Every grave author, who apothegmatizes for the advancement of learning,
vehemently insists on the propriety of superadding application to
genius. Much has been written to invigorate the lassitude of indolence,
to expose the inefficacy of desultory studies, to lash the absurdity of
procrastination, and to journalize the wanderings of the mind. But, deaf
to the warning voice, there still exists a class of students respectable
for talents and taste, who, whenever fickleness waves her wand, fly
mercurially from a stated task, glance on many subjects, and improve
none. Their judgment, pronouncing sentence against themselves,
acknowledges the utility of fixation of thought, and marks, with
mathematical precision, the point on which attention should rest; but
their wayward imagination is eternally making curves. These literary,
like other hypochondriacs, have their lucid intervals; and, at times,
are fully apprized of the _flitting_ nature of their application. They
write many a penitential annotation upon the chapter of their conduct,
and frame many a goodly plan to be executed--_to-morrow_. The paroxysm
soon returns; and every shackle, which sturdy resolution has imposed,
their ingenious indolence will undo.
It is unpleasant to see those, whom nature and fortune have conspired to
befriend, unqualified to gain the eminence of distinction, by a habit of
turning out of the path. With this censurable volatility are commonly
united, brilliant talents, a feeling heart, and a social temper. If
their possessors would even _occasionally_ adopt and practice those
plodding precepts, which dissipation prompts them to deride, they would
discharge with applause every honorable duty of business and of life.
But, instead of turning the meanders of fancy into a regular channel,
they are perpetually _roaming_, in quest of pleasure. They employ
morning moments, not over learned tomes, but at ladies’ toilets. After a
night of revelry, amid the votaries of wine and loo, they will tell you
of Charles Fox, who, like a man of _spunk_, at brothels and at
Brookes’s, wenches, gambles, and drinks all night, and, like a man of
genius, harrangues in the house all day. They talk of their privileges,
and swear by the tails of the comets, which are the greatest ramblers in
the universe, that they will be eccentric. The, style of _their_
legislation is, “be it enacted, by Fancy and her favourites, that
whenever Genius chooses to cut capers, they be, and hereby are,
allowable.”
As I have a cordial aversion to the abstract modes of speculation, and
choose, with Dr. Johnson, to _embody_ opinions, I proceed to illustrate
by two examples; one from the annals of literature, and one from real
life.
The poet Shenstone was an officer of distinguished rank, in the regiment
of careless bards. Every reader of his works will acknowledge that they
bear “the image and superscription” of genius. But, still, he was an
indolent, uneconomical, volatile character, who, lolling in the bowers
of the Leasowes, wrote pastorals and the school-mistress, when, by a
more vigorous exertion of his talents, he might perhaps have eloquently
charmed the coifed sergeants of Westminster-Hall, or dictated new maxims
of polity to an applauding House of Commons. At the very moment he was
wasting his time and his patrimony, in the erection of rural altars to
Pan and the Dryads, he wrote “Economy,” a poem, in which he chaunts the
praise of the _cittish_ virtues, and gravely advises his friends to
devote at least a _rainy_ day to worldly prudence. In this production
are some thoughts suggested, one may venture to affirm, by Shenstone’s
experience, pertinent to the subject of this essay. The tolerating
reader will pardon their insertion. Travellers over a dusty desart
rejoice at the sight of verdure; and, disgusted by the insipidity of a
meagre Farrago, its readers may exult to view a quotation.
“When Fancy’s vivid spark impels the soul
To scorn _quotidian scenes_, to spurn the bliss
Of vulgar minds, what nostrum shall compose
This fatal frenzy? In what lonely vale
Of balmy medicine’s various field aspires
The blest refrigerant? vain, most vain the hope
Of future fame, this _orgasm_ uncontrol’d.”
Who, but the acquaintance of genius and its inconsistencies could
suppose that one, who knew so well the road to fame, should linger at
“caravansaries of rest” by the way? That he, who advises “to collect the
dissipated mind, to shorten the train of wild ideas and to indulge no
expence, but what is legitimated by economy,” should be desultory in his
application and prodigal of his estate?
I had collected thus much of my weekly oblation to the public, when,
instead of proceeding, as in duty bound, I forgot my own sermon,
and--sauntered away. Indolence, deriding my efforts, snatched my pen,
overturned my ink-stand, and bade me go and “clip the wings of time”
with a friend. I obeyed, and visited Meander. He is a juvenile neighbour
of mine, placed by his friends with a view to the profession of the law,
in the office of an eminent advocate. The character of Meander is so
various, that it almost precludes delineation. Were Sterne summoned to
describe him, the eccentric wit would quote his Tristram Shandy, and
affirm that Meander was a mercurial sublimated creature; heteroclite in
all his declensions. He has so much of the wildness of the fifth Henry
in his composition, that were I not versed in his pedigree, I should
suppose he descended in a right line from that prince. His ambitious
projects, like the birds of Milton, tower up to Heaven’s gate, and he
starts as many schemes as a visionary projector. So entirely devoted is
he to the cultivation of the Belles Lettres, that his graver moments,
instead of being dedicated to Blackstone and Buller, are given to
Shakespeare and Sterne. He reads plays, when he should be filling writs;
and, the other day, attempting to draw a deed, instead of “know all men
by these presents,” he scribbled a simile from Spenser. Notwithstanding
his enthusiastic fondness for the study of polite literature, even from
that, he frequently flies off in a tangent; and the charms of the ladies
and of loo, full often cause him to forget that there is a poet or
novelist in our language. The _ignis fatuus_ of his fervid imagination
is continually dancing before him, and leads him many a fantastic, weary
step “over hog and through briar.” Nothing can be more sanguine than his
plans of study and of steadiness; and nothing more languid than their
execution. When I entered his lodgings, a domestic informed me that
Meander was still in bed, having sate up all night, with a tavern party
of friends. The servant continuing his narration, added, “that his
master talked much of one Churchill, and at the hour of retiring,
suddenly exclaimed,
“Wound up at twelve at noon, your clock goes right,
Mine better goes, wound up at twelve at night.”
I smiled at these traits of my friend’s character, and, as I well knew
that his slender frame was exhausted by the labors of the night, plying
the pasteboard play, vociferating drunken anthems and swallowing
bumpers, in rapid succession, I therefore suffered him to remain
undisturbed. Unwilling, however, to lose that amusement, which was the
object of my visit, I consoled myself for the absence of my friend, by
surveying his apartment, the furniture of which would give one an idea
of Meander’s character, without a personal acquaintance. On a small
table, lay several of his favourite authors, in all the confusion of
carelessness. Among others I noted Shakespeare, Congreve’s comedies,
letters of the younger Lyttleton, Mrs. Behn’s novels, Fielding’s Tom
Jones, and a mountain of pamphlets, composed of magazines and plays. In
the pigeon holes of a desk, I saw a number of loose bits of paper. These
puzzled me sadly. I thought, at first, they contained arcana of
importance; and compared them to the Sybilline leaves of antiquity. But,
I must own that I was a little chagrined, when I discovered that they
were only that species of gambling composition, which I should call _loo
assignats_, but which, in plainer phrase, are denominated _due bills_.
On a low window seat, in a dark corner, lay a most ponderous folio, over
which a diligent spider had woven a web of such size and intricacy, that
the insect must of necessity have been months in spinning it. Curiosity
prompted me to brush away this cobweb covering, and examine the book it
concealed. The reader may easily imagine the state of my risibles, when
I found the volume entitled “An abridgement of the Law, by Matthew
Bacon.” A drawer left partly open, revealed to view a bundle of
manuscripts, among which, I found a diary kept by my friend, some parts
of which so completely illustrated his character, that I proposed, with
a few transcripts from it, to terminate this essay. But, the narrowness
of my limits forbids, and the journal of Meander, the annals of
volatility must be postponed. They shall form the subject of our next
lucubration.
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