Taste exerts itſelf at firſt but feebly and imperfectly: it is repreſſed and kept back by a crowd of the moſt diſcouraging prejudices: like an infant prince, who, though born to reign, yet holds an idle ſceptre, which he has not power to uſe, but is obliged to ſee with the eyes, and hear through the ears of other men.
A writer of correct taſte will hardly ever go out of his way, even in ſearch of embelliſhment: he will ſtudy to attain the beſt end by the moſt natural means; for he knows that what is not natural cannot be beautiful, and that nothing can be beautiful out of its own place; for an improper ſituation will convert the moſt ſtriking beauty into a glaring defect. When by a well-connected chain of ideas, or a judicious ſucceſſion of events, the reader is ſnatched to "Thebes or Athens," what can be more impertinent than for the poet to obſtruct the operation of the paſſion he has juſt been kindling, by introducing a conceit which contradicts his purpoſe, and interrupts his buſineſs? Indeed, we cannot be tranſported, even in idea, to thoſe places, if the poet does not manage ſo adroitly as not to make us ſenſible of the journey: the inſtant we feel we are travelling, the writer's art fails, and the delirium is at an end.
Proserpine, ſays Ovid, would have been reſtored to her mother Ceres, had not Aſcalaphus ſeen her ſtop to gather a golden apple, when the terms of her reſtoration were, that ſhe ſhould taſte nothing. A ſtory pregnant with inſtruction for lively writers, who by neglecting the main buſineſs, and going out of the way for falſe gratifications, loſe ſight of the end they ſhould principally keep in view. It was this falſe taſte that introduced the numberleſs concetti, which diſgrace the brighteſt of the Italian poets; and this is the reaſon, why the reader only feels ſhort and interrupted ſnatches of delight in peruſing the brilliant but unequal compoſitions of Arioſto, inſtead of that unbroken and undiminiſhed pleaſure, which he conſtantly receives from Virgil, from Milton, and generally from Taſſo. The firſt-mentioned Italian is the Atalanta, who will interrupt the moſt eager career, to pick up the glittering miſchief, while the Mantuan and the Britiſh bards, like Hippomenes, preſs on warm in the purſuit, and unſeduced by temptation.
A writer of real taſte will take great pains in the perfection of his ſtyle, to make the reader believe that he took none at all. The writing which appears to be moſt eaſy, will be generally found to be leaſt imitable. The moſt elegant verſes are the moſt eaſily retained, they faſten themſelves on the memory, without its making any effort to preſerve them, and we are apt to imagine, that what is remembered with eaſe, was written without difficulty.
To conclude; Genius is a rare and precious gem, of which few know the worth; it is fitter for the cabinet of the connoiſſeur, than for the commerce of mankind. Good ſenſe is a bank-bill, convenient for change, negotiable at all times, and current in all places. It knows the value of ſmall things, and conſiders that an aggregate of them makes up the ſum of human affairs. It elevates common concerns into matters of importance, by performing them in the beſt manner, and at the moſt ſuitable ſeaſon. Good ſenſe carries with it the idea of equality, while Genius is always ſuſpected of a deſign to impoſe the burden of ſuperiority; and reſpect is paid to it with that reluctance which always attends other impoſts, the lower orders of mankind generally repining moſt at demands, by which they are leaſt liable to be affected.
As it is the character of Genius to penetrate with a lynx's beam into unfathomable abyſſes and uncreated worlds, and to ſee what is not, ſo it is the property of good ſenſe to diſtinguiſh perfectly, and judge accurately what really is. Good ſenſe has not ſo piercing an eye, but it has as clear a ſight: it does not penetrate ſo deeply, but as far as it does ſee, it diſcerns diſtinctly. Good ſenſe is a judicious mechanic, who can produce beauty and convenience out of ſuitable means; but Genius (I ſpeak with reverence of the immeaſurable diſtance) bears ſome remote reſemblance to the divine architect, who produced perfection of beauty without any viſible materials, who ſpake, and it was created; who ſaid, Let it be, and it was.
[8] The Author begs leave to offer an apology for introducing this Eſſay, which, ſhe fears, may be thought foreign to her purpoſe. But ſhe hopes that her earneſt deſire of exciting a taſte for literature in young ladies, (which encouraged her to hazard the following remarks) will not obstruct her general deſign, even if it does not actually promote it.
Lately publiſhed by the ſame Author,
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