Two years paſſed in this manner, ſilently rooting my affection; and it might have continued calm, if a fever had not brought him to the very verge of the grave. Though ſtill deceived, I was miſerable that the cuſtoms of the world did not allow me to watch by him; when ſleep forſook his pillow, my wearied eyes were not cloſed, and my anxious ſpirit hovered round his bed. I ſaw him, before he had recovered his ſtrength; and, when his hand touchedmine, life almoſt retired, or flew to meet the touch. The firſt look found a ready way to my heart, and thrilled through every vein. We were left alone, and inſenſibly began to talk of the immortality of the ſoul; I declared that I could not live without this conviction. In the ardour of converſation he preſſed my hand to his heart; it reſted there a moment, and my emotions gave weight to my opinion, for the affection we felt was not of a periſhable nature.—A ſilence enſued, I know not how long; he then threw my hand from him, as if it had been a ſerpent; formally complained of the weather, and adverted to twenty other unintereſting ſubjects. Vain efforts! Our hearts had already ſpoken to each other.
Feebly did I afterwards combat anaffection, which ſeemed twiſted in every fibre of my heart. The world ſtood ſtill when I thought of him; it moved heavily at beſt, with one whoſe very conſtitution ſeemed to mark her out for miſery. But I will not dwell on the paſſion I too fondly nurſed. One only refuge had I on earth; I could not reſolutely deſolate the ſcene my fancy flew to, when worldly cares, when a knowledge of mankind, which my circumſtances forced on me, rendered every other inſipid. I was afraid of the unmarked vacuity of common life; yet, though I ſupinely indulged myſelf in fairy-land, when I ought to have been more actively employed, virtue was ſtill the firſt mover of my actions; ſhe dreſſed my love in ſuch enchanting colours, and ſpread the net I could never break. Our correſponding feelings confoundedour very ſouls; and in many converſations we almoſt intuitively diſcerned each other's ſentiments; the heart opened itſelf, not chilled by reſerve, nor afraid of miſconſtruction. But, if virtue inſpired love, love gave new energy to virtue, and abſorbed every ſelfiſh paſſion. Never did even a wiſh eſcape me, that my lover ſhould not fulfil the hard duties which fate had impoſed on him. I only diſſembled with him in one particular; I endeavoured to ſoften his wife's too conſpicuous follies, and extenuated her failings in an indirect manner. To this I was prompted by a loftineſs of ſpirit; I ſhould have broken the band of life, had I ceaſed to reſpect myſelf. But I will haſten to an important change in my circumſtances.
My mother, who had concealed the real ſtate of her affairs from me, wasnow impelled to make me her confident, that I might aſſiſt to diſcharge her mighty debt of gratitude. The merchant, my more than father, had privately aſſiſted her: but a fatal civil-war reduced his large property to a bare competency; and an inflammation in his eyes, that aroſe from a cold he had caught at a wreck, which he watched during a ſtormy night to keep off the lawleſs colliers, almoſt deprived him of ſight. His life had been ſpent in ſociety, and he ſcarcely knew how to fill the void; for his ſpirit would not allow him to mix with his former equals as an humble companion; he who had been treated with uncommon reſpect, could not brook their inſulting pity. From the reſource of ſolitude, reading, the complaint in his eyes cuthim off, and he became our conſtant viſitor.
Actuated by the ſincereſt affection, I uſed to read to him, and he miſtook my tenderneſs for love. How could I undeceive him, when every circumſtance frowned on him! Too ſoon I found that I was his only comfort; I, who rejected his hand when fortune ſmiled, could not now ſecond her blow; and, in a moment of enthuſiaſtic gratitude and tender compaſſion, I offered him my hand.—It was received with pleaſure; tranſport was not made for his ſoul; nor did he diſcover that nature had ſeparated us, by making me alive to ſuch different ſenſations. My mother was to live with us, and I dwelt on this circumſtance to baniſh cruel recollections, when the bent bow returned to its former ſtate.
With a burſting heart and a firm voice, I named the day when I was to ſeal my promiſe. It came, in ſpite of my regret; I had been previouſly preparing myſelf for the awful ceremony, and anſwered the ſolemn queſtion with a reſolute tone, that would ſilence the dictates of my heart; it was a forced, unvaried one; had nature modulated it, my ſecret would have eſcaped. My active ſpirit was painfully on the watch to repreſs every tender emotion. The joy in my venerable parent's countenance, the tenderneſs of my huſband, as he conducted me home, for I really had a ſincere affection for him, the gratulations of my mind, when I thought that this ſacrifice was heroic, all tended to deceive me; but the joy of victory over the reſigned, pallid look of my lover, haunted my imagination, andfixed itſelf in the centre of my brain.—Still I imagined, that his ſpirit was near me, that he only felt ſorrow for my loſs, and without complaint reſigned me to my duty.
I was left alone a moment; my two elbows reſted on a table to ſupport my chin. Ten thouſand thoughts darted with aſtoniſhing velocity through my mind. My eyes were dry; I was on the brink of madneſs. At this moment a ſtrange aſſociation was made by my imagination; I thought of Gallileo, who when he left the inquiſition, looked upwards, and cried out, "Yet it moves." A ſhower of tears, like the refreſhing drops of heaven, relieved my parched ſockets; they fell diſregarded on the table; and, ſtamping with my foot, in an agony I exclaimed, "Yet I love." My huſband entered before I had calmedtheſe tumultuous emotions, and tenderly took my hand. I ſnatched it from him; grief and ſurpriſe were marked on his countenance; I haſtily ſtretched it out again. My heart ſmote me, and I removed the tranſient miſt by an unfeigned endeavour to pleaſe him.
A few months after, my mind grew calmer; and, if a treacherous imagination, if feelings many accidents revived, ſometimes plunged me into melancholy, I often repeated with ſteady conviction, that virtue was not an empty name, and that, in following the dictates of duty, I had not bidden adieu to content.
In the courſe of a few years, the dear object of my fondeſt affection, ſaid farewel, in dying accents. Thus left alone, my grief became dear; and I did not feel ſolitary, becauſe I thoughtI might, without a crime, indulge a paſſion, that grew more ardent than ever when my imagination only preſented him to my view, and reſtored my former activity of ſoul which the late calm had rendered torpid. I ſeemed to find myſelf again, to find the eccentric warmth that gave me identity of character. Reaſon had governed my conduct, but could not change my nature; this voluptuous ſorrow was ſuperior to every gratification of ſenſe, and death more firmly united our hearts.
Alive to every human affection, I ſmoothed my mothers paſſage to eternity, and ſo often gave my huſband ſincere proofs of affection, he never ſuppoſed that I was actuated by a more fervent attachment. My melancholy, my uneven ſpirits, he attributed to my extreme ſenſibility, and loved me thebetter for poſſeſſing qualities he could not comprehend.
At the cloſe of a ſummer's day, ſome years after, I wandered with careleſs ſteps over a pathleſs common; various anxieties had rendered the hours which the ſun had enlightened heavy; ſober evening came on; I wiſhed to ſtill "my mind, and woo lone quiet in her ſilent walk." The ſcene accorded with my feelings; it was wild and grand; and the ſpreading twilight had almoſt confounded the diſtant ſea with the barren, blue hills that melted from my ſight. I ſat down on a riſing ground; the rays of the departing ſun illumined the horizon, but ſo indiſtinctly, that I anticipated their total extinction. The death of Nature led me to a ſtill more intereſting ſubject, that came home to my boſom, the death of him I loved.A village-bell was tolling; I liſtened, and thought of the moment when I heard his interrupted breath, and felt the agonizing fear, that the ſame ſound would never more reach my ears, and that the intelligence glanced from my eyes, would no more be felt. The ſpoiler had ſeized his prey; the ſun was fled, what was this world to me! I wandered to another, where death and darkneſs could not enter; I purſued the ſun beyond the mountains, and the ſoul eſcaped from this vale of tears. My reflections were tinged with melancholy, but they were ſublime.—I graſped a mighty whole, and ſmiled on the king of terrors; the tie which bound me to my friends he could not break; the ſame myſterious knot united me to the ſource of all goodneſs and happineſs. I had ſeen the divinity reflected in a face I loved; I had read immortal characters diſplayed on a human countenance, and forgot myſelf whilſt I gazed. I could not think of immortality, without recollecting the ecſtacy I felt, when my heart firſt whiſpered to me that I was beloved; and again did I feel the ſacred tie of mutual affection; fervently I prayed to the father of mercies; and rejoiced that he could ſee every turn of a heart, whoſe movements I could not perfectly underſtand. My paſſion ſeemed a pledge of immortality; I did not wiſh to hide it from the all-ſearching eye of heaven. Where indeed could I go from his preſence? and, whilſt it was dear to me, though darkneſs might reign during the night of life, joy would come when I awoke to life everlaſting.
I now turned my ſtep towards home,when the appearance of a girl, who ſtood weeping on the common, attracted my attention. I accoſted her, and ſoon heard her ſimple tale; that her father was gone to ſea, and her mother ſick in bed. I followed her to their little dwelling, and relieved the ſick wretch. I then again ſought my own abode; but death did not now haunt my fancy. Contriving to give the poor creature I had left more effectual relief, I reached my own garden-gate very weary, and reſted on it.—Recollecting the turns of my mind during the walk, I exclaimed, Surely life may thus be enlivened by active benevolence, and the ſleep of death, like that I am now diſpoſed to fall into, may be ſweet!
My life was now unmarked by any extraordinary change, and a few daysago I entered this cavern; for through it every mortal muſt paſs; and here I have diſcovered, that I neglected many opportunities of being uſeful, whilſt I foſtered a devouring flame. Remorſe has not reached me, becauſe I firmly adhered to my principles, and I have alſo diſcovered that I ſaw through a falſe medium. Worthy as the mortal was I adored, I ſhould not long have loved him with the ardour I did, had fate united us, and broken the deluſion the imagination ſo artfully wove. His virtues, as they now do, would have extorted my eſteem; but he who formed the human ſoul, only can fill it, and the chief happineſs of an immortal being muſt ariſe from the ſame ſource as its exiſtence. Earthly love leads to heavenly, and prepares us for a more exalted ſtate; if it does not change its nature, and deſtroy itſelf, by trampling on the virtue, that conſtitutes its eſſence, and allies us to the Deity.
A taſtefor rural ſcenes, in the preſent ſtate of ſociety, appears to be very often an artificial ſentiment, rather inſpired by poetry and romances, than a real perception of the beauties of nature. But, as it is reckoned a proof of refined taſte to praiſe the calm pleaſures which the country affords, the theme is never exhauſted. Yet it may be made a queſtion, whether this romantic kind of declamation, has much effect on the conduct of thoſe, who leave, for a ſeaſon, the crowded cities in which they were bred.
I have been led to theſe reflections, by obſerving, when I have reſided for any length of time in the country, how few people ſeem to contemplate nature with their own eyes. I have "bruſhed the dew away" in the morning; but, pacing over the printleſs graſs, I have wondered that, in ſuch delightful ſituations, the ſun was allowed to riſe in ſolitary majeſty, whilſt my eyes alone hailed its beautifying beams. The webs of the evening have ſtill been ſpread acroſs the hedged path, unleſs ſome labouring man, trudging to work, diſturbed the fairy ſtructure; yet, in ſpite of this ſupineneſs, when I joinedthe ſocial circle, every tongue rang changes on the pleaſures of the country.
Having frequently had occaſion to make the ſame obſervation, I was led to endeavour, in one of my ſolitary rambles, to trace the cauſe, and likewiſe to enquire why the poetry written in the infancy of ſociety, is moſt natural: which, ſtrictly ſpeaking (fornaturalis a very indefinite expreſſion) is merely to ſay, that it is the tranſcript of immediate ſenſations, in all their native wildneſs and ſimplicity, when fancy, awakened by the ſight of intereſting objects, was moſt actively at work. At ſuch moments, ſenſibility quickly furniſhes ſimiles, and the ſublimated ſpirits combine images, which riſing ſpontaneouſly, it is not neceſſary coldly to ranſack the underſtanding or memory, till the laborious efforts of judgment exclude preſent ſenſations, and damp the fire of enthuſiaſm.
The effuſions of a vigorous mind, will ever tell us how far the underſtanding has been enlarged by thought, and ſtored with knowledge. The richneſs of the ſoil even appears on the ſurface; and the reſult of profound thinking, often mixing, with playful grace, in the reveries of the poet, ſmoothly incorporates with the ebullitions of animal ſpirits, when the finely faſhioned nerve vibrates acutely with rapture, or when, relaxed by ſoft melancholy, a pleaſing languor prompts the long-drawn ſigh, and feeds the ſlowly falling tear.
The poet, the man of ſtrong feelings, gives us only an image of his mind, when he was actually alone, converſing with himſelf, and marking the impreſſion which nature had made on hisown heart.—If, at this ſacred moment, the idea of ſome departed friend, ſome tender recollection when the ſoul was moſt alive to tenderneſs, intruded unawares into his thoughts, the ſorrow which it produced is artleſſly, yet poetically expreſſed—and who can avoid ſympathizing?
Love to man leads to devotion—grand and ſublime images ſtrike the imagination—God is ſeen in every floating cloud, and comes from the miſty mountain to receive the nobleſt homage of an intelligent creature—praiſe. How ſolemn is the moment, when all affections and remembrances fade before the ſublime admiration which the wiſdom and goodneſs of God inſpires, when he is worſhipped in atemple not made with hands, and the world ſeems to contain only the mindthat formed, and the mind that contemplates it! Theſe are not the weak reſponſes of ceremonial devotion; nor, to expreſs them, would the poet need another poet's aid: his heart burns within him, and he ſpeaks the language of truth and nature with reſiſtleſs energy.
Inequalities, of courſe, are obſervable in his effuſions; and a leſs vigorous fancy, with more taſte, would have produced more elegance and uniformity; but, as paſſages are ſoftened or expunged during the cooler moments of reflection, the underſtanding is gratified at the expence of thoſe involuntary ſenſations, which, like the beauteous tints of an evening ſky, are ſo evaneſcent, that they melt into new forms before they can be analyzed. For however eloquently we may boaſt ofour reaſon, man muſt often be delighted he cannot tell why, or his blunt feelings are not made to reliſh the beauties which nature, poetry, or any of the imitative arts, afford.
The imagery of the ancients ſeems naturally to have been borrowed from ſurrounding objects and their mythology. When a hero is to be tranſported from one place to another, acroſs pathleſs waſtes, is any vehicle ſo natural, as one of the fleecy clouds on which the poet has often gazed, ſcarcely conſcious that he wiſhed to make it his chariot? Again, when nature ſeems to preſent obſtacles to his progreſs at almoſt every ſtep, when the tangled foreſt and ſteep mountain ſtand as barriers, to paſs over which the mind longs for ſupernatural aid; an interpoſing deity, who walks on the waves,and rules the ſtorm, ſeverely felt in the firſt attempts to cultivate a country, will receive from the impaſſioned fancy "a local habitation and a name."
It would be a philoſophical enquiry, and throw ſome light on the hiſtory of the human mind, to trace, as far as our information will allow us to trace, the ſpontaneous feelings and ideas which have produced the images that now frequently appear unnatural, becauſe they are remote; and diſguſting, becauſe they have been ſervilely copied by poets, whoſe habits of thinking, and views of nature muſt have been different; for, though the underſtanding ſeldom diſturbs the current of our preſent feelings, without diſſipating the gay clouds which fancy has been embracing, yet it ſilently gives the colour to the whole tenour of them, and thedream is over, when truth is groſſly violated, or images introduced, ſelected from books, and not from local manners or popular prejudices.
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 givesſpirit 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 theother.—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, thata ſtrong mind, accidentally led to ſome particular ſtudyin which it excels, is a genius.—Not to ſtop to inveſtigate the cauſes which produced this happyſtrengthof 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 hiscamera, 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 withardour 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 thandeſtroyed by the ſtrong exerciſes of paſſion.
That the moſt valuable things are liable to the greateſt perverſion, is however as trite as true:—for the ſame ſenſibility, or quickneſs of ſenſes, which makes a man reliſh the tranquil ſcenes of nature, when ſenſation, rather than reaſon, imparts delight, frequently makes a libertine of him, by leading him to prefer the ſenſual tumult of love a little refined by ſentiment, to the calm pleaſures of affectionate friendſhip, in whoſe ſober ſatiſfactions, reaſon, mixing her tranquillizing convictions, whiſpers, that content, not happineſs, is the reward of virtue in this world.
1.
Indolenceis the ſource of nervous complaints, and a whole hoſt of cares. This devil might ſay that his name was legion.
2.
It ſhould be one of the employments of women of fortune, to viſit hoſpitals, and ſuperintend the conduct of inferiors.
3.
It is generally ſuppoſed, that the imagination of women is particularlyactive, and leads them aſtray. Why then do we ſeek by education only to exerciſe their imagination and feeling, till the underſtanding, grown rigid by diſuſe, is unable to exerciſe itſelf—and the ſuperfluous nouriſhment the imagination and feeling have received, renders the former romantic, and the latter weak?
4.
Few men have riſen to any great eminence in learning, who have not received ſomething like a regular education. Why are women expected to ſurmount difficulties that men are not equal to?
5.
Nothing can be more abſurd than the ridicule of the critic, that the heroine of his mock-tragedy was in love with the very man whom ſhe oughtleaſt to have loved; he could not have given a better reaſon. How can paſſion gain ſtrength any other way? In Otaheite, love cannot be known, where the obſtacles to irritate an indiſcriminate appetite, and ſublimate the ſimple ſenſations of deſire till they mount to paſſion, are never known. There a man or woman cannot love the very perſon they ought not to have loved—nor does jealouſy ever fan the flame.
6.
It has frequently been obſerved, that, when women have an object in view, they purſue it with more ſteadineſs than men, particularly love. This is not a compliment. Paſſion purſues with more heat than reaſon, and with moſt ardour during the abſence of reaſon.
7.
Men are more ſubject to the phyſicallove than women. The confined education of women makes them more ſubject to jealouſy.
8.
Simplicity ſeems, in general, the conſequence of ignorance, as I have obſerved in the characters of women and ſailors—the being confined to one track of impreſſions.
9.
I know of no other way of preſerving the chaſtity of mankind, than that of rendering women rather objects of love than deſire. The difference is great. Yet, while women are encouraged to ornament their perſons at the expence of their minds, while indolence renders them helpleſs and laſcivious (for what other name can be given to the common intercourſe between the ſexes?) they will be, generally ſpeaking, only objects of deſire; and, to ſuch women, men cannot be conſtant. Men, accuſtomed only to have their ſenſes moved, merely ſeek for a ſelfiſh gratification in the ſociety of women, and their ſexual inſtinct, being neither ſupported by the underſtanding nor the heart, muſt be excited by variety.
10.
We ought to reſpect old opinions; though prejudices, blindly adopted, lead to error, and preclude all exerciſe of the reaſon.
The emulation which often makes a boy miſchievous, is a generous ſpur; and the old remark, that unlucky, turbulent boys, make the wiſeſt and beſt men, is true, ſpite of Mr. Knox's arguments. It has been obſerved, that the moſt adventurous horſes, when tamedor domeſticated, are the moſt mild and tractable.
11.
The children who ſtart up ſuddenly at twelve or fourteen, and fall into decays, in conſequence, as it is termed, of outgrowing their ſtrength, are in general, I believe, thoſe children, who have been bred up with miſtaken tenderneſs, and not allowed to ſport and take exerciſe in the open air. This is analogous to plants: for it is found that they run up ſickly, long ſtalks, when confined.
12.
Children ſhould be taught to feel deference, not to practiſe ſubmiſſion.
13.
It is always a proof of falſe refinement, when a faſtidious taſte overpowers ſympathy.
14.
Luſt appears to be the moſt natural companion of wild ambition; and love of human praiſe, of that dominion erected by cunning.
15.
"Genius decays as judgment increaſes." Of courſe, thoſe who have the leaſt genius, have the earlieſt appearance of wiſdom.
16.
A knowledge of the fine arts, is ſeldom ſubſervient to the promotion of either religion or virtue. Elegance is often indecency; witneſs our prints.
17.
There does not appear to be any evil in the world, but what is neceſſary. The doctrine of rewards and puniſhments, not conſidered as a means of reformation, appears to me an infamous libel on divine goodneſs.
18.
Whether virtue is founded on reaſon or revelation, virtue is wiſdom, and vice is folly. Why are poſitive puniſhments?
19.
Few can walk alone. The ſtaff of Chriſtianity is the neceſſary ſupport of human weakneſs. But an acquaintance with the nature of man and virtue, with juſt ſentiments on the attributes, would be ſufficient, without a voice from heaven, to lead ſome to virtue, but not the mob.
20.
I only expect the natural reward of virtue, whatever it may be. I rely not on a poſitive reward.
The juſtice of God can be vindicatedby a belief in a future ſtate—but a continuation of being vindicates it as clearly, as the poſitive ſyſtem of rewards and puniſhments—by evil educing good for the individual, and not for an imaginary whole. The happineſs of the whole muſt ariſe from the happineſs of the conſtituent parts, or this world is not a ſtate of trial, but a ſchool.
21.
The vices acquired by Auguſtus to retain his power, muſt have tainted his ſoul, and prevented that increaſe of happineſs a good man expects in the next ſtage of exiſtence. This was a natural puniſhment.
22.
The lover is ever moſt deeply enamoured, when it is with he knows not what—and the devotion of a myſtichas a rude Gothic grandeur in it, which the reſpectful adoration of a philoſopher will never reach. I may be thought fanciful; but it has continually occurred to me, that, though, I allow, reaſon in this world is the mother of wiſdom—yet ſome flights of the imagination ſeem to reach what wiſdom cannot teach—and, while they delude us here, afford a glorious hope, if not a foretaſte, of what we may expect hereafter. He that created us, did not mean to mark us with ideal images of grandeur, thebaſeleſs fabric of a viſion—No—that perfection we follow with hopeleſs ardour when the whiſperings of reaſon are heard, may be found, when not incompatible with our ſtate, in the round of eternity. Perfection indeed muſt, even then, be a comparative idea—but the wiſdom, the happineſs of a ſuperior ſtate, has been ſuppoſed to be intuitive, and the happieſt effuſions of human genius have ſeemed like inſpiration—the deductions of reaſon deſtroy ſublimity.
23.
I am more and more convinced, that poetry is the firſt efferveſcence of the imagination, and the forerunner of civilization.
24.
When the Arabs had no trace of literature or ſcience, they compoſed beautiful verſes on the ſubjects of love and war. The flights of the imagination, and the laboured deductions of reaſon, appear almoſt incompatible.
25.
Poetry certainly flouriſhes moſt in the firſt rude ſtate of ſociety. The paſſions ſpeak moſt eloquently, when they are not ſhackled by reaſon. Theſublime expreſſion, which has been ſo often quoted, [Geneſis, ch. 1, ver. 3.] is perhaps a barbarous flight; or rather the grand conception of an uncultivated mind; for it is contrary to nature and experience, to ſuppoſe that this account is founded on facts—It is doubtleſs a ſublime allegory. But a cultivated mind would not thus have deſcribed the creation—for, arguing from analogy, it appears that creation muſt have been a comprehenſive plan, and that the Supreme Being always uſes ſecond cauſes, ſlowly and ſilently to fulfil his purpoſe. This is, in reality, a more ſublime view of that power which wiſdom ſupports: but it is not the ſublimity that would ſtrike the impaſſioned mind, in which the imagination took place of intellect. Tell a being, whoſe affections and paſſions have been more exerciſed than his reaſon, that God ſaid,Let there be light! and there was light; and he would proſtrate himſelf before the Being who could thus call things out of nothing, as if they were: but a man in whom reaſon had taken place of paſſion, would not adore, till wiſdom was conſpicuous as well as power, for his admiration muſt be founded on principle.
26.
Individuality is ever conſpicuous in thoſe enthuſiaſtic flights of fancy, in which reaſon is left behind, without being loſt ſight of.
27.
The mind has been too often brought to the teſt of enquiries which only reach to matter—put into the crucible, though the magnetic and electric fluid eſcapes from the experimental philoſopher.
28.
Mr. Kant has obſerved, that the underſtanding is ſublime, the imagination beautiful—yet it is evident, that poets, and men who undoubtedly poſſeſs the livelieſt imagination, are moſt touched by the ſublime, while men who have cold, enquiring minds, have not this exquiſite feeling in any great degree, and indeed ſeem to loſe it as they cultivate their reaſon.
29.
The Grecian buildings are graceful—they fill the mind with all thoſe pleaſing emotions, which elegance and beauty never fail to excite in a cultivated mind—utility and grace ſtrike us in uniſon—the mind is ſatiſfied—things appear juſt what they ought to be: a calm ſatiſfaction is felt, but the imagination has nothing to do—no obſcuritydarkens the gloom—like reaſonable content, we can ſay why we are pleaſed—and this kind of pleaſure may be laſting, but it is never great.
30.
When we ſay that a perſon is an original, it is only to ſay in other words that he thinks. "The leſs a man has cultivated his rational faculties, the more powerful is the principle of imitation, over his actions, and his habits of thinking. Moſt women, of courſe, are more influenced by the behaviour, the faſhions, and the opinions of thoſe with whom they aſſociate, than men." (Smellie.)
When we read a book which ſupports our favourite opinions, how eagerly do we ſuck in the doctrines, and ſuffer our minds placidly to reflect the images which illuſtrate the tenets wehave embraced? We indolently or quietly acquieſce in the concluſion, and our ſpirit animates and connects the various ſubjects. But, on the contrary, when we peruſe a ſkilful writer, who does not coincide in opinion with us, how is the mind on the watch to detect fallacy? And this coolneſs often prevents our being carried away by a ſtream of eloquence, which the prejudiced mind terms declamation—a pomp of words.—We never allow ourſelves to be warmed; and, after contending with the writer, are more confirmed in our own opinion, as much perhaps from a ſpirit of contradiction as from reaſon.—Such is the ſtrength of man!
31.
It is the individual manner of ſeeing and feeling, pourtrayed by a ſtrong imagination in bold images that haveſtruck the ſenſes, which creates all the charms of poetry. A great reader is always quoting the deſcription of another's emotions; a ſtrong imagination delights to paint its own. A writer of genius makes us feel; an inferior author reaſon.
32.
Some principle prior to ſelf-love muſt have exiſted: the feeling which produced the pleaſure, muſt have exiſted before the experience.