Yet enthuſiaſm, though the natural concomitant of genius, is no more genius itſelf, than drunkenneſs is cheerfulneſs; and that enthuſiaſm which diſcovers itſelf on occaſions not worthy to excite it, is the mark of a wretched judgment and a falſe taſte.
Nature produces innumerable objects: to imitate them, is the province of Genius; to direct thoſe imitations, is the property of Judgment; to decide on their effects, is the buſineſs of Taſte. For Taſte, who ſits as ſupreme judge on the productions of Genius, is not ſatiſfied when ſhe merely imitates Nature: ſhe muſt alſo, ſays an ingenious French writer, imitate beautiful Nature. It requires no leſs judgment to reject than to chooſe, and Genius might imitate what is vulgar, under pretence that it was natural, if Taſte did not carefully point out thoſe objects which are moſt proper for imitation. It alſo requires a very nice diſcernment to diſtinguiſh veriſimilitude from truth; for there is a truth in Taſte nearly as concluſive as demonſtration in mathematics.
Genius, when in the full impetuoſity of its career, often touches on the very brink of error; and is, perhaps, never ſo near the verge of the precipice, as when indulging its ſublimeſt flights. It is in thoſe great, but dangerous moments, that the curb of vigilant judgment is moſt wanting: while ſafe and ſober Dulneſs obſerves one tedious and inſipid round of tireſome uniformity, and ſteers equally clear of eccentricity and of beauty. Dulneſs has few redundancies to retrench, few luxuriancies to prune, and few irregularities to ſmooth. Theſe, though errors, are the errors of Genius, for there is rarely redundancy without plenitude, or irregularity without greatneſs. The exceſſes of Genius may eaſily be retrenched, but the deficiencies of Dulneſs can never be ſupplied.
Those who copy from others will doubtleſs be leſs excellent than thoſe who copy from Nature. To imitate imitators, is the way to depart too far from the great original herſelf. The latter copies of an engraving retain fainter and fainter traces of the ſubject, to which the earlier impreſſions bore ſo ſtrong a reſemblance.
It ſeems very extraordinary, that it ſhould be the moſt difficult thing in the world to be natural, and that it ſhould be harder to hit off the manners of real life, and to delineate ſuch characters as we converſe with every day, than to imagine ſuch as do not exiſt. But caricature is much eaſier than an exact outline, and the colouring of fancy leſs difficult than that of truth.
People do not always know what taſte they have, till it is awakened by ſome correſponding object; nay, genius itſelf is a fire, which in many minds would never blaze, if not kindled by ſome external cauſe.
Nature, that munificent mother, when ſhe beſtows the power of judging, accompanies it with the capacity of enjoying. The judgment, which is clear ſighted, points out ſuch objects as are calculated to inſpire love, and the heart inſtantaneouſly attaches itſelf to whatever is lovely.
In regard to literary reputation, a great deal depends on the ſtate of learning in the particular age or nation, in which an author lives. In a dark and ignorant period, moderate knowledge will entitle its poſſeſſor to a conſiderable ſhare of fame; whereas, to be diſtinguiſhed in a polite and lettered age, requires ſtriking parts and deep erudition.
When a nation begins to emerge from a ſtate of mental darkneſs, and to ſtrike out the firſt rudiments of improvement, it chalks out a few ſtrong but incorrect ſketches, gives the rude out-lines of general art, and leaves the filling up to the leiſure of happier days, and the refinement of more enlightened times. Their drawing is a rude Sbozzo, and their poetry wild minſtrelſy.
Perfection of taſte is a point which a nation no ſooner reaches, than it overſhoots; and it is more difficult to return to it, after having paſſed it, than it was to attain when they fell ſhort of it. Where the arts begin to languiſh after having flouriſhed, they ſeldom indeed fall back to their original barbariſm, but a certain feebleneſs of exertion takes place, and it is more difficult to recover them from this dying languor to their proper ſtrength, than it was to poliſh them from their former rudeneſs; for it is a leſs formidable undertaking to refine barbarity, than to ſtop decay: the firſt may be laboured into elegance, but the latter will rarely be ſtrengthened into vigour.