Bartleby the Scrivener (8 page)

I readily admit that the Americans have no poets; I cannot allow that they have no poetic ideas. In Europe people talk a great deal of the wilds of America, but the Americans themselves never think about them: they are insensible to the wonders of inanimate nature, and they may be said not to perceive the mighty forests which surround them till they fall beneath the hatchet. Their eyes are fixed upon another sight: the American people views its own march across these wilds—drying swamps, turning the course of rivers, peopling solitudes, and
subduing nature. This magnificent image of themselves does not meet the gaze of the Americans at intervals only; it may be said to haunt every one of them in his least as well as in his most important actions, and to be always flitting before his mind. Nothing conceivable is so petty, so insipid, so crowded with paltry interests, in one word so anti-poetic, as the life of a man in the United States. But amongst the thoughts which it suggests there is always one which is full of poetry, and that is the hidden nerve which gives vigor to the frame.

In aristocratic ages each people, as well as each individual, is prone to stand separate and aloof from all others. In democratic ages, the extreme fluctuations of men and the impatience of their desires keep them perpetually on the move; so that the inhabitants of different countries intermingle, see, listen to, and borrow from each other’s stores. It is not only then the members of the same community who grow more alike; communities are themselves assimilated to one another, and the whole assemblage presents to the eye of the spectator one vast democracy, each citizen of which is a people. This displays the aspect of mankind for the first time in the broadest light. All that belongs to the existence of the human race taken as a whole, to its vicissitudes and to its future, becomes an abundant mine of poetry. The poets who lived in aristocratic ages have been eminently successful in their delineations of certain incidents in the life of a people or a man; but none of them ever ventured to include within his performances the destinies of mankind—a task which poets writing in democratic ages may attempt. At that same time at which every man, raising his eyes above his country, begins at length to discern mankind at large, the Divinity is more and more manifest to the human mind in full and entire majesty. If in democratic ages faith in positive religions be often shaken, and the belief in intermediate agents, by whatever name they are called, be overcast; on the other hand men are disposed to conceive a far broader idea of Providence itself, and its interference in human affairs assumes a new and more imposing appearance to their eyes. Looking at the human race as one great whole, they easily conceive that its destinies are regulated by the same design; and in the actions of every individual they are led to acknowledge a trace of that universal and eternal plan on which God rules our race. This consideration may be taken as another prolific source of poetry which is opened in democratic ages. Democratic poets will always appear trivial and frigid if they seek to invest gods, demons, or angels, with corporeal forms, and if they attempt to draw them down from heaven to dispute the supremacy of earth. But if they strive to connect the great events they commemorate with the general providential designs which govern the universe, and, without showing the finger of the Supreme Governor, reveal the thoughts of the Supreme Mind, their works will be admired and understood, for the imagination of their contemporaries takes this direction of its own accord.

It may be foreseen in the like manner that poets living in democratic ages will prefer the delineation of passions and ideas to that of persons and achievements. The language, the dress, and the daily actions of men in democracies are repugnant to ideal conceptions. These things are not poetical in themselves; and, if it were otherwise, they would cease to be so, because they are too familiar to all those to whom the poet would speak of them. This forces the poet constantly to search below the external surface which is palpable to the senses, in order to read the inner soul: and nothing lends itself more to the delineation of the ideal than the scrutiny of the hidden depths in the immaterial nature of man. I need not to ramble over earth and sky to discover a wondrous object woven of contrasts, of greatness and littleness infinite, of intense gloom and of amazing brightness—capable at once of exciting pity, admiration, terror, contempt. I find that object in myself. Man springs out of nothing, crosses time, and disappears forever in the bosom of God; he is seen but for a moment, staggering on the verge of the two abysses, and there he is lost. If man were wholly ignorant of himself, he would have no poetry in him; for it is impossible to describe what the mind does not conceive. If man clearly discerned his own nature, his imagination would remain idle, and would have nothing to add to the picture. But the nature of man is sufficiently disclosed for him to apprehend something of himself; and sufficiently obscure for all the rest to be plunged in thick darkness, in
which he gropes forever—and forever in vain—to lay hold on some completer notion of his being.

Amongst a democratic people poetry will not be fed with legendary lays or the memorials of old traditions. The poet will not attempt to people the universe with supernatural beings in whom his readers and his own fancy have ceased to believe; nor will he present virtues and vices in the mask of frigid personification, which are better received under their own features. All these resources fail him; but Man remains, and the poet needs no more. The destinies of mankind—man himself, taken aloof from his age and his country, and standing in the presence of Nature and of God, with his passions, his doubts, his rare prosperities, and inconceivable wretchedness—will become the chief, if not the sole theme of poetry amongst these nations. Experience may confirm this assertion, if we consider the productions of the greatest poets who have appeared since the world has been turned to democracy. The authors of our age who have so admirably delineated the features of Faust, Childe Harold, Rene, and Jocelyn, did not seek to record the actions of an individual, but to enlarge and to throw light on some of the obscurer recesses of the human heart. Such are the poems of democracy. The principle of equality does not then destroy all the subjects of poetry: it renders them less numerous, but more vast.

—from
Democracy In America by
Alexis de Tocqueville
.
Often overlooked, the analysis of the literary arts in Alexis de Tocqueville’s reportage from the still developing United States had a profound influence on the nation’s arts and letters. The Frenchman’s observations on the ideal situation for poetry in a democracy coincided with the notions of both the romantics and transcendentalists, and his criticism of the American milieu was certainly taken to heart. Melville’s turn to more darkly philosophical fare coincided with the publication of de Tocqueville book in the U.S
.

If any one should say, there is no need that the indifference should be perfect; but although a former inclination and preference still remains, yet, if it be not very strong and violent, possibly the strength of the will may oppose and overcome it.

This is grossly absurd; for the strength of the will, let it be ever so great, does not at all enable it to act one way, and not the contrary way, both at the same time. It gives it no such sovereignty and command, as to cause itself to prefer and not to prefer at the same time, or to choose contrary to its own present choice.

Therefore, if there be the least degree of antecedent preponderance of the will, it must be perfectly abolished before the will can be at liberty to determine itself the contrary way. And if the will determines itself the same way, it is not a free determination, because the will is not wholly at liberty in so doing; its determination is not altogether from itself, but it was partly determined before, in its prior inclination; and all the freedom the will exercises in the case, is an increase of inclination, which it gives itself, over and above what it had by the foregoing bias; so much is from itself, and so much is from perfect indifference. For though the will had a previous tendency that way, yet as to that additional degree of inclination, it had no tendency. Therefore the previous tendency is of no consideration, with respect to the act wherein the will is free. So that it comes to the same thing which was said at first, that as to the act of the will, wherein the will is free, there must be perfect indifference, or equilibrium.

—Jonathan Edwards
(1703–1758), from
Freedom Of The Will, Which Is Supposed To Be Essential To Moral Agency, Virtue And Vice, Reward And Punishment, Praise And Blame.
Edwards was a preacher, missionary and theological philosopher who became a leading figure in the First Great Awakening movement. Considered one of America’s greatest intellectuals, Edwards’ writings have been influential to both revivalist theologians and secular philosophers alike
.

Man is a being of such a make, that when certain things, two kinds of fruit, for instance, are proposed to him, they become the objects of desire, in different degrees, according to the experience of their different qualities, their wholesomeness, the pleasure they give to his taste, and various other considerations. As the
desirableness
, in this case, is complex, and the impression that each circumstance belonging to it makes upon the mind is also various, depending upon the momentary state of it, the presence or absence of other ideas, etc. it is possible that the comparative desirableness of the two fruits may vary much in a short space of time, sometimes the one and sometimes the other having the ascendant. But, provided the man were obliged to make a choice at any one moment of time, it will not be denied, that he would certainly choose that which appeared to him, for that moment, the more desirable. If he were under no restraint whatever, it is possible that, on some accounts, he might choose to make no choice at all, and he might neglect both the kinds of fruit. But still it would be because that conduct appeared
more desirable
than the other,
i.e. preferable
to it.

This, I will venture to say, is all that a man can possibly be
conscious of
, viz. that nothing hinders his choosing, or taking, whichever of the fruits appears to him more desirable, or his not making any choice at all, according as the one or the other shall appear to him preferable upon the whole. But there is always some
reason
for any object, or any conduct, appearing desirable or preferable; a reason existing either in a man’s own previous
disposition of mind
, or in his
idea of the things
proposed to him. In things of small consequence, or in a very quick succession of
ideas, the reason may be forgotten, or even not explicitly attended to, but it did exist, and actually contributed to make the thing, or the conduct, appear desirable at the time.

As this is all that any man can be conscious of with respect to himself, so it is all that he can observe with respect to others. Agreeably to this, whenever we either reflect upon our own conduct, or speculate concerning that of others, we never fail to consider, or ask, what could be the
motive
of such or such a choice; always taking for granted that there must have been some motive or other for it; and we never suppose, in such cases, that any choice could be made without some motive, some
apparent reason
, or other.

When it is said that a man acts from
mere will
(though this is not common language) the word is never used in a strict metaphysical sense, or for will under the influence of no motive; but the meaning is, that in such a case a man acts from
willfulness
, or
obstinacy
, i.e. to resist the control of others; the motive being to
show his liberty, and independence
, which is far from being a case in which a man is supposed to act without any motive at all.

The
consciousness of freedom
, therefore, is an ambiguous expression, and cannot prove any thing in favor of philosophical or metaphysical liberty; but, when rightly understood, appears to decide in favour of the doctrine of necessity, or the necessary influence of motives to determine the choice.

—from The
Doctrine Of Philosophical Necessity
by
Joseph Priestley
.
A friend of Benjamin Franklin and member of the Royal Society, Priestley (1733–1804) was a pioneering scientist, clergyman, political theorist and natural philosopher. As a scientist he is most famous for the invention of soda water, the discovery of oxygen and his pioneering work on electricity. His political writings on the role of dissent were influential in both the American and French Revolution. Born in England, Priestley’s radically new political opinions forced him to immigrate to the fledgling United States, where he lived the last ten years of his life
.