jealous eye before I had finished my answer, which I had no sooner done,
than the patriotic gentleman observed, with a contemptuous sneer, that he
was greatly surprised how some people could have the conscience to live
in a country which they did not love, and to enjoy the protection of a
government to which in their hearts they were inveterate enemies. Finding
that by this modest declaration of my sentiments I had forfeited the good
opinion of my companions, and given them occasion to call my political
principles in question, and well knowing that it was in vain to argue
with men who were so very full of themselves, I threw down my reckoning,
and retired to my own lodgings, reflecting on the absurd and ridiculous
nature of national prejudice and prepossession.
Among all the famous sayings of antiquity, there is none that does
greater honour to the author, or affords greater pleasure to the reader
(at least if he be a person of a generous and benevolent heart), than
that of the philosopher, who, being asked what “countryman he was,”
replied that he was “a citizen of the world.” How few are there to
be found in modern times who can say the same, or whose conduct is
consistent with such a profession! we are now become so much Englishmen,
Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Spaniards, or Germans, that we are no longer
citizens of the world; so much the natives of one particular spot, or
members of one petty society, that we no longer consider ourselves as the
general inhabitants of the globe, or members of that grand society which
comprehends the whole human kind.
Did these prejudices prevail only among the meanest and lowest of
the people, perhaps they might be excused, as they have few, if any,
opportunities of correcting them by reading, travelling, or conversing
with foreigners; but the misfortune is, that they infect the minds, and
influence the conduct, even of our gentlemen; of those I mean, who have
every title to this appellation but an exemption from prejudice, which,
however, in my opinion, ought to be regarded as the characteristical
mark of a gentleman; for, let a man’s birth be ever so high, his station
ever so exalted, or his fortune ever so large, yet if he is not free
from national and other prejudices, I should make bold to tell him, that
he had a low and vulgar mind, and had no just claim to the character of
a gentleman. And in fact you will always find, that those are most apt
to boast of national merit, who have little or no merit of their own to
depend on; than which, to be sure, nothing is more natural: the slender
vine twists around the sturdy oak for no other reason in the world but
because it has not strength sufficient to support itself.
Should it be alleged in defence of national prejudice, that it is the
natural and necessary growth of love to our country, and that therefore
the former cannot be destroyed without hurting the latter, I answer, that
this is a gross fallacy and delusion. That it is the growth of love to
our country I will allow; but that it is the natural and necessary growth
of it, I absolutely deny. Superstition and enthusiasm too are the growth
of religion; but who ever took it in his head to affirm that they are
the necessary growth of this noble principle? They are, if you will, the
bastard sprouts of this heavenly plant, but not its natural and genuine
branches, and may safely enough be lopped off, without doing any harm
to the parent stock; nay, perhaps, till once they are lopped off, this
goodly tree can never flourish in perfect health and vigour.
Is it not very possible that I may love my own country, without hating
the natives of other countries? that I may exert the most heroic bravery,
the most undaunted resolution, in defending its laws and liberty, without
despising all the rest of the world as cowards and poltroons? Most
certainly it is; and if it were not.—But what need I suppose what is
absolutely impossible? But if it were not, I must own, I should prefer
the title of the ancient philosopher, viz. a Citizen of the World,
to that of an Englishman, a Frenchman, an European, or to any other
appellation whatever.
XII.
ON TASTE.
Amidst the frivolous pursuits and pernicious dissipations of the present
age, a respect for the qualities of the understanding still prevails to
such a degree, that almost every individual pretends to have a Taste for
the Belles Lettres. The spruce ’prentice sets up for a critic, and the
puny beau piques himself upon being a connoisseur. Without assigning
causes for this universal presumption, we shall proceed to observe, that
if it was attended with no other inconvenience than that of exposing the
pretender to the ridicule of those few, who can sift his pretensions,
it might be unnecessary to undeceive the public, or to endeavour
at the reformation of innocent folly, productive of no evil to the
commonwealth. But in reality this folly is productive of manifold evils
to the community. If the reputation of taste can be acquired, without
the least assistance of literature, by reading modern poems, and seeing
modern plays, what person will deny himself the pleasure of such an easy
qualification? Hence the youth of both sexes are debauched to diversion,
and seduced from much more profitable occupations into idle endeavours
after literary fame; and a superficial false taste, founded on ignorance
and conceit, takes possession of the public. The acquisition of learning,
the study of nature, is neglected as superfluous labour; and the best
faculties of the mind remain unexercised, and indeed unopened, by the
power of thought and reflection. False taste will not only diffuse itself
through all our amusements, but even influence our moral and political
conduct; for what is false taste but want of perception to discern
propriety, and distinguish beauty?
It has been often alleged, that taste is a natural talent, as independent
of art as strong eyes, or a delicate sense of smelling; and without all
doubt the principal ingredient in the composition of taste, is a natural
sensibility, without which it cannot exist; but it differs from the
senses in this particular, that they are finished by nature; whereas
taste cannot be brought to perfection without proper cultivation: for
taste pretends to judge not only of nature, but also of art; and that
judgment is founded upon observation and comparison.
What Horace has said of genius is still more applicable to taste.
Naturâ fieret laudabile carmen, an arte,
Quæsitum est. Ego nec studium sine divite venâ,
Nec rude quid prosit video ingenium: alterius sic
Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amicè.
_Hor. Art. Poet._
’Tis long disputed, whether poets claim,
From _art_ or _nature_ their best right to fame;
But _art_, if not enrich’d by nature’s vein,
And a rude _genius_ of uncultured strain,
Are useless both; but when in friendship join’d,
A mutual succour in each other find.
_Francis._
We have seen _genius_ shine without the help of _art_; but _taste_ must
be cultivated by art, before it will produce agreeable fruit. This,
however, we must still inculcate with Quintilian, that study, precept,
and observation will naught avail, without the assistance of nature.
Illud tamen imprimis testandum est, nihil præcepta atque artes
valere, nisi adjuvante naturâ.
Yet, even though nature has done her part, by implanting the seeds of
taste, great pains must be taken, and great skill exerted, in raising
them to a proper pitch of vegetation. The judicious tutor must gradually
and tenderly unfold the mental faculties of the youth committed to his
charge. He must cherish his delicate perception; store his mind with
proper ideas; point out the different channels of observation; teach
him to compare objects; to establish the limits of right and wrong, of
truth and falsehood; to distinguish beauty from tinsel, and grace from
affectation; in a word, to strengthen and improve by culture, experience,
and instruction, those natural powers of feeling and sagacity, which
constitute the faculty called taste, and enable the professor to enjoy
the delights of the belles lettres.
We cannot agree in opinion with those, who imagine that nature has been
equally favourable to all men, in conferring upon them a fundamental
capacity, which may be improved to all the refinement of taste and
criticism. Every day’s experience convinces us of the contrary. Of
two youths educated under the same preceptor, instructed with the
same care, and cultivated with the same assiduity, one shall not only
comprehend, but even anticipate the lessons of his master, by dint of
natural discernment; while the other toils in vain to imbibe the least
tincture of instruction. Such indeed is the distinction between genius
and stupidity, which every man has an opportunity of seeing among his
friends and acquaintance. Not that we ought too hastily to decide upon
the natural capacities of children, before we have maturely considered
the peculiarity of disposition, and the bias by which genius may be
strangely warped from the common path of education. A youth, incapable
of retaining one rule of grammar, or of acquiring the least knowledge
of the classics, may nevertheless make great progress in mathematics;
nay, he may have a strong genius for the mathematics, without being able
to comprehend a demonstration of Euclid; because his mind conceives in
a peculiar manner, and is so intent upon contemplating the object in
one particular point of view, that it cannot perceive it in any other.
We have known an instance of a boy, who while his master complained
that he had not capacity to comprehend the properties of a right-angled
triangle, had actually, in private, by the power of his genius, formed a
mathematical system of his own, discovered a series of curious theorems,
and even applied his deductions to practical machines of surprising
construction. Besides, in the education of youth, we ought to remember
that some capacities are like the _pyra præcocia_; they soon blow, and
soon attain to all that degree of maturity which they are capable of
acquiring; while, on the other hand, there are geniuses of slow growth,
that are late in bursting the bud, and long in ripening. Yet the first
shall yield a faint blossom, and insipid fruit; whereas the produce of
the other shall be distinguished and admired for its well-concocted
juice and exquisite flavour. We have known a boy of five years of age
surprise every body by playing on the violin in such a manner as seemed
to promise a prodigy in music. He had all the assistance that art could
afford; by the age of ten his genius was at the ακμη; yet after that
period, notwithstanding the most intense application, he never gave the
least signs of improvement. At six he was admired as a miracle of music;
at six-and-twenty he was neglected as an ordinary fiddler. The celebrated
Dean Swift was a remarkable instance in the other extreme. He was long
considered as an incorrigible dunce, and did not obtain his degree at
the university but _ex speciali gratiâ_: yet when his powers began to
unfold, he signalized himself by a very remarkable superiority of genius.
When a youth therefore appears dull of apprehension, and seems to derive
no advantage from study and instruction, the tutor must exercise his
sagacity in discovering whether the soil be absolutely barren, or sown
with seed repugnant to its nature, or of such a quality as requires
repeated culture and length of time to set its juices in fermentation.
These observations, however, relate to capacity in general, which we
ought carefully to distinguish from taste. Capacity implies the power of
retaining what is received; taste is the power of relishing or rejecting
whatever is offered for the entertainment of the imagination. A man may
have capacity to acquire what is called learning and philosophy; but he
must have also sensibility before he feels those emotions, with which
taste receives the impressions of beauty.
Natural taste is apt to be seduced and debauched by vicious precept and
bad example. There is a dangerous tinsel in false taste, by which the
unwary mind and young imagination are often fascinated. Nothing has
been so often explained, and yet so little understood, as simplicity in
writing. Simplicity in this acceptation has a larger signification than
either the ἁπλοον of the Greeks, or the _simplex_ of the Latins; for it
implies beauty. It is the ἁπλοον και ηδυν of Demetrius Phalereus, the
_simplex munditiis_ of Horace, and expressed by one word, _naîveté_,
in the French language. It is in fact no other than beautiful nature,
without affectation or extraneous ornament. In statuary, it is the Venus
of Medicis; in architecture, the Pantheon. It would be an endless task
to enumerate all the instances of this natural simplicity, that occur in
poetry and painting among the ancients and moderns. We shall only mention
two examples of it, the beauty of which consists in the pathetic.
Anaxagoras, the philosopher and preceptor of Pericles, being told that
both his sons were dead, laid his hand upon his heart, and, after
a short pause, consoled himself with a reflection couched in three
words, ηδειν θνητους γεγεννηκως, “I knew they were mortal.” The other
instance we select from the tragedy of Macbeth. The gallant Macduff,
being informed that his wife and children were murdered by order of the
tyrant, pulls his hat over his eyes, and his internal agony bursts out
into an exclamation of four words, the most expressive perhaps that
ever were uttered; “He has no children.” This is the energetic language
of simple nature, which is now grown into disrepute. By the present
mode of education we are forcibly warped from the bias of nature, and
all simplicity in manners is rejected. We are taught to disguise and
distort our sentiments, until the faculty of thinking is diverted into
an unnatural channel; and we not only relinquish and forget, but also
become incapable of our original dispositions. We are totally changed
into creatures of art and affectation. Our perception is abused, and even
our senses are perverted. Our minds lose their native force and flavour.
The imagination, sweated by artificial fire, produces naught but vapid
bloom. The genius, instead of growing like a vigorous tree, extending its
branches on every side, and bearing delicious fruit, resembles a stunted
yew, tortured into some wretched form, projecting no shade, displaying no
flower, diffusing no fragrance, yielding no fruit, and affording nothing
but a barren conceit for the amusement of the idle spectator.
Thus debauched from nature, how can we relish her genuine productions?
As well might a man distinguish objects through a prism, that presents
nothing but a variety of colours to the eye; or a maid pining in the
green sickness prefer a biscuit to a cinder. It has been often alleged
that the passions can never be wholly deposited; and that by appealing
to these, a good writer will always be able to force himself into the
hearts of his readers; but even the strongest passions are weakened,
nay sometimes totally extinguished, by mutual opposition, dissipation,
and acquired insensibility. How often at the theatre is the tear of
sympathy and the burst of laughter repressed by a ridiculous species of
pride, refusing approbation to the author and actor, and renouncing
society with the audience? This seeming insensibility is not owing to
any original defect. Nature has stretched the string, though it has long
ceased to vibrate. It may have been displaced and distracted by the
violence of pride; it may have lost its tone through long disuse; or be
so twisted or overstrained, as to produce the most jarring discords.
If so little regard is paid to nature, when she knocks so powerfully at
the breast, she must be altogether neglected and despised in her calmer
mood of serene tranquillity, when nothing appears to recommend her
but simplicity, propriety, and innocence. A person must have delicate
feelings that can taste the celebrated repartee in Terence: _Homo sum;
nihil humani a me alienum puto_; “I am a man; therefore think I have
an interest in every thing that concerns humanity.” A clear blue sky,
spangled with stars, will prove an insipid object to eyes accustomed to
the glare of torches and tapers, gilding and glitter; eyes, that will
turn with disgust from the green mantle of the spring, so gorgeously
adorned with buds and foliage, flowers and blossoms, to contemplate a
gaudy silken robe, striped and intersected with unfriendly tints, that
fritter the masses of light and distract the vision, pinked into the
most fantastic forms, flounced, and furbelowed, and fringed with all the
littleness of art unknown to elegance.
Those ears, that are offended by the notes of the thrush, the blackbird,
and the nightingale, will be regaled and ravished by the squeaking fiddle
touched by a musician, who has no other genius than that which lies in
his fingers; they will even be entertained with the rattling of coaches,
and the alarming knock, by which the doors of fashionable people are
so loudly distinguished. The sense of smelling, that delights in the
scent of excrementitious animal juices, such as musk, civet, and urinous
salts, will loathe the fragrance of new-mown hay, the sweet-brier, the
honey-suckle, and the rose. The organs, that are gratified with the taste
of sickly veal bled into a palsy, crammed fowls, and dropsical brawn,
pease without substance, peaches without taste, and pine-apples without
flavour, will certainly nauseate the native, genuine, and salutary taste
of Welch beef, Banstead mutton, and barn-door fowls, whose juices are
concocted by a natural digestion, and whose flesh is consolidated by
free air and exercise. In such a total perversion of the senses, the
ideas must be misrepresented, the powers of the imagination disordered,
and the judgment of consequence unsound. The disease is attended with a
false appetite, which the natural food of the mind will not satisfy. It
will prefer Ovid to Tibullus, and the rant of Lee to the tenderness of
Otway. The soul sinks into a kind of sleepy idiotism; and is diverted
by toys and baubles, which can only be pleasing to the most superficial
curiosity. It is enlivened by a quick succession of trivial objects, that
glisten and dance before the eye; and, like an infant, is kept awake and
inspirited by the sound of a rattle. It must not only be dazzled and
aroused, but also cheated, hurried, and perplexed by the artifice of
deception, business, intricacy, and intrigue; a kind of low juggle, which
may be termed the legerdemain of genius.
In this state of depravity the mind cannot enjoy, nor indeed distinguish
the charms of natural and moral beauty and decorum. The ingenuous blush
of native innocence, the plain language of ancient faith and sincerity,
the cheerful resignation to the will of Heaven, the mutual affection of
the charities, the voluntary respect paid to superior dignity or station,
the virtue of beneficence, extended even to the brute creation, nay, the
very crimson glow of health and swelling lines of beauty, are despised,
detested, scorned, and ridiculed, as ignorance, rudeness, rusticity, and
superstition. Thus we see how moral and natural beauty are connected;
and of what importance it is, even to the formation of taste, that the
manners should be severely superintended. This is a task which ought to
take the lead of science; for we will venture to say, that virtue is the
foundation of taste; or rather, that virtue and taste are built upon the
same foundation of sensibility, and cannot be disjoined without offering
violence to both. But virtue must be informed, and taste instructed,
otherwise they will both remain imperfect and ineffectual.
Qui didicit patriæ quid debeat, et quid amicis,
Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus, et hospes,
Quod sit Conscripti, quod judicis officium, quæ
Partes in bellum missi ducis; ille profecto
Reddere personæ scit convenientia cuique.
The critic, who with nice discernment knows
What to his country and his friends he owes;
How various nature warms the human breast,
To love the parent, brother, friend, or guest;
What the great functions of our judges are,
Of senators, and generals sent to war;
He can distinguish, with unerring art,
The strokes peculiar to each different part.
_Hor._
Thus we see taste is composed of nature improved by art: of feeling
tutored by instruction.
XIII.
CULTIVATION OF TASTE.
Having explained what we conceive to be true taste, and in some measure
accounted for the prevalence of vitiated taste, we should proceed to
point out the most effectual manner in which a natural capacity may be
improved into a delicacy of judgment, and an intimate acquaintance with
the belles lettres. We shall take it for granted, that proper means have
been used to form the manners, and attach the mind to virtue. The heart,
cultivated by precept, and warmed by example, improves in sensibility,
which is the foundation of taste. By distinguishing the influence and
scope of morality, and cherishing the ideas of benevolence, it acquires a
habit of sympathy, which tenderly feels responsive, like the vibration of
unisons, every touch of moral beauty. Hence it is that a man of a social
heart, entendered by the practice of virtue, is awakened to the most
pathetic emotions by every uncommon instance of generosity, compassion,
and greatness of soul. Is there any man so dead to sentiment, so lost to
humanity, as to read unmoved the generous behaviour of the Romans to the
states of Greece, as it is recounted by Livy, or embellished by Thomson,
in his Poem of Liberty? Speaking of Greece in the decline of her power,
when her freedom no longer existed, he says;
As at her Isthmian games, a fading pomp!
Her full assembled youth innumerous swarm’d,
On a tribunal raised Flaminius[4] sat:
A victor he from the deep phalanx pierced
Of iron-coated Macedon, and back
The Grecian tyrant to his bounds repell’d.
In the high thoughtless gaiety of game,
While sport alone their unambitious hearts
Possess’d; the sudden trumpet, sounding hoarse,
Bade silence o’er the bright assembly reign.
Then thus a herald—“to the states of Greece
The Roman people, unconfined, restore
Their countries, cities, liberties, and laws;
Taxes remit, and garrisons withdraw.”
The crowd, astonish’d half, and half inform’d,
Stared dubious round; some question’d, some exclaim’d,
(Like one who dreaming, between hope and fear,
Is lost in anxious joy) “Be that again
—Be that again proclaim’d distinct and loud!”
Loud and distinct it was again proclaim’d;
And still as midnight in the rural shade,
When the gale slumbers, they the words devour’d.
Awhile severe amazement held them mute,
Then bursting broad, the boundless shout to heaven
From many a thousand hearts ecstatic sprung!
On every hand rebellow’d to them joy;
The swelling sea, the rocks, and vocal hills—
—Like Bacchanals they flew,
Each other straining in a strict embrace,
Nor strain’d a slave; and loud acclaims till night,
Round the proconsul’s tent repeated rung.
To one acquainted with the genius of Greece, the character and
disposition of that polished people, admired for science, renowned for
an unextinguishable love of freedom; nothing can be more affecting than
this instance of generous magnanimity of the Roman people, in restoring
them unasked to the full fruition of those liberties which they had so
unfortunately lost.