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Of, Sir, her loving husband and Your very humble servant, ANTHONY AFTERWIT.
P. S. I would be glad to know how you approve my conduct.
_Answer_. I dont love to concern myself in affairs between man and wife.
* * * * *
{296} LETTER FROM CELIA SINGLE.
_Mr. Gazetteer_,--I must needs tell you that some of the things you print do more harm than good, particularly I think so of the tradesman's letter, which was in one of your late papers, which disobliged many of our sex and has broken the peace of several families, by causing difference between men and their wives. I shall give you here one instance of which I was an eye and ear witness.
Happening last Wednesday morning to be at Mrs. W.'s when her husband returned from market, among other things he showed her some balls of thread which he had bought. My dear, says he, I like mightily those stockings which I yesterday saw neighbor Afterwit knitting for her husband, of thread of her own spinning. I should be glad to have some such stockings myself. I understand that your maid Mary is a very good knitter, and seeing this thread in market I have bought it that the girl may make a pair or two for me. Mrs. W. was just then at the glass dressing her head, and turning about with the pins in her mouth, Lord, child, says she, are you crazy? What time has Mary to knit? Who must do the work, I wonder, if you set her to knitting? Perhaps, my dear, says he, you have a mind to knit them yourself. I remember, when I courted you, I once heard you say that you had learned to knit of your mother. I knit stockings for you, says she, not I, truly! There are poor women enough in town who can knit; if you please you may employ them. Well, but my dear, says he, you know a penny saved is a penny got, and there is neither sin nor shame in knitting a pair of stockings; why should you have such a mighty aversion to it? And what signifies talking of poor women, you know we are not people of quality. We have no income to maintain us but arises from my labor and industry. Methinks you should not be at all displeased when you have an opportunity of getting something as well as myself. I wonder, says she, you can propose such a thing to me. Did not you always tell me you would maintain me like a gentlewoman? If I had married the Captain I am sure he would have scorned to mention knitting of stockings. Prythee, says he, a little nettled, what do you tell me of your Captain? If you could have had him I suppose you would, or perhaps you did not like him very well. If I did promise to maintain you as a gentlewoman, methinks it is time enough for that when you know how to behave yourself like one. How long, do you think, I can maintain you at your present rate of living? Pray, says she, somewhat fiercely, and dashing the puff into the powder box, dont use me in this manner, for I'll assure you I wont bear it. This is the fruit of your poison newspapers: there shall no more come here I promise you. Bless us, says he, what an unaccountable thing is this? Must a tradesman's daughter and the wife of a tradesman necessarily be a lady? In short, I tell you if I am forced to work for a living and you are too good to do the like, there's the door, go and live upon your estate. And as I never had or could expect any thing with you, I dont desire to be troubled with you.
What answer she made I cannot tell, for knowing that man and wife are apt to quarrel more violently when before strangers, than when by themselves, I got up and went out hastily. But I understand from Mary who came to me of an errand in the evening, that they dined together very peaceably and lovingly, the balls of thread which had caused the disturbance being thrown into the kitchen fire, of which I was very glad to hear.
I have several times in your paper seen reflections upon us women for idleness and extravagance, but I do not remember to have once seen such animadversions upon the men. If we were disposed to be censorious we could furnish you with instances enough; I might mention Mr. Billiard who loses more than he earns at the green table, and would have been in jail long since had it not been for his industrious wife. Mr. Husselcap, who every market day at least, and often all day long, leaves his business for the rattling of half pence in a certain alley--or Mr. Finikin, who has seven different suits of fine clothes and wears a change every day, while his wife and children sit at home half naked--Mr. Crownhim always dreaming over the chequer board, and who cares not how the world goes with his family so he does but get the game--Mr. Totherpot the tavern haunter, Mr. Bookish the everlasting reader, Mr. Tweedledum and several others, who are mighty diligent at any thing besides their proper business. I say, if I were disposed to be censorious, I might mention all these and more, but I hate to be thought a scandalizer of my neighbors, and therefore forbear; and for your part I would advise you for the future to entertain your readers with something else besides people's reflections upon one another, for remember that there are holes enough to be picked in your coat as well as others, and those that are affronted by the satires that you may publish, will not consider so much who wrote as who printed, and treat you accordingly. Take not this freedom amiss from
Your friend and reader, CELIA SINGLE.
TO THE EVENING STAR.
'Star of descending night!' How lovely is thy beam; How softly pours thy silv'ry light, O'er the bright glories of the west, As now the sun sunk to his rest, Sends back his parting stream Of golden splendor, like a zone Of beauty, o'er the horizon!
'Star of descending night!' First of the sparkling train, That gems the sky, I hail thy light; And as I watch thy peaceful ray, That sweetly spreads o'er fading day, I think and think again, That thou art some fair orb of light, Where spirits bask in glory bright.
'Star of descending night!' Oft hast thou met my gaze, When evening's calm and mellow light, Invited to the secret bower, To spend with God the tranquil hour, In grateful pray'r and praise,-- {297} Then thy soft ray so passing sweet, Has beamed around my hallowed seat.
And I have loved thee, star! When in night's diadem, I saw thee lovelier, brighter, far Than all the stellate worlds, and thought Of that great star the wise men sought, And came to Bethlehem, To view the infant Saviour's face, The last bright hope of Adam's race.
T. J. S.
_Frederick Co. Va._
GENIUS.
Pope says in the preface to his works, "What we call a genius is hard to be distinguished, by a man himself, from a strong inclination." Such a distinction is certainly hard to make, and in my opinion has no existence. Genius, as it appears to me, is merely a decided preference for any study or pursuit, which enables its possessor to give the close and unwearied attention necessary to ensure success. When this constancy of purpose is wanting, the brightest natural talents will give little aid in acquiring literary or scientific eminence: and where it exists in any considerable degree, it is rare to find one so ill endowed with common sense as not to gain a respectable standing.
Genius is of two sorts, which may be termed philosophical and poetical. When the mind takes most pleasure in the exercise of reason, the genius displayed is philosophical; when the fictions of fancy give the greatest delight, the cast of mind is poetical. All the operations of the human intellect may be referred to one of these, or to a combination of both. Books of this last character are much the most numerous; for we seldom find a work so severely argumentative as to exclude all play of imagination even as ornament, or so entirely poetical as never to allow the restraint of sober reason.
These two kinds of genius require different and peculiar faculties. In philosophy, where the great end proposed is the discovery of truth, the coloring of imagination should be carefully avoided as useless and deceptive. It is necessary to divest the mind as far as possible of all pre-conceived opinions, that so the proofs presented may make just the impression which their character and importance demand. No prejudice or association of former ideas must be allowed to bias the judgment; but the question should be decided in strict accordance with the deductions of the sternest reason. And yet this perfect freedom from prejudice, however necessary to the proper use of right reason, is perhaps the most difficult effort of the human mind. "Nemo adhuc," says Lord Bacon, in a passage quoted by Stewart in the introduction to his mental philosophy, "Nemo adhuc tanta mentis constantia inventus est, ut decreverit et sibi imposuerit theorias et notiones communes penitus abolere, et intellectum abrasum et æquum ad particularia de integro applicare. Itaque illa ratio humana quam habemus ex multa fide et multo etiam casu, necnon ex puerilibus quas primo hausimus notionibus, farrago quædam est et congeries. Quod si quis, ætate matura et sensibus integris et mente repurgata, se ad experientiam et ad particularia de integro applicet, de eo melius sperandum est." Such was the opinion of the great father of modern philosophy.
On the other hand these vulgar errors and superstitions, these "theoriæ et notiones communes," supply the means of producing the strongest effect of poetry. The dull scenes of real life can never be suffered to chill the ardor of a romantic imagination. And as the poet finds truth too plain and unadorned to satisfy his enthusiastic fancy, he is compelled to seek subjects and scenery of more faultless nature and brighter hues than this world affords. He delights in combinations of the most striking images. The grand and imposing, the dark and terrific, the furious and desolating--whatever serves to fill the mind with awe and wonder, are his favorite subjects of contemplation. The legends of superstition contribute largely to the effect of poetical composition. The enthusiast loves to fancy the agency of supernatural beings, and endeavors to feel the influence of those emotions which such a belief is suited to inspire. This seems to be the spirit of Collins in the following lines of his ode to fear.
"Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought, Be mine to read the visions old Which thy awakening bards have told; And lest thou meet my blasted view, Hold each strange tale devoutly true."
In combinations of poetical images, no regard is had to their consistency with truth and reason. It is the part of philosophy to discover relations as they exist in nature; but to search out and combine into one glowing and harmonious whole the brightest and grandest images which art or nature supplies--this is the province of poetry. The utmost calmness and most collected thought are necessary to that patient and laborious reasoning by which progress is made in the science of truth. The fury of impassioned feeling, on the other hand, supports the loftier flights of poetry. Hence philosophy and poetry rarely meet in the same individual. Yet the smallness of the number of those who have gained renown both as poets and philosophers, is to be ascribed less to any incompatibility between the habits of mind peculiar to each, than to the fact that the short space of human life will not allow to both the attention necessary for their highest attainments. I speak now of poetical and philosophical genius, not of poetry and philosophy. Between the two last there _is_ an incompatibility, as may easily be shown. Euclid's elements, for example, contain as pure specimens of mere reasoning as can be conceived; but in them simplicity, clearness and precision of terms are all the ornament they need or will admit: nor can poetical language be used by any arrangement without producing obscurity and disgust. And the wild conceptions of unbridled fancy will as little brook the restraint of heartless reason. In short, poetry and philosophy are so distinct and opposed in character, that neither can ever be used to heighten the proper effect of the other.
A most extraordinary combination of poetical and philosophical talent in one individual was displayed by Lucretius. I might challenge the whole circle of science or literature to furnish examples of clearer, closer and more irrefutable argument than his work presents. And for purity, sublimity, delicacy, strength and feeling, passages of his poetry might be selected scarcely {298} inferior to any effort of ancient or modern times. Yet his work may well be chosen to furnish proof that even the brightest genius cannot combine austere logic and gorgeous poetry, so as that each shall produce its due effect. For although where the reasoning is not deep the embellishments of fancy may be borne and even relished, yet where the argument requires close and laborious thought, the reader is willing to sacrifice all the ornaments of poetry to the simpler grace of perspicuity. But it is mostly in episodes and illustrations that the fire of his poetic genius burns so brightly; and here we see him throw off the fetters of truth to wander in the haunted fields of fiction. And although his work displays intense thought and burning poetry, we rarely find them united in the same passage.
Confirmed habits of philosophical reflection, it is not improbable, will in time give a character of sobriety and apathy to the mind. Quick susceptibility of impressions is one mark of a poetical temperament; and of course if habits of calm reasoning destroy this sensibility, philosophy and poetry cannot exist in perfection in the same mind. But this apathetic coldness appears not to be the immediate effect of philosophical habits, but rather to result from disuse of the imagination while the attention is turned to graver studies. Lucretius has shown what attainments may be made in pure philosophy without lessening the strength and grace of fancy. He was a man of the most acute and accurate observation, and of the most rigid and cautious reasoning, yet possessed a quick perception of the grand and beautiful, and had imbibed the warmest spirit of poetic enthusiasm.
Poetry delights in personifications. According to Dryden,
"Each virtue a divinity is seen: Prudence is Pallas, beauty Paphos' queen; 'Tis not a cloud from which swift lightnings fly, But Jupiter that thunders from the sky; Nor a rough storm that gives the sailor pain, But angry Neptune ploughing up the main; Echo's no more an empty, airy sound, But a fair nymph that weeps her lover drown'd: Thus in the endless treasure of his mind, The poet does a thousand figures find." _Art of Poetry, Canto 3_.
Philosophy on the contrary seeks to disrobe the subject of every factitious charm, and present it to the mind in its naked simplicity. It dispels the clouds of error, though gilded with the bright colors of fancy; and boldly brings even objects of superstitious veneration to the light of reason.
These conflicting qualities are eminently shown in Lucretius; and it is not without interest to mark how he contrives to blend in the same work the solid simplicity of argument with the lighter graces of imagination. As a poet he opens his work with an address to Venus the mother and guardian of the Roman people, whose aid he invokes as the companion of his song. He prays her to avert the frowns of rugged war from the nation by the softening power of her charms. He tells her that she alone governs the universe; that nothing springs into the light of day without her; and ascribes to her, as the source of all pleasure, whatever is joyous or lovely.
"Nec sine te quidquam dias in luminis oras Exoritur, neque fit lætum neque amabile quidquam."
Yet in the next page the philosopher avows his intention of waging eternal war with superstition; and gives exalted praise to Epicurus because he suffered no feelings of religious awe to interfere with his philosophical investigations. In this passage superstition (or religion, to use his own term) is personified, and represented as some hideous monster thrusting her head from out the skies, and regarding mankind with an awful and terrible aspect. The whole image presented is eminently grand and poetic.
"Humana ante oculos fede quam vita jaceret In terris oppressa gravi sub religione; Quæ caput a cœli regionibus obtendebat, Horribili super adspectu mortalibus instans; Primum Graius homo mortaleis tollere contra Est oculos ausus, primusque obsistere contra: Quem neque fama deum, nec fulmina, nec minitanti Murmure compressit cœlum; sed eo magis acrem Inritat animi virtutem effringere ut arta Naturæ primus portarum claustra cupiret."
Thus we see that although one great part of his purpose was to divest the mind of popular superstitions, he found the language of philosophy too barren, and the images which truth presented too cold and lifeless to supply the materials of poetry. Hence his personifications, and his digressions, which abound in the richest ornaments of fancy.
As a philosopher Lucretius was led to reject the legends of ancient superstition, because such terrors kept the human mind in darkness and error.
"Nam velutei puerei trepidant, atque omnia cæcis In tenebris metuunt; sic nos in luce timemus Interdum nihilo quæ sunt metuenda magisquam Quæ puerei in tenebris pavitant, finguntque futura. Hunc igitur terrorem animi tenebrasque, necesse est, Non radiei solis neque lucida tela diei Discutiant; sed naturæ species, ratioque." Lib. 2, lin. 54.
But the spirit of poetry alone would have persuaded him to increase the gloom and mists of superstition; for fancy's favorite range is among regions darkened by the shades of ancient and venerable error. The intrusion of cold reason is always unwelcome to a romantic imagination. There is a passage of Campbell, (I cannot remember the words,) in which he laments the dispersion by the clearer light of reason of some fanciful notions in regard, I think, to the rainbow, which had formerly been the delight of his youth. Collins too regrets the restraint of imagination imposed by philosophy. He bids farewell to metaphysics, and declares his purpose of leaving such barren fields of speculation, and of retiring
"to thoughtful cell Where fancy breathes her potent spell."
So much to mark the difference between poetical and philosophical genius. The remainder of this essay shall be devoted to the peculiarities which distinguish the genius of poetry in particular.
It has been often remarked that men of brilliant fancy are never satisfied with the productions of their own minds. The images of grandeur or beauty continually present to their imaginations, it would seem, are so far superior to all efforts they can make to embody them in language, that their own works never yield them the pleasure which they give others. The following quotation is from the seventh chapter, sixth section, of Stewart's Elements of the Philosophy of the Human {299} Mind. "When the notions of enjoyment or of excellence which imagination has formed are greatly raised above the ordinary standard, they interest the passions too deeply to leave us at all times the cool exercise of reason, and produce that state of the mind which is commonly known by the name of enthusiasm; a temper which is one of the most fruitful sources of error and disappointment; but which is a source, at the same time, of heroic actions and of exalted characters. To the exaggerated conceptions of eloquence which perpetually revolved in the mind of Cicero; to that idea which haunted his thoughts of _aliquid immensum infinitumque_, we are indebted for some of the most splendid displays of human genius: and it is probable that something of the same kind has been felt by every man who has risen much above the level of humanity either in speculation or in action." To the want of this high imaginary standard of excellence, Dr. Johnson ascribes the dullness of Blackmore's poetry. "It does not appear," he says, "that he saw beyond his own performances, or had ever elevated his views to that ideal perfection which every genius born to excel is condemned always to pursue and never overtake. In the first suggestions of his imagination he acquiesced; he thought them good and did not seek for better. His works may be read a long time without the occurrence of a single line that stands prominent from the rest."