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- 11555
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.924Z
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- 11493
- text
- There is nothing so slipperily alluring as sadness; we become sad in the
first place by having nothing stirring to do; we continue in it, because
we have found a snug sofa at last. Even so, it may possibly be, that
arrived at this quiet retrospective little episode in the career of my
hero--this shallowly expansive embayed Tappan Zee of my otherwise
deep-heady Hudson--I too begin to loungingly expand, and wax harmlessly
sad and sentimental.
Now, what has been hitherto presented in reference to Pierre, concerning
rubbish, as in some cases the unavoidable first-fruits of genius, is in
no wise contradicted by the fact, that the first published works of many
meritorious authors have given mature token of genius; for we do not
know how many they previously published to the flames; or privately
published in their own brains, and suppressed there as quickly. And in
the inferior instances of an immediate literary success, in very young
writers, it will be almost invariably observable, that for that instant
success they were chiefly indebted to some rich and peculiar experience
in life, embodied in a book, which because, for that cause, containing
original matter, the author himself, forsooth, is to be considered
original; in this way, many very original books, being the product of
very unoriginal minds. Indeed, man has only to be but a little
circumspect, and away flies the last rag of his vanity. The world is
forever babbling of originality; but there never yet was an original
man, in the sense intended by the world; the first man himself--who
according to the Rabbins was also the first author--not being an
original; the only original author being God. Had Milton's been the lot
of Caspar Hauser, Milton would have been vacant as he. For though the
naked soul of man doth assuredly contain one latent element of
intellectual productiveness; yet never was there a child born solely
from one parent; the visible world of experience being that procreative
thing which impregnates the muses; self-reciprocally efficient
hermaphrodites being but a fable.
There is infinite nonsense in the world on all of these matters; hence
blame me not if I contribute my mite. It is impossible to talk or to
write without apparently throwing oneself helplessly open; the
Invulnerable Knight wears his visor down. Still, it is pleasant to chat;
for it passes the time ere we go to our beds; and speech is farther
incited, when like strolling improvisatores of Italy, we are paid for
our breath. And we are only too thankful when the gapes of the audience
dismiss us with the few ducats we earn.
II.
It may have been already inferred, that the pecuniary plans of Pierre
touching his independent means of support in the city were based upon
his presumed literary capabilities. For what else could he do? He knew
no profession, no trade. Glad now perhaps might he have been, if Fate
had made him a blacksmith, and not a gentleman, a Glendinning, and a
genius. But here he would have been unpardonably rash, had he not
already, in some degree, actually tested the fact, in his own personal
experience, that it is not altogether impossible for a magazine
contributor to Juvenile American literature to receive a few pence in
exchange for his ditties. Such cases stand upon imperishable record, and
it were both folly and ingratitude to disown them.
But since the fine social position and noble patrimony of Pierre, had
thus far rendered it altogether unnecessary for him to earn the least
farthing of his own in the world, whether by hand or by brain; it may
seem desirable to explain a little here as we go. We shall do so, but
always including, the preamble.
- title
- Chunk 6