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the love of virtue, are read with delight, and fix themselves on the memory. Where the reader has this previous knowledge of the subject, which we have mentioned as necessary, the art of the poet becomes itself a source of pleasure, and sometimes in proportion to the remote. ness of the subject from the more obvious province of poetry; we are delighted to find with how much dexterity the artist of verse can avoid a technical term, how neatly he can turn an uncouth word, and with how much grace embellish a scientific idea. Who does not admire the infinite art with which Dr. Darwin has described the machine of sir Richard Arkwright? His verse is a piece of mechanism, as complete in its kind as that which he describes. Allured perhaps too much by this artificial species of excellence, and by the hopes of novelty, hardly any branch of knowledge has been so abstruse, or so barren of delight, as not to have afforded a subject to the didactic poet. Even the loathsomeness of disease, and the dry maxims of medical knowledge, have been decorated with the charms of poetry. Many of these pieces however owe all their entertainment to frequent digressions. Where these arise naturally out of the subject, as the description of a sheep-shearing feast in Dyer, or the praises of Italy in the Georgics, they are not only allowable but graceful; but if forced, as is the story of Orpheus and Eurydice in the same poem, they can be considered in no other light than that of beautiful monsters, and injure the piece they are meant to adorn. The subject of a didactic poem therefore ought to be such as is in itself to be attractive

to the man of taste, for otherwise all attempts to make it so, by adventitious ornaments, will be but like loading with jewels and drapery a fi gure originally defective and ill-made.

Of the Infirmities and Defects of Men of Genius; from D'Israeli's Essay on the Literary Character.

THE

THE modes of life of a man of genius are often tinctured with eccentricity and enthusiasm. These are in an eternal conflict with the usages of common life. His occupations, his amusements, and his ardour, are discordant to daily pursuits, and prudential ha bits. It is the characteristic of genius to display no talent to or dinary men; and it is unjust to censure the latter when they consi. der him as born for no human purpose, Their pleasures and their sorrows are not his pleasures and his sorrows. He often appears to slumber in dishonourable ease, while his days are passed in labours, more constant and more painful than those of the manufacturer. The world is not always aware that to meditate, to compose, and even to converse with some, are great la bours: and as Ilawkesworth observes, "that weariness may be contracted in an arm chair."

Such men are also censured for an irritability of disposition. Many reasons might apologize for these unhappy variations 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 communicates [* 2] melancholy 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 author is not less immer. sed in cares, or agitated by success, for literature has its bankruptcies and its speculations.

The anxieties and disappointments of an author, even of the most successful, are incalculable. If he is learned, learning is the torment of unquenchable thirst, and his elaborate work is exposed to the accidentalrecollection of an inferior mind, as well as the fatal omissions of wea. ried 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 what ever talent a man may be born, the art of writing is not easily obtained. 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, because it cannot have their conceptions. We read not without a melancholy emotion, the querulous expressions of men of genius. We have a lit little catalogue de calamitate Litteratorum; we might add a volume by the addition of most of our own authors.

The votaries of the arts and sci. ences 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 feverish esistence. Some are now only agreeable,

who might have been great writers, had their application to study, and the modes of their life, been difierent. In Mr. Greaves's lively recollections of his friend Shenstone, are some judicious observations on this subject. He has drawn a comparison 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 indolence, the retirement, and the inertion of a want of patronage, which made Shenstone, as Gray familiarly said, " hop round his walks" like a bird in a string.

Men of genius are often reverenced only where they are known by their writings. In the romance of life they are divinities, in its his. tory they are men. From errors of the mind, and derelictions of the heart, they may not be exempt; these are perceived by their acquaintance, who can often discern only these qualities. The defects of great men are the consolation of the dunces.

For their foiblesş it appears more difficult to account than for their vices; for a violent passion depends on its direction to become either excellence or depravity; but why their exalted mind should not preserve them from the imbecilities of fools, appears a mere caprice of nature. A curious list may be formed of

"Fears of the brave and follies of "the wise." Johnson.

In the note underneath I have thrown together a few facts which may

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may be passed over by those who have no taste for literary anecdotes."

But it is also necessary to acknowledge, that men of genius are often unjustly reproached with foibles. The sports of a vacant mind, are misunderstood as follies. The simplicity of truth may appear 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 approbation. We place it to the account of his envy; but perhaps this opinion is erroneous, and daims a concise investigation.

Every superior writer has a man ner of his own, with which he has been long 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 comparative 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 erroneous; but it is more excusable 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 Corneille, the tender Racine; the affected Marivaux, the familiar Moliere; the artificial Gray, the simple Shenstone." Each alike judged by that peculiar manner he had long formed. In a free conversation 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 Mastened to reposit in his warehouse of literary falsities, a long declamation on the vanity and envy of these great men.

It has long been acknowledged that every work of merit, the more it is examined, the greater the merit will appear. 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. What is most refined is least obvious; and to some must remain unperceived for ever.

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 refine not too much when I say, that the author is conscious of beauties, that are not in his composition. The happiest writers 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 of the one to the other; how more sensibly 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 subtle lessons are yet in Locke, which no preceptor can teach!

* Voiture was the son of a vintner, and, like our Prior, was so mortified whenever reminded of his original occupation, that it was said of him, that wine which cheered the hearts of all men, sickened that of Voiture. Rousseau, the poet, was the son of a cobler; and when his honest parent waited at the door of the theatre, to embrace his son on the success of his first piece, the inhuman poet repulsed the venerable father with insult and contempt. Akenside ever considered his lameness as an unsupportable misfortune, since it continually reminded him of his origin, being occasioned by the fall of a cleaver from one of his father's blocks, a respectable butcher. Milton delighted in contemplating his own person, and the engraver not having reached our sublime bard's " ideal grace," he has pointed his indignation in four iambics. Among the complaints of Pope, is that of" the pictured shape." Even the strong-minded Johrison would not be painted " blinking Sam." Mr. Boswell tells us that Goldsmith attempted to shew his agility to be superior to the dancing of an ape, whose praise had occasioned him a fit of jealousy, but he failed in imitating his rival. The inscription under Boileau's portrait, describing his character with lavish panegyric, and a preference to Juvenal and Horace, is unfortunately known to have been written by himself.

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Such, among others, are the reasons which may induce an author to express himself in language which may sound like vanity. To be adnoired, is the noble simplicity of the ancients, (imitated by a few elevated minds among the moderns) in expressing with ardour the consciousness of genius. We are not more displeased with Dryden than with Cicero, when he acquaints us of the great things he has done, and those he purposes to do. Modern molesty 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 advertisements; others pretend to be the editors of their own works; some compliment themselves in the third person; and many, concealed

under the shade of anonymous criticism, form panegyrics, as elaborate and long as Pliny's on Trajan, of their works and themselves: yet, in conversation, start at a compliment, and quarrel at a quotation. Such modest authors resemble certain ladies, who in public are equal. ly celebrated for the coldest chastity.

Consciousness of merit characterises men of genius; but it is to be lamented that the illusions of selflove are not distinguishable from the reality of consciousness. Yet, if we were to take from some their pride of exultation, we annihilate the germ of their excellence. The persuasion of a just posterity smoothed the sleepless pillow, and spread a sunshine in the solitude of Bacon, Montesquieu, and Newton; of Cervantes, Grey, 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 unworthy men, and some the courage to erase what they have written. A young writer unknown, yet languishing for encouragement, when he first finds the notice of a person of some eminence, has expressed himself in language which gratitude, a finer reason than reason itself, inspired. Strongly has Milton expressed the sensations of this passion, "the depth immense of endless gratitude." Who ever pays an "immense debt" in small sums?

Whimsical Expences of Economy; from the Gentleman's Magazine.

Di

O you know, Mr. Urban, that I am in the high road to be

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ruined by economy? Never did a poor man pay so dear in order to save money; and it is all owing to the cry that you and others have set up about scarcity, that I am fairly driven out of my own house, and am the laughing-stock of all my neighbours.

You must know that I have the good fortune to enjoy the best wife in the world. She is a pattern to all her acquaintance. She looks into every thing herself, is quite notable, a great manager; an excellent market-woman, and knows the cheapest shop in town for every article that we want. This is not only a great comfort as well as saving to ourselves, but a great convenience to our friends; for, when any of them want to buy a gown, or a pound of raisins, they are sure not only to consult my wife, but to take her with them for fear that they should be imposed upon; and the kind soul is every day upon her feet trudging into the city with one friend or another, because really in the city things may be bought for almost half price: and this I can assure you is true, from the extraordinary bargains that she constantly makes.

But, Mr. Urban, to my misfortunes. I need not tell you, sir, who have so well described the present scarcity, that every feeling heart is anxious to lessen the consumption of wheat, and to make as great a saving as possible of bread in these hard times. The number of substitutes for flour which have been suggested by the ingenious sir John Sinclair, president of the board of agriculture, and others, struck my wife very forcibly. "Dear me!" she said one morning at breakfast"how simple the receipt is !-Just

one half flour, and one half potatoes. I declare I will try it-and then we shall make our own bread, and what a saving that will be! It is but having a little cast-iron oven put up at the side of the kitchengrate, and it will be the most con venient and handy thing in the world-it will bake a pie, or a few tarts upon occasion; and you know, my love, it will keep your leg of mutton hot and comfortable any time that you should happen to be detained at Lloyd's. What do you think of it, my dear?" I never have an opinion of my own upon any subject of this kind. My wife is sovereign out of the counting-house, which is my only territory. "My dear, says I" you know best. It is surely the duty of every one to lessen the consumption of wheat; and, if you think a mixed bread will answer, I would have you try it; but, my love, might you not make your experiment, and send the loaf to the bakehouse, and not buy an oven till you see how it answers?" Oh dear, no, by no means; now that is always your way. My God! trust a baker with an experiment when he is to be deprived of our custom if it succeeds! No, I thank you. Why, he would burn it on purpose." There is no arguing with my wife, she is so clever; and, besides, when once she takes up a thing, she finds out so many advantages in a minute, that did not strike her at first, that the second reasons are often more forcible than the original inducement. This was precisely the case about the little cast-iron oven; it was thought of only for the sake of the potatoe-bread; but such a variety of uses for an oven came crowding upon her mind, that she won[*14] dered

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