It does not address itself to common emotions and every-day
sympathies. His flour is bolted too fine. One must almost be a poet
himself to enter into full communion with him. In intellectual
productions the refining process should not be carried too far: beyond a
certain point, what is gained in delicacy is lost in manliness and
power.
_Possibilities of Creation; or, What the World might have been._ A Book
of Fancies. London: Simpkin, Marshall, & Co.
The author describes his work as a treatise of the Bridgewater class. We
should rather describe it as a _reductio ad absurdum_ in Natural
Philosophy. A great deal of humor, ingenuity, and information are
brought into play to turn the world upside-down, for the very laudable
purpose of demonstrating that it is better to be right side up,--a
method of demonstration curious and interesting enough, if comprised in
a single essay, but rather long-drawn-out, when spread over four hundred
pages. Suppose, for instance, is the writer's mode of argument, a
malicious demon let loose, with power to set the earth topsy-turvy, on
condition of keeping it still an earth. With what exultation does he
bestride the Himalayas to watch the convulsions which he causes! How
does he kick his heels against the mountain-flanks, in ecstasy at seeing
men bleached and blistered with the chlorine or nauseated with the
sulphuretted hydrogen which he has substituted for our wholesome and
pleasant air! Or what should we do, if potato-roots had happened to be
moistened with gin instead of water? What if men, instead of standing
god-like erect, had been great balls of flesh, rolling along the ground
as best they could,--if Young's poetical figure had been a practical
truth, and this globe were the Bedlam of the universe,--if the fixity of
Nature had been shattered, and we sat down at our feasts to find the
soup bitter as strychnine, the wine changed into vinegar, and mild ale
fiery as vitriol? What if wrinkles and gray hairs came in the twinkling
of an eye,--if children were born with matured minds,--if no one were
capable of anger,--and men started at the same point to arrive at the
same conclusions? In short,--
"If all the world was apple-pie,
And all the sea was ink,
And all the trees were bread and cheese,
What should we have for drink?"
To all which startling inquiries we are fain to say, that, if Merrie
England sits under her present squally skies in such a frame of bliss
that she must have recourse to her imagination, when she wishes to
contemplate a nice little _imbroglio_, she must be awarded the palm for
being what Mark Tapley would call "jolly under creditable
circumstances.
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