, in fact, break
up until the throwing off of the ring out of which
Uranus arose ; that this latter ring, again, remained
perfect until the discharge of that out of which sprang
Saturn; that this latter, again, remained entire until
the discharge of that from which originated Jupiter,
and so on. Let us imagine, in a word, that no dissolu
tion occurred among the rings until the final rejection
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of that which gave birth to Mercury. We thus paint
to the eye of the mind a series of co-existent concen
tric circles; and looking as well at them as at the
processes by which, according to Laplace's hypothesis,
they were constructed, we perceive at once a very singu
lar analogy with the atomic strata and the process of
the original irradiation as I have described it. Is it
impossible that, on measuring the forces, respectively,
by which each successive planetary circle was thrown
off, that is to say, on measuring the successive ex
cesses of rotation over gravitation which occasioned
the successive discharges, we should find the analogy
in question more decidedly confirmed ? Is it improb
able that we should discover these forces to have varied
as, in the original radiation, proportionably to the
squares of the distances ?
Our solar system, consisting, in chief, of one sun,
with sixteen planets certainly, and possibly a few more,
revolving about it at various distances, and attended
by seventeen moons assuredly, but very probably by
several others, is now to be considered as an example
of the innumerable agglomerations which proceeded to
take place throughout the universal sphere of atoms
on withdrawal of the Divine Volition. I mean to say
that our solar system is to be understood as affording
a generic instance of these agglomerations, or, more
correctly, of the ulterior conditions at which they
arrived. If we keep our attention fixed on the idea of
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the utmost possible relation as the Omnipotent design,
and on the precautions taken to accomplish it through
difference of form, among the original atoms, and par
ticular inequidistance, we shall find it impossible to
suppose for a moment that even any two of the incipi
ent agglomerations reached precisely the same result
in the end. We shall rather be inclined to think that
no two stellar bodies in the universe, whether suns,
planets, or moons, are particularly, while all are gen
erally, similar. Still less, then, can we imagine any
two assemblages of such bodies, any two " systems,"
as having more than a general resemblance. z Our
telescopes at this point thoroughly confirm our deduc
tions. Taking our own solar system, then, as merely
a loose or general type of all, we have so far proceeded
in our subject as to survey the universe under the
aspect of a spherical space, throughout which, dis
persed with merely general equability, exist a number
of but generally similar systems.
Let us now, expanding our conceptions, look upon
each of these systems as in itself an atom; which, in
fact, it is, when we consider it as but one of the count
less myriads of systems which constitute the universe.
Regarding all, then, as but colossal atoms, each with
1 It is not impossible that some unlooked-for optical improvement may dis
close to us, among innumerable varieties of systems, a luminous sun, encircled
by luminous and non-luminous rings, within and without, and between which
revolve luminous and non-luminous planets, attended by moons having moons,
and even these latter again having moons.
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the same ineradicable tendency to unity which charac
terizes the actual atoms of which it consists, we enter
at once upon a new order of aggregations. The small
er systems, in the vicinity of a larger one, would in
evitably be drawn into still closer vicinity. A thou
sand would assemble here ; a million there, perhaps
here, again, even a billion, leaving thus immeasur
able vacancies in space. And if, now, it be demanded
why, in the case of these systems, of these merely
Titanic atoms, I speak simply of an " assemblage," and
not, as in the case of the actual atoms, of a more or
less consolidated agglomeration; if it be asked, for
instance, why I do not carry what I suggest to its
legitimate conclusion, and describe at once these
assemblages of system-atoms as rushing to consolida
tion in spheres, as each becoming condensed into one
magnificent sun, my reply is that jjiekhovra ravra : I
am but pausing for a moment on the awful threshold of
the future. For the present, calling these assemblages
" clusters," we see them in the incipient stages of their
consolidation. Their absolute consolidation is to come.
We have now reached a point from which we behold
the universe as a spherical space, interspersed, un-
equably, with clusters. It will be noticed that I here
prefer the adverb " unequably " to the phrase " with a
merely general equability," employed before. It is
evident, in fact, that the equability of distribution will
diminish in the ratio of the agglomerative processes,
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that is to say, as the things distributed diminish in
number. Thus the increase of inequability, an increase
which must continue until, sooner or later, an epoch
will arrive at which the largest agglomeration will
absorb all the others, should be viewed as simply a
corroborative indication of the tendency to one.
And here, at length, it seems proper to inquire
whether the ascertained facts of astronomy confirm
the general arrangement which I have thus deduc
tively assigned to the heavens. Thoroughly, they do.
Telescopic observation, guided by the laws of perspec
tive, enables us to understand that the perceptible uni
verse exists as a cluster of clusters, irregularly disposed.
The " clusters " of which this universal " cluster of
clusters " consists are merely what we have been in
the practice of designating " nebulae," and of these
" nebulae," one is of paramount interest to mankind.
I allude to the Galaxy, or Milky Way. This interests
us, first and most obviously, on account of its great
superiority in apparent size, not only to any one other
cluster in the firmament, but to all the other clusters
taken together. The largest of these latter occupies
a mere point, comparatively, and is distinctly seen
only with the aid of a telescope. The Galaxy sweeps
throughout the heaven and is brilliantly visible to the
naked eye. But it interests man chiefly, although less
immediately, on account of its being his home; the
home of the earth on which he exists ; the home of the
VOL. X. 18.
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sun about which this earth revolves ; the home of that
" system " of orbs of which the sun is the centre and
primary, the earth one of sixteen secondaries or
planets, the moon one of seventeen tertiaries or satel
lites. The Galaxy, let me repeat, is but one of the
clusters which I have been describing, but one of the
mis-called " nebulae " revealed to us, by the telescope
alone, sometimes, as faint hazy spots in various quar
ters of the sky. We have no reason to suppose the
Milky Way really more extensive than the least of
these " nebulae." Its vast superiority in size is but an
apparent superiority arising from our position in regard
to it, that is to say, from our position in its midst.
However strange the assertion may at first appear to
those unversed in astronomy, still the astronomer him
self has no hesitation in asserting that we are in the
midst of that inconceivable host of stars, of suns, of
systems, which constitute the Galaxy. Moreover, not
only have we not only has our sun a right to claim
the Galaxy as its own special cluster, but, with slight
reservation, it may be said that all the distinctly visible
stars of the firmament, all the stars visible to the naked
eye, have equally a right to claim it as their own.
There has been a great deal of misconception in re
spect to the shape of the Galaxy ; which in nearly all
our astronomical treatises is said to resemble that of a
capital Y. The cluster in question has, in reality, a
certain general, very general resemblance to the planet
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Saturn, with its encompassing triple ring. Instead of
the solid orb of that planet, however, we must picture
to ourselves a lenticular star-island, or collection of
stars, our sun lying eccentrically, near the shore of
the island, on that side of it which is nearest the con
stellation of the Cross and farthest from that of Cas
siopeia. The surrounding ring, where it approaches
our position, has in it a longitudinal gash, which does,
in fact, cause the ring in our vicinity to assume, loosely,
the appearance of a capital Y.
We must not fall into the error, however, of con
ceiving the somewhat indefinite girdle as at all remote,
comparatively speaking, from the also indefinite len
ticular cluster which it surrounds ; and thus, for mere
purpose of explanation, we may speak of our sun as
actually situated at that point of the Y where its three
component lines unite; and, conceiving this letter to
be of a certain solidity, of a certain thickness, very
trivial in comparison with its length, we may even
speak of our position as in the middle of this thickness.
Fancying ourselves thus placed, we shall no longer find
difficulty in accounting for the phenomena presented,
which are perspective altogether. When we look up
ward or downward, that is to say, when we cast our
eyes in the direction of the letter's thickness, we look
through fewer stars than when we cast them in the
direction of its length, or along either of the three
component lines. Of course, in the former case, the
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stars appear scattered; in the latter, crowded. To
reverse this explanation : An inhabitant of the earth,
when looking, as we commonly express ourselves, at
the Galaxy, is then beholding it in some of the direc
tions of its length, is looking along the lines of the Y ;
but when, looking out into the general heaven, he
turns his eyes from the Galaxy, he is then surveying
it in the direction of the latter's thickness ; and on this
account the stars seem to him scattered; while, in
fact, they are as close together, on an average, as in
the mass of the cluster. No consideration could be
better adapted to convey an idea of this cluster's stu
pendous extent.
If, with a telescope of high space-penetrating power,
we carefully inspect the firmament, we shall become
aware of a belt of clusters of what we have hitherto
called " nebulae," a band of varying breadth stretch
ing from horizon to horizon, at right angles to the
general course of the Milky Way. This band is the
ultimate cluster of clusters. This belt is the universe.
Our Galaxy is but one, and perhaps one of the most
inconsiderable, of the clusters which go to the con
stitution of this ultimate, universal belt or band. The
appearance of this cluster of clusters, to our eyes, as
a belt or band, is altogether a perspective phenomenon
of the same character as that which causes us to be
hold our own individual and roughly spherical cluster,
the Galaxy, under guise also of a belt, traversing the
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heavens at right angles to the universal one. The
shape of the all-inclusive cluster is, of course, gener
ally, that of each individual cluster which it includes.
Just as the scattered stars which, on looking from the
Galaxy, we see in the general sky, are, in fact, but a
portion of that Galaxy itself, and as closely inter
mingled with it as any of the telescopic points in what
seems the densest portion of its mass, so are the scat
tered " nebulae " which, on casting our eyes from the
universal belt, we perceive at all points of the firma
ment; so, I say, are these scattered " nebulae " to be
understood as only perspectively scattered, and as
part and parcel of the one supreme and universal
sphere.
No astronomical fallacy is more untenable, and none
has been more pertinaciously adhered to, than that of
the absolute illimitation of the universe of stars. The
reasons for limitation, as I have already assigned them,
a priorit seem to me unanswerable ; but, not to speak
of these, observation assures us that there is, in num
erous directions around us, certainly, if not in all, a
positive limit, or, at the very least, affords us no basis
whatever for thinking otherwise. Were the succession
of stars endless, then the background of the sky would
present us an uniform luminosity, like that displayed
by the Galaxy, since there could be absolutely no point
in all that background at which would not exist a star.
The only mode, therefore, in which, under such a state
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of affairs, we could comprehend the voids which our
telescopes find in innumerable directions, would be by
supposing the distance of the invisible background so
immense that no ray from it has yet been able to reach
us at all. That this may be so, who shall venture to
deny? I maintain, simply, that we have not even the
shadow of a reason for believing that it is so.
When speaking of the vulgar propensity to regard
all bodies on the earth as tending merely to the earth's
centre, I observed that, " with certain exceptions to be
specified hereafter, every body on the earth tended not
only to the earth's centre, but in every conceivable
direction besides." * The " exceptions " refer to those
frequent gaps in the heavens where our utmost scru
tiny can detect not only no stellar bodies, but no indica
tions of their existence ; where yawning chasms, blacker
than Erebus, seem to afford us glimpses, through
the boundary walls of the universe of stars, into
the illimitable universe of vacancy beyond. Now,
as any body existing on the earth chances to pass,
either through its own movement or the earth's, into
a line with any one of these voids, or cosmical abysses,
it clearly is no longer attracted in the direction of that
void, and for the moment, consequently, is " heavier "
than at any period either after or before. Indepen
dently of the consideration of these voids, however, and
looking only at the generally unequable distribution of
^age 209.
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the stars, we see that the absolute tendency of bodies
on the earth to the earth's centre is in a state of per
petual variation.
We comprehend, then, the insulation of our uni
verse. We perceive the isolation of that, of all that
which we grasp with the senses. We know that there
exists one cluster of clusters, a collection around which,
on all sides, extend the immeasurable wildernesses of
a space to all human perception untenanted. But be
cause upon the confines of this universe of stars we
are compelled to pause, through want of further evi
dence from the senses, is it right to conclude that, in
fact, there is no material point beyond that which we
have thus been permitted to attain ? Have we, or
have we not, an analogical right to the inference that
this perceptible universe, that this cluster of clusters,
is but one of a series of clusters of clusters, the rest of
which are invisible through distance, through the dif
fusion of their light being so excessive, ere it reaches
us, as not to produce upon our retinas a light-impres
sion, or from there being no such emanation as light
at all, in these unspeakably distant worlds, or, lastly,
from the mere interval being so vast that the electric
tidings of their presence in space have not yet, through
the lapsing myriads of years, been enabled to traverse
that interval ?
Have we any right to inferences, have we any ground
whatever for visions such as these ? If we have a
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right to them in any degree, we have a right to their
infinite extension.
The human brain has obviously a leaning to the
" infinite," and fondles the phantom of the idea. It
seems to long with a passionate fervor for this impos
sible conception, with the hope of intellectually believ
ing it when conceived. What is general among the
whole race of man, of course no individual of that race
can be warranted in considering abnormal ; neverthe
less, there may be a class of superior intelligences to
whom the human bias alluded to may wear all the
character of monomania.
My question, however, remains unanswered: Have
we any right to infer, let us say, rather, to imagine, an
interminable succession of the " clusters of clusters,"
or of " universes " more or less similar ?
I reply that the " right," in a case such as this,
depends absolutely upon the hardihood of that imag
ination which ventures to claim the right. Let me
declare, only, that, as an individual, I myself feel im
pelled to fancy, without daring to call it more, that
there does exist a limitless succession of universes,
more or less similar to that of which we have cog
nizance, to that of which alone we shall ever have
cognizance, at the very least until the return of our
own particular universe into unity. If such clusters of
clusters exist, however and they do it is abundantly
clear that, having had no part in our origin, they have
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no portion in our laws. They neither attract us, nor
we them. Their material, their spirit is not ours, is
not that which obtains in any part of our universe.
They could not impress our senses or our souls.
Among them and us, considering all, for the moment,
collectively, there are no influences in common. Each
exists, apart and independently, in the bosom of its
proper and particular God.
In the conduct of this discourse, I am aiming less at
physical than metaphysical order. The clearness with
which even material phenomena are presented to the
understanding depends very little, I have long since
learned to perceive, upon a merely natural, and almost
altogether upon a moral, arrangement. If, then, I seem
to step somewhat too discursively from point to point
of my topic, let me suggest that I do so in the hope
of thus the better keeping unbroken that chain of grad
uated impression by which alone the intellect of man
can expect to encompass the grandeurs of which I speak
and, in their majestic totality, to comprehend them.
So far, our attention has been directed, almost ex
clusively, to a general and relative grouping of the
stellar bodies in space. Of specification there has been
little ; and whatever ideas of quantity have been con
veyed, that is to say, of number, magnitude, and dis
tance, have been conveyed incidentally and by way of
preparation for more definite conceptions. These lat
ter let us now attempt to entertain.
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Our solar system, as has been already mentioned,
consists, in chief, of one sun and sixteen planets cer
tainly, but in all probability a few others, revolving
around it as a centre, and attended by seventeen moons
of which we know, with possibly several more of which
as yet we know nothing. These various bodies are
not true spheres, but oblate spheroids, spheres flat
tened at the poles of the imaginary axes about which
they rotate, the flattening being a consequence of the
rotation. Neither is the sun absolutely the centre of
the system; for this sun itself, with all the planets,
revolves about a perpetually shifting point of space,
which is the system's general centre of gravity. Neither
are we to consider the paths through which these dif
ferent spheroids move, the moons about the planets,
the planets about the sun, or the sun about the com
mon centre, as circles in an accurate sense. They
are, in fact, ellipses, one of the foci being the point
about which the revolution is made. An ellipse is a
curve, returning into itself, one of whose diameters is
longer than the other. In the longer diameter are two
points, equidistant from the middle of the line, and so
situated otherwise that if from each of them a straight
line be drawn to any one point of the curve, the two
lines, taken together, will be equal to the long diam
eter itself. Now, let us conceive such an ellipse. At
one of the points mentioned, which are the foci, let us
fasten an orange. By an elastic thread let us connect
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this orange with a pea ; and let us place this latter on
the circumference of the ellipse. Let us now move
the pea continuously around the orange, keeping al
ways on the circumference of the ellipse. The elastic
thread, which, of course, varies in length as we move
the pea, will form what in geometry is called a radius
vector. Now, if the orange be understood as the sun,
and the pea as a planet revolving about it, then the
revolution should be made at such a rate, with a veloc
ity so varying, that the radius vector may pass over
equal areas of space in equal times. The progress of
the pea should be in other words, the progress of the
planet is, of course slow in proportion to its distance
from the sun, swift hi proportion to its proximity.
Those planets, moreover, move the more slowly which
are the farther from the sun, the squares of their
periods of revolution having the same proportion to
each other as have to each other the cubes of their
mean distances from the sun.
The wonderfully complex laws of revolution here
described, however, are not to be understood as
obtaining in our system alone. They everywhere pre
vail where attraction prevails. They control the uni
verse. Every shining speck in the firmament is, no
doubt, a luminous sun, resembling our own at least in
its general features, and having in attendance upon it
a greater or less number of planets, greater or less,
whose still lingering luminosity is not sufficient to
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render them visible to us at so vast a distance, but
which, nevertheless, revolve, moon-attended, about
their starry centres, in obedience to the principles just
detailed, in obedience to the three omniprevalent laws
of revolution, the three immortal laws guessed by the
imaginative Kepler, and but subsequently demon
strated and accounted for by the patient and mathe
matical Newton. Among a tribe of philosophers who
pride themselves excessively upon matter-of-fact, it is
far too fashionable to sneer at all speculation under
the comprehensive sobriquet, " guess-work." The
point to be considered is, who guesses. In guessing
with Plato, we spend our time to better purpose, now
and then, than in harkening to a demonstration by
Alcmaeon.
In many works on astronomy I find it distinctly
stated that the laws of Kepler are the basis of the great
principle, gravitation. This idea must have arisen
from the fact that the suggestion of these laws by
Kepler, and his proving them a posteriori to have an
actual existence, led Newton to account for them by
the hypothesis of gravitation, and, finally, to demon
strate them a priori, as necessary consequences of the
hypothetical principle. Thus, so far from the laws of
Kepler being the basis of gravity, gravity is the basis
of these laws, as it is, indeed, of all the laws of the
material universe which are not referable to repulsion
alone.
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The mean distance of the earth from the moon, that
is to say, from the heavenly body in our closest vicin
ity, is 237,000 miles. Mercury, the planet nearest the
sun, is distant from him 37,000,000 miles. Venus, the
next, revolves at a distance of 68,000,000 ; the Earth,
which comes next, at a distance of 95,000,000 ; Mars,
then, at a distance of 144,000,000. Now come the
eight asteroids (Ceres, Juno, Vesta, Pallas, Astraea,
Flora, Iris, and Hebe) at an average distance of about
250,000,000. Then we have Jupiter, distant 490,-
000,000; then Saturn, 900,000,000; then Uranus,
1,900,000,000; finally, Neptune, lately discovered,
and revolving at a distance, say, of 2,800,000,000.
Leaving Neptune out of the account, of which as yet
we know little accurately and which is possibly one of
a system of asteroids, it will be seen that, within cer
tain limits, there exists an order of interval among the
planets. Speaking loosely, we may say that each outer
planet is twice as far from the sun as is the next inner
one. May not the order here mentioned, may not
the law of Bode, be deduced from consideration of the
analogy suggested by me as having place between the
solar discharge of rings and the mode of the atomic
irradiation ?
The numbers hurriedly mentioned in this summary
of distance it is folly to attempt comprehending, un
less in the light of abstract arithmetical facts. They
are not practically tangible ones. They convey no
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precise ideas. I have stated that Neptune, the planet
farthest from the sun, revolves about him at a dis
tance of 2,800,000,000 of miles. So far good: I
have stated a mathematical fact, and, without com
prehending it in the least, we may put it to use,
mathematically. But in mentioning, even, that the
moon revolves about the earth at the comparatively
trifling distance of 237,000 miles, I entertained no
expectation of giving any one to understand, to know,
to feel, how far from the earth the moon actually is.
237,000 miles ! There are, perhaps, few of my readers
who have not crossed the Atlantic Ocean; yet how
many of them have a distinct idea of even the 3000
miles intervening between shore and shore ? I doubt,
indeed, whether the man lives who can force into his
brain the most remote conception of the interval be
tween one mile-stone and its next neighbor upon the
turnpike. We are in some measure aided, however,
in our consideration of distance by combining this con
sideration with the kindred one of velocity. Sound
passes through noo feet of space in a second of time.
Now were it possible for an inhabitant of the earth to
see the flash of a cannon discharged in the moon and
to hear the report, he would have to wait, after per
ceiving the former, more than thirteen entire days and
nights before getting any intimation of the latter.
However feeble be the impression, even thus con
veyed, of the moon's real distance from the earth, it
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will, nevertheless, effect a good object in enabling us
more clearly to see the futility of attempting to grasp
such intervals as that of the 2,800,000,000 of miles
between our sun and Neptune; or even that of the
95,000,000 between the sun and the earth we in
habit. A cannon-ball, flying at the greatest velocity
with which such a ball has ever been known to fly,
could not traverse the latter interval in less than
twenty years; while for the former it would require
590.
Our moon's real diameter is 2160 miles; yet she is
comparatively so trifling an object that it would take
nearly fifty such orbs to compose one as great as the
earth.
The diameter of our own globe is 7912 miles, but
from the enunciation of these numbers what positive
idea do we derive ?
If we ascend an ordinary mountain and look around
us from its summit, we behold a landscape stretching,
say, forty miles in every direction, forming a circle
250 miles in circumference, and including an area of
5000 square miles. The extent of such a prospect, on
account of the successiveness with which its portions
necessarily present themselves to view, can be only
very feebly and very partially appreciated; yet the
entire panorama would comprehend no more than one
40,oooth part of the mere surface of our globe. Were
this panorama, then, to be succeeded, after the lapse
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of an hour, by another of equal extent ; this again by
a third, after the lapse of an hour; this again by a
fourth, after lapse of another hour, and so on, until
the scenery of the whole earth were exhausted; and
were we to be engaged in examining these various
panoramas for twelve hours of every day, we should,
nevertheless, be nine years and forty-eight days in
completing the general survey.
But if the mere surface of the earth eludes the grasp
of the imagination, what are we to think of its cubical
contents ? It embraces a mass of matter equal in
weight to at least two sextillions, two hundred quiti*
tillions of tons. Let us suppose it in a state of
quiescence; and now let us endeavor to conceive a
mechanical force sufficient to set it in motion! Not
the strength of all the myriads of beings whom we may
conclude to inhabit the planetary worlds of our sys
tem, not the combined physical strength of all these
beings, even admitting all to be more powerful than
man, would avail to stir the ponderous mass a single
inch from its position.
What are we to understand, then, of the force which,
under similar circumstances, would be required to
move the largest of our planets, Jupiter ? This is
86,000 miles in diameter, and would include within its
periphery more than a thousand orbs of the magni
tude of our own. Yet this stupendous body is actually
flying around the sun at the rate of 29,000 miles an
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hour, that is to say, with a velocity forty times greater
than that of a cannon-ball! The thought of such a
phenomenon cannot well be said to startle the mind ;
it palsies and appalls it. Not unfrequently we task our
imagination in picturing the capacities of an angel.
Let us fancy such a being at a distance of some hun
dred miles from Jupiter, a close eye-witness of this
planet as it speeds on its annual revolution. Now,
can we, I demand, fashion for ourselves any concep
tion so distinct of this ideal being's spiritual exaltation
as that involved in the supposition that, even by this
immeasurable mass of matter, whirled immediately
before his eyes with a velocity so unutterable, he, an
angel, angelic though he be, is not at once struck
into nothingness and overwhelmed?
At this point, however, it seems proper to suggest
that, in fact, we have been speaking of comparative
trifles. Our sun, the central and controlling orb of
the system to which Jupiter belongs, is not only greater
than Jupiter, but greater by far than all the planets of
the system taken together. This fact is an essential
condition, indeed, of the stability of the system itself.
The diameter of Jupiter has been mentioned; it is
86,000 miles; that of the sun is 882,000 miles. An
inhabitant of the latter, travelling ninety miles a day,
would be more than eighty years in going round a
great circle of its circumference. It occupies a cubi
cal space of 68 1 quadrillions, 472 trillions of miles.
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The moon, as has been stated, revolves about the earth
at a distance of 237,000 miles, in an orbit, conse
quently, of nearly a million and a half. Now, were
the sun placed upon the earth, centre over centre, the
body of the former would extend, in every direction,
not only to the line of the moon's orbit, but beyond it,
a distance of 200,000 miles.
And here once again let me suggest that, in fact, we
have still been speaking of comparative trifles. The
distance of the planet Neptune from the sun has been
stated ; it is 28 hundred millions of miles ; the circum
ference of its orbit, therefore, is about 17 billions.
Let this be borne in mind while we glance at some one
of the brightest stars. Between this and the star of
our system (the sun) there is a gulf of space, to con
vey any idea of which, we should need the tongue of
an archangel. From our system, then, and from our
sun, or star, the star at which we suppose ourselves
glancing is a thing altogether apart ; still, for the mo
ment, let us imagine it placed upon our sun, centre
over centre, as we just now imagined this sun itself
placed upon the earth. Let us now conceive the par
ticular star we have in mind, extending in every direc
tion beyond the orbit of Mercury, of Venus, of the
earth ; still on, beyond the orbit of Mars, of Jupiter, of
Uranus, until, finally, we fancy it filling the circle,
seventeen billions of miles in circumference, which is
described by the revolution of Leverrier's planet. When
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we have conceived all this, we shall have entertained
no extravagant conception. There is the very best
reason for believing that many of the stars are even
far larger than the one we have imagined. I mean to
say, that we have the very best empirical basis for such
belief; and, in looking back at the original, atomic
arrangements for diversity, which have been assumed
as a part of the Divine plan in the constitution of the
universe, we shall be enabled easily to understand, and
to credit, the existence of even far vaster dispropor
tions in stellar size than any to which I have hitherto
alluded. The largest orbs, of course, we must expect
to find rolling through the widest vacancies of space.
I remarked just now that to convey an idea of the
interval between our sun and any one of the other
stars we should require the eloquence of an archangel.
In so saying, I should not be accused of exaggeration ;
for, in simple truth, these are topics on which it is
scarcely possible to exaggerate. But let us bring the
matter more distinctly before the eye of the mind.
In the first place, we may get a general, relative con
ception of the interval referred to by comparing it with
the inter-planetary spaces. If, for example, we sup
pose the earth, which is, in reality 95 millions of miles
from the sun, to be only one foot from that luminary,
then Neptune would be forty feet distant, and the star
Alpha Lyrse, at the very least, one hundred and fifty-
nine.
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Now, I presume that, in the termination of my last
sentence, few of my readers have noticed anything
especially objectionable, particularly wrong. I said
that the distance of the earth from the sun being
taken at one foot, the distance of Neptune would be
forty feet, and that of Alpha Lyrae one hundred and
fifty-nine. The proportion between one foot and one
hundred and fifty-nine has appeared, perhaps, to con
vey a sufficiently definite impression of the proportion
between the two intervals, that of the earth from the
sun, and that of Alpha Lyrae from the same luminary.
But my account of the matter should, in reality, have
run thus: The distance of the earth from the sun
being taken at one foot, the distance of Neptune would
be forty feet, and that of Alpha Lyrae one hundred and
fifty-nine miles; that is to say, I had assigned to
Alpha Lyrae, in my first statement of the case, only the
528oth part of that distance which is the least distance
possible at which it can actually lie.
To proceed : However distant a mere planet is, yet
when we look at it through a telescope, we see it under
a certain form, of a certain appreciable size. Now, I
have already hinted at the probable bulk of many of
the stars; nevertheless, when we view any one of
them, even through the most powerful telescope, it is
found to present us with no form, and consequently
with no magnitude whatever. We see it as a point and
nothing more.
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Again: Let us suppose ourselves walking at night
on a highway. In a field on one side of the road is a
line of tall objects, say trees, the figures of which are
distinctly defined against the background of the sky.
This line of objects extends at right angles to the road,
and from the road to the horizon. Now, as we proceed
along the road, we see these objects changing their
positions, respectively, in relation to a certain fixed
point in that portion of the firmament which forms the
background of the view. Let us suppose this fixed
point, sufficiently fixed for our purpose, to be the rising
moon. We become aware at once that while the tree
nearest us so far alters its position hi respect to the
moon as to seem flying behind us, the tree in the
extreme distance has scarcely changed at all its rela
tive position with the satellite. We then go on to
perceive that the farther the objects are from us the
less they alter their positions ; and the converse. Then
we begin unwittingly to estimate the distances of in
dividual trees by the degrees in which they evince the
relative alteration. Finally, we come to understand
how it might be possible to ascertain the actual dis
tance of any given tree in the line by using the amount
of relative alteration as a basis in a simple geometrical
problem. Now, this relative alteration is what we call
" parallax " ; and by parallax we calculate the dis
tances of the heavenly bodies. Applying the principle
to the trees in question, we should, of course, be very
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much at a loss to comprehend the distance of that tree,
which, however far we proceeded along the road,
should evince no parallax at all. This, in the case
described, is a thing impossible; but impossible only
because all distances on our earth are trivial indeed;
in comparison with the vast cosmical quantities we may
speak of them as absolutely nothing.
Now, let us suppose the star Alpha Lyrse directly
overhead; and let us imagine that, instead of stand
ing on the earth, we stand at one end of a straight
road stretching through space to a distance equalling
the diameter of the earth's orbit, that is to say, to a
distance of one hundred and ninety millions of miles.
Having observed, by means of the most delicate micro-
metrical instruments, the exact position of the star, let
us now pass along this inconceivable road until we
reach the other extremity. Now, once again, let us
look at the star. It is precisely where we left it. Our
instruments, however delicate, assure us that its rela
tive position is absolutely, is identically the same, as at
the commencement of our unutterable journey. No
parallax, none whatever, has been found.
The fact is that, in regard to the distance of the fixed
stars, of any one of the myriads of suns glistening on
the farther side of that awful chasm which separates
our system from its brothers in the cluster to which it
belongs, astronomical science, until very lately, could
speak only with a negative certainty. Assuming the
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brightest as the nearest, we could say, even of them,
only that there is a certain incomprehensible distance
on the hither side of which they cannot be ; how far
they are beyond it we had in no case been able to ascer
tain. We perceived, for example, that Alpha Lyrae
cannot be nearer to us than 19 trillions, 200 billions, of
miles; but for all we knew, and, indeed, for all we
now know, it may be distant from us the square, or
the cube, or any other power of the number mentioned.
By dint, however, of wonderfully minute and cautious
observations, continued, with novel instruments, for
many laborious years, Bessel, not long ago deceased,
has lately succeeded in determining the distance of six
or seven stars; among others, that of the star num
bered 6 1 in the constellation of the Swan. The dis
tance in this latter instance ascertained is 670,000
times that of the sun, which last, it will be remem
bered, is 95 millions of miles. The star 61 Cygni, then,
is nearly 64 trillions of miles from us, or more than
three times the distance assigned, as the least possible,
for Alpha Lyrae.
In attempting to appreciate this interval by the aid
of any considerations of velocity, as we did in endeav
oring to estimate the distance of the moon, we must
leave out of sight, altogether, such nothings as the
speed of a cannon-ball or of sound. Light, however,
according to the latest calculations of Struve, proceeds
at the rate of 167,000 miles in a second. Thought
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itself cannot pass through this interval more speedily,
if, indeed, thought can traverse it at all. Yet, in com
ing from 6 1 Cygni to us, even at this inconceivable
rate, light occupies more than ten years; and, conse
quently, were the star this moment blotted out from
the universe, still, for ten years, would it continue to
sparkle on, undimmed in its paradoxical glory.
Keeping now in mind whatever feeble conception we
may have attained of the interval between our sun and
6 1 Cygni, let us remember that this interval, however
unutterably vast, we are permitted to consider as but
the average interval among the countless hosts of stars
composing that cluster, or " nebula," to which our
system, as well as that of 61 Cygni, belongs. I have,
in fact, stated the case with great moderation: we
have excellent reason for believing 61 Cygni to be one
of the nearest stars, and thus for concluding, at least
for the present, that its distance from us is less than
the average distance between star and star in the mag
nificent cluster of the Milky Way.
And here, once again and finally, it seems proper to
suggest that even as yet we have been speaking of
trifles. Ceasing to wonder at the space between star
and star in our own or in any particular cluster, let us
rather turn our thoughts to the intervals between clus
ter and cluster, in the all-comprehensive cluster of the
universe.
I have already said that light proceeds at the rate of
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167,000 miles in a second, that is, about ten millions
of miles in a minute, or about 600 millions of miles in
an hour ; yet so far removed from us are some of the
" nebulae " that even light, speeding with this velocity,
could not and does not reach us from those mysterious
regions in less than three millions of years. This cal
culation, moreover, is made by the elder Herschel, and
in reference merely to those comparatively proximate
clusters within the scope of his own telescope. There
are " nebula?," however, which, through the magical
tube of Lord Rosse, are this instant whispering in our
ears the secrets of a million of ages bygone. In a
word, the events which we behold now, at this mo
ment, in those worlds, are the identical events which
interested their inhabitants ten hundred thousand cent
uries ago. In intervals, in distances such as this sug
gestion forces upon the soul, rather than upon the
mind, we find at length a fitting climax to all hitherto
frivolous considerations of quantity.
Our fancies thus occupied with the cosmical dis
tances, let us take the opportunity of referring to the
difficulty which we have so often experienced, while
pursuing the beaten path of astronomical reflection, in
accounting for the immeasurable voids alluded to, in
comprehending why chasms so totally unoccupied and
therefore apparently so needless have been made to
intervene between star and star, between cluster and
cluster; in understanding, to be brief, a sufficient
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reason for the Titanic scale, in respect of mere space,
on which the universe is seen to be constructed. A
rational cause for the phenomenon, I maintain that
astronomy has palpably failed to assign; but the con
siderations through which, in this essay, we have pro
ceeded step by step enable us clearly and immediately
to perceive that space and duration are one. That the
universe might endure throughout an era at all com
mensurate with the grandeur of its component mater
ial portions and with the high majesty of its spiritual
purposes, it was necessary that the original atomic
diffusion be made to so inconceivable an extent as to be
only not infinite. It was required, in a word, that the
stars should be gathered into visibility from invisible
nebulosity, proceed from nebulosity to consolidation,
and so grow gray in giving birth and death to un
speakably numerous and complex variations of vitalic
development ; it was required that the stars should do
all this, should have time thoroughly to accomplish all
these Divine purposes, during the period in which all
things were effecting their return into unity with a
velocity accumulating in the inverse proportion of the
squares of the distances at which lay the inevitable end.
Throughout all this we have no difficulty in under
standing the absolute accuracy of the Divine adapta
tion. The density of the stars, respectively, proceeds,
of course, as their condensation diminishes ; condensa
tion and heterogeneity keep pace with each other;
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through the latter, which is the index of the former,
we estimate the vitalic and spiritual development.
Thus, in the density of the globes, we have the measure
in which their purposes are fulfilled. As density pro
ceeds, as the Divine intentions are accomplished, as
less and still less remains to be accomplished, so, in the
same ratio, should we expect to find an acceleration of
the end; and thus the philosophical mind will easily
comprehend that the Divine designs in constituting the
stars advance mathematically to their fulfilment ; and
more, it will readily give the advance a mathematical
expression ; it will decide that this advance is inversely
proportional with the squares of the distances of all
created things from the starting-point and goal of their
creation.
Not only is this Divine adaptation, however, mathe
matically accurate, but there is that about it which
stamps it as Divine, in distinction from that which is
merely the work of human constructiveness. I allude
to the complete mutuality of adaptation. For ex
ample, in human constructions a particular cause has
a particular effect; a particular intention brings to
pass a particular object; but this is all; we see no
reciprocity. The effect does not react upon the cause ;
the intention does not change relations with the ob
ject. In Divine constructions the object is either de
sign or object as we choose to regard it, and we may
take at anytime a cause for an effect, or the converse,
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so that we can never absolutely decide which is which.
To give an instance: In polar climates the human
frame, to maintain its animal heat, requires, for com
bustion in the capillary system, an abundant supply of
highly azotized food, such as train-oil. But again, hi
polar climates nearly the sole food afforded man is the
oil of abundant seals and whales. Now, whether is
oil at hand because imperatively demanded, or the only
thing demanded because the only thing to be obtained ?
It is impossible to decide. There is an absolute reci
procity of adaptation.
The pleasure which we derive from any display of
human ingenuity is in the ratio of the approach to this
species of reciprocity. In the construction of plot, for
example, in fictitious literature, we should aim at so
arranging the incidents that we shall not be able to de
termine, of any one of them, whether it depends from
any one other or upholds it. In this sense, of course,
perfection of plot is really, or practically, unattainable,
but only because it is a finite intelligence that con
structs. The plots of God are perfect. The universe
is a plot of God.
And now we have reached a point at which the in
tellect is forced, again, to struggle against its propen
sity for analogical inference, against its monomaniac
grasping at the infinite. Moons have been seen re
volving about planets; planets about stars; and the
poetical instinct of humanity, its instinct of the sym-
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metrical, if the symmetry be but a symmetry of surface,
this instinct, which the soul, not only of man but of
all created beings, took up, in the beginning, from the
geometrical basis of the universal irradiation, impels
us to the fancy of an endless extension of this system
of cycles. Closing our eyes equally to deduction and
induction, we insist upon imagining a revolution of all
the orbs of the Galaxy about some gigantic globe which
we take to be the central pivot of the whole. Each
cluster in the great cluster of clusters is imagined, of
course, to be similarly supplied and constructed ; while,
that the " analogy " may be wanting at no point, we
go on to conceive these clusters themselves, again, as
revolving around some still more august sphere; this
latter, still again, with its encircling clusters, as but
one of a yet more magnificent series of agglomerations,
gyrating about yet another orb central to them, some
orb still more unspeakably sublime, some orb, let us
rather say, of infinite sublimity endlessly multiplied by
the infinitely sublime. Such are the conditions, con
tinued in perpetuity, which the voice of what some
people term " analogy " calls upon the fancy to depict
and the reason to contemplate, if possible, without
becoming dissatisfied with the picture. Such, in gen
eral, are the interminable gyrations beyond gyration
which we have been instructed by philosophy to com
prehend and to account for, at least in the best manner
we can. Now and then, however, a philosopher proper,
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one whose frenzy takes a very determinate turn, whose
genius, to speak more reverentially, has a strongly
pronounced washer-womanish bias, doing everything
up by the dozen, enables us to see precisely that point
out of sight at which the revolutionary processes in
question do, and of right ought to, come to an end.
It is hardly worth while, perhaps, even to sneer at
the reveries of Fourier, but much has been said lat
terly of the hypothesis of Madler, that there exists, in
the centre of the Galaxy, a stupendous globe about
which all the systems of the cluster revolve. The
period of our own, indeed, has been stated 117 mil
lions of years.
That our sun has a motion in space, independently of
its rotation and revolution about the system's centre
of gravity, has long been suspected. This motion,
granting it to exist, would be manifested perspectively.
The stars in that firmamental region which we were
leaving behind us would, in a very long series of years,
become crowded; those in the opposite quarter scat
tered. Now, by means of astronomical history, we
ascertain, cloudily, that some such phenomena have
occurred. On this ground it has been declared that
our system is moving to a point in the heavens dia
metrically opposite the star Zeta Herculis ; but this in
ference is, perhaps, the maximum to which we have
any logical right. Madler, however, has gone so far
as to designate a particular star, Alcyone in the Plei-
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ades, as being at or about the very spot around which
a general revolution is performed.
Now, since by " analogy " we are led, in the first
instance, to these dreams, it is no more than proper
that we should abide by analogy, at least in some
measure, during their development ; and that analogy
which suggests the revolution suggests at the same
time a central orb about which it should be performed ;
so far the astronomer was consistent. This central
orb, however, should, dynamically, be greater than all
the orbs taken together which surround it. Of these
there are about 100 millions. " Why, then," it was
of course demanded, " do we not see this vast central
sun, at least equal in mass to 100 millions of such
suns as ours; why do we not see it we, especially,
who occupy the mid region of the cluster, the very
locality near which, at all events, must be situated this
incomparable star ? " The reply was ready : " It must
be non-luminous, as are our planets." Here, then, to
suit a purpose, analogy is suddenly let fall. " Not so,"
it may be said, " we know that non-luminous suns
actually exist." It is true that we have reason at
least for supposing so ; but we have certainly no reason
whatever for supposing that the non-luminous suns in
question are encircled by luminous suns, while these
again are surrounded by non-luminous planets ; and it
is precisely all this with which Madler is called upon
to find anything analogous in the heavens, for it is
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precisely all this which he imagines in the case of the
Galaxy. Admitting the thing to be so, we cannot
help here picturing to ourselves how sad a puzzle the
" why it is so " must prove to all a priori philosophers.
But, granting in the very teeth of analogy and of
everything else the non-luminosity of the vast central
orb, we may still inquire how this orb, so enormous,
could fail of being rendered visible by the flood of
light thrown upon it from the 100 millions of glorious
suns glaring in all directions about it. Upon the
urging of this question, the idea of an actually solid
central sun appears in some measure to have been
abandoned; and speculation proceeded to assert that
the systems of the cluster perform their revolutions
merely about an immaterial centre of gravity common
to all. Here, again, then, to suit a purpose, analogy is
let fall. The planets of our system revolve, it is true,
about a common centre of gravity ; but they do this in
connection with, and in consequence of, a material sun
whose mass more than counterbalances the rest of the
system.
The mathematical circle is a curve composed of an
infinity of straight lines. But this idea of the circle,
an idea which, in view of all ordinary geometry, is
merely the mathematical as contradistinguished from
the practical idea, is, in sober fact, the practical con
ception which alone we have any right to entertain in
regard to the majestic circle with which we have to
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deal, at least in fancy, when we suppose our system
revolving about a point in the centre of the Galaxy.
Let the most vigorous of human imaginations attempt
to take but a single step toward the comprehension of
a sweep so ineffable! It would scarcely be paradoxi
cal to say that a flash of lightning itself, travelling
forever upon the circumference of this unutterable
circle, would still forever be travelling in a straight
line. That the path of our sun in such an orbit would,
to any human perception, deviate in the slightest de
gree from a straight line, even in a million of years, is
a proposition not to be entertained; yet we are re
quired to believe that a curvature has become apparent
during the brief period of our astronomical history
during a mere point during the utter nothingness of
two or three thousand years.
It may be said that Madler has really ascertained a
curvature in the direction of our system's now well-
established progress through space. Admitting, if
necessary, this fact to be in reality such, I maintain
that nothing is thereby shown except the reality of this
fact, the fact of a curvature. For its thorough deter
mination ages will be required ; and, when determined,
it will be found indicative of some binary or other
multiple relation between our sun and some one or
more of the proximate stars. I hazard nothing, how
ever, in predicting that after the lapse of many cen
turies, all efforts at determining the path of our sun
VOL. X.-20. 305
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through space will be abandoned as fruitless. This is
easily conceivable when we look at the infinity of per
turbation it must experience, from its perpetually
shifting relations with other orbs, in the common
approach of all to the nucleus of the Galaxy.
But in examining other " nebulae " than that of the
Milky Way, in surveying, generally, the clusters which
overspread the heavens, do we or do we not find con
firmation of Madler's hypothesis ? We do not. The
forms of the clusters are exceedingly diverse when
casually viewed; but on close inspection through
powerful telescopes, we recognize the sphere very dis
tinctly as at least the proximate form of all ; their con
stitution in general being at variance with the idea of
revolution about a common centre.
" It is difficult," says Sir John Herschel, " to form
any conception of the dynamical state of such systems.
On one hand, without a rotary motion and a centri
fugal force, it is hardly possible not to regard them as
in a state of progressive collapse. On the other, grant
ing such a motion and such a force, we find it no less
difficult to reconcile their forms with the rotation of the
whole system [meaning cluster] around any single axis,
without which internal collision would appear to be
inevitable."
Some remarks lately made about the " nebulas " by
Dr. Nichol, in taking quite a different view of the cos-
mical conditions from any taken in this discourse, have
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a very peculiar applicability to the point now at issue.
He says :
" When our greatest telescopes are brought to bear
upon them, we find that those which were thought to
be irregular are not so; they approach nearer to a
globe. Here is one that looked oval ; but Lord Rosse's
telescope brought it into a circle. . . . Now, there
occurs a very remarkable circumstance in reference
to these comparatively sweeping circular masses of
nebulae. We find they are not entirely circular,
but the reverse ; and that all around them on every
side there are volumes of stars, stretching out appar
ently as if they were rushing toward a great central
mass in consequence of the action of some great
power." x
Were I to describe, in my own words, what must
necessarily be the existing condition of each nebula on
the hypothesis that all matter is, as I suggest, now re
turning to its original unity, I should simply be going
over, nearly verbatim, the language here employed by
Dr. Nichol, without the faintest suspicion of that stu
pendous truth which is the key to these nebular phe
nomena.
And here let me fortify my position still further by
the voice of a greater than Madler, of one, moreover,
1 1 must be understood as denying, especially, only the revolutionary por
tion of Mk'dler's hypothesis. Of course, if no great central orb exists now in
our cluster, such will exist hereafter. Whenever existing, it will be merely
the nucleus of the consolidation.
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to whom all the data of Madler have long been familiar
things, carefully and thoroughly considered. Refer
ring to the elaborate calculations of Argelander, the
very researches which form Madler's basis, Hum-
boldt, whose generalizing powers have never, perhaps,
been equalled, has the following observation :
" When we regard the real, proper, or non-perspec
tive motions of the stars, we find many groups of them
moving in opposite directions ; and the data as yet in
hand render it not necessary, at least, to conceive that
the systems composing the Milky Way, or the clusters
generally composing the universe, are revolving about
any particular centre unknown, whether luminous or
non-luminous. It is but man's longing for a funda
mental First Cause that impels both his intellect and
fancy to the adoption of such an hypothesis." *
The phenomenon here alluded to, that of " many
groups moving in opposite directions," is quite inex
plicable by Madler's idea; but arises, as a necessary
consequence, from that which forms the basis of this
discourse. While the merely general direction of each
atom of each moon, planet, star, or cluster would,
1 Betrachtet man die nicht perspectivischen eigenen Bewegungen der Sterne,
so scheinen viele gruppenweise in ihrer Richtung entgegengesetzt; und die
bisher gesammelten Thatsachen machen es auf 's wenigste nicht nothwendig,
anzunehmen, dass alle Theile unserer Sternenschicht oder gar der gesammten
Sterneninseln, welche den Weltraum fullen, sich um einen grossen, unbe-
kannten, leuchtenden, oder dunkeln Centralkorper bewegen. Das Streben
nach den letzen und hochsten Grundursachen macht freilich die reflectirende
Thatigkeit des Menschen, wie seine Phantasie, zu einer solchen Annahme
geneigt.
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on my hypothesis, be, of course, absolutely rectilinear,
while the general path of all bodies would be a right
line leading to the centre of all ; it is clear, neverthe
less, that this general rectilinearity would be com
pounded of what, with scarcely any exaggeration, we
may term an infinity of particular curves, an infinity
of local deviations from rectilinearity, the result of
continuous differences of relative position among the
multitudinous masses, as each proceeded on its own
proper journey to the end.
I quoted just now from Sir John Herschel the fol
lowing words, used in reference to the clusters : " On
one hand, without a rotary motion and a centrifugal
force, it is hardly possible not to regard them as in a
state of ' progressive collapse.' " The fact is, that, in
surveying the " nebulae " with a telescope of high
power, we shall find it quite impossible, having once
conceived this idea of " collapse," not to gather at all
points corroboration of the idea. A nucleus is always
apparent in the direction of which the stars seem to be
precipitating themselves ; nor can these nuclei be mis
taken for merely perspective phenomena; the clusters
are really denser near the centre, sparser in the regions
more remote from it. In a word, we see everything as
we should see it were a collapse taking place ; but, in
general, it may be said of these clusters that we can
fairly entertain, while looking at them, the ideal of
orbital movement about a centre only by admitting the
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possible existence, in the distant domains of space, of
dynamical laws with which we are unacquainted.
On the part of Herschel, however, there is evidently
a reluctance to regard the nebulae as in " a state of
progressive collapse." But if facts, if even appear
ances justify the supposition of their being in this
state, why, it may well be demanded, is he disinclined
to admit it ? Simply on account of a prejudice ;
merely because the supposition is at war with a pre
conceived and utterly baseless notion, that of the
endlessness, that of the eternal stability of the universe.
If the propositions of this discourse are tenable, the
" state of progressive collapse " is precisely that state
in which alone we are warranted in considering all
things; and, with due humility, let me here confess
that, for my part, I am at a loss to conceive how any
other understanding of the existing condition of affairs
could ever have made its way into the human brain.
" The tendency to collapse " and " the attraction of
gravitation " are convertible phrases. In using either
we speak of the reaction of the First Act. Never was
necessity less obvious than that of supposing matter
imbued with an ineradicable quality forming part of
its material nature a quality, or instinct, forever in
separable from it, and by dint of which inalienable
principle every atom is perpetually impelled to seek its
fellow-atom. Never was necessity less obvious than
that of entertaining this unphilosophical idea. Going
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boldly behind the vulgar thought, we have to conceive,
metaphysically, that the gravitating principle apper
tains to matter temporarily, only while diffused, only
while existing as many instead of as one; appertains
to it by virtue of its state of irradiation alone; apper
tains, in a word, altogether to its condition, and not
in the slightest degree to itself. In this view, when the
irradiation shall have returned into its source, when the
reaction shall be completed, the gravitating principle
will no longer exist. And, in fact, astronomers, with
out at any time reaching the idea here suggested, seem
to have been approximating it, in the assertion that " if
there were but one body in the universe, it would be
impossible to understand how the principle, gravity,
could obtain " ; that is to say, from a consideration of
matter as they find it, they reach a conclusion at which
I deductively arrive. That so pregnant a suggestion as
the one quoted should have been permitted to remain
so long unfruitful, is, nevertheless, a mystery which I
find it difficult to fathom.
It is, perhaps, in no little degree, however, our pro
pensity for the continuous, for the analogical, in the
present case more particularly for the symmetrical,
which has been leading us astray. And, in fact, the
sense of the symmetrical is an instinct which may be
depended upon with an almost blindfold reliance. It
is the poetical essence of the universe of the universe
which, in the supremeness of its symmetry, is but the
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most sublime of poems. Now, symmetry and consis
tency are convertible terms ; thus poetry and truth are
one. A thing is consistent in the ratio of its truth,
true in the ratio of its consistency. A perfect con
sistency, I repeat, can be nothing but an absolute truth.
We may take it for granted, then, that man cannot
long or widely err if he suffer himself to be guided by
his poetical, which I have maintained to be his truth
ful, in being his symmetrical, instinct. He must have
a care, however, lest, in pursuing too heedlessly the
superficial symmetry of forms and motions, he leave
out of sight the really essential symmetry of the prin
ciples which determine and control them.
That the stellar bodies would finally be merged in
one, that, at last, all would be drawn into the sub
stance of one stupendous central orb already existing,
is an idea which, for some time past, seems vaguely
and indeterminately to have held possession of the
fancy of mankind. It is an idea, in fact, which be
longs to the class of the excessively obvious. It springs
instantly from a superficial observation of the cyclic
and seemingly gyrating or vortical movements of
those individual portions of the universe which come
most immediately and most closely under our observa
tion. There is not, perhaps, a human being, of ordi
nary education and of average reflective capacity, to
whom, at some period, the fancy in question has not
occurred, as if spontaneously, or intuitively, and wear-
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ing all the character of a very profound and very
original conception. This conception, however, so
commonly entertained, has never, within my know
ledge, arisen out of any abstract considerations. Being,
on the contrary, always suggested, as I say, by the
vortical movements about centres, a reason for it,
also, a cause for the ingathering of all the orbs into
one, imagined to be already existing, was naturally
sought in the same direction among these cyclic move
ments themselves.
Thus it happened that, on announcement of the
gradual and perfectly regular decrease observed in the
orbit of Encke's comet at every successive revolution
about our sun, astronomers were nearly unanimous in
the opinion that the cause in question was found; that
a principle was discovered sufficient to account, physi
cally, for that final, universal agglomeration which,
I repeat, the analogical, symmetrical, or poetical in
stinct of man had predetermined to understand as
something more than a simple hypothesis.
This cause, this sufficient reason for the final in
gathering, was declared to exist in an exceedingly rare,
but still material medium pervading space; which
medium, by retarding, in some degree, the progress of
the comet, perpetually weakened its tangential force,
thus giving a predominance to the centripetal, which, of
course, drew the comet nearer and nearer at each revo
lution, and would eventually precipitate it upon the sun.
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All this was strictly logical, admitting the medium or
ether; but this ether was assumed, most illogically, on
the ground that no other mode than the one spoken of
could be discovered of accounting for the observed
decrease in the orbit of the comet ; as if, from the fact
that we could discover no other mode of accounting
for it, it followed, in any respect, that no other mode
of accounting for it existed. It is clear that innumer
able causes might operate, in combination, to dimin
ish the orbit, without even a possibility of our ever
becoming acquainted with one of them. In the mean
time, it has never been fairly shown, perhaps, why the
retardation occasioned by the skirts of the sun's atmos
phere, through which the comet passes at perihelion,
is not enough to account for the phenomenon. That
Encke's comet will be absorbed into the sun is prob
able; that all the comets of the system will be ab
sorbed is more than merely possible ; but, in such case,
the principle of absorption must be referred to eccen
tricity of orbit, to the close approximation to the sun,
of the comets at their perihelia ; and is a principle not
affecting in any degree the ponderous spheres which
are to be regarded as the true material constituents of
the universe. Touching comets in general, let me here
suggest, in passing, that we cannot be far wrong in
looking upon them as the lightning flashes of the cos-
mica! heaven.
The idea of a retarding ether, and, through it, of a
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final agglomeration of all things, seemed at one time,
however, to be confirmed by the observation of a posi
tive decrease in the orbit of the solid moon. By refer
ence to eclipses recorded 2500 years ago, it was found
that the velocity of the satellite's revolution then
was considerably less than it is now; that on the
hypothesis that its motion in its orbit is uniformly
in accordance with Kepler's law, and was accurately de
termined then, 2500 years ago, it is nowin advance
of the position it should occupy by nearly 9000 miles.
The increase of velocity proved, of course, a diminu
tion of orbit ; and astronomers were fast yielding to a
belief in an ether as the sole mode of accounting for
the phenomenon, when Lagrange came to the rescue.
He showed that, owing to the configurations of the
spheroids, the shorter axes of their ellipses are subject
to variation in length, the longer axes being perma
nent ; and that this variation is continuous and vibra
tory, so that every orbit is in a state of transition,
either from circle to ellipse or from ellipse to circle.
In the case of the moon, where the shorter axis is de
creasing, the orbit is passing from circle to ellipse, and,
consequently, is decreasing too; but, after a long
series of ages, the ultimate eccentricity will be at
tained; then the shorter axis will proceed to increase
until the orbit becomes a circle, when the process of
shortening will again take place; and so on forever.
In the case of the earth, the orbit is passing from ellipse
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to circle. The facts thus demonstrated do away, of
course, with all necessity for supposing an ether, and
with all apprehension of the system's instability on
the ether's account.
It will be remembered that I have myself assumed
what we may term " an ether." I have spoken of a
subtle influence which we know to be ever in attend
ance upon matter, although becoming manifest only
through matter's heterogeneity. To this influence,
without daring to touch it at all hi any effort at ex
plaining its awful nature, I have referred the various
phenomena of electricity, heat, light, magnetism ; and,
more, of vitality, consciousness, and thought in a
word, of spirituality. It will be seen at once, then,
that the ether thus conveyed is radically distinct from
the ether of the astronomers, inasmuch as theirs is
matter and mine not.
With the idea of material ether, seems, thus, to have
departed altogether the thought of that universal ag
glomeration so long predetermined by the poetical
fancy of mankind, an agglomeration in which a
sound philosophy might have been warranted in put
ting faith, at least to a certain extent, if for no other
reason than that by this poetical fancy it had been so
predetermined. But so far as astronomy, so far as
mere physics, have yet spoken, the cycles of the uni
verse have no conceivable end. Had an end been
demonstrated, however, from so purely collateral a
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cause as an ether, man's instinct of the Divine capacity
to adapt would have rebelled against the demonstra
tion. We should have been forced to regard the uni
verse with some such sense of dissatisfaction as we
experience in contemplating an unnecessary complex
work of human art. Creation would have affected us
as an imperfect plot in a romance, where the denoue'
ment is awkwardly brought about by interposed
incidents external and foreign to the main subject, in
stead of springing out of the bosom of the thesis, out
of the heart of the ruling idea ; instead of arising as a
result of the primary proposition, as inseparable and
inevitable part and parcel of the fundamental concep
tion of the book.
What I mean by the symmetry of mere surface will
now be more clearly understood. It is simply by the
blandishment of this symmetry that we have been
beguiled into the general idea of which Madler's hy
pothesis is but a part, the idea of the vortical indraw-
ing of the orbs. Dismissing this nakedly physical
conception, the symmetry of principle sees the end of
all things metaphysically involved in the thought of a
beginning; seeks and finds in this origin of all things
the rudiment of this end ; and perceives the impiety of
supposing this end likely to be brought about less
simply, less directly, less obviously, less artistically,
than through the reaction of the originating Act.
Recurring, then, to a previous suggestion, let us
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understand the systems, let us understand each star
with its attendant planets, as but a Titanic atom exist
ing in space with precisely the same inclination for
unity which characterized, in the beginning, the actual
atoms after their irradiation throughout the universal
sphere. As these original atoms rushed toward each
other in generally straight lines, so let us conceive as
at least generally rectilinear the paths of the system-
atoms toward their respective centres of aggregation;
and in this direct drawing together of the systems into
clusters, with a similar and simultaneous drawing to
gether of the clusters themselves while undergoing
consolidation, we have at length attained the great
Now, the awful present, the existing condition of the
universe.
Of the still more awful future a not irrational an
alogy may guide us in framing an hypothesis. The
equilibrium between the centripetal and centrifugal
forces of each system being necessarily destroyed upon
attainment of a certain proximity to the nucleus of the
cluster to which it belongs, there must occur, at once,
a chaotic, or seemingly chaotic, precipitation of the
moons upon the planets, of the planets upon the suns,
and of the suns upon the nuclei ; and the general re
sult of this precipitation must be the gathering of the
myriad now-existing stars of the firmament into an
almost infinitely less number of almost infinitely su
perior spheres. In being immeasurably fewer, the
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worlds of that day will be immeasurably greater than
our own. Then, indeed, amid unfathomable abysses
will be glaring unimaginable suns. But all this will
be merely a climatic magnificence foreboding the great
end. Of this end the new genesis described can be
but a very partial postponement. While undergoing
consolidation, the clusters themselves, with a speed
prodigiously accumulative, have been rushing toward
their own general centre, and now, with a thousand
fold electric velocity, commensurate only with their
material grandeur and with the spiritual passion of
their appetite for oneness, the majestic remnants of
the tribe of stars flash, at length, into a common em
brace. The inevitable catastrophe is at hand.
But this catastrophe what is it ? We have seen
accomplished the ingatherings of the orbs. Hence
forward, are we not to understand one material globe
of globes as constituting and comprehending the uni
verse ? Such a fancy would be altogether at war with
every assumption and consideration of this discourse.
I have already alluded to that absolute reciprocity
of adaptation which is the idiosyncrasy of the Divine
art, stamping it Divine. Up to this point of our re
flections, we have been regarding the electrical influ
ence as a something by dint of whose repulsion alone
matter is enabled to exist in that state of diffusion
demanded for the fulfilment of its purposes; so far, in
a word, we have been considering the influence in
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question as ordained for matter's sake to subserve the
objects of matter. With a perfectly legitimate reci
procity we are now permitted to look at matter as
created solely for the sake of this influence, solely to
serve the objects of this spiritual ether. Through the
aid, by the means, through the agency of matter,
and by dint of its heterogeneity, is this ether mani
fested is spirit individualized. It is merely in the
development of this ether, through heterogeneity, that
particular masses of matter become animate, sensi
tive, and in the ratio of their heterogeneity, some
reaching a degree of sensitiveness involving what we
call thought, and thus attaining conscious intelligence.
In this view we are enabled to perceive matter as
a means, not as an end. Its purposes are thus seen
to have been comprehended in its diffusion ; and with
the return into unity these purposes cease. The ab
solutely consolidated globe of globes would be object
less, therefore not for a moment could it continue to
exist. Matter, created for an end, would unquestion
ably, on fulfilment of that end, be matter no longer.
Let us endeavor to understand that it would disappear,
and that God would remain all in all.
That every work of Divine conception must coexist
and coexpire with its particular design seems to me
especially obvious; and I make no doubt that, on per
ceiving the final globe of globes to be objectless, the
majority of my readers will be satisfied with my
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" therefore it cannot continue to exist." Neverthe
less, as the startling thought of its instantaneous dis
appearance is one which the most powerful intellect
cannot be expected readily to entertain on grounds so
decidedly abstract, let us endeavor to look at the idea
from some other and more ordinary point of view;
let us see how thoroughly and beautifully it is corrob
orated in an a posteriori consideration of matter as
we actually find it.
I have before said that " attraction and repulsion
being undeniably the sole properties by which matter
is manifested to mind, we are justified in assuming
that matter exists only as attraction and repulsion; in
other words, that attraction and repulsion are matter,
there being no conceivable case in which we may not
employ the term * matter ' and the terms * attraction '
and * repulsion ' taken together as equivalent, and
therefore convertible, expressions of logic." *
Now, the very definition of attraction implies par
ticularity, the existence of parts, particles, or atoms;
for we define it as the tendency of " each atom, etc., to
every other atom," etc., according to a certain law. Of
course, where there are no parts, where there is abso
lute unity, where the tendency to oneness is satisfied,
there can be no attraction : this has been fully shown,
and all philosophy admits it. When, on fulfilment of
its purposes, then, matter shall have returned into its
1 Pages 205, 206.
VOL. X. 21. ?
Eureka
original condition of one, a condition which presup
poses the expulsion of the separative ether, whose
province and whose capacity are limited to keeping
the atoms apart until that great day when, this ether
being no longer needed, the overwhelming pressure of
the finally collective attraction shall at length just
sufficiently predominate * and expel it, when, I say,
matter, finally, expelling the ether, shall have returned
into absolute unity, it will then (to speak paradoxically
for the moment) be matter without attraction and
without repulsion, in other words, matter without
matter ; in other words, again, matter no more. In
sinking into unity, it will sink at once into that noth
ingness which, to all finite perception, unity must be ;
into that material nihility from which alone we can
conceive it to have been evoked, to have been cre
ated by the volition of God.
I repeat, then : Let us endeavor to comprehend that
the final globe of globes will instantaneously disap
pear, and that God will remain all in all.
But are we here to pause ? Not so. On the uni
versal agglomeration on dissolution, we can readily
conceive that a new and perhaps totally different series
of conditions may ensue, another creation and irra
diation, returning into itself, another action and re
action of the Divine Will. Guiding our imaginations
by that omniprevalent law of laws, the law of perio-
1 " Gravity, therefore, must be the strongest of forces." See page 230.
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dicity, are we not, indeed, more than justified in en
tertaining a belief let us say, rather, in indulging a
hope that the processes we have here ventured to
contemplate will be renewed forever, and forever, and
forever; a novel universe swelling into existence and
then subsiding into nothingness at every throb of the
Heart Divine ?
And now, this Heart Divine what is it ? It is our
own.
Let not the merely seeming irreverence of this idea
frighten our souls from that cool exercise of conscious
ness, from that deep tranquillity of self-inspection,
through which alone we can hope to attain the pres
ence of this, the most sublime of truths, and look it
leisurely in the face.
The phenomena on which our conclusions must at
this point depend are merely spiritual shadows, but
not the less thoroughly substantial.
We walk about, amid the destinies of our world-
existence, encompassed by dim and ever present
memories of a destiny more vast, very distant in the
bygone time, and infinitely awful.
We live out a youth peculiarly haunted by such
dreams, yet never mistaking them for dreams. As
memories we know them. During our youth the dis
tinction is too clear to deceive us even for a moment.
So long as this youth endures, the feeling that we
exist is the most natural of all feelings. We under-
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stand it thoroughly. That there was a period at which
we did not exist, or, that it might so have happened
that we never had existed at all, are the considera
tions, indeed, which, during this youth, we find diffi
culty in understanding. Why we should not exist, is,
up to the epoch of our manhood, of all queries the
most unanswerable. Existence, self-existence, exist
ence from all time to all eternity, seems, up to the
epoch of manhood, a normal and questionable condi
tion, seems, because it is.
But now comes the period at which a conventional
world-reason awakens us from the truth of our dream.
Doubt, surprise, and incomprehensibility arrive at the
same moment. They say: " You live, and the time
was when you lived not. You have been created. An
Intelligence exists greater than your own; and it is
only through this Intelligence you live at all." These
things we struggle to comprehend, and cannot, can
not, because these things, being untrue, are thus, of
necessity, incomprehensible.
No thinking being lives who, at some luminous point
of his life of thought, has not felt himself lost amid
the surges of futile efforts at understanding or believ
ing that anything exists greater than his own soul.
The utter impossibility of any one's soul feeling itself
inferior to another ; the intense, overwhelming dissatis
faction and rebellion at the thought ; these, with the
omniprevalent aspirations at perfection, are but the
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spiritual, coincident with the material, struggles to
ward the original unity; are, to my mind at least, a
species of proof far surpassing what man terms demon
stration that no one soul is inferior to another; that
nothing is, or can be, superior to any one soul; that
each soul is, in part, its own God, its own Creator ; in a
word, that God the material and spiritual God now
exists solely in the diffused matter and spirit of the
universe; and that the regathering of this diffused
matter and spirit will be but the reconstitution of the
purely spiritual and individual God.
In this view, and in this view alone, we comprehend
the riddles of Divine injustice, of inexorable fate. In
this view alone the existence of evil becomes intelli
gible ; but in this view it becomes more it becomes
endurable. Our souls no longer rebel at a sorrow
which we ourselves have imposed upon ourselves, in
furtherance of our own purposes, with a view, if even
with a futile view, to the extension of our own joy.
I have spoken of memories that haunt us during
our youth. They sometimes pursue us even in our
manhood; assume gradually less and less indefinite
shapes ; now and then speak to us with low voices,
saying :
" There was an epoch in the night of time when a
still-existent Being existed, 1 one of an absolutely in-
1 See pages 280, 281, paragraph commencing " I reply that the right," and
ending " proper and particular God."
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Eureka
finite number of similar beings that people the abso
lutely infinite domains of the absolutely infinite space.
It was not and is not in the power of this Being, any
more than it is in your own, to extend, by actual in
crease, the joy of His existence ; but just as it is in your
power to expand or to concentrate your pleasures (the
absolute amount of happiness remaining always the
same) so did and does a similar capability appertain
to this Divine Being, who thus passes His eternity in
perpetual variation of Concentrated Self and almost
Infinite Self -Diffusion. What you call the universe is
but his present expansive existence. He now feels His
life through an infinity of imperfect pleasures, the par
tial and pain-intertangled pleasures of those incon
ceivably numerous things which you designate as His
creatures, but which are really but infinite individual-
izations of Himself. All these creatures, all, those
which you term animate as well as those to whom you
deny life for no better reason than that you do not
behold it in operation, all these creatures have, in a
greater or less degree, a capacity for pleasure and for
pain; but the general sum of their sensations is pre
cisely that amount of happiness which appertains by
right to the Divine Being when concentrated within
Himself. These creatures are all, too, more or less
conscious intelligences; conscious, first, of a proper
identity; conscious, secondly, and by faint indeter
minate glimpses, of an identity with the Divine Being
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of whom we speak, of an identity with God. Of the
two classes of consciousness, fancy that the former
will grow weaker, the latter stronger, during the long
succession of ages which must elapse before these
myriads of individual intelligences become blended
when the bright stars become blended into One.
Think that the sense of individual identity will be
gradually merged in the general consciousness; that
man, for example, ceasing imperceptibly to feel him
self man, will at length attain that awfully triumphant
epoch when he shall recognize his existence as that of
Jehovah. In the meantime bear in mind that all is
life life life within life, the less within the greater,
and all within the Spirit Divine.
The theories of the universe propounded in Eureka
had, it appears, been under consideration with Poe for
a year or more previous to the publication of that
essay.
In February, 1848, Poe had outlined these theories
in a letter " to a correspondent " (whose name is not
recorded), of which the following are the more im
portant portions :
" By the by, lest you infer that my views in detail
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Eureka
are the same as those advanced in the Nebular
Hypothesis, I venture to offer a few addenda, the sub
stance of which was penned, though never printed,
several years ago, under the head of
A PREDICTION
" As soon as the beginning of the next century it will
be entered in the books that the sun was originally
condensed at once (not gradually, according to the
supposition of Laplace) to his smallest size; that, thus
condensed, he rotated on an axis; that this axis of
rotation was not the central line of his figure, so that
he not only rotated, but revolved in an elliptical orbit
(the rotation and revolution are one, but I separate
them for convenience of illustration); that, thus
formed and thus revolving, he was on fire and sent into
space, his substance in vapor, this vapor reaching
farthest on the side of the larger hemisphere, partly on
account of the largeness, but principally because the
force of the fire was greater there ; that, in due time
the vapor, not necessarily carried then to the place
now occupied by Neptune, condensed into that planet ;
that Neptune took, as a matter of course, the same
figure that the sun had, which figure made his rotation
a revolution in an elliptical orbit; that, in conse
quence of such revolution, in consequence of his being
carried backward at each of the daily revolutions, the
328
Eureka
velocity of his annual revolution is not so great as it
would be if it depended solely upon the sun's velocity
of rotation (Kepler's third law); that his figure, by
influencing his rotation the heavier hah*, as it turns
downward toward the sun, gains an impetus sufficient
to carry it past the direct line of attraction, and thus
to throw outward the centre of gravity gave him
power to save himself from falling to the sun (and,
perhaps, to work himself gradually outward to the
position he now occupies) ; that he received, through
a series of ages, the sun's heat, which penetrated to
his centre, causing volcanoes eventually, and thus
throwing off vapor, and which evaporated substances
upon his surface, till finally his moons and his gaseous
ring (if it is true that he has a ring) were produced;
that these moons took elliptical forms, rotated and
revolved, ' both under one,' were kept in their monthly
orbits by the centrifugal force acquired in their daily
orbits, and required a longer time to make their
monthly revolutions than they would have required if
they had had no daily revolutions.
" I have said enough, without referring to the other
planets, to give you an inkling of my hypothesis, which
is all I intended to do.
" You perceive that I hold to the idea that our moon
must rotate on her axis oftener than she revolves
round her primary, the same being the case with the
moons of Jupiter, Saturn, and Uranus.
3 2 9
Eureka
" Since the penning, a closer analysis of the matter
contained has led me to modify somewhat my opinion
as to the origin of the satellites ; that is, I hold now
that they came, not from vapor sent off in volcanic
eruptions, and by simple diffusion under the solar rays,
but from rings of it which were left in the inter-plane
tary spaces after the precipitation of the primaries.
There is no insuperable obstacle in the way of the con
ception that meteoric stones and ' shooting-stars ' have
their source in matter which has gone off from vol
canoes and by common evaporation; but it is hardly
supposable that a sufficient quantity could be produced
thus to make a body so large as, by centrifugal force
resulting from rotation, to withstand the absorptive
power of its parent's rotation. The event implied may
take place not until the planets have become flaming
suns from an accumulation of their own sun's cal
oric, reacting from centre to surface, which shall in
the lonesome latter days melt all the ' elements ' and
dissipate the solid foundations out as a scroll.
" The sun forms, in rotating, a vortex in the ether
surrounding him. The planets have their orbits lying
within this vortex at different distances from its centre ;
so that their liabilities to be absorbed by it are, other
things being equal, inversely according to those dis
tances, since length, not surface, is the measure of the
absorptive power along the lines marking the orbits.
Each planet overcomes its liability, that is, keeps in its
Eureka
orbit, through a counter-vortex generated by its own
rotation. The force of such counter-vortex is meas
ured by multiplying together the producing planet's
density and rotary velocity; which velocity depends,
not upon the length of the planet's equatorial circum
ference, but upon the distance through which a given
point of the equator is carried during a rotary period.
Then if Venus and Mercury, for example, have now the
orbits in which they commenced their revolutions the
orbit of the former 68 million miles, and that of the lat
ter 37 million miles, from the centre of the sun's vortex ;
if the diameter of Venus is 2g times the diameter, and
her density is the same with the density, of Mercury;
and if the rotary velocity of the equator of Venus is
1000 miles per hour, that of Mercury's equator is 1,900
miles per hour, making the diameter of his orbit of
rotation 14,500 miles nearly five times that of him
self. But I pass this point without further examina
tion. Whether there is or is not a difference in the
relative conditions of the different planets sufficient to
cause such diversity in the extents of their peripheries
of rotation as is indicated, still each planet is to be con
sidered to have, other things being equal, a vortical
resistance bearing the same proportion inversely to that
of every other planet which its distance from the centre
of the solar vortex bears to the distance of every other
from the same ; so that if it be removed inward or out
ward from its position, it will increase or diminish that
33 1
Eureka
resistance, accordingly, by adding to or subtracting
from its speed or rotation. As the rotary period must
be one in the two cases, the greater or less speed can
be produced only by the lengthening or the shortening
of the circumference described by the rotation.
" Then Mercury, at the distance of Venus, would
rotate in an orbit only || as broad as the one in which
he does rotate; so his centrifugal force, in that posi
tion, would be only || as great as it is in his own
position; so his capability, while there, of resisting the
forward pressure of the sun's vortex, which prevents
him from passing his full (circle) distance behind his
centre of rotation and thus adds to his velocity in his
annual orbit, would be but f| of what it is in his own
place. But this forward pressure is only || as great
at the distance of Venus as it is at that of Mercury.
Then Mercury, with his own rotary speed in the an
nual orbit of Venus, would move but || as fast as
Venus moves in it; while Venus, with her rotary
fiQ
speed in Mercury's annual orbit, would move as fast
as she moves in her own, that is, || of ^ as fast as
Mercury would move in the same (annual orbit of
Venus). It follows that the square root of || is the
measure of the velocity of Mercury in his own annual
orbit with his own rotary speed, compared with that of
Venus in her annual orbit with her rotary speed in
accordance with the fact.
" Such is my explanation of Kepler's first and third
332
Eureka
laws, which laws cannot be explained upon the prin
ciple of Newton's theory.
" Two planets, gathered from portions of the sun's
vapor into one orbit, would rotate through the same
ellipse with velocities proportional to their densities;
that is, the denser planet would rotate the more swiftly;
since, in condensing, it would have descended farther
toward the sun. For example, suppose the earth and
Jupiter to be the two planets in one orbit. The diam
eter of the former is 8,000 miles; period of rotation,
24 hours. The diameter of the latter is 88,000 miles:
period, g\ hours. The ring of vapor out of which the
earth was formed was of a certain (perpendicular)
width ; that out of which Jupiter was formed was of a
certain greater width. In condensing, the springs of
ether lying among the particles (these springs having
been latent before the condensation began) were let
out, the number of them along any given radial line
being the number of spaces between all the couples of
the particles constituting the line. If the two conden
sations had gone on in simple diametric proportions,
Jupiter would have put forth only n times as many
springs as the earth did, and his velocity would have
been but n times her velocity. But the fact that
the falling downward of her particles was completed
when they had got so far that 24 hours were required
for her equator to make its rotary circuit, while that
of his particles continued till but about | of her period
333
Eureka
was occupied by his equator in effecting its revolution,
shows that his springs were increased above hers in
still another ratio of 2^, making, in the case, his ve
locity and his vortical force (2\ x " =) 27 times her
velocity and force.
" Then the planets' densities are inversely as their
rotary periods ; and their rotary velocities and degrees
of centrifugal force are, other things being equal, di
rectly as their densities.
" Two planets, revolving in one orbit, in rotating,
would approach the sun, therefore enlarge their rotary
ellipses, therefore accelerate their rotary velocities,
therefore increase their powers of withstanding the in
fluence of the solar vortex, inversely according to the
products of their diameters into their densities ; that is,
the smaller and less dense planet, having to resist an
amount of influence equal to that resisted by the other >
would multiply the number of its resisting springs by
the ratio of the other's diameter and density to the
diameter and density of itself. Thus, the earth, in
Jupiter's orbit, would have to rotate in an ellipse 27
times as broad as herself, in order to make her power
correspond with his.
" Then the breadths, in a perpendicular direction, of
the rotary ellipses of the planets in their several orbits
are inversely as the products obtained by multiplying
together the bodies' densities, diameters, and distances
from the centre of the solar vortex. Thus, the product
334
Eureka
of Jupiter's density, diameter, and distance being (2^
times ii times 5^-) 140 times the product of the earth's
density, diameter, and distance, the breadth of the
latter's ellipse is about 1,120,000 miles; this upon the
foundation, of course, that Jupiter's ellipse coincides
precisely with his own equatorial diameter."
[Note by the editor. The last paragraph has been
copied just as it stands. But the query arises whether
the calculator in arriving at his conclusion did not
take, accidentally, one step off his premises. Isn't
rotary velocity inversely according to distance ? there
fore should not the ratio of Jupiter's, to the earth's,
distance, s|, come in as a divisor, instead of a mul
tiplier ?]
" It will be observed that that process, in its last
analysis, presents the point that rotary speed (hence
that vortical force) is in exact inverse proportion to dis
tance. Then, since the movement in orbit is a part of
the rotary movement, being at the rate which the
centre of the rotary ellipse is carried along the line
marking the orbit, and since that centre and the
planet's centre are not identical, the former being the
point around which the latter revolves, causing, by
the act, a relative loss of time in the inverse ratio of the
square root of distance, as I have shown back, the
speed in orbit is inversely according to the square root
of distance. Demonstration the earth's orbital pe
riod contains 365^- of her rotary periods. During these
335
Eureka
periods her equator passes through a distance of
(1,120,000 X ~ X 365^ =) about 1,286 million miles;
and the centre of her rotary ellipse, through a distance
of (95,000,000 x 2 x y= ) about 597 million miles.
Jupiter's orbital period has (365^ x i\ X 12 years =)
about 10,957 of his rotary periods, during which his
equator courses (88,000 x y X 10,957 =) about
3,050 million miles; and the centre of his rotary ellipse
about the same number of miles (490,000,000 x 2 x
22). Dividing this distance by 12 ( 3 50 =)
gives the length of Jupiter's double journey during
one of the earth's orbital periods = 254 million miles.
Relative velocities in ellipse (~^ =) 5 -f- to i, which
is inversely as the distances ; and relative velocities in
orbit (f|? =) 2 + to i, inversely as the square roots
of the distances.
" The sun's period of rotation being 25 days, his
density is only ^ of that of a planet having a period of
24 hours that of Mercury, for instance. Hence Mer
cury has, for the purpose now in view, virtually a diam
eter equal to a little more than ~ of that of the sun
= 11.84: =)-say,
75,000 miles.
" Here we have a conception of the planet in the
mid-stage, so to speak, of its condensation, after the
breaking up of the vaporous ring which was to pro
duce it and just at the taking on of the globular form.
But before the arrival at this stage the figure was that
336
Eureka
of a truck, the vertical diameter of which is identifiable
in the periphery of the globe (75,000 x y =), 236
thousand miles. Half way down this diameter the body
settled into its (original) orbit, rather, would have
settled had it been the only one, besides its parents, hi
the solar system, an orbit distant from the sun's
equator ( 236 a = ) 118,000 miles; and from the
centre of the solar vortex (118,000 + 888_22_- ^
562 thousand miles. To this are to be added succes
sively the lengths of the semi-diameters of the trucks
of Venus, of the earth, and so on outward.
" There, the planets' original distances, rather,
speaking strictly, the widths from the common centre
to the outer limits of their rings of vapor, are pointed
at. From these, as foundations, the present dis
tances may be deduced. A simple outline of the pro
cess to the deduction is this: Neptune took his orbit
first; then Uranus took his. The effect of the coming
into closer conjunction of the two bodies was such as
would have been produced by bringing each so much
nearer the centre of the solar vortex. Each enlarged
its rotary ellipse and increased its rotary velocity in the
ratio of the decrease of distance. A secondary result
the final consequence of the enlargement and the
increase was the propulsion of each outward, the square
root of the relative decrease being the measure of the
length through which each was sent. The primary
result, of course, was the drawing of each inward ; and
337
Eureka
it is fairly presumable that there were oscillations in
ward and outward, outward and inward, during sev
eral successive periods of rotation. It is probable, at
any rate, not glaringly improbable, that, in the oscilla
tions across the remnants of the rings of vapor (the
natural inference is that these were not completely
gathered into the composition of the bodies), portions
of the vapor were whirled into satellites, which fol
lowed in the passage outward.
" Saturn's ring (I have no allusion to the rings now
existing), as well as that of each of the other planets
after him, while it was being gradually cast off from
the sun's equator, was carried along in the track of its
next predecessor, the distance here being the full
quotient (not the square root of the quotient) found in
dividing by the breadth to its own periphery, that to
the periphery of the other. Thus, reckoning for Ura
nus a breadth of 17 million, and for Saturn one of 14
million miles, the latter (still in his vaporous state) was
conducted outward (through a sort of capillary attrac
tion) j| as far as the former (after condensation) was
driven by means of the vortical influence of Neptune.
The new body and the two older bodies interchanged
forces, and another advance outward (of all three) was
made. Combining all of the asteroids into one of the
Nine Great Powers, there were eight stages of the gen
eral movement away from the centre; and, granting
that we have, exact, the diameters and the rotary
338
Eureka
periods (that is, the densities) of all of the participants
in the movement, the measurement of each stage by
itself, and of all the stages together, can be calculated
exactly.
" How will that do for a postscript ? "
339
Title Index
ESSAYS AND MISCELLANIES
Adams. T. 0.
VOL.
PAGE
TOO
Allston, Washington .
. 10
L 3O
153
Anastatic Printing
. 10
162
Anthon, Charles .
. 10
82
Arthur, T. S.
. 10
139
Astoria ....
. 7
35
Autography, A Chapter on .
. IO
77
Barrett, Elizabeth Barrett .
. 8
82
Benjamin, Park .
. IO
86
Bird, Robert M. .
. 7
i
Bird, Robert M. .
. 10
108
Bogart, Elizabeth
9
59
Brainard, J. G. C.
. 7
245
Brooks, James
. 10
137
Brooks, N. C.
. 10
125
Brown, David Paul
. IO
143
Brownson, O. A. .
. 10
98
Bryant, William Cullen
. 8
293
Burton, W. E.
.10
135
Calvert, George H.
. 10
122
Cass, Lewis ....
. IO
136
Chandler, Jos. R. .
. 10
118
Channing, William Ellery .
. 8
i
Channing, William Ellery .
. IO
127
Chapter on Autography, A .
. IO
77
341
Title Index
VOL. PAGE
Child, LydiaM 9 5*
drivers, Thos. H 10 140
Cist, L. J 10 138
Clark, Lewis Gaylord 9 67
Cockton, Henry 7 *9Q
" Conchologist's First Book, The," Preface to] . 10 40
Conrad, R. T 10 132
Cooper, J. Fenimore 8 22
Cooper, J. Fenimore 10 109
Cranch, Christopher Pearse 9 I
Cryptography 10 54
Dana, Richard H 10 124
Davidson, Lucretia Maria 7 *75
Dawes, Rufus 7 2 93
Dawes, Rufus 10 94
Dickens, Charles 7 196
Doane, G. W 10157
Dow, J. E 10 129
Downing, Jack 10 137
DuSolle, JohnS 10 119
Earle, Pliny 10 131
Ellett, Elizabeth Frieze 9 125
Embury, Emma C 9 26
Embury, Emma C I( > IO2
Emerson, R. W 10161
Eureka IO *7<>
Everett, Edward 10 107
Fancy and Imagination 7 I2 4
Fay, Theo. S 10 121
Flaccus 7 353
French, J. S 10 120
Frost, J 10 141
Fuller, Sarah Margaret 9 6
Furniture, Philosophy of 10 4*
Gallagher, W. D 10 123
Godey, L. A 10 119
Gould, H. F 10 101
Graham, Geo. R 10 115
Greeley, Horace 10 149
342
Title Index
Griswold and the Poets ....
Hale, Sarah J
Halleck, FitzGreene
Hawks, F. L
Hawthorne, Nathaniel .....
Headley, Joel T
Heath, Jas. E
Henry, C. S
Herbert, Henry William ....
Hewitt, Mary E
Hirst, Henry B
Hoffman, David
Hoffman, Charles Fenno ....
Hoffman, Charles Fenno ....
Holden, Ezra
Holmes, Oliver Wendell ....
Home, R. H.
Ingraham, J. H
Irving, Washington
Jones, J. Beauchamp
Kennedy, John P.
Kirkland, Caroline M
Langtree, S. D
Lawson, James
Legare, H. S
Leslie, Eliza
Lever, Charles
Lewis, Estelle Anna
Lieber, Francis
Literati, The
Literati, The
Locke, Richard Adams ....
Locke, Richard Adams ....
Longfellow's Ballads
Longfellow, Henry W. ....
Longfellow (Mr.), and Other Plagiarists
Longfellow (Mr.), Mr. Willis, and the Drama
Lord, William W
Loud, Mrs. M. St. Leon ....
343
VOL.
7
PAGE
313
IO
107
10
93
IO
no
7
9
329
146
IO
139
10
IOI
IO
no
9
9
77
126
10
131
9
72
IO
149
10
IO
8
114
156
42
IO
IO
92
85
IO
IO
134
88
9
19
10
132
9
19
IO
117
IO
IO2
7
257
9
IO
97
1 06
8
312
9
9
i
83
IO
159
7
274
IO
8
8
95
143
220
8
121
IO
130
Title Index
VOL. PAGE
Lowell, James Russell 9 109
Lowell, James Russell 10 138
Lunt, George 10 117
Macaulay, Thomas Babington .... 7 138
MaelzePs Chess-Player 10 i
Magazine Prison House, Some Secrets of 8 138
Magazine Writing 7 15
Marginalia 9 176
Marryat, Frederick 7 168
Mathews, Cornelius 7 228
Mathews, Cornelius 10 148
McHenry, James 10 158
Mcjilton, J. N 10 123
McMichael, M 10 124
Mellen, Grenville 10 89
Miller, Margaret 7 175
Mitchell, J. K 10 121
Morris, George P. 7 118
Morris, George P. 10 122
Morris, Robert 10 113
Mr. Longfellow, and Other Plagiarists . . . 8 143
Mr. Longfellow, Mr. Willis, and the Drama . . 8 220
Neal, John 10 108
Neal, Joseph C 10 103
Nichols, Mrs. R. S 10 159
Notes on English Verse i 267
Old English Poetry 7 no
Osgood, Frances Sargent 9 30
Otis, James F 10 142
Palfrey, J. G 10 in
Paulding, J. K 10 90
Peabody, William B. 10 151
" Peter Snook " 7 *5
Philosophy of Composition, The i 287
Philosophy of Furniture 10 44
Pierpont, J. 10 96
Pike, Albert 10157
Pinakidia 9 156
Poetic Principle, The i 164
344
Title Index
VOL. PAGE
Poet's Art, The I 153
Preface to " The Conchologist's First Book " . 10 40
Purpose of Poetry. Letter to B . . . i 153
Quacks of Helicon, The 7 151
Rationale of Verse, The i 198
Review of Stephens's " Arabia Petraea " .7 80
Reynolds, J. W 10 142
Sanderson, John 10 101
Sargent, Epes 9 28
Sargent, Epes 10 152
Sedgwick, Catherine M 9 60
Sedgwick, Catherine M 10 109
Sigourney, L. H 10 90
Simms, William Gilmore 8 287
Simms, William Gilmore . . . . .10 97
Slidell, Alexander 10 105
Smith, Elizabeth Oakes 8 270
Smith, Richard Penn 10 155
Smith, Seba 7 144
Smith, Seba 10 104
Some Secrets of the Magazine Prison House . 8 138
Sparks, Jared 10116
Sprague, Charles 10 147
Stedman, Mrs. E. C 10 143
Stephens's " Arabia Petrsea," Review of .7 80
Stephens, Mrs. Ann S 10 144
Stockton, Thos. H 10 126
Stone, W. L 10 115
Story, Joseph 10 141
Street, Alfred B 10 154
Taylor, Bayard 9 121
Thomas, F. W 10 112
Thomson, C. W 10 126
Tucker, Beverly 10 99
Tuckerman, H. T 10118
Wallace, William 9 132
Walsh, Robert 7 9
Walsh, Robert 10 91
Ward, Thomas 7 353
345
Title Index
VOL. PAGE
Ware, H., Jr 10 151
Welby, Amelia 8 74
Weld, H. Hastings 10 129
Wetmore, Prosper M 9 25
Wetmore, Prosper M 10 150
Whipple, E. P., and Other Critics . . . 9 134
Whittier, J. G 10 144
Wilde, Richard Henry 10 135
Willis, N. P. 10 93
Wilmer, L. A 10 128
POEMS. TITLES
AlAaraaf i 28
Alone i 53
Annabel Lee i 141
Bells, The i 136
Bridal Ballad i 101
City in the Sea, The i 60
Coliseum, The i 69
Conqueror Worm, The i 107
Dream, A i 22
Dreamland ... I IO 9
Dreams J I2
Dream Within a Dream, A i 18
Eldorado i 149
Enigma, An * J 3O
Eulalie i 121
Evening Star i l6
Fairy-Land i 50
For Annie * J 44
" Happiest Day, the Happiest Hour " . . i 23
Haunted Palace, The i 103
Hymn i 73
" In Youth have I Known one with whom the
Earth" i 20
Israfel i 66
Lake, The. To i 25
Lenore i 5^
346
Title Index
VOL. PAGE
Raven, The i 112
Romance 49
Scenes from " Politian " 76
Silence . 106
Sleeper, The 63
Sonnet: To Science 27
Spirits of the Dead 14
Tamerlane i
To 48
To 52
To ii
To 128
To F 74
To F s S. O d 75
To Helen 55
To Helen 131
To M. L. S 123
To My Mother 143
To One in Paradise 71
To the River 47
To Zante 100
Ulalume 124
Valentine 134
Valley of Unrest, The 58
TALES
Angel of the Odd, The 6 114
Assignation, The 2 131
Balloon Hoax, The 5 26a
Berenice 2 18
Black Cat, The 5 *72
Bon-Bon 2 150
Business Man, The 4 *44
Cask of Amontillado, The 6 220
Colloquy of Monos and Una, The .... 4 2 *>8
Conversation of Eiros and Charmion, The . . 4 i
Descent into the Maelstrom, A . . . 4 231
Devil in the Belfry, The 3 256
347
Title Index
VOL.
PAGE
Diddling
. 5
228
6
231
Due de 1'Omelette, The
2
***
235
Eleonora
4
310
Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar, The .
. 6
2O4
Fall of the House of Usher, The .
. 3
287
Four Beasts in One ....
2
241
Gold-Bug, The
- 5
III
Hop-Frog
. 6
2 5 6
How to Write a Blackwood Article
- 3
218
Imp of the Perverse, The
. 6
164
Island of the Fay, The
. 4
259
Journal of Julius Rodman, The .
. 4
35
King Pest
2
181
Lander's Cottage
. 6
307
Ligeia
3
192
Lionizing
2
4i
Literary Life of Thingum Bob, Esq.
. 6
25
Loss of Breath
2
20 1
Man of the Crowd, The
4
159
Man that was Used Up, The
3
270
Masque of the Red Death, The .
4
326
Mellonta Tauta
. 6
272
Mesmeric Revelation ....
. 5
283
Metzengerstein
2
221
Morella
2
32
MS. Found in a Bottle
2
5
Murders in the Rue Morgue, The .
4
174
Mystery of Marie Roget, The
5
i
Mystification
4
ii
Narrative of A. Gordon Pym
2
261
Narrative of A. Gordon Pym
3
i
Never Bet the Devil Your Head .
4
283
323
Oval Portrait, The ....
4
320
Pit and the Pendulum, The .
. 5
8i
Power of Words, The ....
. 6
157
Predicament, A . . .
3
235
Premature Burial, The
5
300
348
Title Index
VOL. PAGE
Purloined Letter, The 6 84
Shadow: A Parable 2 176
Silence : A Fable 3 250
Some Words with a Mummy .... 6 57
Spectacles, The 5 188
Sphinx, The 6 338
System of Dr. Tarr and Professor Fether, The . 6 174
Tale of Jerusalem, A 2 254
Tale of the Ragged Mountains, A ... 5 245
Tell-Tale Heart, The 5 106
" Thou Art the Man " 6 i
Thousand-and-Second Tale of Scheherazade . . 6 130
Three Sundays in a Week 4 299
Unparalleled Adventures of One Hans Pfaall, The . 2 50
Von Kempelen and His Discovery ... 6 295
Why the Little Frenchman Wears His Hand in a
Sling 4 25
William Wilson 3 317
X-ing a Paragrab 6 327
POEMS. FIRST LINES
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown
forever! i 56
At midnight, in the month of June ... i 63
At morn, at noon, at twilight dim ... i 73
Because I feel that, in the heavens above . . i 143
Beloved ! amid the earnest woes .... i 74
By a route obscure and lonely . . . i 109
Dim vales, and shadowy floods .... i 50
Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers . . i 100
Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow ... i 47
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, i 134
From childhood's hour I have not seen i 53
Gaily bedight i 149
Hear the sledges with the bells . . . . i 136
Helen, thy beauty is to me i 55
I dwelt alone in a world of moan . . . i 121
I heed not that my earthly lot . . . i 52
349
Title Index
In heaven a spirit doth dwell ....
In spring of youth it was my lot .
In the greenest of our valleys ....
In visions of the dark night
In youth have I known one with whom the earth .
I saw thee once, once only, years ago .
I saw thee on thy bridal day ....
It was many and many a year ago
Kind solace in a dying hour ....
Lo ! Death has reared himself a throne
Lo ! 't is a gala night
Not long ago, the writer of these lines .
Of all who hail thy presence as the morning
Oh! nothing earthly save the ray
Oh that my young life were a lasting dream
Once it smiled, a silent dell
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered,
weak and weary
Romance, who loves to nod and sing .
" Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce
Science! true daughter of old Time thou art
Take this kiss upon the brow ....
Thank Heaven! the crisis ....
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see .
The happiest day, the happiest hour
There are some qualities, some incorporate things .
The ring is on my hand
The skies were ashen and sober ....
Thou art sad, Castiglione
Thou wast that all to me, love ....
Thou wouldst be loved ? then let thy heart .
Thy soul shall find itself alone ....
'T was noontide of summer
Type of the antique Rome ! Rich reliquary .
VOL.
I
PAGE
66
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25
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103
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131
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II
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141
I
I
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60
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107
128
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123
28
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12
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58
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112
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49
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130
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18
i
144
48
23
106
IOI
124
76
75
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35
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE
STAMPED BELOW
RENEWED BOOKS ARE SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE
RECALL
UCD LIBRARY
DUEFEB17 1970
FEB11 REC'O
LIBRARY, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, DAVIS
Book Slip-50m-8,'69(N831a8)458-A-31/5
N9 674526
PS2600
Poe, E.A, F02
The complete works of v.10
Edgar Allan Poe.
LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
DAVIS