[]AN ESSAY, &c.

CHAP. I. Of Literary Men.

A NUMEROUS and an important body of men, diffuſed over enlightened Eu⯑rope, and claſſed under no particular profeſſion, are, during the moſt arduous period of their life, unaſſiſted and unre⯑garded; and while often devoting them ſelves to national purpoſes, are expoſed not only to poverty, the fate of the many; to calumny, the portion of the great; but to an ugly family of peculiar misfor⯑tunes. Theſe are men of letters; men whoſe particular genius often becomes [2] that of a people; the ſovereigns of rea⯑ſon; the legiſlators of morality; the ar⯑tificers of our moſt exquiſite pleaſures.

Every other body of ingenious men (whether the corporation of uſeful me⯑chanics, or the ſociety of great artiſts) are allowed ſome common aſſociation; ſome domeſtic ſeat devoted to the genius of their profeſſion, where they are mu⯑tually enlightened and conſoled. Men of letters, in our country reſemble ‘Houſeleſs wanderers,’ ſcattered and ſolitary, diſunited and lan⯑guid; whoſe talents are frequently un⯑known to their companions, and by the inertneſs of an unhappy ſituation, often unperceived by themſelves.

It is remarkable that thoſe men in the nation who are moſt familiar with each other's conceptions, and moſt capable of reciprocal eſteem, are thoſe who are often moſt eſtranged.

CHAP. II. Of Authors.

IT is neceſſary to diſtinguiſh between an Author, and a Writer; becauſe, the deſcriptions which I propoſe to ſketch of the ſituations to which genius is fre⯑quently expoſed, will not happen to thoſe whoſe productions are their occaſional effuſions; and who ſeldom propoſe in the puerile age, to become Authors. I ſhall conſider that no Writer, has a juſt claim to the title of Author, whoſe CHIEF EMPLOYMENT is not that of STUDY and COMPOSITION. Richardſon the no⯑veliſt, and Geſſner the poet, were both printers, and this will, occaſionally, ex⯑clude them from the idea I at preſent attach to an author. Hume and Bayle, Johnſon and Voltaire, are ſtudents who aſſumed the profeſſion of authors. The [4] occaſional productions of a man of genius are ſo many ſportive offerings laid on the altar of the Graces; the more volu⯑minous labours of great authors, are ſo many trophies raiſed on a triumphal column.

I totally exclude from theſe ſpecula⯑tions two kinds of writers. Thoſe who diſgrace letters and humanity by an ab⯑ject devotion to their private intereſts, and who like Atalanta, for the ſake of the apples of gold, loſe the glory of the race; and thoſe who intrude on the public notice without adequate talents, whoſe vanity liſtens to a few encomiaſts whoſe politeneſs is greater than their diſ⯑cernment, or who applaud loudly and cenſure in whiſpers.

If we enquire into the character of an author, we find that every claſs of men entertains a different notion of his occu⯑pations. We perceive alſo that the lite⯑rary [5] world are divided into parties; and that they are mutually unjuſt. Few are capable of honouring this character; in⯑dividuals err from various motives; the public only are enlightened and juſt.

The importance of an author in ſo⯑ciety, is yet ſo little known, that it is rarely apparent even to authors them⯑ſelves.

The faſhionable circle conceive an au⯑thor muſt be an amuſing companion; they conſider his preſence, like the other ornaments of their tables. It implies that they are perſons of taſte.

The buſy part of mankind ſuppoſe an author to be a trader; and are only aſto⯑niſhed to obſerve men perſevere in an occupation ſo unprofitable.

The ſtateſman only regards a philoſo⯑phical writer as a man of dangerous ſpe⯑culations, who, if left in ſecurity, is daring, if attacked by perſecution, is [6] intrepid. One who makes him tremble in the darkneſs of his moſt ſecret coun⯑cils.

The man of ſcience regards his pro⯑ductions with contempt, and at the moſt favourable view only as ſo many amuſing futilities. He marks his ſuperior ſucceſs with a jealous eye; and complains of a frivolous public. A geometrician can draw no deductions, and ſees nothing proved, by the fineſt verſes of a poet; an antiquary marvels that an elegant hiſ⯑torian ſhould be preferred to a chrono⯑loger; and a metaphyſician wonders at the delight communicated by faithful re⯑preſentations of human life, written by one whom he thinks incapable of com⯑prehending a page of Locke.

It will ſurpriſe the young and virtuous reader, when I muſt alſo add that the character is ſometimes conſidered as a kind of diſgrace. To excel in thoſe ac⯑compliſhments [7] which enlighten or amuſe a poliſhed people, has ceaſed to be a merit with ſome, becauſe of the nume⯑rous claimants for this honour. But it is with authors as with thoſe military fops who frequent the theatres, and aſ⯑ſume with their cockade, the title of captain. Enquire, and you find that the obſtreperous gentleman has been only an enſign for a week, and often that he has no claims at all to the bor⯑rowed cockade. Thus with authors, if the pretenders are diſcerned, and the ranks diſtinguiſhed, a man will reduce the number to a very inconſiderable por⯑tion of a numerous acquaintance. Every one who prints a book is not an author; publication is the teſt of literature, and there are an infinite number of works which are printed, but which all the in⯑ventive induſtry of the author could never publiſh.

[8] Many of that claſs of ſociety whoſe en⯑tire nights are rotations of inanity, and whoſe days are too ſhort for neceſſary re⯑poſe, bluſh for a friend who is an au⯑thor; and, as the daughter of Addiſon was taught, deſpiſe even a parent who had given to a faſhionable and unworthy woman, an illuſtrious name. Theſe are they who gaze in the ſilence of ſtupidity when an unuſual topic glides into con⯑verſation, and will pardon any ſpecies of rudeneſs, ſooner than that of good ſenſe.

Others know themſelves incapacitated to become authors, and ficken at the re⯑collection of their abortions. Literary attainments are depreciated, to conſole their deficiencies; as bankrupts, out of mere envy, calumniate the ſucceſsful merchant.

There is, however, a race of ingenious men, who derive their merit and their fortune from their ſtudies, and yet con⯑temn [9] literature and literary men. This is a paradox of the heart, of which the ſolution may appear difficult. Adrian VI. obtained the pontificate, as the re⯑ward of his learning; and men of letters, indulged the moſt golden hopes, at his acceſſion; but on the contrary, he con⯑temned literature, and perſecuted ſtu⯑dents. A living orator, whoſe chief merit conſiſts in his literary powers, it has been ſaid, performs in the preſent day, the part of Adrian. Such men treat ſcience, as a barbarous ſon, who ſpurns at that parent, the milk of whoſe boſom nurtured him in infancy, and whoſe hand ſupported him in youth. A lite⯑rary friend obſerves, that the pope feared leſt men of letters might ſhake the pon⯑tificate, and the orator, leſt they might detect the errors of his politics; an ob⯑ſervation which ſhews the political in⯑fluence of authors.

[10] Thoſe to whom nature has beſtowed callous organs, and who are really inſen⯑ſible to the charms of fancy, or the force of reaſon, we pardon; imbecillity muſt be accepted as an apology for errors, ſince it often is for crimes.

How hard is the fate of the author, who, when he once publiſhes, becomes in the minds of all, whatever they chuſe to make him!

CHAP. III. Of Men of Letters.

WE diſtinguiſh two kinds of Men of Letters. Both alike make their prin⯑cipal occupation to conſiſt in ſtudy; but the one are induced from many concur⯑ring circumſtances not to publiſh their labours; and the other devote their life to communicate their ſpeculations to the world. Few men of letters reject the honours of an author, out of modeſty; but ſome are inert through terror, and ſome through eaſe. The French (rich in expreſſions relative to polite letters) diſtinguiſh theſe learned and tranquil ſtudents, by the happy title of littera⯑teurs.

The popular notion of a man of let⯑ters is as unſettled, as unjuſt. It is ſup⯑poſed that becauſe a taylor makes a [12] faſhionable coat, and a builder erects a houſe according to modern taſte, a man of letters muſt therefore produce a book, adapted to the reigning mode. It is not neceſſary that every man of letters ſhould become an author, though it is the indiſpenſible duty of an author to be a man of letters. Some ſuppoſe that it is ſufficient when they commence au⯑thors, to ſtudy what they write, it would be advantageous if we write alſo what we ſtudy; for without learning, few works are valuable; and he who employs not a uſeful cement, will ſee his brilliant edifice ſcattered by the winds, in ſhining frag⯑ments.

The man of letters, is in general, a more amiable character than the author. His paſſions are more ferene, his ſtudies more regular, his ſolitude more ſoothing. He encounters no concealed or public enemy, and his tranquillity is not a [13] feather in the popular gale. Every diſ⯑covery he makes is a happy conqueſt; every charm of taſte a ſilent enjoyment.

Nor are ſuch characters as the multi⯑tude imagine unuſeful in the republic of letters. To the elegant leiſure of theſe ſtudents we are indebted for many of the ornaments of literature; and authors themſelves have recourſe to theſe ſages, as their conductors, and ſometimes as their patrons. Theſe men of letters, like guides over the Alps, though no travel⯑lers themſelves, warn the adventurous explorer of impending danger, and in⯑ſtruct him in his paſſage.

No literary character is more fre⯑quently amiable than ſuch a man of let⯑ters. The occupations he has choſen, are juſtly called the ſtudies of humanity; and they communicate to his manners, his underſtanding, and his heart, that refined amenity, that lively ſenſibility, [14] and that luminous acuteneſs which flow from a cultivated taſte. He is an enthu⯑ſiaſt; but an enthuſiaſt for elegance. He loves literature, like virtue, for the har⯑mony it diffuſes over the paſſions; and perceives, that like religion, it has the ſingular art of communicating with an unknown and future ſtate. For the love of poſterity is cheriſhed by theſe men of letters; and though they want the energy of genius to addreſs the public, often for that public, they labour in ſilence. It is they who form public libraries; father neglected, and nurture infant genius; project and ſupport benevolent inſtitu⯑tions, and pour out the philanthropy of their heart, in that world, which they ap⯑pear to have forſaken.

Their mild diſpoſitions firſt led them into the province of literature. They found in books an occupation congenial to their ſentiments; labour without fa⯑tigue; [15] repoſe with activity; an employ⯑ment, interrupted without inconvenience, and exhauſtleſs without ſatiety. They remain ever attached to their ſtudies; for to give a new direction to life, would require a vaſt effort, and of exertion they are incapable. Their library and their chamber are contiguous; and often in this contracted ſpace, does the opulent owner conſume his delicious hours.—His purſuits are ever changing, and he enlivens the auſtere by the lighter ſtu⯑dies. It was ſaid of a great hunter, that he did not live, but hunted; and it may be ſaid of the man of letters, that he does not live, but meditates. He feels that pleaſing anxiety, which zeſts deſire, ariſing from irritative curioſity; and he is that happy man who creates hourly wants, and enjoys the voluptuouſneſs of immediate gratification. The world pity the man of letters inhumed among his [16] books, and their miſtaken wit inſcribes on his door, ‘here lies the body of our friend!’ Yet unthinking men are not without excuſe; his pleaſures are ſilent and concealed. Whatever is not tran⯑quil alarms; whatever is ſerene attracts; he therefore becomes a Mecenas, but never a Virgil; protects letters, but never compoſes books; a lover of art, but never an artiſt.

Theſe men of letters form penetrating critics, whoſe taſte is habitual, and whoſe touch is firm and unerring. Criticiſm is happily adapted to their powers of action; becauſe in criticiſm they par⯑take of the pleaſures of genius, without the painful exertion of invention; and as they are incapable of exerting invention, and direct their ſtudies to form and poliſh judgment, this latter faculty is often more cultivated, and more vigo⯑rous, than even that of men of genius. [17] Few writers attain to any perfection un⯑aſſiſted by ſuch a connoiſſeur; the viva⯑city and enthuſiaſm of genius are indulged often in violations of delicacy and truth; and what the author wants is preciſely what this critic can alone give. It is not to be doubted that the familiar ac⯑quaintance which exiſted between Racine, Boileau, and Moliere, was moſt precious to them. We know that they commu⯑nicated their arts of compoſition, and ſtood centinels over each other with the ſevereſt and moſt vigilant eye. Hence that equable power, and finiſhed elegance which diſtinguiſh their productions.—Corneille, who aſſociated with neither, and like a ſultan would inſpire awe, by concealing himſelf in ſolitary grandeur, loſt theſe invaluable conferences, and indulged genius careleſs of the raſures of taſte. Hence his groſs defects and ir⯑regularities. In England, where ſuch [18] an union has been rare, we can trace the ſame effects. Pope, Swift, and Boling⯑broke, were of mutual advantage; Pope had not been a philoſopher without the aid of Bolingbroke; and Swift, an in⯑ferior poet, without the ſalutary coun⯑ſels of Pope. Milton, ſevered from all literary friends, has left in his ſublime epics, too many traces of this ſeparation; and it may be ſaid that his greateſt works contain his greateſt blemiſhes. In the finiſhed pieces of his youth, when he had a critical eye at every hour on every page, we find no want of corrective touches. Churchill, a great and irre⯑gular genius, with ſuch friends had not only left his fatires more terfe, and more harmohious, but had been incapable, in his feebleſt hours, to have ſo frequently compoſed, ſuch a ſeries of unconnected and proſaic rhimes.

[19] Often, by an excellent diſcernment, theſe critics give a happy direction to the powers of a young writer. Such was the obſervation of Walſh, whoſe ad⯑vice to Pope, that correctneſs in our poetry was the only means which re⯑mained to diſtinguiſh himſelf, animated the poet, to form that prominent and beautiful feature in his poetical character.

To prove their great utility to men of genius, the following inſtance may ſerve. Not always he whoſe abilities are capable of adorning the page of hiſtory, is alike capable of diſcovering the hidden and perplexed tracks of learned reſearch. Men of genius rarely read catalogues. To whom is the philoſophic writer of mo⯑dern hiſtory to have recourſe, but to ſuch a man of letters? When Robertſon pro⯑poſed writing his various hiſtories, he was ignorant of his ſubject, and irreſo⯑lute in his deſigns. We had nearly loſt [20] his elegant compoſitions. He confeſſed in letters, which I have ſeen addreſſed to Dr. Birch, that ‘he had never acceſs to copious libraries, nor an extenſive knowledge of authors.’ Dr. Birch, who was an admirable litterateur, in his anſwer has given a copious and critical catalogue of proper authors, accompa⯑nied by valuable information, which is acknowledged by our elegant hiſtorian with warmth. It was certainly that kind of neceſſary knowledge, which only the learning of our ſcholar could ſupply, and without which the project of Robertſon's hiſtories muſt have periſhed in the con⯑ception. Theſe ſtudents are therefore uſeful members in the republic of letters, and may be compared to thoſe ſubterra⯑neous ſtreams, which flow into ſpacious lakes, and which, though they flow in⯑viſibly, enlarge the waters which attract the public eye.

[21] Sometimes theſe men of letters diſ⯑tinguiſh themſelves by their productions; but though theſe may be excellent, they always rank in the inferior departments of literature; and they rarely occupy more than the firſt place in the ſecond claſs. Their works are finiſhed com⯑poſitions of taſte, or eccentric reſearches of curioſity, ſeldom the fervid labours of high invention. They are ingenious men, not men of genius. If they pour forth their effuſions in verſe, we may have ſome delicate opuſcula; elaborate beauties, but not of an original kind. Such are many of our minor poets, diſ⯑tinguiſhed for the refinements, but not the powers of their art. They may ex⯑cel in happy verſions of a claſſic; of which we have many admirable proofs. Their inquiries may be learned, the fruits of inceſſant labour, and long leiſure; and they ſometimes chuſe for their diſ⯑ſertations, [22] ſertations, uncommon topics. Theſe they treat often with ingenuity, but chiefly enchant by a ſeductive manner. They have a certain glow, like a gentle and regular fire; but which never flaſhes and flames like a powerful inventive mind. It is rather the fire raiſed in a forge, than burſting from a natural vol⯑cano. Such writers are the authors of thoſe little eſſays, which are precious to men of taſte; on painting, and on poetry; on beauty, and on deformity. Elegant minds, that imbue with elegance light ſubjects; their ſtrokes are not continued and grand, but occaſional and brilliant; and if they rarely excite admiration by new combinations of reflection or ima⯑gery, often paint, with a mellow warmth, the beauty of ſentiment. In ſuch at⯑tempts they ſucceed; becauſe they ſelect their ſubject, with the fondneſs of a lover, and are familiar with its reſerved [23] graces. When unfortunately they at⯑tempt higher topics, which require ele⯑vated conceptions, and fervid genius, we perceive their feeble energies. Such writers, like the lark, muſt only riſe on a playful wing, and reſound their favou⯑rite notes; but a man of genius, like a hawk, elevates himſelf to diſcover the country, and to dart on his prey.

We ſhall elucidate theſe reflections by the character of M. Sacy. He was modeſt, ingenious, and ſenſitive. He cultivated his talents with ardour, and ſoothed the labours of the bar, with the ſtudies of polite letters. He gave a verſion of Pliny, which has not injured the delicacy of the original. Admitted to the circle of the Marchioneſs de Lam⯑bert, he enjoyed the familiarity of men of genius; and by the ſenſibility of his heart, engaged the affections of the Marchioneſs more forcibly than even the [24] genius of ſuperior minds. Animated by his ſocial enjoyments, he wrote with amenity, an intereſting Eſſay on Friend⯑ſhip. In this he ſucceeded; for no mind could be more ſuſceptible to it's ſoft and domeſtic raptures. He afterwards com⯑poſed an Eſſay on Glory; but here he did not ſucceed. A man of genius alone can write on ſuch a topic; it requires a mind that expands from the limits of a family to a nation; from a nation to the world; from the world to poſterity. Vaſt and gigantic operation of the ſoul! This is no tranquil ſentiment of taſte, but an impetuous paſſion of genius. A Cicero, not a Sacy, ſhould have written on Glory; but Cicero did not feel more exquiſitely than the amiable Sacy, on the ſubject of Friendſhip.

CHAP. IV. On ſome Characteriſtics of a Youth of Genius.

I PROPOSE to ſketch ſome of the miſ⯑fortunes which often attend a writer, or an artiſt. Should my picture prove to be a faithful repreſentation, my feelings will diſpoſe me to lament my talent.

To what an unknown height might an adequate education elevate the human character, if it were poſſible at his birth to detect the future genius. The oſtrich has the ſagacity to diſcover in it's eggs, thoſe which are worthy of her genial warmth, and ſeparates them from the reſt, which would have proved ſterile to the ſolicitous cares of a mother. It is not thus with the human race. If we could perceive the man of genius, in "the na⯑tal hour," we might ſelect him from the croud, and nouriſh the giant, with [26] the aliment a giant may be ſuppoſed to require. At the age of twenty his ma⯑turity would appear; and he would have performed at thirty whatever a Horace or a Livy have done; while the vigour of life yet remained to ſhew us ſomething more exquiſite in fancy, and more com⯑plicate, yet clear in reaſoning, than at preſent we can poſſibly conceive. But, alas! it is only the romantic eye of the poet, which can obſerve the graces wreathing his cradle with myrtles. I quit my fantaſtic man of genius to deſcend to nature and to experience.

It is rather ſingular that none but princes, and monſters, have the privi⯑lege or exciting public curioſity at their birth. A man of genius is dropt among the people, and has firſt to encounter the difficulties of ordinary men, without that confined talent which is adapted to a mean deſtimation. Parents, of honeſt [27] diſpoſitions, are the victims of the de⯑termined propenſity of a ſon, to a Virgil or an Euclid; and the firſt ſtep into life of a man of genius is diſobedience and grief.

The frequent ſituation of ſuch a man is deſcribed with great ſimplicity, by the aſtrologer Lilly, whether he were a man of genius or not, in the curious memoirs of his life. He there tells us, that having propoſed to his father that he ſhould try his fortune in London, where he hoped his learning and his talents might prove ſerviceable to him, he obſerves that his father (who was incapable of diſ⯑covering his latent genius in his ſtudious diſpoſitions) very willingly conſented to get rid of him, ‘for I could not work, drive the plough, or endure any coun⯑try labour; my father oft would ſay I was good for nothing.’—The fathers of moſt of our men of genius have employed [28] the ſame expreſſions as the father of Lilly.

An apparent indolence hangs about contemplative genius; he loves the re⯑poſe of the body, and the activity of the mind. It is known that moſt men of great abilities in their puerile days, have retired from the ſports of their mates, and while they were folded up in their little wild abſtractions, have appeared dull to dunces. We often hear, from the early companions or intimates of a man of genius, that at ſchool he had been remarkably heavy and unpromiſing; but, in truth, he was only remarkably penſive, and often pertinaciouſly aſſi⯑duous. The great Boſſuet at ſchool would never join with his young companions, but preferred plodding over a book.—They revenged themſelves by a boyiſh jeſt of calling him, bos ſuetus aratro, an ox daily toiling in the plough. It is curious [29] to obſerve, that the young painters, to ridicule the conſtant labours of Domeni⯑chino in his youth, did him the honour to diſtinguiſh him alſo by the title of great Ox. Chatterton offers ſtill a better, though a more melancholy in⯑ſtance. It is in this manner that one man of genius generally reſembles another.

This inaction of body, and activity of mind, they retain throughout life. A man of genius is rarely enamoured of common amuſements. And the boy who was unadroit at marbles, and refuſed ſca⯑ling the wall of an orchard, when a man, ſeldom excels as an agile hunter, or an elegant dancer. I am deſcribing the en⯑thuſiaſm of talent, not it's unintereſting mediocrity. A man of genius is the ſureſt teſtimony on this point. Let us attend to the minſtrel of Dr. Beattie.

I repeat, his mind alone has activity.—The fire ſide in the winter, and ſome favourite tree in the ſummer, will be his ſeats; his amuſements become ſtudies, and his meditations are made in his walks, as well as in his chair. Theſe are ſome of the marks which diſtinguiſh him from the man of the world.

We have been able to diſcover this diſpoſition in youthful genius; the ſame characteriſes his age. It was thus when Mecenas, accompanied by Virgil and Horace, retired one day into the country, the miniſter amuſed himſelf with a ten⯑nis-ball; the two poets repoſed on a vernal bank, beneath a delicious ſhade. [31] Pliny was pleaſed with the Roman mode of hunting, which admitted him to ſit a whole day with his tablets and ſtylus, that (he ſays) if I return with empty nets, my tablets may at leaſt be full.

Among the inauſpicious circumſtances which frequently attend the firſt exertions of juvenile genius, is the want of ſenſi⯑bility and diſcernment, in the literary man or artiſt whoſe regard and counſels he ſolicits. Remote from the world of taſte, he cultivates with ardour, but not with art, talents which tremble in the feebleneſs of infancy. When the intel⯑lectual offspring is ſtruggling with pain, and fear, into exiſtence, the hand that ſhould aid it's delivery repels with an un⯑natural barbarity. As Churchill ſays, ‘They cruſh a Bard, juſt burſting from the ſhell!’ In theſe wild hours of youth and fancy, the juvenile writer roves like an inſulated [32] wanderer. Thrown on an enchanted iſle, his ear liſtens with an artleſs impatience for the celeſtial tones of an Ariel. It is his unhappy fate to encounter a brutal and malicious Caliban. Such has been the ſituation of ſeveral men of genius when they firſt addreſſed themſelves to an unworthy man of letters for their protector.

Another unfriendly influence over young genius is the want of diſcernment in thoſe, who have the direction of their talents. Pope was often heard to ſay, that he could learn nothing from his maſters, for they wanted ſagacity to diſ⯑cover the bent of his genius; and the preceptors of Thomſon, reprimanded the poet, for being too poetical in ſome of his exerciſes. The judicious Quintilian obſerves, that it is not ſufficient that a maſter inſtructs his ſcholars in ſcience; but he ſhould alſo cultivate thoſe par⯑ticular [33] good qualities nature has be⯑ſtowed on each; to add, to thoſe which are deficient, to correct ſome, and to change others.

It is a melancholy truth, that the period at which men receive the colour of their life, is that which is generally leaſt regarded. When we moſt want judgment, we have none; and age is often paſſed only in lamentations over youth. The eventful moment which determines our future years, is min⯑gled and loſt among hours which can⯑not be recalled. Phyſicians tell us, that there is a certain point in youth, at which our conſtitution takes it's form, and on which the ſanity of life revolves. The exiſtence of genius, experiences a ſimilar dangerous moment. Taſte er⯑roneouſly directed, or genius unſubdued; feebleneſs not invigorated, or vigour not ſoftened; are the accidents which render [34] even a ſuperior mind defective in it's beſt performances. Children by the neg⯑ligence of their parents become ricketty, and all their life retain ſome trace of the unhappy diſtortion of their limbs. The predominant blemiſhes of an author, if enquired into, will be found generally to originate in their indulgence at a time when they wanted a Quintilian, to deter them by exerciſing ſome contrary quality to that, of which they were vitiouſly en⯑amoured. The epigrammatic points, and ſwelling thoughts of Young; the remote conceits of Cowley, and the turgidity of Johnſon, might probably have been avoided by their authors, had the bent of their mind at an early period, been moulded by a critic hand. Few literary vices are radical, unleſs permitted to ſtrike deeply in the ſoil. Oaks, are but ſaplings, till they are ſuffered to become oaks.

[35] The peculiarities of genius are often derived from local habits, or accidental circumſtances; and this remark ſhews the unwearied vigilance neceſſary to be obſerved in the progreſs and formation of genius. Rembrandt is one inſtance; his peculiarity of ſhade was derived from the circumſtance of his father's mill re⯑ceiving light from an aperture at the top, which habituated him afterwards to that ſingular manner of broad ſhades. The ſame analogy may be traced in the hu⯑man intellect. A man of genius is often determined to ſhape his mind into a par⯑ticular form, by the books of his youth. Dr. Franklin tells us, that when young, and wanting books, he accidentally found De Foe's Eſſay on Projects, from which work he thinks impreſſions were derived that afterwards influenced ſome of the principal events of his life. It was by a ſtudious peruſal of Plutarch's illuſtrious [36] men, that Rouſſeau received that gran⯑deur of ſentiment which diſtinguiſhes all his compoſitions, and created him that romantic and ſenſitive being he ever re⯑mained.

If we except ſome rare inſtances, no writer can diſplay his talents ſo indiſpu⯑tably that the world ſhall be conſcious of his exalted genius, at an early period. Du Bos and Helvetius have fixed that great hour in the ſhort day of man, about the age of thirty; and I recollect an old Spaniſh writer lays it down as an axiom, that no author ſhould publiſh a book under the age of thirty-five. It is cer⯑tain that many of our firſt geniuſes, have not evinced their abilities till forty. Some indeed ſpring ſuddenly like a flower; while others expand gradually like a tree. Some are like diamonds which receive their fine poliſh from an ela⯑borate [37] art, while others reſemble pearls which are born with their beautiful luſtre.

Is it enquired if during this long pe⯑riod a man of genius does not give ſome evident marks of his future powers? I anſwer that ſometimes he does; ſome⯑times he does not; and ſometimes they are dubious. They are frequently dubi⯑ous, becauſe the groſſeſt pedant attends to his ſtudies, if not with the ſame af⯑fection, at leaſt with as much conſtancy as the fineſt genius. Who can diſtinguiſh between pertinacity and genius? It is, perhaps, impoſſible to know if a young ſtudent will be a compiler, or an hiſtorian.

The firſt effuſions of a man of genius may be ſo rude, as were thoſe of Swift and Dryden, that no reaſonable hope can be formed of his happy progreſs. The juvenile productions of many great writers evince nothing of that perfection they afterwards obtained; and probably [38] Raphael when he firſt ſhadowed his rude man, on his father's earthenware, had not one ſtroke of that ideal beauty, which one day his head was to conceive, and his hand to attempt.

Sometimes a ſuperior mind gives no evidence of it's great powers; genius may, like Aeneas, be veiled by a cloud, and remain unperceived even by it's aſ⯑ſociates; as in the caſe of Goldſmith, whom even his literary companions re⯑garded as a compiler, not as a writer of taſte. Hume was conſidered for his ſo⯑briety and aſſiduity, as capable of be⯑coming a good merchant; of Johnſon it was ſaid, that he would never offend in converſation, and of Boileau, that he had no great underſtanding, but would ſpeak ill of no one. Farquhar, who afterwards joined to great knowledge of the world, the livelieſt talents, was at college a heavy companion, and unreaſonably dull. [39] Theſe, from numerous inſtances, will be ſufficient. Again, when a ſuperior mind evinces it's early genius, it is not always done with all it's energy; we have ſeveral who began verſifiers, and concluded poets.

It happens, however, that ſometimes genius unequivocally diſcovers itſelf in the puerile age. Some appear to have meditated on the art they love, on the boſom of their nurſe; and they are pain⯑ters and poets before they know the names of their colours, and the fabric of their verſe. Michael Angelo, as yet a child, wherever he went, employed him⯑ſelf in drawing, which ſo much alarmed his noble parents, who were fearful their family might be diſhonoured by a man of genius, that they mingled caſtigations with their reprimands. Angelo relin⯑quiſhed the pencil, but it was only to take the bruſh. When he attempted ſtatuary, his father bluſhed to think his [40] ſon was a ſtone-cutter. Angelo perſiſted, and became a great man in oppoſition to his noble progenitors. Velaſquez, a Spa⯑niſh painter, when he performed his ſchool taſks, filled them with ſketches and drawings; and, as ſome write their names on their books, his were known by exhibiting ſpecimens of his genius.

An obſervation may be introduced here which is due to the parents of a man of genius.

We never read the biography of a great character, whether he excelled in letters, or the fine arts, without repro⯑bating the domeſtic perſecution of thoſe, who oppoſed his inclinations, and en⯑deavoured to unfeather the tender pinion of juvenile genius. No poet but is rouſed with indignation, at the recollection of the Port Royal Society thrice burning the poetical romance, which Racine at length got by heart; no geometrician [41] but bitterly criminates the father of Paſcal for not ſuffering him to read Euclid, which he at length underſtood without reading; no painter, but exe⯑crates the parents of Angelo, for ſnatch⯑ing the pencil from his hand, though at length he became ſuperior to every artiſt. All this is unjuſt.

Let us place ourſelves in the ſituation of a parent of a man of genius, and we ſhall find another aſſociation of ideas concerning him than thoſe we have at preſent. We ſee a great man, they a diſobedient child; we ſee genius, they obſtinacy. The career of genius is rarely that of fortune; and very often that of contempt. Even in it's moſt flattering aſpect, what is it, but plucking a few brilliant flowers from precipices, while the reward terminates in the honour? The anxious parent is more deſirous of his ſon's cultivating the low-lands where [42] induſtry may reap, in ſilent peace, no precarious harveſt. But I even confeſs that many parents are themſelves not ſo inſenſible to glory, but that they would prefer a ſplendid poverty, to an obſcure opulence; but who is to be certain that a young man is obeying the ſolicitation of true genius, or merely the fondneſs for an art, in which he muſt never be an artiſt? Literary men themſelves fre⯑quently are averſe to encourage the lite⯑rary diſpoſitions of their children.

It is certain that a love for any art, in youth, is no evidence of genius. The caſual peruſal of Spenſer, which might produce a Cowley, has no doubt given birth to a croud of unknown poets. We have a conſiderable number of minor artiſts, of all kinds, who never attain to any degree of eminence, and yet in their youth felt a warm inclination for their art. If the impulſe of genius, and the [43] perſeverance of deſire, if conception and imitation, could ever be accurately diſ⯑tinguiſhed in the philoſophy of the mind, it would be one of the moſt uſeful of me⯑taphyſical ſpeculations. But philoſo⯑phers have not yet agreed of the nature of genius, for while ſome conceive it to be a gift; others think it an acquiſition.

We now proceed to ſome reflections on the friends of youthful genius.

The friends of a young writer are ge⯑nerally prejudicial. To find a ſage Quintilian in a private circle, is as rare as to diſcover a ſilver mine in Devon⯑ſhire; it is ſuppoſed there are ſeveral, but it is difficult to know where nature has placed them.^*

[44] We may obſerve, that the productions of taſte are much more unfortunate than thoſe of reaſoning. Every man has a tolerable degree of judgment, and with a ſlight exertion, atchieves the compre⯑henſion of a piece of argument; but taſte is of ſuch rarity, that a long life may be paſſed by ſome, without ever meeting with a perſon of that cultured and ſure taſte, which can touch and feel [45] the public opinion, before the public forms it's opinion.

When a young writer's firſt eſſay is ſhown, ſome, through mere inability of cenſure, ſee nothing but beauties; others, with equal imbecillity can ſee none; and others, out of pure malice, ſee nothing but faults. Few great writers have been born in that fortunate and rare circle, where every man has taſte, and ſome have candour. A young writer, if he ſuffers his mind to float from uncertainty to uncertainty, will only loſe many years before he diſcovers the imbecillity and defective taſte of the narrow circle of his critics.

A young artiſt muſt baniſh deſpon⯑dence, even in the rudeſt efforts of art. He muſt obey the fervid impulſe at the coſt of the pleaſures of his age, and the contempt of his aſſociates. It may alſo be no improper habit to preſerve his ju⯑venile [46] compoſitions. By contemplating them he may perceive ſome of his pre⯑dominant errors; reflect on the gradual corrections; reſume an old manner more happily, invent a new one from the old he had neglected; and often may find ſomething ſo fine, among his moſt irre⯑gular productions, that it may ſerve to embelliſh his moſt finiſhed compoſitions. I cannot but apply to this ſubject, a happy ſimile of Dryden, which a young writer, in the progreſs of his ſtudies, ſhould often recollect.

Let him therefore at once ſupply the marble, and be himſelf the ſculptor; he muſt learn to hew out, to form, and to poliſh his genius. He muſt appeal from a contracted circle, to the public; and [47] throughout life, muſt hold this as a maxim, if he would preſerve the neceſ⯑ſary tranquillity to purſue his ſtudies, that the opinion of an individual muſt be accounted as nothing; not even if this opinion ſhould appear in print. Helve⯑tius juſtly obſerves, what does the opi⯑nion of any individual mean? Only, that if favourable, he entertains the ſame ideas as myſelf; and if unfavourable, that we differ.

Who but the public can arbitrate be⯑tween an artiſt and his critic? Should even the cenſures of the critic be juſt, and the artiſt notwithſtanding pleaſe, it is an additional evidence, that he is among the greateſt artiſts. It is thus with Shakeſpeare and Churchill.

If ſeveral of our firſt writers had at⯑tended to the ſentiments of their friends, we ſhould have loſt ſome of our moſt precious compoſitions. The friends of [48] Thomſon could diſcern nothing but faults in his early productions, not ex⯑cepting his ſublime Winter! This poet of humanity has left a vindictive epi⯑gram againſt one of theſe friends, and it is perhaps the only ill-natured lines, he ever wrote. He came with impatience to London, publiſhed, and made his genius known. Voltaire, when his Brutus was unſucceſsful, was adviſed not to turn his attention to the ſtage. He replied to his friends by writing Zara, Alzire, and Mahomet. The Mirror when publiſhed in Edinburgh was "faſtidiouſly" re⯑ceived; the authors appealed from Edin⯑burgh to London, and they have pro⯑duced the literary pleaſures of thouſands!

It is dangerous for a young writer to reſign himſelf to the opinions of his friends; it is alike dangerous to paſs them with inattention. What an em⯑barraſſment! If he has not an excellent [49] judgment he will not know what to re⯑ject and what to receive of thoſe varying opinions; and if he has an excellent judgment, he wants little of their aid.

A young writer muſt long and dili⯑gently ſtudy his great models without venturing on the vanity of criticiſm. He who begins to analyſe before he is ac⯑quainted with the nature of his materials, like an ignorant chymiſt, may ſuppoſe he is making experiments, when he is in the act of injuring his untutored and au⯑dacious hand. He muſt read for many years his authors, as ſome the goſpels, with the ſame faith and the ſame admi⯑ration. For what he once wanted in⯑tellectual reliſh, he will come to admire, and what he admires he will imitate. He cannot too often peruſe thoſe many criti⯑cal performances which the philoſophical taſte of the age has produced. It ſhould be conſidered, that by reading an excel⯑lent [50] critic, he receives the knowledge of many years in a few hours. The diſ⯑coveries of art are tardy, and criticiſm ſupplies this deficiency. The more ex⯑tenſive an artiſt's knowledge of what has been done, the more vaſt will be his powers in knowing what to do. Thoſe who do not read criticiſm, will not even merit to be criticiſed. Yet we have un⯑reflecting ſtudents who inquire of the utility of criticiſm? Nothing may be of happier conſequence than a habit of comparing his thoughts and his ſtyle with the compoſitions of his maſters. If in the compariſon, the ſilent voice of ſentiment exclaims in his heart, ‘I alſo am a painter,’ it is not improbable that the young artiſt may become a Cor⯑regio.^* If in meditating on the con⯑feſſions [51] of Rouſſeau, he recollects that he has experienced the ſame ſenſations from the ſame circumſtances, and that he has encountered the ſame difficulties, and vanquiſhed them by the ſame means; he may hope one day that the world will re⯑ceive him as their benefactor. If in a conſtant peruſal of the fineſt writers, he ſees his ſentiments ſometimes anticipa⯑ted, and in the tumult of his mind as it comes in contact with their's, new ones ariſe, let him proſecute his ſtudies, with ardour and intrepidity, with the fair hope, that one day, he may acquire the talents of a fine writer. Let him then,

CHAP. V. Of the domeſtic Life of a Man of Genius.

IF we contemplate the domeſtic life of a man of genius, we rarely obſerve him placed in a ſituation congenial to his purſuits.

The houſe of a man of letters ſhould be the ſanctuary of tranquillity and vir⯑tue. The moral duties he inculcates, the philoſophic ſpeculations he forms, and the refinements of taſte he diſcloſes, ſhould be familiar to his domeſtic circle. It is then he is great without effort, and eloquent without art.

The porch and the academy of the ancients muſt have communicated an enthuſiaſm the moderns can never ex⯑perience. In the golden age of Greece, a Demoſthenes ſaw himſelf encompaſſed by future orators; and Plato liſtened to [53] the plaudits of future philoſophers. It was a moment of delicious rapture, not felt in the ſolitary meditations of the modern philoſopher, in whoſe mind ſen⯑ſations ariſe cold and artificial compared to their burſt of ſentiment and their fer⯑vour of paſſion.

Yet a virtuous citizen, amidſt the diſ⯑ſolution of manners, may give to his re⯑ſidence a Roman auſterity, and diſplay the ſublime in life, as well as in compo⯑ſition. He may be ſeated at an attic ſupper, and, ‘Enjoy, ſpare feaſt! a radiſh and an egg. Cowper.’ Nor is ſuch a purity of manners incom⯑patible with refined paſſions, and delicacy of ſentiment; a penetrating glance, a tender preſſure, a ſilent ſmile, may in⯑fuſe into his heart thoſe genuine emo⯑tions which are ever wanted and never [54] found at tables more ſplendidly profuſe, and more elegantly crouded. A vene⯑rable parent, a congenial friend, and a female ſuſceptible of a kindred enthu⯑ſiaſm, are perhaps the utmoſt number of happy companions, which a fortunate man could ever aſſemble around him.

Is he deprived of theſe ſocial conſola⯑tions, like Johnſon, he calls thoſe whoſe calamities have exiled them from ſo⯑ciety; and his houſe is an aſſemblage of the blind, the lame, and the poor. In the ardour of his emotions, he diſcovers that a word is wanting in the vocabulary of humanity, and like the Abbè de Saint Pierre, has the honour of fixing a new word in the language; a word that ſerves to explain his own actions—Bien⯑faiſance.

His look is ſerene, for ſtudy, not for⯑tune, forms his ſole occupation; and accident cannot injure the ſtability of his [55] ſoul, for virtue has long been a habit. Is it enquired why this man appears an anomalous being among his fellow citi⯑zens?—Becauſe he is the contemporary of the greateſt men. He paſſes his morn⯑ings with Cicero and Demoſthenes, and gives his nights to Socrates and Plato.

Such an one is the living exemplar of that ſublime morality which we learn with our latin at ſchool, and which, when we come into the world, we conſider, like our latin, to be merely a dead lan⯑guage.

He renders poverty illuſtrious, and proves that every man may be indepen⯑dent. But we would be independent only, in commanding ſlaves. He who lives like a Spartan in voluptuous Sybaris, is, however, independent; and this age has produced men who paſſed the fer⯑vours of youth in a philoſophical ſeverity, and ſtudied (as ſome ſtudy a language) [56] to become great characters. Such were Franklin and Elliot, Chatham and Hume!

The actions and ſtudies of ſuch men are not the only utility they beſtow on the world; they leave ſomething of a more diffuſive energy; they leave the eternal memory of their CHARACTER; they leave to remoteſt poſterity their im⯑mortal veſtiges, while virtuous youth contemplates them with enthuſiaſm, and follows them with confidence.

We cloſe any further reflections on the character of a philoſophic writer, and reſtrain ourſelves to obſervations more obvious, and to facts more uſual.

Too often we ſee the ſublimeſt minds, and the tendereſt hearts, ſublime and tender only in their productions. They are not ſurrounded by perſons of ana⯑logous ideas, who are alone capable of drawing forth their virtues and affec⯑tions; [57] as the powers of the magnet re⯑main dormant unleſs applied to particles capable of attraction. We hear of ſeve⯑ral great men, that they were undutiful ſons—becauſe they diſpleaſed their fa⯑thers in becoming great men—that they were diſagreeable companions—becauſe dullneſs or impertinence wearied—that they were indifferent huſbands—becauſe they were united to women who did no honour to the ſex. Theſe are ordinary accuſations, ever received, while it is forgotten that an accuſation is not al⯑ways a crime.

It were not difficult to deſcribe the domeſtic life of moſt men of genius, and to obſerve that their inmates have ren⯑dered their Lares but rugged deities. I would never draw concluſions from par⯑ticular circumſtances, ſuch as, that Ad⯑diſon deſcribes his lady under the character of Oceana, and Steele deline⯑ates [58] his wife under that of Miſs Prue; the one was a ſtormy ocean, and the other a ſtagnated ſtream. But I re⯑mark that many of the conſpicuous blemiſhes of ſome of our great compo⯑ſitions may reaſonably be attributed to the domeſtic infelicities of their authors. The deſultory life of Camoens probably occaſioned the want of connection in his Epic; Milton's diſtracted family thoſe numerous paſſages which eſcaped era⯑ſure; and Cervantes may have been led, through the haſte of publication, into thoſe little ſlips of memory obſervable in his Satirical Romance. The beſt years of Meng's life were embittered by the harſhneſs of his father; and it is probable that this domeſtic perſecution, from which he was at length obliged to fly, gave him thoſe moroſe and ſaturnine habits which he ever afterwards retained. Of Alonſo Cano, a celebrated Spaniſh [59] painter, it is obſerved by Mr. Cumber⯑land, that he would have carried his art much higher, had not the unceaſing per⯑ſecution of the inquiſitors deprived him of that tranquillity which is ſo neceſſary to the very exiſtence of the fine arts. Our poetry had probably attained to it's acmè, before Pope, had the unfortu⯑nate circumſtances of Dryden not occa⯑ſioned his inequalities, his incorrectneſs, and his copious page.

It is therefore an intereſting obſerva⯑tion for a man of letters, and an artiſt, to liberate himſelf early from domeſtic anxieties. Let him, like Rouſſeau, leave the rich financier, (though he might be⯑come one himſelf,) ſell his watch, and iſſue from the palace, in independence and enthuſiaſm. He muſt alſo, if ne⯑ceſſary, like Crebillon, be ſatisfied with the reſpectable ſociety of a conſiderable [60] number of grey hounds,^* The moſt ar⯑dent paſſion for glory can alone ſtimulate to ſuch a retirement; and indeed it is only in ſolitude that the moſt eminent geniuſes have been formed. Solitude is the nurſe of enthuſiaſm, and enthuſiaſm is the parent of genius. Literary ſolitude ſhall therefore form our next object for ſpeculation.

CHAP. VI. On Literary Solitude.

MEN of Letters are reproached with an extreme paſſion for retirement; and ſome of the warmeſt philanthropiſts are calumniated as haters of the human race.

Literary Retirement can have no guilt, even if merely paſſed, in the uninter⯑rupted examination of the treaſures of literature. When taſte is formed, and curioſity becomes habitual, the mind will not forego gratifications at once ſa⯑cile and exquiſite. If it is ſaid why the ſame ingenuity of mind, that loves to trace the cauſe, and to arrange the ef⯑fects, is not turned to the objects of the times, and thus render itſelf of more apparent utility, I anſwer, that in the contemplation of exiſting ſcenes, the mind finds not the ſame gratification as [62] in thoſe of the paſt. What is preſent is not yet terminated; the folly of the age is not yet folly, and judgment pauſes over myſterious paſſions. But in the hiſtory of the human mind, to be calmly traced in the volumes of other times, every illuſion is diſſipated; and we re⯑ceive the ſame pleaſure, as the ſpectator who beholds the cataſtrophe of the tra⯑gedy, or the comedy, which excited his curioſity. The hiſtory of the paſt yields a concluſion, and therefore a perfection which cannot accompany that of the preſent.

The horizon of Reſearch is illimitable, and the diſcoveries of Truth are infinite. New materials ſerve but as the founda⯑tions of others; we do not remain ſa⯑tisfied with building a houſe, a palace, or a ſtreet; but by impereeptible gra⯑dations we erect a city.

[63] This, perhaps, may ſerve as an apo⯑logy for Men of Letters, who conſume their days with innocence and philoſo⯑phy; but who are frequently conſidered to withdraw from duties which thoſe who live to buſtle, and thoſe who buſtle to live, are very far themſelves from practiſing. An active virtue, which in the preſent day may be called heroiſm, is frequently the amiable child of Soli⯑tude, but rarely the companion of the buſy and the gay.

I propoſe to ſhew the neceſſity, the pleaſures, and the inconveniencies of So⯑litude, to thoſe who enlighten the world from the obſcurity of their retirement.

Solitude is indiſpenſable for literary purſuits. Every poet repeats,‘Carmina ſeceſſum ſcribentis et otia quaerunt.’ No conſiderable work has yet been com⯑poſed, but it's author, like an ancient [64] magician, retired firſt to the grove or the cloſet, to invocate his ſpirits. Every compoſition of genius is the production of enthuſiaſm; and while enthuſiaſm agitates the mind, the ſolitude of a man of letters reſembles a ſcene of antient Greece; a grove becomes ſacred, and in every retired ſpot a divinity appears.

But it's enchantments are reſerved alone for him. When he ſighs for the intellectual decencies, and the grace of fancy, and languiſhes in an irkſome ſo⯑litude among crouds, that is the moment to fly into ſecluſion and meditation. He alone experiences the delights of that day, which is compreſſed into a few hours. Where can he indulge, but in ſolitude, the delicious romances of his ſoul? And where but in ſolitude can he occupy himſelf in uſeful dreams by night, and when the morning riſes, fly, with⯑out interruption, to his unfiniſhed la⯑bours? [65] He finds many ſecret pleaſures, and ſome glowing anticipations. There is a ſociety, in the deepeſt ſolitude, to which a poliſhed mind ſprings with ar⯑dour; it embraces a thouſand congenial ſentiments, and mingles with a thouſand exquiſite ſenſations. The ſolitude of retirement to the frivolous preſents a vaſt and dreary deſert; but to the man of genius it blooms like the enchanted gar⯑den of Armida.

Such is the ſituation in which the poet of ſentiment and nature, amidſt the works of his maſters, exclaims‘Firſt of your kind, Society divine! Thomſon.’ In this ſtillneſs of ſoul, nature ſeems more beautiful, and more vaſt. We obſerve men of genius, in public ſitua⯑tions, ſighing for this ſolitude; it is there only they feel their ſuperiority, [66] and live in a future age. Cicero was uneaſy amidſt applauding Rome, and he has diſtinguiſhed his numerous works by the titles of his various villas, where they were compoſed. It will not be de⯑nied that Voltaire had talents and a taſte for ſociety; yet he not only withdrew by intervals, but at one period of his life paſſed five years in the moſt ſecret ſecluſion, and perſeverance of ſtudy. Monteſquieu quitted the brilliant circles of Paris for his books, his meditations, and for his immortal work; and for this he was ridiculed by the gay triflers he relinquiſhed. Harrington, to compoſe his Oceana, ſevered himſelf from the ſociety of his friends, and was ſo wrapt in abſtraction, that he was pitied as a lunatic.

A heart thus diſpoſed, tears itſelf, with reluctance, from it's contempla⯑tions, and comes into ſociety without a [67] poſſibility of receiving, or producing it's pleaſures. It may be urged that ſeveral men of genius have found no difficulty to level themſelves to ordinary under⯑ſtandings. I have heard that Hume found great delight in the ſociety of two old maids, at his evening whiſt; Fonte⯑nelle and La Motte would patiently liſten to the frivolous and the dull; but Fontenelle and La Motte, whoſe genius our hiſtorian's greatly reſembled, were two ingenious Frenchmen, celebrated for their politeneſs and their wit, not for their ſenſibility and enthuſiaſm.

When a man of letters ſeeks the con⯑ſolations of ſociety, he would reſt a mind enfeebled with one continued pur⯑ſuit; or exerciſe it by ſuffering it to take thoſe infinite directions which the diver⯑ſities of converſation offer. If it is wea⯑ried, the ſimpleſt actions pleaſe; it is a child that would ſport with flowers and [68] pebbles; if it iſſues in all it's force, it is an athlet that leaps in the arena, and calls for an adverſary. It is Montaigne ſporting with his cat, or Johnſon main⯑taining a theſis amidſt his marvelling friends.

In either caſe, ordinary ſociety offers no charms, and can never be charmed. A feeble mind knows not to unbend, becauſe it was never yet extended; nor can it elevate itſelf becauſe the ſoul, ac⯑cording to the figure of Plato, has no wings.

Thus the mind of genius feels a con⯑tinued irritation in the croud. Let us attend to the expreſſions of genius, which can beſt deſcribe it's peculiar ſen⯑ſibilities. Petrarch frequently with⯑drew to his immortal valley, alike diſ⯑guſted with the groſſneſs of the vulgar, and the frivolity of the courtier; he could not patiently ſuffer that Being, whom [69] he calls 'un huom del vulgo!' Cowley regarded the common people as he did beaſts, and was diſpleaſed as much with what he calls ‘the great as the little vulgar.’ Among the perverted images of a living orator, is that ‘of the hoofs of the ſwiniſh multitude,’ and a ve⯑nerable ancient prefers the ſociety of his dog to ſuch men. Fools (cries Du Clos) reconcile men of genius to each other; from the impoſſibility of living with fools. And to cloſe our teſtimonies, with a fine expreſſion from Milton,

The interruption of viſitors have been feelingly lamented by men of letters.—The mind, occupied in maturing it's ſpeculations, feels the approach of the viſitor by profeſſion, as the ſudden gales of an eaſtern blaſt, paſſing over the bloſ⯑ſoms [70] of ſpring. We are afraid, ſaid ſome of the viſitors to Baxter, that we break in upon your time. To be ſure you do, replied the diſturbed and blunt ſcholar. Urſinus was laborious in his literary avocations, and to hint as gently as he could to his friends, that he was avaricious of time; he placed an in⯑ſcription over the door of his ſtudy, de⯑ſiring, that if any one chuſed to remain, they muſt join in his labours. The ami⯑able Melancthon, incapable of a harſh expreſſion, when he received theſe idle viſits, only noted down the time he had expended, that he might reanimate his induſtry, and not loſe a day. Among the diſturbers of domeſtic tranquillity, may be claſſed thoſe unhappy wanderers who beſiege the houſes of their neigh⯑bours, and like the barbarian ſoldier, enter the apartment of an Archimedes, and murder him in the midſt of his ſtudies.

[71] But I am how to ſketch a different picture of literary ſolitude.

Zimmerman has compoſed an elabo⯑rate work on Solitude, in a general manner. His ſentiments are glowing, and perhaps they are dangerous. Of ſolitude, men of genius muſt always be ſufficiently enamoured, without having read that ſeducing deſcription of it's ſublime pleaſures. Let us not, how⯑ever, forget nature in enthuſiaſm. A man of genius, though he addreſſes poſ⯑terity, has ſenſibilities and deſires which can only be gratified by his contempo⯑raries. When great minds cannot readily find that in the world they ſeek, they haſten into ſecluſion. The craving void remains unfilled; and for him who ſighs for popularity in ſolitude, every hour ſharpens deſire, and aggravates diſap⯑pointment.

[72] The ſolitude which is ſought by the young ſtudent is not borne without re⯑pining. To tame the fervid wildneſs of youth, to the ſtrict regularities of ſtudy, is a ſacrifice which requires all the en⯑thuſiaſm of the ſincereſt votary. The Academic Bower is not without it's rainy days. Milton, not apt to vent com⯑plaints, appears to have felt this irkſome period of life. He employs theſe ex⯑preſſions in the preface to Smectymnus. ‘It is but juſtice, not to defraud of due eſteem the weariſome labours and ſtudious watchings, wherein I have ſpent, and tired out, almoſt a whole youth.’

Perhaps ſolitude in a later period of life, or rather the neglect which attends that ſolitude, is felt with more ſenſibi⯑lity. It was thus that Cowley, that en⯑thuſiaſt for rural ſecluſion, in his retire⯑ment called himſelf "the melancholy Cowley;" and Mr. Maſon has judici⯑ouſly [73] transferred the ſame epither to Gray. Can we read his letters, and not feel it's juſtneſs? we lament alſo, the loſs of Cowley's correſpondence, through the miſtaken notion of Sprat, a loſs cer⯑tainly as invaluable, as irrecoverable. Theſe are the beſt memoirs of a man's heart; the regiſter of his feelings. But Shenſtone has filled his pages with the cries of an amiable heart that bleeds in the oblivion of ſolitude. In one of his letters, are theſe melancholy expreſ⯑ſions: "Now I am come from a viſit, every little uneaſineſs is ſufficient to in⯑troduce my whole train of melancholy conſiderations, and to make me utterly diſſatisfied with the life I now lead, and the life I foreſee I ſhall lead. I am an⯑gry, and envious, and dejected, and fran⯑tic, and diſregard all preſent things as becomes a madman to do. I am infi⯑nitely pleaſed (though it is a gloomy joy) [74] with the application of Dr. Swift's com⯑plaint, that he is forced to die in a rage, like a poiſoned rat in a hole." Without exciting ſimilar paſſages in proſe, let the lover of ſolitude muſe on it's picture throughout the year, in the following ſtanza.

Swift's letters paint a terrifying picture of ſolitude, and at length his deſpair cloſed with idiotiſm. The amiable Greſſet, could not ſport with the bril⯑liant wings of his fancy, without ſome querulous expreſſions of an irkſome ſoli⯑tude. In his "Epiſtle to his Muſe," he thus exquiſitely paints the ſituation of men of genius.

[75] And afterwards he adds,‘Vingt ans d'Ennuis pour quelque jours de gloire!’

The following anecdote may amuſe the reader. When Menage was attacked by ſome, and abandoned by others, in a ſplenetic humour, he retreated into the country, and gave up his famous Mer⯑curiales, when the literati aſſembled at his houſe. He expected to find that tranquillity in the country which he had frequently deſcribed in his verſes; but, as he was only a poetical plagiariſt, it is not wonderful that he was greatly diſ⯑appointed. Some malicious perſon hav⯑ing killed his pigeons, it gave him more vexation than his critics. He haſtened his return to Paris. It is better, he cried, ſince we are born to ſuffer, to feel only reaſonable ſorrows.

It is reaſonably to be ſuſpected, that he only prefers ſolitude, who cannot ac⯑compliſh [76] his wiſhes in ſociety. I have not yet been able to diſcover a great ge⯑nius, who, courted by an attentive world, perſiſted in his retirement. Voltaire, when his reputation was not yet eſta⯑bliſhed, ſees only happineſs in ſecluſion; all his letters abound with quotations from the poets, of the raptures of ſoli⯑tude. When his tragedies gave him ce⯑lebrity, then his letters ſound a different ſtrain, and he heſitates not to declare to his friends, how unhappy was his ſitu⯑ation; conſtrained to remain in ſolitude while his tragedies were acting every night at Paris.

To have ſtood inſulated amidſt ſociety has been the hard fate of ſome whoſe preſence would have embelliſhed the moſt ſelect. This neglect of the world has inſpired their compoſitions with a querulous ſenſibility; a ſoftening charm, that whatever it may have coſt their [77] feelings, renders their beautiful lamenta⯑tions more intereſting. The tender ſhades of melancholy throw a grace amidſt the brilliant lights of their fancy. It is ſaid that the nightingale, with a thorn in her breaſt, does not ſing with a leſs enchanting melody. Is not the voice of the heart heard in theſe verſes?

On the whole it may be ſaid, that a great experience of the world, united with a great love of virtue, render ſoli⯑tude deſirable. When they exiſt ſepa⯑rately, it becomes irkſome. A great experience of the world, without virtue, will pine in ſolitude, to exert it's talent on thoſe who are ſimple and unexperi⯑enced. A great love of virtue, without experience of the world, forms in the leiſure of retirement, thoſe utopian pro⯑jects, which it pants to call into exiſtence.

CHAP. VII. On the Meditations and Converſations of Men of Genius.

A CONTINUITY of attention is one of the grand characteriſtics of genius, and in proportion to the degree of the in⯑tenſeneſs of abſtraction are it's powers often obtained. A work on ABSTRAC⯑TION, or the ART OF MEDITATION, is a deſideratum. It would be a valuable preſent to all, and might prove of im⯑menſe advantage to him, who never had more than one ſolitary idea.

Among the regulations of this art, it might not be improper to recommend darkneſs. Several profound thinkers, could never purſue the operations of their minds, in the diſtraction of light, when the leaſt remiſſion of thought pro⯑duces a new object, and an extraneous [79] idea. Mallebranche and others, cloſed their ſhutters when they wiſhed to ab⯑ſtract themſelves. That darkneſs is a great aid to thinking, would appear from what moſt men experience relative to their thoughts during the night. The ſilence and obſcurity of that time are moſt friendly to abſtraction, and often when ſleep forſakes us, and we muſe, our thoughts ſurpriſe by the vividneſs of fancy. If at that moment, in the words of one of our moſt elegant poems, we do not, ‘Snatch the faithleſs fugitives to light. Pleaſures of Memory.’ If Memory does not chain the children of Imagination, they are ſcattered, and fly the beams of the morning. Our mind, among a tumultuous croud, ſuddenly finds itſelf forſaken and ſolitary. It is at that unregarded period of our exiſtence, [80] that men of moderate capacities feel an extraordinary expanſion, and men of genius ſome of their moſt original com⯑binations. Yet then, how few, like Pope, have an old woman at hand, to bring pens and paper!

Men of genius muſt conſider them⯑ſelves as ſo many vigilant guardians of the infinity of nature. So treacherous is Recollection, and ſo capriciouſly does Memory ſupply her treaſures to Fancy, that ſome of the happieſt conceptions of genius are fortuitous; they come, we do not know from where, and ſpring we do not know how; but if not ſeiſed at the moment of perception, they are like autumnal clouds, whoſe romantic figures diſſolve, as we gaze.

It is ſaid that collections have been made, ſmall ones no doubt, of bon mots by perſons who never ſaid but one good thing; it would form no incurious miſ⯑cellany, [81] if it were poſſible to ſelect ſome of thoſe thoughts of great thinkers, which were never written. We ſhould find many admirable ones. The painters have this advantage over writers, their ſlighteſt ſketches are immediately ſieſed, and become as valuable to poſterity as their more complete labours.

The ART OF MEDITATION is an art which we may inceſſantly exerciſe, and need not remit for long intervals of re⯑poſe, as every other art. And yet, not⯑withſtanding the facility of practice, and we ſhould ſuppoſe the hourly ſkill we might obtain, every manual art, is brought to perfection, while of the art of the mind, millions are yet ignorant of the firſt rudiments. Quintilian finely obſerves, that men of genius command it at all times, and in all places. In their walks, at table, and at aſſemblies, they turn their eye inwards, and can [82] form an artificial ſolitude. The powers of abſtraction, which ſome men have exerciſed, appear to puny thinkers to have ſomething of the marvellous; in the regions of the mind, they look like ſo many Gullivers among a million of Lilliputians. Of Socrates it is ſaid, that he would frequently remain an entire day and night in the ſame attitude, abſorbed in meditation; and why ſhall we doubt this when we know that La Fontaine and Thomſon, Deſcartes and Newton, experienced the ſame abſtraction? In Cicero's Treatiſe on Old Age, Cato praiſes Caius Sulpitius Gallus, who, when he ſat down to write in the morn⯑ing, was ſurpriſed by the evening, and when he took up his pen in the evening, was ſurpriſed by the appearance of the morning. Of the Italian poet Marini, it is ſaid, that he was once ſo abſorbed in the reviſion of his Adonis, that he [83] ſuffered his leg to be burnt, for ſome time, without any ſenſibility.

This enthuſiaſm renders every thing that ſurrounds us as diſtant as if an im⯑menſe interval ſeparated us from the ſcene. It is related of a modern aſtro⯑nomer, that one ſummer night when he was withdrawing to his chamber, the brightneſs of the heavens ſhewed a phe⯑nomenon. He paſſed the whole night in obſerving it, and when they came to him early in the morning and found him in the ſame attitude, he ſaid, like one who had been recollecting his thoughts for a few moments, ‘it muſt be thus; but I'll go to bed before 'tis late.’ He had gazed the entire night in meditation and did not know it.

Enthuſiaſm, which is active genius, preſents an object more ſingular than genius in it's quieſcent meditations. The flowing ſtream is loſt in an ocean rolling [84] impetuouſly. This phrenzy of abſtrac⯑tion, and wonderful agitation of the ſoul, is required not only in the fine arts, but wherever a great exertion muſt be employed. It was felt by Gray in his loftieſt excurſions; and is it not the ſame power which impels the villager, when to aſtoniſh his rivals, in a conteſt for leaping, he retires back ſome ſteps, ferments his mind to a fervent reſolu⯑tion, and clears the eventful bound? It was a maxim with one of our ancient and great Admirals, in the reign of Eliza⯑beth, that a height of paſſion, amounting to phrenzy, was neceſſary to qualify a man for that place. A variety of in⯑ſtances might be given of this fine en⯑thuſiaſm, which has ever accompanied the artiſt, at the moment he produced excellencies.

It has ſometimes ariſen into a delirium. The ſoul of Rouſſeau was bewildered in [85] the deluſions of fancy, and the momen⯑tary diſpoſitions of his mind coloured exterior objects. Petrarch in that mi⯑nute narrative of a viſion in which Laura appeared to him, and Taſſo in the con⯑verſations with his inviſible ſpirit, ex⯑panded their ſublime imaginations to a dangerous phrenzy. This delicious ine⯑briation of the heart, occaſions ſo intenſe a delight, that to deſcribe this character of the ſoul, requires, what one of theſe exquiſite minds has called ‘Thoughts that breathe and words that burn!’ The ancients ſaw nothing ſhort of a di⯑vine inſpiration in this agitation of the mind. It affects men of genius phyſi⯑cally. Fielding ſays, ‘I do not doubt but that the moſt pathetic and affecting ſcenes have been writ with tears!’ He, perhaps, would have been pleaſed to have confirmed his obſervation, by [86] the following circumſtance. Metaſtaſio has written a beautiful Sonnet, on occa⯑ſion of having ſhed tears in writing an Opera.^* When the firſt idea of the Eſſay on the Arts and Sciences ruſhed on the contemplation of Rouſſeau, it oc⯑caſioned ſuch a fever of the mind, and trembling of his frame, that it ap⯑proached to a delirium. The tremors of Dryden, after having written an Ode, (a circumſtance accidentally handed to us by tradition) were probably not un⯑uſual with him.

Chance has preſerved but a few of ſimilar inſtances; this enthuſiaſm, in⯑deed, can only be obſerved by men of genius themſelves; but when it moſt powerfully agitates them, they can leaſt perceive it. At that moment of exqui⯑ſite extravagance, like a religious viſi⯑onary, they pierce into "the heaven of [87] heavens," and when they return to their chair and their table, the effect has ceaſed, and the golden hour of ſublime rapture muſt terminate like other hours, in vulgar appetites that offend Fancy and gratify Nature.

This irritability of mind has ſome⯑times rendered ſociety diſpleaſing to ſe⯑veral men of genius. Whenever Rouſſeau paſſed a morning in company, he ſays, it was obſerved that in the evening he was diſſatisfied and diſturbed. Rouſſeau may be conſidered by ſome, as a mind too peculiar, to be taken as a guide in our examination into the character of men of genius. If our young authors, however, would meditate on certain parts of his character, their virtues might be more elevated, and their ſtyle more exquiſite, than the model which any other literary character of this age pre⯑ſents to them.

[88] Abſorbed in his meditations, the man of genius lives in one continued ſeries of reflection; always himſelf, ſeldom ano⯑ther; frequently the real artiſt loves nothing but his art, and his very amuſe⯑ments and relaxations receive the im⯑preſſion of this enthuſiaſm. Not without an apparent haughtineſs, which often is but the natural and dignified expreſſion of an elevated mind; and he appears awkward or ignorant of thoſe petty at⯑tentions which form the ſcience of thoſe who have no ſcience. A great Princeſs was deſirous of ſeeing one of the firſt Literary Characters of the age; her diſ⯑appointment was inconceivable; he ſat awkwardly and ſilently on his chair, and made the moſt perplexed bow, ſhe had yet ſeen.

We often view the man of real genius inſulated in a brilliant circle; while the intriguing and faſhionable author, whoſe [89] heart is more corrupt than his head, is admired becauſe he has diſcovered the art of admiring. The triflers conſider him to be a man of genius; he employs their own ideas; both are therefore gratified.

It is however certain, that this ab⯑ſtraction and awkwardneſs which render a man of genius ridiculous and incon⯑ſiderable in the private circle, are the cauſe of his ſucceſs with the public. Often his private defects are the ſource of his public qualities; his bluntneſs may be a lively perception of truth; his cold⯑neſs a rigid candour; his tedious diſ⯑cuſſion may be an accuracy of reaſoning, and his diſagreeable warmth the ardour which animates his works with the pub⯑lic. It was the exceſſive vanity and ſelf-love of Cicero and Voltaire, that gave birth to all their vaſt deſigns. To pleaſe the public, and his circle is incompa⯑tible [90] —to this the frivolous will not aſſent—when of their numerous body one ac⯑compliſhed trifler ſhall be acknowledged as a great genius, this obſervation ſhall be deemed erroneous. But to cloſe a diſpute of the moſt ancient date, I ſhall quote the remark of a Lord. Shafteſ⯑bury (for nobility loſes it's title and often it's rank in the republic of letters) has ſaid, ‘that it may happen that a perſon may be ſo much the worſe author for being the finer gentleman.’

Many reaſons may be alledged why genius is defective in ordinary conver⯑ſation; one may be ſufficient; the want of analogous ideas. The ſpirit of faſhi⯑onable ſociety and that of ſtudy, are in⯑compatible. The language of the politeſt circle may be defined the art of ſpeaking idly to an idler. To ſpeak idly, is not an acquirement of facility. A man of ge⯑nius is rarely verſant in the faſhionable [91] vocabulary, and in a dialogue of elegant inanity, which ſhould be rapid and various, he heſitates to find a remote idea, and ſtops to correct an imperfect expreſſion. How often will it be fortu⯑nate for him if he eſcapes being un⯑derſtood! It is rather ſingular that our poliſhed ſociety ſhould bear ſo cloſe a reſemblance to the converſations of the Hottentots—of the Hottentots?—Yes! for we are told that they conſider think⯑ing as the ſcourge of human nature.

The refined ſenſibility of men of ge⯑nius, renders them uneaſy companions. They diſcover a character too early, and too ſagaciouſly, for the intereſts of con⯑verſation. Dunces are excellent com⯑panions for dunces; the ſame ideas, and the ſame judgments; the opacity of the intellect is no detriment, for, like the blind, they can perform their ſtated rounds in the night without incon⯑venience.

[92] A man of genius can rarely be a fa⯑vourite with ſuch a party, even if they ſhould have ſome taſte and ſome infor⯑mation. His works they applaud, be⯑cauſe that is faſhionable, but they neg⯑lect the author, who may happen to be very unfaſhionable.

The frivoliſt author will be the even⯑ing favourite; he ſports not without grace on the brilliant ſurface of the ſoul; but is irrecoverably loſt when he paſſes over it's depths; the ſwan that grace⯑fully glides down rivers, would periſh on ſeas. The man of genius ſits like a me⯑lancholy eagle whoſe pinions are clip⯑ped, and who is placed to rooſt among domeſtic fowls.

A man of genius utters many things in converſation which appear extrava⯑gant or abſurd; when printed they are found admirable. How often the public differs from the individual; there may [93] be a century's opinion betwixt them. This reflection reminds me of an Athe⯑nian anecdote. A ſtatuary at Athens, made a figure of Minerva. Thoſe friends who were admitted into his ſhop (an ancient cuſtom the moderns preſerve) were ſurpriſed at it's rough ſtrokes and coloſſal features. Before the artiſt they trembled for him; behind him they ca⯑lumniated. The man of genius ſmiled at the one, and forgave the other. When the figure was fixed in a public place, and inſpected by the city, and not merely by individuals, the attic judges admired the ſoftneſs of the traits, and the majeſty of the figure. We muſt never forget that there is a certain diſtance, at which opinions, as well as ſtatues, are to be viewed; and he who addreſſes an attic public, knows, that it's enlightened ſen⯑timents, are rarely to be found in a pri⯑vate circle.

[94] It is not neceſſary to produce inſtances of the deficiencies of men of genius in converſation. It is ſufficient to obſerve, that the ſublime Dante was taciturn or ſatirical; Addiſon and Moliere were ſilent; Corneille and Dryden were no amuſing companions. Vaucanſon was ſaid to be as much a machine as any he made.

To the intimates of theſe ſuperior men, who complained of their defects, I would thus have replied—Do their productions not delight and ſurpriſe you?—You are ſilent; I beg your pardon. The public has informed you of a great name; you would not otherwiſe have perceived the precious talent of your neighbour.—You have examined his compoſitions; and would you have him reſemble yourſelves? You know nothing of your friend but his name.

[95] A man of genius may, however, be rendered the moſt agreeable companion. Few artiſts but are eloquent on the art in which they excel. He is an exquiſite inſtrument if the hand of the performer knows to call forth the rich confluence of his ſounds. If,‘The flying fingers touch into a voice. D'Avenant.’

If you love the man of letters, ſeek him in the privacies of his ſtudy; or if he be a man of virtue, take him to your boſom. It is in the hour of confidence and tranquillity, his genius may elicit a ray of intelligence, more fervid than the labours of poliſhed compoſition.

CHAP. VIII. Men of Genius limited in their Art.

WE have examined in the preceding Chapter ſeveral reaſons why men of ge⯑nius are often incapable of pleaſing in the verſatile converſation of a mixed ſo⯑ciety. Another obſervation offers; their powers of pleaſing are even limited in the art in which they excel. They are confined (ſays Du Bos) to particular branches in that art.

This obſervation, reiterated without effect, has become trite, while it would appear by moſt authors, conſidering themſelves univerſal geniuſes, that it was on the contrary, a dangerous novelty. Literary hiſtory continually confirms it's verity; and theſe failures of eminent men are ſo many inſtructions which Nature dictates; but her pupils receive her ad⯑monitions with contempt.

[97] Nature is "a jealous God," and ſeve⯑ral of our great writers when they have riſen in rebellion againſt her, have only ſuffered by the violation. Fielding, ex⯑cellent in his novels, when his aid was required for the theatre, could never write a tolerable drama. Congreve, ce⯑lebrated for his pointed wit, when he took up the reigning topic, wrote the feebleſt verſe; Rowe, ſucceſsful in the ſoft tones of tragedy, is remarkable for a miſerable failure in comedy; La Fon⯑taine, that exquiſite fabuliſt, found that his opera was hiſſed. The abſurdities of Voltaire, the moſt ſucceſsful of univerſal writers, are only forgiven for his inex⯑hauſtible wit and happy irony.

The moſt original genius of our age, with diſcernment equal to his wit, con⯑fines himſelf to that ſpecies of poetry in which he can fear no rival. Songs, more delicious than the odes of Anacreon, and [98] ſatires, more pungent than thoſe of Horace; compoſitions more admirable than imitable; theſe are the limits which, like a great politician, he draws round his empire. He has no diſpoſition to rival Milton in an epic, or Shakeſpeare in a tragedy. Peter Pindar will never, therefore, experience the fate of Louis the Great; to make brilliant conqueſts in the prime of life, and view his repu⯑tation die before himſelf, by a vain at⯑tempt at univerſal monarchy.

But ſome ingenious men are willing to oppoſe this precept, and preſume to think that Nature is never ungrateful, when ſhe receives the proper attentions. It is not difficult to find ſome ingenious artiſts, who ſhew abilities in various modes of compoſition; but to evince abilities, and to diſplay genius, are re⯑moved at a long interval from each other. True genius has rarely this ſuppleneſs; [99] but what the French call le bel eſprit, has it often in a wonderful degree. Wri⯑ters endowed with the bel eſprit, can compoſe hiſtory and romance, and moral and poetical eſſays, with the ſame in⯑genuity. A man of genius will only write a hiſtory, or a romance; moral, or poe⯑tical eſſays; but his performances remain with the language, while the reputation of a bel eſprit, like ſome artificial fires, become ſuddenly extinct. And it is cu⯑rious to obſerve, that the very ingenious Du Clos is denied by the French critics, to be a man of genius, becauſe he wrote equally well on a variety of ſubjects.

Nor is it ſurpriſing that even a man of genius ſhould fail in preſerving an equal power over every province of his art; the genius of man being neceſſarily limited compared to art itſelf; and he who raiſes admiration by his ſkill in one depart⯑ment, will never equal his faculty in an⯑other. [100] He who excels, like a Butler in wit and ſatire, will find it impoſſible to excel like a Milton, in ſentiment and imagination. The minds of men are ſo many different ſoils; and the great art conſiſts in planting the trees adapted to the ſoil.

I know no inſtance to ſhew that a great poet excelled as a painter, or that a great muſician excelled as a ſtatuary. But it is not difficult to prove, that the moſt eminent men of genius have found their talent confined to their art, and even to departments of their art.

The ancients therefore wiſely addicted themſelves only to one ſpecies of com⯑poſition. The poet was not an hiſtorian, nor the hiſtorian a poet; but the poet was a poet, and the hiſtorian an hiſtorian.

I have been induced to touch on this critical admonition, becauſe it is ſome⯑times denied; and I think the error [101] ariſes from not diſtinguiſhing the grand compoſitions of genius, from the pretty curioſities of the bel eſprit, which may be defined mimetic genius. Whenever this well-known verſe ſhall be contro⯑verted, it will be fatal to the progreſs of genius, ‘One ſcience only will one genius fit. Pope.’

He who writes on topics of different ſpecies, cannot meditate much on any; with him all is a beautiful diſtraction rather than an accompliſhed beauty; he can only repeat what has been already given, or give what will not merit to be repeated. Writers of mediocrity, by a long and patient devotion to one kind of compoſition, have often attained con⯑ſiderable merit; but how much more forcibly muſt this reſolute perſeverance act on a mind of original powers. We [102] may compare thoſe who write on dif⯑ferent arts, or multifarious topics, to excurſive merchants, who make ſmall fortunes in various places, and ſpend them there; writers who concentrate their powers on one object, are like thoſe who inceſſantly accumulate, but exhauſt their ſplendid opulence, in the proper place, at their native reſidence.

It is the obſervation of one of our beſt critics and poets, in his admirable pre⯑face to Homer, that ‘no author or man ever excelled all the world in more than one faculty.’ It is not, however, denied that a man of genius ſhould be intimate with the principles of every art; in many he may become an eſteemed artiſt, but in one only he can be a maſter.

CHAP. IX. Some Obſervations reſpecting the Infirmities and Defects of Men of Genius.

THE modes of life of a man of genius are often tinctured with eccentricity and enthuſiaſm. Theſe are in an eternal con⯑flict with the uſages of common life. His occupations, his amuſements, and his ardour, are diſcordant to daily purſuits, and prudential habits. It is the charac⯑teriſtic of genius to diſplay no talent to ordinary men; and it is unjuſt to cen⯑ſure the latter when they conſider him as born for no human purpoſe. Their pleaſures and their ſorrows are not his pleaſures and his ſorrows. He often ap⯑pears to ſlumber in diſhonourable eaſe, while his days are paſſed in labours, more conſtant and more painful than thoſe of [104] the manufacturer. The world are not always aware that to meditate, to com⯑poſe, and even to converſe with ſome, are great labours; and as Hawkeſworth obſerves, that ‘wearineſs may be con⯑tracted in an arm chair.’

Such men are alſo cenſured for an ir⯑ritability of diſpoſition. Many reaſons might apologize for theſe unhappy vari⯑ations of humour. The occupation of making a great name, is, perhaps, more anxious and precarious than that of making a great fortune. We ſympathiſe with the merchant when he communi⯑cates melancholy to the ſocial circle in conſequence of a bankruptcy, or when he feels the elation of proſperity at the ſucceſs of a vaſt ſpeculation. The au⯑thor is not leſs immerſed in cares, or agitated by ſucceſs, for literature has it's bankruptcies and it's ſpeculations.

[105] The anxieties and diſappointments of an author, even of the moſt ſucceſsful, are incalculable. If he is learned, learn⯑ing is the torment of unquenchable thirſt, and his elaborate work is expoſed to the accidental recollection of an inferior mind, as well as the fatal omiſſions of wearied vigilance. If he excels in the magic of diction, and the graces of fancy, his path is ſtrewed with roſes, but his feet bleed on inviſible yet piercing thorns. Rouſſeau has given a glowing deſcription of the ceaſeleſs inquietudes by which he acquired ſkill in the arts of compoſition; and has ſaid, that with whatever talent a man may be born, the art of writing is not eaſily obtained. The depreſſions and elevations of genius, are deſcribed by Pope

[106] The anxious uncertainty of an author for his compoſitions, is like the ſtate of the lover who writes to his miſtreſs; he repents, and thinks he has written too much, and he recollects that he had omitted things of the greateſt moment. When, indeed, his work is received with favour, he reſembles Latona, as deſcribed by Ovid, who contemplated with ſecret joy, her daughter Diana, diſtinguiſhed among the wood-nymphs, and whoſc appearance was taller, and more lovely than her companions.

It is obſerved by M. La Harpe (an author by profeſſion) that as it has been proved there are ſome maladies peculiar to artiſts, there are alſo ſorrows which are peculiar to them; and which the world can neither pity nor ſoften, be⯑cauſe it cannot have their conceptions. We read not without a melancholy emo⯑tion, the querulous expreſſions of men of [107] genius. We have a little catalogue de calamitate Litteratorum; we might add a volume by the addition of moſt of our own authors.^* The too ſenſible Smollet has left this teſtimonial to poſterity of his feelings. In one of his prefaces he ſays, ‘had ſome of thoſe who were pleaſed to call themſelves my friends, been at any pains to deſerve the character, and told me ingenuouſly what I had to expect in the capacity of an Author, I ſhould in all probability have ſpared myſelf the incredible labour and chagrin I have ſince undergone.’ This is a text which requires no commentary. Hume has given the hiſtory of his writings, and we find that it required to the full, all [108] his patient philoſophy to ſupport his ill reception. The reaſoning Hume pro⯑poſed changing his name and his coun⯑try. Parties are formed againſt a man of genius, as happened to Corneille and Milton; and a Pradon and a Settle are preferred to a Racine and a Dryden. What muſt have been the agonies of the neglected Collins when he burnt his ex⯑quiſite odes at the door of his publiſher! The great Bacon bequeathed his name and his works to foreigners, and to a fu⯑ture age; nor muſt we forget the dig⯑nified complaints of the Rambler, with which he awefully cloſes his work in ap⯑pealing to poſterity.

The votaries of the arts and ſciencies, are called by Cicero, Heroes of Peace; their labours, their dangers, and their intrepidity, make them heroes; but peace is rarely the ornament of their fe⯑veriſh exiſtence.

[109] It is a mortification experienced by ſeveral men of genius, that they have never acquired that reputation they might have merited, by not having been en⯑abled to carry their genius to it's per⯑fection. A variety of circumſtances may hinder ſuch a writer from occupying the diſtinguiſhed place his abilities promiſed. Some authors, of the firſt-rate genius, are neglected, becauſe deficient in that taſte, which is alone attained by long culture and an enlarged education. Piron was a writer of as great genius, and ori⯑ginal powers, as any of the French poets; but he has failed of ſecuring himſelf a ſeat among the maſters of the French Parnaſſus. He has himſelf, in ſome ſketches of his life, aſſigned the reaſons of this failure; till the age of twenty-five, he was confined to the narrow circle of unlettered friends; he paſſed ten or twelve years afterwards at Paris in [110] obſcurity; ſo that he was about forty, when by the advice of Crebillon, he eſ⯑ſayed his powers on his faſtidious the⯑atre, and though he has evinced high genius, he has only ſatisfied his refined nation by one performance.

Some are now only agreeable, who might have been great writers, had their application to ſtudy, and the modes of their life been different. In Mr. Greaves' lively recollections of his friend Shen⯑ſtone, are ſome judicious obſervations on this ſubject. He has drawn a compari⯑ſon between the elevated abilities of Gray, and the humble talents of Shenſtone; and he has eſſayed to ſhew, that it was the accidental circumſtances of Gray's place of birth, education, his admittance into ſome of the beſt circles, and his aſſiduous application to ſcience, which gave him that ſuperiority over the indo⯑lence, the retirement, and the inertion [111] of a want of patronage, which made Shenſtone, as Gray familiarly ſaid, ‘hop round his walks’ like a bird in a ſtring. I muſt again remind the reader of an⯑other apparent paradox of Helvetius, who ſays, that it is the different modes of education which influence men ſo wonderfully; and that genius may be ac⯑quired whenever a proper ſtudy is accom⯑panied by a fervent paſſion for any par⯑ticular art or ſcience. This fervent paſ⯑ſion may be only another name for what is called genius. I believe, however, that Shenſtone, who now occupies a ſubordi⯑nate ſeat, in the Temple of Fame, might have been placed among the higher claſſes. Perhaps moſt men are born with abilities nearly equal; and Mr. Greaves has more reaſon on his ſide than ſome may be aware, when he ſays, ‘of two perſons, born to equal fortune, if one improves his ſtock by induſtry [112] and traffic, and the other lives idly upon the principal, the conſequence is obvious.’

Others, by an ignorance of a fine manner, or by a wrong direction long purſued, waſte their talents, on the hum⯑bler departments of art, when they have ſufficient genius to excel in the higheſt. This is the caſe among many of our provincial writers, who, with no incon⯑ſiderable talents, are placed often in ſitu⯑ations where they ſtudy authors whoſe taſte is ſurpaſſed by the more modern. We often ſee ingenious writers, who are about half a century removed from the public taſte. Among the painters, Al⯑bert Durer may ſerve as an inſtance. Vaſari (quoted by Sir Joſhua Reynolds) juſtly remarked, that he would have pro⯑bably been one of the firſt painters of his age, had he been initiated into the great principles of the art, ſo well un⯑derſtood [113] by his Italian contemporaries. And Sir Joſhua adds, but unluckily hav⯑ing never ſeen or heard of any other manner, he conſidered his own, with⯑out doubt, as perfect.

Men of genius are often reverenced only where they are known by their wri⯑tings. In the romance of life they are divinities, in it's hiſtory they are men. From errors of the mind, and derelic⯑tions of the heart, they may not be ex⯑empt; theſe are perceived by their acquaintance, who can often diſcern only theſe qualities. The defects of great men are the conſolation of the dunces.

Degrading vices and ſingular follies have diſhonoured men of the higheſt genius. Than others, their paſſions are more efferveſcent, and their reliſh for enjoyment more keen. Genius is a pe⯑rilous gift of Nature; for it is acknow⯑ledged that the ſame materials ſhe em⯑ploys [114] to form a Cataline and a Cromwell, make a Cicero and a Bacon. Plato, in his viſionary ſketches of a man of genius, lays great ſtreſs on his having the moſt violent paſſions, with reaſon to reſtrain them. Helvetius, an accurate obſerver of men of genius, alſo enforces the idea of their inflammable and phyſical paſſi⯑ons. Glory and infamy is the ſame violent paſſion, but the direction is dif⯑ferent, and Voltaire has expreſſed this in one verſe,‘Si Je n'etois Ceſar, j'aurois etè Brutus.’ Genius, like a ſtorm of wind in Arabia, either directs the myriads of locuſts to the land, or with a friendly influence diſ⯑perſes them away.

For their foibles it appears more dif⯑ficult to account than for their vices; for a violent paſſion depends on it's direction to become either excellence or depra⯑vity; but why their exalted mind ſhould [115] not preſerve them from the imbecillities of fools, appears a mere caprice of Na⯑ture. A curious liſt might be formed of ‘Fears of the brave and follies of the wiſe. Johnſon.’ In the note underneath I have thrown to⯑gether a few facts which may be paſſed over by thoſe who have no taſte for literary anecdotes.^*

[116] But it is alſo neceſſary to acknowledge, that men of genius are often unjuſtly re⯑proached with foibles. The ſports of a vacant mind, are miſunderſtood as fol⯑lies. The ſimplicity of truth may ap⯑pear vanity, and the conſciouſneſs of ſuperiority, envy. Nothing is more uſual than our ſurpriſe at ſome great writer or artiſt contemning the labours of another, whom the public cheriſh with equal ap⯑probation. We place it to the account of his envy, but perhaps this opinion is erroneous, and claims a conciſe inveſti⯑gation.

Every ſuperior writer has a MANNER of his own, with which he has long been [117] converſant, and too often inclines to judge of the merit of a performance by the degree it attains of his favourite manner. He errs, becauſe impartial men of taſte are addicted to no manner, but love whatever is exquiſite. We often ſee readers draw their degree of compa⯑rative merit from the manner of their favourite author; an author does the ſame; that is, he draws it from himſelf. Such a partial ſtandard of taſte is erro⯑neous; but it is more excuſeable in the author, than in the reader.

This obſervation will ſerve to explain ſeveral curious phenomena in literature. The witty Cowley deſpiſed the natural Chaucer; the claſſical Boileau, the rough ſublimity of Crebillon; the forcible Cor⯑neille, the tender Racine; the affected Marivaux, the familiar Moliere; the ar⯑tificial Gray, the ſimple Shenſtone. Each alike judged by that peculiar manner [118] he had long formed. In a free conver⯑ſation they might have contemned each other; and a dunce, who had liſtened without taſte or underſtanding, if he had been a haberdaſher in anecdotes, would have haſtened to repoſit in his ware⯑room of literary falſities, a long decla⯑mation on the vanity and envy of theſe great men.

But the charge of vanity has been urged with great appearance of truth againſt authors, for the complacence they experience in their works, and the high admiration of themſelves. An author is pictured as a Narciſſus.

It has long been acknowledged that every work of merit, the more it is ex⯑amined, the greater the merit will ap⯑pear. The moſt maſterly touches, and the reſerved graces, which form the pride of the artiſt, are not obſervable till after a familiar and conſtant meditation. [119] What is moſt refined is leaſt obvious; and to ſome muſt remain unperceived for ever. Churchill, in the opening of his ſecond book of Gotham, juſtly ob⯑ſerves, that to form the beauties of compoſition,

But aſcending from theſe elaborate ſtrokes in compoſition, to the views and deſigns of an author, the more profound and extenſive theſe are, the more they elude the reader's apprehenſion. I re⯑fine not too much when I ſay, that the author is conſcious of beauties, that are not in his compoſition. The happieſt wri⯑ters are compelled to ſee ſome of their moſt magnificent ideas float along the immenſity of mind, beyond the feeble graſp of expreſſion. Compare the ſtate of the author with that of the reader; how copious and overflowing is the mind [120] of the one to the other; how more ſen⯑ſibly alive to a variety of exquiſite ſtrokes which the other has not yet perceived; the author is familiar with every part, and the reader has but a vague notion of the whole. How many noble conceptions of Rouſſeau are not yet maſtered! How many profound reflections of Monteſquieu are not yet underſtood! How many ſub⯑tile leſſons are yet in Locke, which no preceptor can teach!

Such, among others, are the reaſons which may induce an author to expreſs himſelf in language which may ſound like vanity. To be admired, is the noble ſimplicity of the ancients, (imitated by a few elevated minds among the moderns) in expreſſing with ardour the conſciouſ⯑neſs of genius. We are not more diſ⯑pleaſed with Dryden than with Cicero, when he acquaints us of the great things he has done, and thoſe he purpoſes to [121] do. Modern modeſty might, perhaps, to ſome be more engaging, if it were modeſty; but our artificial bluſhes are like the ladies' temporary rouge, ever ready to colour the face on any occaſion. Some will not place their names to their books, yet prefix it to their advertiſe⯑ments; others pretend to be the editors of their own works; ſome compliment themſelves in the third perſon; and many, concealed under the ſhade of ano⯑nymous criticiſm, form panegyrics, as elaborate and long as Pliny's on Trajan, of their works and themſelves; yet in a converſation, ſtart at a compliment, and quarrel at a quotation. Such modeſt au⯑thors reſemble certain ladies, who in public are equally celebrated for the coldeſt chaſtity.

Conſciouſneſs of merit characteriſes men of genius; but it is to be lamented that the illuſions of ſelf-love, are not diſ⯑tinguiſhable [122] from the realities of conſci⯑ouſneſs.^* Yet if we were to take from ſome their pride of exultation, we anni⯑hilate the germ of their excellence. The perſuaſion of a juſt poſterity ſmoothed the ſleepleſs pillow, and ſpread a ſun⯑ſhine in the ſolitude of Bacon, Monteſ⯑quieu, and Newton; of Cervantes, Gray, and Milton. Men of genius anticipate their contemporaries, and know they are ſuch, long before the tardy conſent of the public.

They have alſo been accuſed of the meaneſt adulations; it is certain that many have had the weakneſs to praiſe [123] unworthy men, and ſome the courage to eraſe what they have written. A young writer unknown, yet languiſhing for en⯑couragement, when he firſt finds the notice of a perſon of ſome eminence, has expreſſed himſelf in language which gra⯑titude, a finer reaſon than reaſon itſelf, inſpired. Strongly has Milton expreſſed the ſenſations of this paſſion, ‘the debt immenſe of endleſs gratitude.’ Who ever pays an "immenſe debt" in ſmall ſums?

Even extravagant applauſes may be excuſed. Every man of genius has left ſuch honourable traces of his private af⯑fections; from Locke, whoſe dedication of his immortal treatiſe is more adulative than could be ſuppoſed from a temperate philoſopher, to Churchill, whoſe eulo⯑gies on his friends form ſo beautiful a contraſt with the acerbity of his ſatire. As their ſuſceptibility is more ardent, [124] and their penetration keener, than other men, it is not improbable that they often diſcover traits in the characters of thoſe with whom they are familiar, unper⯑ceived and unknown to the world. The moſt illuſtrious of the ancients placed the name of ſome friend at the head of their works; we too often prefix the name of ſome patron; but the moſt graceful place is, perhaps, in the midſt of a work, when a man of genius ſhows that he is not leſs mindful of his ſocial affection than his fame.

CHAP. X. Of Literary Friendſhips and Enmities.

A DELIGHTFUL topic opens to our con⯑templation. I enter the ſcene, as Eneas the green Elyſium, where he viewed the once illuſtrious inhabitants of the earth repoſing in ſocial felicity. Among the multitude, a Pythias and Damon are rare; for friendſhip appears too ſerious for the frivolous, and too romantic for the buſy. The mutable paſſions of the frivolous oblige them to forſake thoſe boſoms in which they have repoſited their extinct paſſions; and the varying object of the varying hour requires a new ſet of aſſociates. The buſy ſuffer no in⯑timacies to intrude on their private views; the myſterious magnet of friend⯑ſhip is attached only by inviſible atoms [126] of ſympathy, but falls without coheſion, on the ſolidity of gold.

It is honourable to Literature, that among the virtues it inſpires, is that of ardent friendſhip, and it's hiſtory pre⯑ſents no unfrequent inſtances of it's fineſt enthuſiaſm. The delirium of love is often too violent a paſſion for the ſtudent, and it's caprices are ſtill more incom⯑patible with his purſuits than it's deli⯑rium. But friendſhip is not only delight⯑ful, but neceſſary to ſoothe a mind alter⯑nately elated and depreſſed; when infirm, it ſtrengthens, when dubious, it en⯑lightens, when diſcouraged, it animates.

That however it ſhould be rare in literature, will excite no ſurpriſe. The qualities neceſſary to conſtitute literary friendſhip, compared with thoſe of men of the world, muſt render it's occaſional appearance a ſingularity. Literary friend⯑ſhip has no convivial gaieties or factious [127] aſſemblies. Two atoms muſt meet, out of the vaſt maſs of nature, of ſo equal a form that when they once adhere, they ſhall appear as one, and reſiſt the utmoſt force of ſeparation. Their ſtudies muſt be ſimilar, and yet ſo far from becoming rivals, each muſt find reciprocal aſſiſ⯑tance; when one of them is at length found to excel, the other is to be the protector of his fame. Each muſt live for the other, decide with one judgment, and feel with one taſte. In this inter⯑courſe of minds, the private paſſions are not to be gratified, but often to be cor⯑rected, and an energetic paſſion for ſtudy muſt alone be indulged. In their fami⯑liar converſations, learning is commu⯑nicated without ſtudy, and wit without art. What is given by one is improved by the other; fancy is enriched by me⯑mory: and to ſuch converſations the world is indebted for many of it's hap⯑pieſt [128] productions. The greateſt incon⯑venience attending ſuch a friendſhip, is to ſurvive the friend; nor are there wanting inſtances in which this has not been ſuffered, and the violence of grief has operated like a voluntary death.

The friendſhips of men of the world are different both in their features and their complections. There we find with facility, men of analogous diſpoſitions; but ſuch intimacies terminate in com⯑plaint and contempt. A feeble mind acquires ſtill more imbecillity with the feeble; a diſſolute heart riots in guilt with the diſſolute; and while we deſpiſe our companion, we in return have be⯑come deſpicable.

Among the moſt pleaſing effuſions of a man of genius, are thoſe little pieces which he conſecrates to the cauſe of friendſhip; and among his nobleſt ac⯑tions, are thoſe fervid and ſpontaneous [129] teſtimonies of affection, of which literary hiſtory affords many examples. I ſhall have no recourſe to the abundant in⯑ſtances which the ancients have left; the moderns may be inſtructed by the mo⯑derns. To notice a few will be ſufficient, and not to notice them, would be re⯑fuſing the young reader no ordinary gratification. Such is the memorable friendſhip of Beaumont and Fletcher, that as they have ſo cloſely united their labours that we know not the productions of either; it is with equal difficulty bio⯑graphers compoſe the memoirs of one, without running into the life of the other. They pourtrayed the ſame characters, while they mingled ſentiment with ſen⯑timent, and their days were not more cloſely interwoven than their verſes. The poem of Cowley, on the death of his friend Harvey, is not, indeed, free from ſome of his remote conceits; yet the fol⯑lowing [130] ſtanza preſents a pleaſing picture of the employments of two young ſtudents.

Milton has not only given the exquiſite Lycidas to the memory of a young friend, but in his Epitaphium Damonis, to that of Deodatus, has poured forth ſome intereſting ſentiments. It has been verſified by Langhorne. Now, ſays the poet,

The elegy of Tickel, maliciouſly called by Steele, "proſe in rhime," is alike inſpired by affection and fancy; it has a [131] melodious languor, and a melancholy grace. The ſonnet of Gray, to the me⯑mory of Weſt, is a beautiful effuſion, and a model for Engliſh ſonnets. Helvetius was the protector of men of genius, whom he aſſiſted not only with his cri⯑ticiſm, but his fortune. At his death, M. Surin read in the French academy, an epiſtle to the manes of his friend. Saurin, wreſtling with obſcurity and po⯑verty, was drawn into literary exiſtence by the ſupporting hand of Helvetius. Our poet thus addreſſes him in the warm tones of gratitude.

[132] The literary friendſhip of a father with his ſon, is one of the moſt rare alliances in the republic of letters. We have had a remarkable inſtance in the two Richard⯑ſons; and the father, in his fine original and warm manner, has employed the moſt glowing language to expreſs his ſentiments on this affection. He ſays, ‘my time of learning was employed in buſineſs; but after all I have the Greek and Latin tongues, becauſe a part of me poſſeſſes them, to whom I can recur at pleaſure, juſt as I have a hand when I would write or paint, feet to walk, and eyes to ſee. My ſon is my learning, as I am that to him which he has not; we make one man, and ſuch a compound man may probably pro⯑duce what no ſingle man can.’ And further, ‘I always think it my peculiar happineſs to be as it were enlarged, ex⯑panded, made another man by the [133] acquiſition of my ſon, and he thinks in the ſame manner concerning my union with him.’ All this is as cu⯑rious as it is uncommon.

But it muſt not be ſuppoſed that men of genius have remained ſatisfied with only giving a few verſes to the duties of friendſhip. The elevation of their minds has raiſed them into domeſtic heroes, whoſe actions are often only recorded in the unpubliſhed regiſter of private life. Some for their friend have died, pene⯑trated with inconſolable grief; ſome have ſacrificed their character to his own; ſome have ſhared their limited fortune; and ſome have remained attached to their friend in the worſt ſeaſon of ad⯑verſity. In the note underneath I adduce my proofs of what is ſo honourable to literature.^*

[134] I ſhall be conciſe on the ſubject of their enmities; for what could even ingenuity [135] urge to diſtinguiſh literary calumny from any other kind? The reflection ſhould humiliate men of genius, that when they condeſcend to aſperſe with rage and malignity, another artiſt, they are only doing what the worſt part of ſo⯑ciety can perform, as well as themſelves.

[136] But reaſon trembles when wit is united with malice, and malice with wan⯑tonneſs. Churchill ſays, ‘When Reaſon's for me, God is for me too.’ But how rarely are ſatiriſts conducted by reaſon! Our laws offer no protection from a bitter epigram, and an artful ſatire. Irony is not denominated by an attorney a libel; by an honeſt man it may be felt as ſomething much worſe. Fortune has been loſt, reputation deſtroyed, and every charity of life been extinguiſhed by witty malice. To debaſe a man in the circle of his acquaintance, if unfortunately his ſenſibility is exquiſite, has not infre⯑quently been committing a leſs crime than murder. The Abbè Caſſagne felt ſo acutely the cauſtic verſe of Boileau, that, in the prime of life, he became melancholy, and died inſane. A modern painter fell the victim of the criticiſm [137] and the wit of a ſatiriſt, who ſhall be nameleſs on this occaſion. Dr. Johnſon related of Cummyns, a celebrated quaker, that he confeſſed he died of an anony⯑mous letter in a public paper, which ſaid, he ‘faſtened on my heart, and threw me into this ſlow fever.’ Some, like Racine, have died of a ſimple re⯑buke; and ſome by an epigram as well as a ſatire.

CHAP. XI. The Characters of Writers not diſcoverable in their Writings.

IT has long been a cheriſhed notion among men of taſte, that the diſpoſitions of an artiſt appear in his works; and the ſublime Angelo, and the graceful Ra⯑phael, are produced as ſplendid inſtances. It has alſo been a very ancient opinion, that the character of an author is diſ⯑coverable in his writings. The echo from biographers has been conſtant, and often they pourtray the man, by the mirror of his works.^* The anecdote which Dr. [139] Johnſon has given of Thomſon, has ſerved at leaſt to ſuſpect it's fallibility. The ſubject, however, demands inveſti⯑gation, and perhaps may be finally ter⯑minated by the facts I now adduce.

We enquire whether he is a moral man who compoſes moral eſſays; incon⯑tinent, who writes laſcivious poems; malignant, who publiſhes bitter ſatires; and ſavage, whoſe imagination delights in terror and in blood.

It is one characteriſtic of genius to ſay things for their ingenuity, and to diſplay the felicity of fancy, than from any utility which may be drawn from them. Of many obſcene poets, the greater part have led chaſte lives; and this topic has engaged the acute examination of Bayle. La Mothe le Váier wrote two works of a free nature; yet his life was the unble⯑miſhed life of a retired ſage. Of many of the ancient poets, it appears that the li⯑centiouſneſs [140] of their verſe, was by no means communicated to their manners. Their page was laſcivious, and their life pure, for the fancy may be debauched, and the heart auſtere.

The licentious tales of La Fontaine are well known, but not a ſingle amour has been recorded of the "bon homme." Bayle is a remarkable inſtance; no writer is more ample in his detail of impurity, but he reſiſted the pollution of the ſenſes as much as Newton. He painted his ſcenes of lewdneſs merely as a faithful hiſtorian, and an exact compiler. Smol⯑let's character is immaculate, yet what a deſcription has he given of one of his heroes with Lord Straddle. I cannot but obſerve on ſuch ſcenes, that their delineation anſwers no good purpoſe. Modeſty cannot read, and is morality intereſted? He aſſumed the character of Petronius Arbiter; we applaud and [141] we cenſure this mere playfulneſs of fancy. It is certain, however, by theſe inſtances, that licentious writers may be very chaſte men.

We now turn to thoſe works which, by their caſt, promiſe that the authors were pious and moral men. Two celebrated ancients muſt not be paſſed over in this enumeration, Seneca and Salluſt. The firſt is an admirable ſtoic, elaborate in his delineation of the moral duties; but his eſſays on the advantages of poverty, were written on a table of gold, and his admonitions of ſupporting pain, on vo⯑luptuous ſophas, and in fragrant baths. This moral declaimer ruined my county. Eſſex, by the moſt exorbitant uſuries, and inculcated the comforts of poverty with a fortune of ſeven millions. Salluſt elegantly declaims againſt the licentious manners of his age, but we happen to know that he was repeatedly accuſed in [142] the ſenate for public and habitual de⯑baucheries. He inveighs againſt the ſpoilers of countries, yet, when he at⯑tained to a remote government, he be⯑came a Verres. Lucian, in his early productions, declaims againſt the friend⯑ſhips of the great, as another name for ſervitude; when his talents made him known, he accepted a place under the Emperor. He has attempted to apolo⯑gize for his conduct, by comparing him⯑ſelf to thoſe quacks, who, indiſpoſed with a ſevere cough, ſell infallible reme⯑dies for it's cure. At the moment the poet Rouſſeau was giving verſions of the pſalms, he was occupied on the moſt in⯑famous epigrams. A living painter, whoſe pictures only repreſent acts of be⯑nevolence and charity, is as little generous as he is chaſte.

We have been told that the ſenſibility of Sterne was more that of the author [143] than the man; perhaps thoſe who gave the information were incompetent jud⯑ges; but I do not find this any more difficult to credit, than a circumſtance which happened to Klopſtock. This votary of Zion's muſe aſtoniſhed and warmed the ſage Bodmer, who ſuppoſing him a poet of an advanced age, and an enthuſiaſt for retirement, invited him to his reſidence; but when the epic poet arrived, he was found no proper aſſociate for the grave profeſſor; he had all the levity and volatility of youth. So very erroneous is the conception often of the form and manners of a diſtant author.

Johnſon would not believe that Horace was a happy man, becauſe his verſes were chearful; no more than he could think Pope was ſo, becauſe he is con⯑tinually informing us of it. He obſerved that Dr. Young, who pined for prefer⯑ment, contemns it in his writings. It [144] is ſingular that the ſombrous author of the night thoughts, was the firſt to propoſe a ſubſcription for the balls at Wellwyn.^* Young was as chearful in converſation as he was gloomy in his compoſitions, and when a lady expreſſed her ſurpriſe at his ſocial converſe, he replied, ‘there is much difference be⯑tween writing and talking.’ Are we to credit the good fortune with which ſome poets ſo often felicitate themſelves, any more than their deſpondence and menaces? Thomſon paints the ſcenes of domeſtic love with all the ſplendid de⯑corations of fancy, but knew nothing of it's reality but a caſual and groſs in⯑dulgence.

[145] Inconſtant men will write on conſtancy, and licentious minds will elevate them⯑ſelves into poetry and religion. Moral men will venture to write what they would not act, while others of inferior honeſty will act what they will not ven⯑ture to write.

To prove that the writings of an au⯑thor give no indication of his perſonal character, we have inſtances ſo multifa⯑rious, that to bring them forward might weary the moſt patient curioſity. I con⯑ſult my intereſt, by repreſſing the deſire of diſplaying my detections.

It is neceſſary, however, to adduce a few, that the reader may not flatter himſelf that he has diſcovered the diſ⯑poſitions of an author, either by his ſtyle, his mode of thinking, or any other lite⯑rary appearance he may aſſume. Balzac and Voiture are ſo well known, that I prefer them to ſhew the illuſions of ſtyle. [146] The letters of the firſt are pompous and inflated; but his converſation was light and agreeable. Voiture, who affected gaiety and gracefulneſs in his compo⯑ſitions, was in his domeſtic language, harſh and ſtiff, for having frequented the nobility, he ever aſſumed the Seigneur.^* Writers of great genius have felt them⯑ſelves in awkward ſituations, when the extraordinary ſentiments they make their dramatis perſonae utter, are malici⯑ouſly applied to their own character. An enemy of Shakeſpeare, might have re⯑proached him with his forcible deline⯑ation of the villain Iago. Crebillon, indeed, complains in the preface to one of his tragedies, of ſomething ſimilar. He ſays, ‘they charge me with all the [147] iniquities of Atreus; and they regard me, in ſome places, as a wretch with whom it is unfit to aſſociate; as if all which the mind invents, muſt be de⯑rived from the heart.’ Our poet is, indeed, a ſtriking inſtance of the little alliance between the literary and perſonal diſpoſitions of an author. In his Atreus, the father drinks the blood of his ſon; in Rhadamiſtus, the ſon expires by the hand of the father; and in his Electra, the ſon aſſaſſinates his mother; yet was Crebillon the gentleſt and moſt amiable of men, and who exulted on his entrance into the French academy, that he had never tinged his pen with the gall of ſatire. The impiety of Satan, might equally be attributed to the poet; and Dr. Moore might be ſuppoſed the worſt of men, by his forcible delineation of Zeluco. A poet is a painter of the ſoul; if he ſeizes it's deformities, he is a great artiſt, but not therefore a bad man.

[148] I ſpare the reader a number of in⯑ſtances that croud on the memory, and ſhall give only a few reflections which offer themſelves. One may diſplay with artful elegance, the moral brilliancy of the mind, and with ſtrokes of ſentiment, intereſt the heart by an animated elo⯑quence. But this may proceed from a felicity of manner, and a flexible, verſa⯑tile, and happy genius. The writer's heart may be as little penetrated by the charms and virtues he deſcribes, as the tragic poet would be incapable of com⯑mitting the aſſaſſinations and maſſacres he commands in a verſe, or details in a ſcene.

Montagne appears to have been ſen⯑ſible of this fact in the literary character. Of authors, he ſays, that he likes to read their little anecdotes and private paſſions, and adds, ‘Car j'ai une ſinguliére cu⯑rioſitè de connoitrE l'ame et les naifs [149] jugemens de mes auteurs. Il faut bien juger leur ſuffiſance, mais non pas leurs moeurs, ni eux, par cette montre de leurs ecrits qu'ils etalent au theatre du monde.^*’ This is very juſt; and I am not yet perſuaded that the ſimplicity of this old and admirable favourite of Eu⯑rope might not have been a theatrical geſture, as much as the ſenſibility of Sterne.

I conclude by obſerving, that if we conſider that he who paints vice with energy is therefore vicious, we may in⯑jure an honeſt man; and if we imagine that he who celebrates virtue is therefore virtuous, we may happen to deceive our⯑ſelves in repoſing on a polluted heart.

CHAP. XII. Of ſome private Advantages which induce Men of Letters to become Authors.

SOME private intereſt enters into his view who aſſumes the profeſſion of an author. Such a motive fortunately ex⯑iſts; for no reaſoning man would volun⯑tarily place himſelf in a ſituation, fraught with burning anxieties, and with ſick⯑ening diſguſts; with hope mingling with deſpondence; with felicity ſo variable, that the utmoſt happineſs of an author is as tranſient and rare, as thoſe fine Italian ſkies we ſometimes ſee in our unſettled climate.

Many are the motives which induce to become authors; their motives, like their misfortunes, are peculiar to them⯑ſelves; but the utility they produce ap⯑pertains to the public.

[151] Some enter the perilous and brilliant career of letters, as the only means of diſtinguiſhing their abilities, and meriting public eſteem. To any other purſuit, their ſituation, or their diſpoſitions, may be incompatible. The reſtleſs activity of genius torments their repoſe; and they feel like a young Columbus, con⯑fined to a petty port. Theſe are men to whom glory becomes a kind of aliment, deprived of which, their paſſions, like a concealed fire, would ſecretly conſume the frail machine of humanity. For ſuch, it is as impoſſible to remain ſilent, as it is for ſome to be eloquent. They give a voice to their feelings in their works.

Others become authors, as the only relief they find from the taedium of life. Helvetius has maintained the ſingular paradox, that Ennui produced many of our ſuperior writers. Several authors have [152] invented their works, as ſo many ſchemes to eſcape from the preſſure of life. It was an aſſertion drawn, perhaps, from his own feelings. A financier, luxuria⯑ting in ſplendid opulence, courted by each ſeductive form of voluptuouſneſs, already acknowledged as an elegant wri⯑ter and a liberal Mecenas, could only have been induced by this motive to encounter the cloſe meditation, the la⯑borious arrangement, and the elaborate elegance of a work which he reſolved ſhould be poſthumous. It is to Ennui we owe that numerous race of opulent ſcribblers, who after reiterated ill ſuc⯑ceſs, ſtill pour their plenteous volumes on a wearied and incurious public. Ma⯑rolles perſiſted to the laſt in his uninter⯑rupted amuſement of printing books, and his readers having long ceaſed, he was compelled to preſent them to his friends, who, however, were not his [153] readers. There are many writers who paſs their days in amazing labours, and are veterans without being known as vo⯑lunteers. Of ſome, a private preſs is the literary horizon; compoſition pre⯑ſerves their mind from what a French writer pleaſantly calls "the horrors of digeſtion." It is well if they would only take their phyſic in private. Theſe are the Shakeſpeares whoſe plays have been refuſed, and the Addiſons whoſe ſpectators have never been read.

Others follow the avocations of an au⯑thor as a means of ſubſiſting on the produce of virtuous talents; their mo⯑derate and precarious exiſtence is more honourable than a ducal revenue, and more precious than a contractor's loan. When we know that ſuch a writer has never violated the dignity of human na⯑ture, but has rigidly reverenced virtue, and an elevation of ſoul has taught him [154] to repel the inſulting familiarity of the great, his works receive a new and ac⯑cidental value. We purſue our medi⯑tations with confidence, and we dwell on thoſe fervid ſtrokes which are the natural expreſſions of a great genius, wreſtling with a heavy and oppreſſive fortune.

Literature is, indeed, the only refuge for genius, placed in obſcure ſituations. It is an avenue to glory, open for thoſe ingenious men, who, deprived of ho⯑nours or of wealth, may by their medi⯑tations, ſometimes obtain both; or if they do not obtain either, may be ren⯑dered ſuperior to them. To many young writers the idea may be conſolatory and animating, that the greater part of our firſt authors have ennobled themſelves, and owed nothing to their parents. The great Grecian orator, was the ſon of a ſinith; the prince of Latin poets, of a potter; the fineſt ſatiriſt and ode writer [155] of antiquity, of a franchiſed man; the brilliant Flechier, of a tallow chandler; the eloquent Maſſillon, of a tanner; and the philoſophers Rouſſeau and Diderot, of a watch-maker and a cutler; in Eng⯑land, the moſt nervous of moral eſſayiſts, was the ſon of one who kept a book ſtall; the author of the Pleaſures of Imagina⯑tion, was the ſon of a butcher; and the greater author of the American Revolu⯑tion, of a tallow chandler.

Genius has the prerogative of raiſing the inferior ranks of men to the higher claſſes of ſociety. This once obtained, the age is juſt; and the higher claſſes become inferior.

We muſt not paſs over in ſilence, ad⯑vantages better known, attending the occupations of literary men. Thoſe de⯑rived from ſtudious habits, would be ſuf⯑ficient to attach the elegant mind to literature, if reaſon had much power [156] over the paſſions; the attraction is irre⯑ſiſtible, when reaſon itſelf becomes a paſſion.

The pleaſures of literature have long been a favourite amplification of elo⯑quence; and I quote not the admirable reflections or of Cicero, or of Pliny, fa⯑miliar to every man of taſte. He who conſecrates himſelf to letters, eſcapes from the reſtleſs deſires of the multitude. The mephitic air of vulgar paſſions can⯑not reach him; as, we are informed of the pernicious vapour of the lake of the dogs in Italy, that if a perſon does not bend downwards, it cannot affect him. Is he opulent? he has ſufficient firmneſs to remain enamoured of literary labour. Is he poor? he has ſufficient intrepidity to become illuſtrious. The firſt effect of a love of letters communicates virtue and independence; for he has ſilenced many [157] private paſſions, and inhabits the inte⯑rior, not the ſuperficies of his ſoul.

It is a curious obſervation of one Martinelli, an Italian, who, to prove that Study ſoftens the manners, ſays, that rarely men of letters are aſſaſſins in Italy, duelliſts in France, or ſuicides in Eng⯑land. It is true we want not the opinion of Martinelli, becauſe it has been ele⯑gantly ſaid by Horace, repeated by the thinking Hume, and is to be found in every book of rhetoric, in the firſt chapter.

Literature is the only conſolation in thoſe terrible afflictions, when we are re⯑duced by the privation of a ſenſe, to take our laſt refuge under the domeſtic roof. Blindneſs itſelf is no impediment to ge⯑nius; fatal to all, it is an advantage to an active imagination. It's powers collect more forcibly and burn more intenſely. It is poſſible to form a catalogue of men [158] of learning who have projected and finiſhed conſiderable works in this ſitu⯑ation. Often, too, has the gate of the priſon been the porch of fame, and a ſlight indiſpoſition conferred immorta⯑lity. A man of letters can never be ſaid to be exiled or impriſoned.

It is even to be ſuppoſed, againſt the popular opinion, that ſtudy is friendly to the conſtitution. A life of letters is calm and uniform, and cheriſhes the mild af⯑fections. An author, if he feels not too ſenſibly an occaſional diſappointment, and can forgive the malice of an enemy, finds his ſtudies produce a happy influ⯑ence over his health. Hourly acquiſi⯑tions bring new delights, and thought from thought is purſued with tranquil⯑lity; and delight and tranquillity are medicines to the ſoul, and promoters of health. Every production of taſte re⯑ſpires a ſoftening balm, which ſweetens [159] that continuity of attention only expe⯑rienced by men of ſtudy. If an anatomiſt could deſcribe accurately the ſenſations of a man of taſte, and explain this pla⯑cable and harmonious play of the nerves, no ſtate of exiſtence might, perhaps, be found more friendly to the human frame. Every one in the habits of ſtudy has per⯑ceived the influence of the mind over the body; and Addiſon has noticed the pleaſures of the imagination as conducive to health.^* The greater number of emi⯑nent writers have attained to an advanced age. In an eſſay by Dr. Ruſhworth, a number of ages of great ſtudents are col⯑lected, and his opinion is confirmed by ſufficient teſtimonies. Bayle ſtill pro⯑ceeds [160] further, by ſaying, that ſtudy is not hurtful to the conſtitution even in early youth. Shenſtone has, however, echoed in one of his elegies, the vulgar opinion,‘But ſoon the paths of health and and fame divide.’ If by the path of fame, our amiable wri⯑ter meant ſtudy, his ill health was never occaſioned by profound learning.

Some, perhaps, will not deem as one of the inferior advantages of an author, that of his admiſſion among the higher circles. If in the preſent age, no writer [161] can reaſonably hope that his ſtudies will open the golden gate of preferment, or of fortune, he may at leaſt, when he at⯑tains to eminence, be certain of receiving the tribute which opulent vanity pays to his talents. But an author is little in⯑debted to ſuch notice; the attentions of a brilliant circle are ill-timed; it is, per⯑haps, twenty years too late. It is alſo to be obſerved, that few men of taſte can accuſtom themſelves to the refinements of opulent grandeur, without creating artificial wants, which they can never gratify; and their future life may feel the irritation of pleaſures not to be pur⯑chaſed, and elegance not to be found. To ſuch may often be applied the ex⯑clamation of Milton's Adam, when obli⯑ged to exile himſelf from paradiſe—

The ſociety of the great is little flatter⯑ing; [162] for it requires a painful vigilance to preſerve dignity with ſuch aſſociates. D'Alembert has written an admired eſſay on the connection between literary men, and theſe men. A man of letters who had the misfortune of living with a lord, finely ſaid of him, ‘he would familiariſe himſelf with me; but I repel him re⯑ſpectfully.’ An anecdote related of Piron is not leſs intereſting. This man of genius had formed the moſt elevated notion of the dignity of a man of letters; nor would ſuffer the literary character to be lowered in his preſence. Entering the apartment of a nobleman, who was con⯑ducting another peer to the ſtairs, the noble ſtopped to make way for Piron, paſs on, my lord, ſaid the noble maſter, paſs, he is only a poet.—Piron replied, ‘ſince our qualities are declared, I ſhall take my rank,’ and he placed himſelf before the lord.

[163] If the voice of an individual can weigh with an author, it is when it ſpeaks in a foreign accent. The enquiry of an in⯑telligent foreigner ſounds like the diſtant plaudit of poſterity. Fontenelle was never more gratified than when a Swede, ar⯑riving at the gates of Paris, enquired of the officers of the cuſtoms where Fon⯑tenelle reſided, and expreſſed his indig⯑nation that none of them ſhould have ever heard of his name.

There are ſome hours in the life of a man of genius, which, it may be ſup⯑poſed, communicate an exquiſite ſenſa⯑tion to his feelings. It is when he perceives the world ſpontaneouſly pay their tribute of reſpect to his abilities. It is ſaid of Corneille, that he had his particular ſeat in the theatre, and that when he entered, the audience roſe to ſalute him. We know what exceſs of honours was paid (the expreſſion will be [164] pardoned by men of taſte) to the match⯑leſs Voltaire. Spinoſa, while he gained a humble livelihood by grinding glaſſes at an obſcure village in Holland, was viſited by the firſt general in Europe, who, for this conference, ſuſpended the march of his army, and traverſed a diſ⯑tant province. Rouſſeau attracted a croud as he paſſed the ſtreets; and the people followed him with tears of affection, as the apoſtles of genius and humanity. Lavater, receives daily the tribute of poſ⯑terity in the perſonal admiration of every traveller of ſenſibility and taſte. Such are the voluntary honours of the human heart; honours which no monarch can receive, unleſs he is that ſingular mo⯑narch— a man of letters on the throne.

I obſerve that this chapter on the ad⯑vantages of men of genius, is ſhort, and that it was with much trouble I could even give it this amplification.

CHAP. XIII. Of the Utility of Authors to Individuals.

WE have reaſon to believe, that wherever authors are virtuous and free, their nation partakes moſt of virtue and of freedom; as on the contrary, where they are diſſolute and enſlaved, their nation have as little morals as liberty. We want a diſſertation on the influence of manners on taſte, and of taſte on manners. Sir Joſhua Reynolds, in one of his diſcourſes, obſerves, that ‘in the ornaments of the arts we find the cha⯑racteriſtical mark of a national taſte, as by throwing up a feather, we know which way the wind blows, better than by a more heavy matter.’

The morals of a nation are oftener di⯑rected by authors, than by thoſe modern apoſtles who poſſeſs vaſt incomes, and [166] ſtolen ſermons. Authors are the preach⯑ers of morality, and the arbiters of man⯑ners. They perform the office of the Cenſor Morum; and if they do not al⯑ways live like the Catos of their age, their works may effect the ſame benefi⯑cial influence; for, like the language of Cato, they are ſo many reprimands for folly, and remonſtrances for vice.

An author ſometimes appears, who gives a new direction to the national cha⯑racter. In mechanics, no impulſion, from a ſingle hand, can communicate to a body the force of eternal movement. In morals it is different; for there an in⯑dividual power can for ever endow with action the TRUTH it impels. Theſe are the few authors who form revolutions, not, perhaps, in the ſublime ſciences, which are reſerved for the contemplation of a few, but in that happier knowledge which is of daily uſe, and addreſſed to [167] thoſe who moſt want inſtruction. Theſe authors are not a Newton and a Locke; but an Addiſon and a Fontenelle. Theſe two eminent writers ſhall illuſtrate this reflection. The Spectators introduced literature and morals in the nation; the young, the gay, and the fair, who flew from the terrific form of a folio, were at⯑tracted by the light graces of a fugitive page. Since that happy moment the dif⯑fuſion of taſte, and the curioſity of know⯑ledge, have produced readers who are now enabled to diſcern the ſhades of ele⯑gance; to appreciate compoſitions of genius; and to adjuſt the merits of in⯑genious competitors by the ſcale of phi⯑loſophical taſte. We have become a reading, and of courſe a critical nation. A refined writer is now certain of finding readers who can comprehend him. Of all our great men, whatever department they have illuſtrated, who has left to the [168] nation a more valuable inheritance than Addiſon? Thouſands hear the name of Marlborough, but the battle of Blenheim leaves no impreſſion. The name of Ad⯑diſon excites affection; and his Spectators remind the modeſt reader where he firſt gained inſtruction, and the great writer where he firſt felt the influence of taſte, and where he ſtill learns the art of com⯑poſition.

Fontenelle operated the ſame kind of revolution in France. Before his bril⯑liant wit and exact ſcience were united, learning was the ſolitary enjoyment of the learned. Aſtronomy and erudition were reſerved for the aſtronomer and the erudit. Each ſpoke his own language; Fontenelle was their interpreter. He explained vaſt totalities by gradual de⯑ductions, and ſublime conceptions, by familiar ideas. The lady at her toilette deſcribed the motions of a heavenly body, [169] while ſhe was regulating her own; and the beau monde had a finer penetration into the nature of oracles, than the pedant Van Dale, who had written ſo co⯑piouſly, and whom no one could read.

Theſe are the valued authors who de⯑light and ſoothe their fellow-citizens; the benefactors of every man. A mind happily diſpoſed imbibes their felicity of character. We read, among the Perſian fables of Sadi, of a ſwimmer, who, hav⯑ing found a piece of common earth, was aſtoniſhed at it's fragrance, and enquired if it were muſk or amber? ‘No,’ re⯑plied the perfumed mould, ‘I am no⯑thing but common earth; but roſes were planted on my ſoil, and their odorous virtues have deliciouſly pene⯑trated through all my pores. I have retained the infuſion of ſweetneſs; I had otherwiſe been but common earth.’—Sadi ingeniouſly applies this [170] poetical incident to the effect his miſtreſs produces over him. We may alſo apply it to an eſſay of Addiſon, or a dialogue of Fontenelle, which, like the roſes on the common earth, impregnate with in⯑tellectual ſweetneſs an uncultivated mind.

Thoſe who feel with enthuſiaſm the eloquence of a fine writer, inſenſibly re⯑ceive ſome particles from it; a virtuous writer communicates virtue; a refined writer, a ſubtile delicacy; a ſublime writer, an elevation of ſentiment. All theſe characters of the mind, in a few years, are diffuſed throughout the nation. Among us, what acute reaſoners has the refined penetration of Hume formed; what amenity of manners has not Addiſon introduced; to how many virtuous youths have not the moral eſſays of Johnſon im⯑parted fortitude, and illumined with re⯑flection?

[171] It is preſumed, that while they thus powerfully operate on the minds of their readers, their own minds, in the practice of their ſtudies, are influenced in a ſimi⯑lar manner. One of the moſt pleaſing paſſages in the platonic Shafteſbury, is to this purpoſe; and though we have al⯑ready proved it, not exactly conformable to facts, it is not entirely a brilliant re⯑verie. Our noble author, comparing the writer with the ſculptor and the painter, ſays, that ‘there is this eſſential differ⯑ence between the artiſts of each kind; that they who deſign merely after bodies, and form the graces of this ſort, can never, with all their accuracy, or correctneſs of deſign, be able to reform themſelves, or grow a jot more ſhapely in their perſons. But for thoſe artiſts, who copy from another life, who ſtudy the graces and perfections of minds, and are real maſters of thoſe rules which [172] conſtitute this latter ſcience, 'tis impoſ⯑ſible they ſhould fail of being them⯑ſelves improved and amended in their better part.’ That delightful enthu⯑ſiaſt Richardſon the father, in one of his fine dreams, inſiſts (as others indeed have done) that great virtue is neceſſary even for painters; and that genius has been leſs or greater, as virtue and vice prevailed in the mind of the artiſt. When we read an amiable compoſition, and obſerve the character of the author to be the reverſe, there appears an indecent oppoſition, which revolts our ſenſibility, and makes us contemn the writer as a miſerable impoſtor.

This ſcience of the mind, noticed by Shafteſbury, is not metaphyſics, but what has been happily called "the proper ſtudy of mankind;" Man acting in ſociety. The philoſophic genius ex⯑cels in the ſtudy of the world; he de⯑rives [173] this advantage from the obſcurity of his ſituation, the verſatility of his mind, and the habit of meditation. Thoſe whoſe chief occupation is not re⯑flection, limit the knowledge of human nature to the particular ſociety they are accuſtomed. A courtier, a lawyer, and a merchant, contemplate the human heart, in different lights; but nature is ill underſtood by thoſe whoſe capacities are habituated to detect one principle among many. She has no character, but many characters; ſhe is not to be ſyſ⯑tematized, but to be purſued. The man of genius acts upon more general principles; and makes the human heart his amuſement and his occupation. The theatre, conducted by ſuch writers, would become a national ſchool; but we muſt then have fewer pantomimes, and ſuch operas and comedies as we have now, ſtill fewer than pantomimes.

[174] The philoſophical traveller enters no town but he feels the regards of a citizen, and views no ſpot of earth on which the ſame ſun does not ſhine, and the ſame affections kindle. As he gazes from the Alps, on the regions beneath, his eye ſuffuſed with tears of pleaſure and hu⯑manity, he exclaims, ‘Creation's heir! the world, the world is mine. Goldſmith.’

CHAP. XIV. Of the political Influence of Authors.

OPINION, ſays Sophocles, is ſtronger than Truth; Opinion is the ſovereign of man; and authors, who are the propa⯑gators of her decrees, are ſome of the moſt important perſons in ſociety, and may be called the miniſters of ſtate to Opinion.

An author has the ſingular prerogative of uniting in himſelf the powers that are portioned among the higher orders of ſociety. This reflection may appear fan⯑ciful to thoſe who are deſtitute of fancy; and extravagant to thoſe who conſider paper and pens as the compoſition of the manufacturer, and who ſee nothing in them but rags and feathers.

An eloquent author, who writes in the immutable language of truth, will one [176] day be ſuperior to every power in the ſtate. His influence is active, though hidden; every truth is an acorn which is laid in the earth, and which often the longer it takes to riſe, the more vigorous and magnificent will be it's maturity. What has been long meditated in the ſilence of the ſtudy, will one day refound in the aweful voice of public opinion. The chief magiſtrate can command; the ſe⯑nator can perſuade; the judge can de⯑cide; the ſoldier can conquer. A great author obtains theſe various purpoſes at once by his ſolitary labours. His truths command; his eloquence perſuades; his reaſon decides; and his works inſpire a rival nation with a more enduring re⯑ſpect, than even a victorious army.

An iſland, once inconſiderable in Eu⯑rope, now ranks among the firſt powers, arbitrates among other nations, and the very title of it's inhabitants enſures re⯑ſpect. [177] Is this owing, alone, to her com⯑mercial proſperity and military force? One nation has the moſt flouriſhing mart of trade, and another is one of the moſt martial people; yet neither inſpire man⯑kind with veneration or affection. To themſelves is confined their rude lan⯑guage; ſtudied, perhaps, by merchants, and corrupted as it is ſtudied. It is more by an interchange of opinions, than of ſpices and ſpecie, that a nation is eſteemed.

Not thus with England; for ſhe derives her ſplendour from her writers, as well as her ſoldiers, and her navigators. An empire merely founded on force, is ſur⯑rounded by enemies, and often it's ſin⯑cereſt enemies are to be found in it's own unparental boſom. An empire diſtin⯑guiſhed by it's literature, conceals it's martial iron under the ſweeteſt flowers; extends her conqueſts, and diffuſes her [178] pleaſures, and among hoſtile foreigners, acquires new friends.

This truth we ourſelves have experi⯑enced. France preceded us in the ſtu⯑dies of humanity, and her polite litera⯑ture more forcibly operated on the world, than even her armies and her fleet; her civility and refinement vanquiſhed, when theſe were defeated. At that period in ſociety, when the intellectual taſtes of men become ſo many wants, theſe gave an univerſal diffuſion to her language. The nation that ſupplies a harveſt for this appetency of the mind, extends it's dominions in the hearts of the ſubjects of other powers. Thus Pope, with equal ſagacity and taſte, writes

Let us now contemplate the reverſe of the medal; and the reverſe is more beau⯑tiful than the face. In the middle of the [179] laſt century, our manners were as un⯑known as our language; and neither were yet formed and poliſhed. We were nearly regarded as valorous barbarians, partaking of the glooms of our clime; and whom nature had benevolently ſepa⯑rated, from neighbours more poliſhed, and airs more ſerene. We now hold to Europe models of ſolid ſenſe and pro⯑found reaſoning. Our late admired writers have made a neglected language the ſtudy of reflecting foreigners; they calmed the national hatred of France, and compelled even our rivals inceſſantly to celebrate our merits, when, unlike themſelves, we condeſcended not to ex⯑ult, but to perform our labours with a modeſt ſilence. Before our preſent un⯑happy diſſentions, it was our nation they ſighed to emulate; and the firſt writers of France paſſed into England to learn to think and write; or thought and [180] wrote like Engliſhmen in France, undiſ⯑mayed by the terrors of a corrupted go⯑vernment. From our hands they received the germs of reflection, and the flower of liberty. This ſingular revolution in the human mind was produced not by our merchants or our admirals, but by our Lockes, our Popes, and our Addiſons. They have ſubjugated the minds of mil⯑lions by the energy of an intellectual ſo⯑vereignty. The works of Engliſh authors are now printed at foreign preſſes, and this at leaſt as much as the commerce and the force of England, proves the aſcendancy of her genius.

The utility of men of letters to na⯑tional purpoſes is not attended to by every ſtateſman; for few ſtateſmen (like other men in office) are either worthy of, or competent to their employments. The author is conſidered by the great as a ſubordinate character in ſociety; as if [181] the art of inſtructing men, the art of a Socrates, was much inferior to that of governing them, the art, often of a Nero, or a Sardanapalus, and, according to Machiavel, of a Ceſar Borgia.

Political theoriſts, however, appear to conſider the worſt actions of men, as of far leſs conſequence than the propagation of their opinions. A dangerous man may infect his neighbours, but the dangerous writer ſpreads a contagion throughout a nation. Books, and ſometimes their au⯑thors, have been burnt; but even this mode of criticiſm was found ineffectual. The flame which deſtroyed an indivi⯑dual, ever enlightened a people; and the burning of books, has not yet been con⯑ſidered as their refutation.

If thoſe who adminiſter the public duties of government, were more cloſely allied with men of letters, the union would be happy for the people, and uſe⯑ful [182] to both. It is unfortunate that thoſe who govern are not always the moſt en⯑lightened.^*

Authors ſtand between the governors and the governed; and they who practice the art of arranging their thoughts, and of agitating the paſſions, who at once [183] penetrate by their reaſon, and inflame by their eloquence, are, among the nations of modern Europe, what the celebrated orators of ancient Rome and Athens were among the aſſembled citizens. They awaken, they terrify, they excite, they conduct the people.

Miniſters are conſtrained to watch till vigilance is exhauſted, and ſolicitude ſleeps amidſt the fluctuations of the pub⯑lic mind, and this public mind is the creation of the philoſophical writer. Is it to be doubted, that ſince the immor⯑tal labour of Monteſquieu, the old ſyſ⯑tems of government have been often changed? It is certain the minds of the people have. Cromwell, the penetrating Cromwell, was juſtly alarmed when he ſaw the Oceana of Harrington, and ſeems to have dreaded the terrible effects of a little volume, much more than the plots of the royaliſts. The ſingle thought [184] of a man of genius has ſometimes chan⯑ged the diſpoſitions of a people, and even of an age.^* With every creative genius that ariſes, a new day riſes with him; it was Monteſquieu that introduced in his nation a taſte for the ſolid and pro⯑found, as well as the gayer and lighter ſtudies.

Wherever the liberty of the preſs is eſtabliſhed, authors form as powerful a claſs in ſociety, as the higheſt. For the great, nothing remains but to annihilate the preſs, or to reſpect the authors. In Rome, a Perſius may have been com⯑pelled to diſguiſe the name of a Nero, but in England, the name of a tyrant [185] will be hitched in rhime. Authors are moſt to be dreaded in that country where the liberty and licentiouſneſs of the preſs, become a mere matter of ſentiment, and not of diſcuſſion; and this ſentiment is left to the people. We who enjoy the freedom of the preſs in it's extreme de⯑gree, have no reaſon to complain of any privileges of the great.

The people conſider authors as their property; and not unjuſtly, ſince the great ſuffer them to depend on the people. The public are never ſlow to unite with authors, who, for the ſake of preſerving equality, muſt continually humble the great. The public, as pa⯑trons, are the moſt munificent; as abet⯑tors, the moſt formidable. Their favour is equitably obtained; they expect an author to be the bold interpreter of their ſecret ſentiments, and the protector of their liberties, as well as the artiſt of [186] their pleaſures. If this author is perſe⯑cuted, he is never forſaken; his cauſe becomes the cauſe of the people; but if he ſhould prove a wretched adventurer; who artfully ſeiſed on an occaſion to ſerve his private views, the author is juſtly neglected, and the cauſe alone purſued. We live in an age, in which an honeſt man begins to know his value; and ob⯑ſcurity and poverty, if adorned with in⯑tegrity and philoſophy, are not injurious to the opinions of a great mind. We conſider that perſonal merit, is ſuperior to perſonal honour; becauſe it now in⯑cludes perſonal honour. The contrary will not hold, nor has this always been ſo.

The public are not diſpleaſed when the great become the patrons of their emi⯑nent authors; it is a kind of homage paid to the ſentiments of the people. But the author may be a conſiderable loſer, if he values fame, more than he does a penſion.

[187] It is curious to obſerve the ſolitary man of letters in the concealment of his obſcure ſtudy, ſeparated from the croud, unknown to his contemporaries, col⯑lecting the materials of inſtruction from every age and every country; combining with the preſent the example of the paſt, and the prediction of the future; pouring forth the valuable ſecrets of his medita⯑tions to poſterity; ſtriking with the con⯑cuſſion of new light the public mind; and forming the manners, the opinions, the refinement, and the morals of his fellow-citizens.—It is curious, I ſay, to obſerve ſuch a man, by ſome contemned, by others hated; by ſome degraded to an idler or an outcaſt, and by others raiſed to a fancied monſter; a Briareus extending a hundred arms, and in every arm a brand of ſedition; an Argus open⯑ing a hundred eyes, and tracing the vermin of corruption, creeping to their [188] moſt hidden receſſes; in a word, as awe⯑ful a figure as that of the vaſt mountain, to which the caprice of a tyrant attempted to give a Coloſſal form, by commanding the people to hew it to his immoderate fancy.

But the philoſopher is not, as of late, too often repreſented this Coloſſal ini⯑quity. Legal authority is moſt ſecure when the people are moſt enlightened; a ſimple truth, which I leave to profound politicians to explain. I ſhall only cite the ſentiment of an old poet.

It is a dreadful moment when the people and the great alike refuſe the in⯑ſtructions of the philoſopher; whenever he appears terrible, ſome great corruption pervades the ſtate, for he is only armed [189] with truth. The occupations of the philoſophical ſtudent, as connected with political ſpeculations, are therefore du⯑ties of an exalted nature; ſome muſt give their hands, ſome their blood, and ſome their hours, to the various duties their country exacts; but there is a ſmall portion of men, who appear marked out by nature, for the purpoſe of cultivating their thoughts in peace, and to give ac⯑tivity to their ſentiments by diſcloſing them to the people. The phyſiognomy of their minds, wears all that ſhining luſtre, which diſtinguiſhed the prophet after his immediate conference with the Divinity; for in their compoſitions, good ſenſe is embelliſhed by eloquence, and before they perſuade, they convince. None, but thoſe who devote a life to me⯑ditation, can effect theſe great purpoſes; for they who govern a people, cannot at the ſame time enlighten them.

[190] Legiſlators of extenſive views, have ever protected and honoured men of letters. We have ſeen, in this age, two great powers in Europe teſtify their pub⯑lic utility, and who have been as ſoli⯑citous to aſſemble philoſophers, as to form their armies. Pruſſia and Ruſſia, under the government of two great ſove⯑reigns, have ſhewn how far by their aid an obſcure principality, and hordes of barbarians, may be elevated in the ſcale of humanity. The great Frederick in⯑vited to his court the perſecuted and un⯑happy literati; and to this holy ſhrine of philoſophy reſorted many a literary pil⯑grim. The imperial Catharine has not only largely penſioned ſeveral illuſtrious writers, but honours and animates, by her gifts, the attempt of every philoſopher who produces a public utility. If theſe ſovereigns have diſplayed more art than humanity, in forging chains for the free⯑dom [191] of men; it ſhews that an Antoninus and an Alfred, are more rare than a Frederick and a Catharine, as the love of philoſo⯑phy is leſs difficult than practical philo⯑ſophy; the only philoſophy that merits the name.

It is the philoſophical writer who alone reflects on what is not done, and on what may be done. He goads the ſluggiſh veins of government, when a cold indo⯑lence ſpreads a torpor on it's unhealth⯑ful inactivity. He teaches philanthropy to direct it's bounties in proper channels, and this is no inconſiderable good; for the humanity which diſtinguiſhes our age, is often only retarded by an igno⯑rance of it's neceſſities; to perceive and pathetically to deſcribe theſe neceſſities, is reſerved for the ſenſitive philoſopher. It is the characteriſtic of a man of genius, in ſuch appeals to our boſoms, that his glowing mind pours forth thoſe ſervid ex⯑preſſions, [192] that agitation of ideas, thoſe pictures of truth, which communicate his own ſenſations, and animate with his exquiſite ſoul, the ſouls of others. The people are a vaſt body, and men of genius are the eyes and hands.

The thouſand public utilities, I ſpeak not of the elegancies, derived from the multifarious diviſions of ſcience and of art, can alone be perfected by THE PHI⯑LOSOPHICAL GENIUS. Truth is a certain point in knowledge; ages ſucceed ages; and that point is paſſed, or not attained; a philoſophical genius ariſes, ſeiſes and fixes it in the vaſt expanſe of nature, ſe⯑cured by it's own weight from the mobi⯑lity of time. A Newton and a Locke ac⯑compliſh that in which an Ariſtotle and a Deſcartes failed. But theſe truths, which form ſo many epochs in the hu⯑man underſtanding, are covered in the ſublime obſcurity of nature; how is the [193] veil to be lifted from Iſis? A painful meditation alone elaborates them into exiſtence. In the arts, important diſ⯑coveries are obtained by accident; but the precious idea, which depends on a long train of reaſoning, can never be formed by chance. Philoſophers muſt meditate; and too often their medita⯑tions are purſued at the coſt of their felicity.

Yet let us not confound true PHILOSO⯑PHERS with dreaming THEORISTS. They are not more engaged in cultivating the mind, than the earth; the annals of agri⯑culture are as valuable as the annals of hiſtory; and while they inſtruct ſome to think, they teach others to labour. PHILOSOPHY extends it's thoughts on whatever the eye has ſeen, or the hand has touched; it herbaliſes in fields; it ſounds mines; it is on the waters, and in the foreſts; it is in the library, and [194] the laboratory; it arranges the calcula⯑tions of finance; it invents the police of a city; it erects it's fortifications; it gives velocity to our fleets; in a word, it is alike in the ſolitude of deſerts, as in the populouſneſs of manufactories. The GENIUS of PHILOSOPHY pierces every where, and on whatever it reſts, like the ſun, it diſcovers what lay concealed, or matures what it found imperfect.

CHAP. XV. On an Academy of polite Literature, Pen⯑ſions, and Prizes.

TO deliver any novel obſervations on an academy for the belles lettres is diffi⯑cult; but it is more difficult to paſs ſuch an object in ſilent regret.

The munificent hand of majeſty has raiſed an inſtitution to the mimetic art of painting; and this is a legitimate claim, which a prince, the commence⯑ment of whoſe reign was adorned by an honourable love of the arts, has to the eſtimation of poſterity. But why polite literature, which forms the delight and the ſolace of a greater portion of the na⯑tion than this art, ſhould have received no ſuch diſtinguiſhed approbation from the Brunſwicks, is not to the philoſopher, [196] perhaps, ſo much an object of ſurpriſe as of ſorrow.^*

I begin theſe obſervations with a lite⯑ral tranſcription of the opening of Sir Joſhua Reynolds's firſt diſcourſe. The Preſident ſays, ‘it is indeed difficult to give any other reaſon why an empire, like that of BRITAIN, ſhould ſo long have wanted an ornament ſo ſuitable to it's greatneſs, than that ſlow pro⯑greſſion of things, which naturally makes elegance and refinement the laſt effect of opulence and power.’—Of [197] opulence and power, have the higher claſſes of our nation a deficient meaſure? I doubt, indeed, if they really poſſeſs, as a body, or elegance or refinement. The philoſopher is not dazzled by elegance and refinement in manners; he does not confound the brilliancy of equipages with the energies of the mind. To his con⯑templative eye it is poſſible that an opu⯑lent and ſplendid nation may be barba⯑rous and groſs; as we obſerve in the individual, who, adorned by the inſignia of honour, and loaded with incalculable wealth, may at the ſame time have all the barbarity of mind which marks and degrades the loweſt of the populace. Should the greater part of the nobility of any country be more partial to pugiliſts and jockies, than to artiſts and philoſo⯑phers, the hiſtorian would be juſtified in recording that the genius of it's nobility was barbarous and groſs. It is almoſt [198] peculiar to literature, that whenever it's profeſſors feel themſelves contemned or neglected, to vindicate their cauſe, they have only to record this contempt and this neglect.

I would aſk why the art of writing is not deſerving of the ſame regard as the art of painting? And then I would en⯑quire, what painting can urge in it's own cauſe, which will entitle it to a ſu⯑periority over the art of compoſition?

But it may be urged that an inſtitution of this kind, while it has been recom⯑mended by ſome, has been oppoſed by others. Perhaps, in our country, it has never been examined with the attention ſuch an object claims; often it's defects have been rendered prominent, and it's benefits omitted; it's inabilities have been diſplayed, and it's powers have been concealed; it has often been regarded as a common place for ridicule, not as a diſcuſſion for reaſon.

[199] Johnſon, in his Life of Swift, has given ſome plauſible arguments againſt the academy which Swift propoſed; the arguments of this great man, more ſpe⯑cious than juſt, relate not to our preſent ſubject; for the academy Swift was de⯑ſirous of eſtabliſhing, was merely an imi⯑tation of the French academy; for the poliſhing, refining, and embelliſhing the language. The Engliſh language now wants no academy for it's improvements; it has few acquiſitions to make, but much to preſerve.

A literary inſtitution might be formed, in which the errors of former academies might be obviated, and the advanced genius of our times might add it's own valuable inventions. To improve the paſt is not difficult; but whether ſuch an academy would be a national utility, is an important queſtion, not, perhaps, difficult to reſolve.

[200] There is one kind of men, to whom no ſtudent would addreſs himſelf on ſub⯑jects of ſcience and taſte. At the ſiege of Athens, the barbarous Sylla com⯑manded the ſhady walks of the ACADEMY (that reſort of the Muſes which has left it's name to all future literary ſocieties) to be torn up, and the hallowed trees to be converted into martial machines. I addreſs myſelf not to the living Syllas, who are as inimical to a modern, as their ferocious model was to the firſt academy. The Omars of literature (the expreſſion be pardoned) we know are the enemies of the Homers.

On the firſt glance we take of the ſub⯑ject, the French academy, properly ſo diſtinguiſhed, preſents itſelf. It's la⯑bours have not been great; becauſe it's object was limited to the cultivation of the language. But it obtained it's ob⯑ject with all it's poſſible accompliſhment. [201] I trace the hiſtory of French ſtyle, in the harangues of this academy. The firſt are cold, dry, and full of thoſe common turns of expreſſion, which were doubtleſs conſidered as the curioſa felicitas, but which, by their reiterated appearance, ſhew the barrenneſs of their diction, and the paucity of happy expreſſions. The language was not yet formed; and the academy had commenced with nearly an empty treaſury. About the middle vo⯑lumes, eloquence occaſionally appears, an acceſſion of new turns enrich the ha⯑rangues, and if the ſtyle is not yet ſplen⯑did, it is not devoid of grace. The con⯑cluding volumes wear a brilliant appear⯑ance; a warmth of colouring, a boldneſs of expreſſion, and all the ſeduction of animated eloquence. If theſe volumes owe ſomething to happier topics, it is neceſſary to obſerve, that ſome ſubjects not leſs intereſting, in the early volumes, have all the deficiencies of ſtyle.

[202] Some will urge that an author can himſelf perform better than a ſociety, and the dictionaries of Furetiere and Johnſon, may be quoted as having been performed without the aid of an aca⯑demy.

I would not deny that one ſuperior genius is capable of obtaining what forty inferior ones can never accompliſh; and I even add, that one great author can perform better than forty great authors. No celebrated work has yet been com⯑poſed by the united talents of ſeveral; but many great men have conjoined their abilities in vain, in various works.

The mechanical operation of compi⯑ling a dictionary, however, I believe, may be better effected by a ſociety, than by an individual. The dictionary of Johnſon, though perhaps it could not be more finely executed, might have been conſiderably augmented by a ſociety. [203] Does not this great man himſelf, hoſtile as he appears to academies, inconſciouſly acknowledge their utility, by complain⯑ing that his labour was not formed under "the ſhelter of academic bowers."

It appears to me, that the happieſt effect is obtained when an academy and an individual unite their powers. I ex⯑plain myſelf by the following circum⯑ſtance.

D'Alembert, in his Eloge of the Abbè Deſmarais, obſerves, that the long arti⯑cles of the French dictionary were written by him, and that the public conſidered them as more finiſhed, and more ſatis⯑factory than the ſhort ones. D'Alembert gives the reaſon. He obſerves, that ‘the brevity of articles of little extent, allowed of their being the work of the whole ſociety; and that a ſociety col⯑lected in a body, diſturbed in it's de⯑ciſions by twenty different opinions, [204] which croſs and deſtroy one another, muſt with difficulty attain to ſatisfy it⯑ſelf and it's readers; but, on the con⯑trary, the great articles, indiſpenſably given to the care of an individual, ac⯑quire, in paſſing through his hands, all the perfection which the ſelf-love of the writer can give, animated alſo by the academical fervour.’

This judicious reflection of one of the moſt judicious writers of France, may ſerve to prove that a work is beſt per⯑formed by an individual; but that an individual, while he labours under the eye of a ſociety, feels a ſtimulative in that ſociety, which otherwiſe had been wanting.

And this is the great end and utility of ſuch an inſtitution. It's various advan⯑tages are, perhaps, ſufficiently obvious; but the vaſt influence it has over writers, has not, perhaps, been ſufficiently re⯑marked. [205] It animates not only the indi⯑viduals of the ſociety, but every indivi⯑dual who aſpires to become a member of the ſociety, and to wear, as Voltaire ſaid, the blue ribband of literature. By a diſtribution of prizes, it diffuſes an emulation to the remoteſt parts of the kingdom, and introduces to the public thoſe ingenuous youths, whom their ſitu⯑ation conceals from the world. By it's own memoirs, written by the members, it forms the moſt valuable literary re⯑poſitories in a nation. To reflect on theſe advantages may not be uſeleſs.

Some of the inferior benefits attending ſuch an inſtitution, are indiſputable. In theſe literary conferences, the taſte of every aſſociate would become more bril⯑liant, becauſe it would continually re⯑ceive the attrition and contact, it is to be ſuppoſed, of the fineſt underſtandings [206] in the nation.^* In caſes of emergency, recourſe would be had to the academy, and a Robertſon would not ſtand in ſuch need, as we have ſeen, of the advice of an inferior mind. The paradoxes in poetry of a Johnſon, would have been oppoſed before their publication, or at leaſt, the work muſt have iſſued into the world [207] without the ſanction of the academy, which would have been a tacit cenſure. The ſociety ſhould be provided with aſ⯑ſociates in the various claſſes of litera⯑ture; it ſhould have it's grammarians, it's hiſtorians, and it's metaphyſicians, as well as it's poets, it's orators, and it's philoſophers. In this hive of literary bees, no indolent member ſhould remain a member; all muſt be animation, all muſt be labour. And that no excuſe may be framed of neglect to the cauſe of literature, penſions ſhould be given to thoſe who may ſtand in want of them; for penſions to all will not be wanted, ſince ſome will labour for glory, though ſome may alſo want bread.

But even LITERARY PENSIONS have been ridiculed; and it is not unneceſſary to offer ſome reflections on them.

There are two opinions relative to the ſtate of men of genius. One party ima⯑gine [208] that no protection from the great, or a court, is neceſſary for the encou⯑ragement of artiſts; and the other are perſuaded, that when honours and pen⯑ſions are judiciouſly diſtributed, it ex⯑cites emulation in the young, and gives that leiſure to thoſe on whom they are beſtowed, ſo neceſſary to ſome, to cul⯑tivate their talents. They think with Boileau, that ‘Un AUGUSTE aiſement peut faire des VIRGILES.’

Lord Orford, honourably known un⯑der the name of Horace Walpole (a name that preſents to the mind, taſte, fancy, and learning) has ſaid in his preface to his Anecdotes of Painting, ‘want of protection is the apology for want of genius. Milton and Fontaine did not write in the baſk of court favour. A poet or a painter may want an equi⯑page, or a villa, by wanting protection: [209] they can always afford to buy ink and paper, colours and pencil. Mr. Ho⯑garth has received no honours, but univerſal admiration.’

I reply to his Lordſhip, that it is true the favour of a court knighted Blackmore, and penſioned Quarles; and both were miſerable poets; but if a court cannot convert dull men into men of genius, it may preſerve men of genius from be⯑coming dull men. It might have af⯑forded Dryden that ſtudious leiſure which he ever wanted, and which has given us imperfect tragedies, and incorrect poems, in lieu of finiſhed compoſitions, and the regular flights of a noble genius. It might have animated a Gainſborough to form an Engliſh ſchool in landſcape, which it is ſaid was his favourite, but neglected purſuit. As for the equipage and villa of the poet or the painter, theſe they leave to the idle connoiſſeur and [210] the vain actor. Nor muſt we conſent to the inſulting obſervation that they may always buy ink and paper, colours and pencils. Is it ſufficient for a delicate and ſenſitive mind to have ſuch implements to awaken the brilliancy of imagination? Is the picture uncommon to ſee a great genius with his pens or his pencils on the table, leaning over them in that ſecret agony of ſpirit, which murders fancy, and ſpreads a torpor on the ſoul? Had Chatterton been protected, not with an equipage or a villa, but with a penſion, the youth had not periſhed; but this unhappy poet inſtructs us, that pens and paper are not the only requiſites to cheriſh genius.

On the other ſide, ſo different are the opinions of even men of letters on this ſubject, the French writers (and the greateſt of them received their penſions without any injury to their genius) con⯑tinually [211] point to England as a model of literary protection. They tell us that Addiſon was Secretary of State; Newton and Locke, Commiſſioners; Swift al⯑moſt Prime Miniſter; and Prior an Ambaſſador.

If it is urged that the public are the beſt patrons, and that ſeveral popular authors have left fervid expreſſions as memorials of their gratitude; I reply, that the public are more munificent pa⯑trons than princes, provided that the genius of an author happens to take a popular turn. But of authors, few can be popular; for moſt of the departments in literature require the ſtudy of many years, and cannot be perfected till a late period. Such are all the exact ſciences, and every ſpecies of erudition. The hiſtorian and the noveliſt may gratify the public taſte, but what is to become of the antiquary and the mathematician?

[212] It is one certain evil, conſequent to the want of patronage, that a writer of great genius, when he diſcovers that he has nothing but his talents, and that the public attention muſt be rouſed by ſome extravagant novelty, will conſult the worſt diſpoſitions of the public; becauſe theſe are the moſt univerſal; and inſtead of compoſing a beautiful poem, he will write a dreadful ſatire; inſtead of a hiſ⯑tory, a libel; and inſtead of a moral romance, ſome ſcandalous memoirs.

Men of genius, penſioned by a court, will be enabled to indulge their own manner, though it might not immedi⯑ately be popular. He who writes in the proper repoſe of mind, and with regu⯑larity of application, will give his own natural phyſiognomy, and not that arti⯑ficial countenance which thoſe who court the mob are obliged to aſſume.

[213] If I am told, that to accept penſions is not congenial to the free ſpirit of a Briton, I reply, that literary penſions, unlike others, are honourable to the donor, and the penſioner. There is ſurely leſs ſer⯑vility in receiving a gratuitous gift from an enlightened monarch, than the wages of an inhuman bookſeller.

There is, I think, a reward for litera⯑ture, of ſtill greater utility than even penſions.

The diſtribution of PRIZES appears of greater utility than PENSIONS. A penſion preſerves one man of letters, but a prize may give birth to many. He who muſt ſatisfy a judge, and ſurpaſs a rival, will not ſatisfy himſelf till he has ſurpaſſed him⯑ſelf; he will not try merely to give a good work, but the beſt; and the vigilance of ambition will ſometimes ſupply the de⯑ficiencies of genius. If he is not yet crowned with the ſplendid reward, he [214] may merit the animation of an honour⯑able notice; if he cannot obtain a tri⯑umph, an ovation may be reſerved for him.^* Uſeful topics, which might not have been attempted by an individual, are diſperſed about the nation. We have ſeen lately, a prize in the Iriſh aca⯑demy produce a valuable "Eſſay on the beſt means of providing for the Poor." Subjects of national importance are not attempted becauſe a vender of literature may not chuſe to undertake them; a prize would beſtow honour and aſſiſtance on the ingenious ſpeculator. It is by her prizes, as well as by her academies, that France has always preceded us, and that her ingenuity is made to ſurpaſs our genius.^†

[215] While this academy for polite litera⯑ture would be thus effecting a great na⯑tional utility, their own memoirs would be invaluable. The Academy of the Belles Lettres in France, has formed a collection of hiſtorical, critical, literary, and miſcellaneous information, unequal⯑led in any nation. Our moſt accom⯑pliſhed hiſtorians cite them as their [216] authorities. The learning of a learned age is rendered inſtructive; and what becomes dull and inſipid in a Salmaſius and a Scaliger, delight with thoſe who do not think knowledge conſiſts in the heavy and unprofitable ſcience of dates, unconnected facts, and titles of books; but in reflection and in taſte. Know⯑ledge is only knowledge when it is render⯑ed acceſſible to the nation; it muſt be ſhewn to, and handled by the multitude, and not preſerved like an uſeleſs piece of antiquity in the collections of the curious.

France had literary ſocieties of every kind; her provincial academies were numerous; and I cannot but attribute her ſuperiority in a fine and brilliant elo⯑quence; a language of criticiſm that analyſes and paints our ſenſations; and their ſeductive art of compoſition to theſe lettered confraternities. Her reli⯑gion was friendly to retirement; and the [217] retirement of ſtudious men is rarely a barren leiſure, and a proud indolence. It is a juſtice we owe to letters, and to an extinct order of men, to acknowledge the invaluable labours of many monaſtic ſocieties of modern times. To the Port Royal the European youth were long in⯑debted for the initiatory books of learn⯑ing, and for verſions of the ancients, not yet neglected. To the learned Benedictines we owe their extenſive "Literary Hiſtory of France," which, though carried to 13 volumes in 4to. reaches only to the 12th century. Many, not leſs intereſting, nor vaſt, might be mentioned. Labours like theſe, can never be ſatisfactorily per⯑formed by any individual; One, may be permitted to devote himſelf to the com⯑poſition of the work, but many hands and many eyes muſt collect the materials, and muſt watch over the execution. We have no ſuch Literary Hiſtory of Eng⯑land; [218] and I may venture to predict we never can, if an academy of polite lite⯑rature is not inſtituted.

There remains one obſervation to be made on the beneficial effect of literary ſocieties diſperſed in the kingdom. Wherever ſuch exiſt, there will never appear in the vicinage a youth of genius, but the members will perceive his abi⯑lities, and will receive him or as a parent, or as a friend. A conſiderable number of the illuſtrious literati of France, were firſt induced to devote themſelves to ſtudy by the penetration of their ſupe⯑riors, or having found an aſylum in ſome monaſtery, indulged their prevailing diſ⯑poſition.

The inſtitution of literary ſocieties is ſo much deſired, and the want is ſo urgent, that the diſcernment of indivi⯑duals has of late attempted to ſupply this diſhonourable deficiency by aſſociations [219] in the metropolis, as well as in ſome of our provincial towns. The Mancheſter ſociety has merited the approbation of the public.^*

But we cannot reaſonably expect that a private ſociety will ever anſwer the ideas of the public, and become of na⯑tional utility. De Foe, in his "Eſſay on Projects, (who projected millions for the nation, but was generally con⯑fined for his own debts) gives ſome ob⯑ſervations reſpecting the inſtitution of an academy for polite literature, but he chiefly regards it in the view of refining and adjuſting the language. He ſays, p. 229, that he was once a member of a ſociety who attempted this noble de⯑ſign, but it's failure he attributes to the greatneſs of the work and the modeſty of [220] the gentlemen; and concludes by ſaying that we want a Richelieu to commence ſuch a work. I believe it was not the modeſty of the members, nor the great⯑neſs of the work, which occaſioned it's failure; but many other reaſons, which will always operate againſt private literary ſocieties.

A ſociety of friends find no great dif⯑ficulty to be pleaſed with the compoſi⯑tions of each other; many will be ad⯑mitted to ſuch a ſociety, more out of affection, than for their ability. It is the great requiſite of an academy, that all the members ſhould be profeſſed ſtu⯑dents, whoſe SOLE OCCUPATION is litera⯑ture, and whoſe life is devoted to acade⯑demical functions. If PENSIONS and PRIZES are added to the eſtabliſhment, we have then as perfect an ACADEMY, perhaps, as poſſibly can exiſt.

[221] This grand and deſirable object can alone be obtained, as ſuch hitherto have been obtained, by the ſanction of the Sovereign, and the applauſe of the People. Such an inſtitution would not alone be a national ornament; for to hold out rewards to genius, and to dif⯑fuſe among the people the humaniſing and peaceful purſuits of literature, has never yet been conſidered by politicians as a vain and an unimportant purpoſe.

Such is the wonderful influence of a love of letters in a nation, that it has often diſguiſed the deformity of deſpo⯑tiſm, and rendered even a nation of ſlaves, a poliſhed, a refined, and a happy people.

At the preſent melancholy moment, when Europe appears hoſtile to Reaſon, and to Humanity, let us indulge the hope, that this inſtitution may become the ornament of PEACE—of a Peace, that [222] by it's duration may reſemble the viſion of an admirable philanthropiſt and a poor politician, the viſion of the Abbè de Saint Pierre,—AN UNIVERSAL PEACE. When the principle of Government is VIRTUE, the action of that Government will be PEACE; Governments are, how⯑ever, always in war.