“No,” cried he, “nor write to her. I drive her quite from my mind. If
I meet with one of her letters, I burn it instantly. I have burnt all I
can find. I never speak of her, and I desire never to hear of her more.
I drive her, as I said, wholly from my mind.”
Yet, wholly to change this discourse, I gave him a history of the
Bristol milk-woman, and told him the tales I had heard of her writing
so wonderfully, though she had read nothing but Young and Milton “though
those,” I continued, “could never possibly, I should think, be the first
authors with anybody. Would children understand them? and grown people
who have not read are children in literature.”
“Doubtless,” said he; “but there is nothing so little comprehended among
mankind as what is genius. They give to it all, when it can be but a
part. Genius is nothing more than knowing the use of tools--but there
must be tools for it to use: a man who has spent all his life in this
room will give a very poor account of what is contained in the next.”
“Certainly, sir; yet there is such a thing as invention. Shakspeare
could never have seen a Caliban.”
“No; but he had seen a man, and knew, therefore, how to vary him to a
monster. A man who would draw a monstrous cow, must first know what a
cow commonly is; or how can he tell that to give her an ass's head or an
elephant's tusk will make her monstrous. Suppose you show me a man
who is a very expert carpenter; another will say he was born to be a
carpenter--but what if he had never seen any wood? Let two men, one with
genius, the other with none, look at an overturned waggon; he who has
no genius, will think of the waggon only as he sees it, overturned,
and walk on; he who has genius, will paint it to himself before it was
overturned--standing still, and moving on, and heavy loaded, and empty;
but both must see the waggon, to think of it at all.”
He then animated, and talked on, upon this milk-woman, upon a once as
famous shoemaker, and upon our immortal Shakspeare, with as much fire,
spirit, wit, and truth of criticism and judgment, as ever yet I have
heard him. How delightfully bright are his faculties, though the poor
and infirm machine that contains them seems alarmingly giving way.
Yet, all brilliant as he was, I saw him growing worse, and offered to
go, which, for the first time I ever remember, he did not oppose; but,
most kindly pressing both my hands,--
“Be not,” he said, in a voice of even tenderness, “be not longer in
coming again for my letting you go now.”
I assured him I would be the sooner, and was running off, but he called
me back, in a solemn voice, and, in a manner the most energetic, said,--
“Remember me in your prayers!”
I longed to ask him to remember me, but did not dare. I gave him
my promise, and, very heavily indeed, I left him. Great, good, and
excellent that he is, how short a time will he be our boast! Ah, my dear
Susy, I see he is going! This winter will never conduct him to a more
genial season here! Elsewhere, who shall hope a fairer? I wish I had bid
him pray for me, but it seemed to me presumptuous.