In a more advanced ſtate of civilization, a poet is rather the creature of art, than of nature. The books that he reads in his youth, become a hot-bed in which artificial fruits are produced, beautiful to the common eye, though they want the true hue and flavour. His images do not ariſe from ſenſations; they are copies; and, like the works of the painters who copy ancient ſtatues when they draw men and women of their own times, we acknowledge that the features are fine, and the proportions juſt; yet they are men of ſtone; inſipid figures, that never convey to the mind the idea of a portrait taken from life, where the ſoul gives ſpirit and homogeneity to the whole. The ſilken wings of fancy are ſhrivelled by rules; and a deſire of attaining elegance of diction, occaſions an attention to words, incompatible with ſublime, impaſſioned thoughts.
A boy of abilities, who has been taught the ſtructure of verſe at ſchool, and been rouſed by emulation to compoſe rhymes whilſt he was reading works of genius, may, by practice, produce pretty verſes, and even become what is often termed an elegant poet: yet his readers, without knowing what to find fault with, do not find themſelves warmly intereſted. In the works of the poets who faſten on their affections, they ſee groſſer faults, and the very images which ſhock their taſte in the modern; ſtill they do not appear as puerile or extrinſic in one as the other.—Why?—becauſe they did not appear ſo to the author.
It may ſound paradoxical, after obſerving that thoſe productions want vigour, that are merely the work of imitation, in which the underſtanding has violently directed, if not extinguiſhed, the blaze of fancy, to aſſert, that, though genius be only another word for exquiſite ſenſibility, the firſt obſervers of nature, the true poets, exerciſed their underſtanding much more than their imitators. But they exerciſed it to diſcriminate things, whilſt their followers were buſy to borrow ſentiments and arrange words.
Boys who have received a claſſical education, load their memory with words, and the correſpondent ideas are perhaps never diſtinctly comprehended. As a proof of this aſſertion, I muſt obſerve, that I have known many young people who could write tolerably ſmooth verſes, and ſtring epithets prettily together, when their proſe themes ſhowed the barrenneſs of their minds, and how ſuperficial the cultivation muſt have been, which their underſtanding had received.
Dr. Johnſon, I know, has given a definition of genius, which would overturn my reaſoning, if I were to admit it.—He imagines, that a ſtrong mind, accidentally led to ſome particular ſtudy in which it excels, is a genius.—Not to ſtop to inveſtigate the cauſes which produced this happy ſtrength of mind, experience ſeems to prove, that thoſe minds have appeared moſt vigorous, that have purſued a ſtudy, after nature had diſcovered a bent; for it would be abſurd to ſuppoſe, that a ſlight impreſſion made on the weak faculties of a boy, is the fiat of fate, and not to be effaced by any ſucceeding impreſſion, or unexpected difficulty. Dr. Johnſon in fact, appears ſometimes to be of the ſame opinion (how conſiſtently I ſhall not now enquire), eſpecially when he obſerves, "that Thomſon looked on nature with the eye which ſhe only gives to a poet."
But, though it ſhould be allowed that books may produce ſome poets, I fear they will never be the poets who charm our cares to ſleep, or extort admiration. They may diffuſe taſte, and poliſh the language; but I am inclined to conclude that they will ſeldom rouſe the paſſions, or amend the heart.
And, to return to the firſt ſubject of diſcuſſion, the reaſon why moſt people are more intereſted by a ſcene deſcribed by a poet, than by a view of nature, probably ariſes from the want of a lively imagination. The poet contracts the proſpect, and, ſelecting the moſt pictureſque part in his camera, the judgment is directed, and the whole force of the languid faculty turned towards the objects which excited the moſt forcible emotions in the poet's heart; the reader conſequently feels the enlivened deſcription, though he was not able to receive a firſt impreſſion from the operations of his own mind.
Beſides, it may be further obſerved, that groſs minds are only to be moved by forcible repreſentations. To rouſe the thoughtleſs, objects muſt be preſented, calculated to produce tumultuous emotions; the unſubſtantial, pictureſque forms which a contemplative man gazes on, and often follows with ardour till he is mocked by a glimpſe of unattainable excellence, appear to them the light vapours of a dreaming enthuſiaſt, who gives up the ſubſtance for the ſhadow. It is not within that they ſeek amuſement; their eyes are ſeldom turned on themſelves; conſequently their emotions, though ſometimes fervid, are always tranſient, and the nicer perceptions which diſtinguiſh the man of genuine taſte, are not felt, or make ſuch a ſlight impreſſion as ſcarcely to excite any pleaſurable ſenſations. Is it ſurpriſing then that they are often overlooked, even by thoſe who are delighted by the ſame images concentrated by the poet?
But even this numerous claſs is exceeded, by witlings, who, anxious to appear to have wit and taſte, do not allow their underſtandings or feelings any liberty; for, inſtead of cultivating their faculties and reflecting on their operations, they are buſy collecting prejudices; and are predetermined to admire what the ſuffrage of time announces as excellent, not to ſtore up a fund of amuſement for themſelves, but to enable them to talk.
Theſe hints will aſſiſt the reader to trace ſome of the cauſes why the beauties of nature are not forcibly felt, when civilization, or rather luxury, has made conſiderable advances—thoſe calm ſenſations are not ſufficiently lively to ſerve as a relaxation to the voluptuary, or even to the moderate purſuer of artificial pleaſures. In the preſent ſtate of ſociety, the underſtanding muſt bring back the feelings to nature, or the ſenſibility muſt have ſuch native ſtrength, as rather to be whetted than deſtroyed by the ſtrong exerciſes of paſſion.
