I think that the infinite and mysterious charm that rests in the
contemplation of a ship, especially of a vessel in motion, springs,
in the first place, from regularity and symmetry (which are of
the primordial needs of the human mind, as much as complexity and
harmony)--and, secondly, from the successive multiplication and
generation of all the curves and imaginary figures cut in space by the
real elements of the object.
The poetic idea which this movement in lines produces is the hypothesis
of a vast, immense, complex but eurythmic being, of a creature full of
genius, suffering and sighing all human sighs and all human ambitions.
Civilized races, that always speak so stupidly of savages and
barbarians, soon, as d'Aurevilly says, you will _no longer be good
enough to be idolaters_. Stoicism, religion that has but one
sacrament: suicide!
Conceive a canvas for a lyric or fairy buffoonery, for a pantomime, and
transplant it into a serious novel. Bathe the whole in an abnormal,
dreamy atmosphere,--in the atmosphere of the _great days_. Let there be
something soothing,--something even serene, in passion. Regions of pure
poetry.