Yet it has been objected that ſtudy is a great enemy to originality; but even if this were true, it would perhaps be as well that an author ſhould give us the ideas of ſtill better writers, mixed and aſſimilated with the matter in his own mind, as thoſe crude and undigeſted thoughts which he values under the notion that they are original. The ſweeteſt honey neither taſtes of the roſe, the honeyſuckle, nor the carnation, yet it is compounded of the very eſſence of them all.
If in the other fine arts this accumulation of knowledge is neceſſary, it is indiſpenſably ſo in poetry. It is a fatal raſhneſs for any one to truſt too much to their own ſtock of ideas. He muſt invigorate them by exerciſe, poliſh them by converſation, and increaſe them by every ſpecies of elegant and virtuous knowledge, and the mind will not fail to reproduce with intereſt thoſe ſeeds, which are ſown in it by ſtudy and obſervation. Above all, let every one guard againſt the dangerous opinion that he knows enough: an opinion that will weaken the energy and reduce the powers of the mind, which, though once perhaps vigorous and effectual, will be ſunk to a ſtate of literary imbecility, by cheriſhing vain and preſumptuous ideas of its own independence.
For inſtance, it may not be neceſſary that a poet ſhould be deeply ſkilled in the Linnæan ſyſtem; but it muſt be allowed that a general acquaintance with plants and flowers will furniſh him with a delightful and profitable ſpecies of inſtruction. He is not obliged to trace Nature in all her nice and varied operations, with the minute accuracy of a Boyle, or the laborious inveſtigation of a Newton; but his good ſenſe will point out to him that no inconſiderable portion of philoſophical knowledge is requiſite to the completion of his literary character. The ſciences are more independent, and require little or no aſſiſtance from the graces of poetry; but poetry, if ſhe would charm and inſtruct, muſt not be ſo haughty; ſhe muſt be contented to borrow of the ſciences, many of her choiceſt alluſions, and many of her moſt graceful embelliſhments; and does it not magnify the character of true poeſy, that ſhe includes within herſelf all the ſcattered graces of every ſeparate art?
The rules of the great maſters in criticiſm may not be ſo neceſſary to the forming a good taſte, as the examination of thoſe original mines from whence they drew their treaſures of knowledge.
The three celebrated Eſſays on the Art of Poetry do not teach ſo much by their laws as by their examples; the dead letter of their rules is leſs inſtructive than the living ſpirit of their verſe. Yet theſe rules are to a young poet, what the ſtudy of logarithms is to a young mathematician; they do not ſo much contribute to form his judgment, as afford him the ſatiſfaction of convincing him that he is right. They do not preclude the difficulty of the operation; but at the concluſion of it, furniſh him with a fuller demonſtration that he has proceeded on proper principles. When he has well ſtudied the maſters in whoſe ſchools the firſt critics formed themſelves, and fancies he has caught a ſpark of their divine Flame, it may be a good method to try his own compoſitions by the teſt of the critic rules, ſo far indeed as the mechaniſm of poetry goes. If the examination be fair and candid, this trial, like the touch of Ithuriel's ſpear, will detect every latent error, and bring to light every favourite failing.
Good taſte always ſuits the meaſure of its admiration to the merit of the compoſition it examines. It accommodates its praiſes, or its cenſure, to the excellence of a work, and appropriates it to the nature of it. General applauſe, or indiſcriminate abuſe, is the ſign of a vulgar underſtanding. There are certain blemiſhes which the judicious and good-natured reader will candidly overlook. But the falſe ſublime, the tumour which is intended for greatneſs, the diſtorted figure, the puerile conceit, and the incongruous metaphor, theſe are defects for which ſcarcely any other kind of merit can atone. And yet there may be more hope of a writer (eſpecially if he be a a young one), who is now and then guilty of ſome of theſe faults, than of one who avoids them all, not through judgment, but feebleneſs, and who, inſtead of deviating into error is continually falling ſhort of excellence. The meer abſence of error implies that moderate and inferior degree of merit with which a cold heart and a phlegmatic taſte will be better ſatiſfied than with the magnificent irregularities of exalted ſpirits. It ſtretches ſome minds to an uneaſy extenſion to be obliged to attend to compoſitions ſuperlatively excellent; and it contracts liberal ſouls to a painful narrowneſs to deſcend to books of inferior merit. A work of capital genius, to a man of an ordinary mind, is the bed of Procruſtes to one of a ſhort ſtature, the man is too little to fill up the ſpace aſſigned him, and undergoes the torture in attempting it: and a moderate, or low production to a man of bright talents, is the puniſhment inflicted by Mezentius; the living ſpirit has too much animation to endure patiently to be in contact with a dead body.
Taste seſms to be a ſentiment of the ſoul which gives the bias to opinion, for we feel before we reflect. Without this ſentiment, all knowledge, learning and opinion, would be cold, inert materials, whereas they become active principles when ſtirred, kindled, and inflamed by this animating quality.
There is another feeling which is called Enthuſiaſm. The enthuſiaſm of ſenſible hearts is ſo ſtrong, that it not only yields to the impulſe with which ſtriking objects act on it, but ſuch hearts help on the effect by their own ſenſibility. In a ſcene where Shakeſpeare and Garrick give perfection to each other, the feeling heart does not merely accede to the delirium they occaſion: it does more, it is enamoured of it, it ſolicits the deluſion, it ſues to be deceived, and grudgingly cheriſhes the ſacred treaſure of its feelings. The poet and performer concur in carrying us
Beyond this viſible diurnal ſphere,
they bear us aloft in their airy courſe with unreſiſted rapidity, if they meet not with any obſtruction from the coldneſs of our own feelings. Perhaps, only a few fine ſpirits can enter into the detail of their writing and acting; but the multitude do not enjoy leſs acutely, becauſe they are not able philoſophically to analyſe the ſources of their joy or ſorrow. If the others have the advantage of judging, theſe have at leaſt the privilege of feeling: and it is not from complaiſance to a few leading judges, that they burſt into peals of laughter, or melt into delightful agony; their hearts decide, and that is a deciſion from which there lies no appeal. It muſt however be confeſſed, that the nicer ſeparations of character, and the lighter and almoſt imperceptible ſhades which ſometimes diſtinguiſh them, will not be intimately reliſhed, unleſs there be a conſonancy of taſte as well as feeling in the ſpectator; though where the paſſions are principally concerned, the profane vulgar come in for a larger portion of the univerſal delight, than critics and connoiſſeurs are willing to allow them.