To the Editor of the Monthly Magazine.

sir,

A TASTE for rural scenes, in the present state of
society, appears to me 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 pleasure which the country
affords, the theme is 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 into 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”² 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, on joining the social circle,
every tongue rang changes on the pleasures of the country.

Having frequently had occasion to make the same observation, in one of my solitary
rambles, I was led to endeavour to trace the cause, and likewise to enquire why the
poetry, written in the infancy of society, is most natural: which, strictly speaking
(for natural is a very indefinite expression) is merely to say, that it is the
transcript of immediate emotions, when fancy, awakened by the view of interesting
objects, in all their native wildness and simplicity, was most actively at work. At
such moments, sensibility quickly furnishes similes, and the sublimated spirits
combine with happy facility—images, which spontaneously bursting on him, 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, nevertheless, ever inform us how far the
faculties have 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, only gives us a picture of his mind when [Page 280] he was actually alone, conversing with himself, and marking the
impression which nature made on his own heart. If, during these sacred moments, the
idea of some departed friend—some tender recollection, when the soul was most alive
to tenderness, intrudes unawares into his mind, the sorrow which it produces is
artlessly, but poetically, expressed; and who can avoid sympathizing?

Love of 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 a temple not made with hands, and
the world seems to contain only the mind that formed and contemplates it! These are
not the weak responses of ceremonial devotion; nor to express them would the poet
need another poet’s aid. No: 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
imagination, 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 analysed. For, however eloquently we may boast of our
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 appears naturally to have been borrowed from the
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 he 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, created
by love or fear, 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, 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 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 tenor of them, and the reverie is over when truth is
grossly violated, or imagery introduced, selected from books, and not from local
manners, or popular prejudices.

In a more advanced state of civilization, a poet is rather a creature of art than
nature; the books that he peruses in his youth, become a hot-bed, in which artificial
fruits are produced, beautiful to a common eye, though they want the true hue and
flavour. His images do not flow from his imagination, but are servile 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, but still they are men of stone: insipid figures, that never convey to the mind
the idea of a portrait taken from the life, where the soul gives spirit and
homogeneity to the whole form. The silken wings of fancy are shrivelled by rules,
and
a desire of attaining elegance of diction occasions an attention to words,
incompatable 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; though his readers, without knowing well where the fault lies, do not find
themselves warmly interested. In the productions of the poets who [Page 281]
fasten on their affections, they see grosser defects, and the very images and
allusions which shocked their taste; yet they do not appear as puerile or extrinsic
in one as the other. Why? Because they did not appear so to the author.

It may sound paradoxical, after observing that those productions want vigour that
are the work of imitation, in which the understanding violently directed, if not
extinguished, the blaze of fancy, to assert, that though genius be allowed to be only
another word for a strong imagination, the first observers of nature exercised their
judgment much more than their imitators. But they exercised it to discriminate
things, whilst their followers were busy borrowing sentiments and arranging 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 mention as a fact, 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; or, more justly speaking, how
superficial the cultivation must have been, which their understanding had received.

Dr. Johnson, I know, has taken some
pains to prove, that a strong mind, accidentally led to some particular study in
which it excels, is a genius.³ Not to stop to investigate the causes
which produced this happy strength of mind, it is sufficient to remark, that the
world has agreed to denominate those men of genius, who have pursued a particular
art
or science, after the bent of nature has been displayed in obstinate perseverance
or
fond attachment to a favourite study. Dr.
Johnson, in fact, appears sometimes to be of the same opinion; especially
when he observes "that Thomson looked on
nature with the eye which she only gives to a poet."⁴

But though it should be allowed that books conned at school may lead some youths
to
write poetry, 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 apt to
conclude that they will seldom have the energy to rouse the passions which amend the
heart.

And, to return to the first object 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 contrasts the prospect, and
selecting the most picturesque parts in his camera, the judgment is directed, and
the
whole attention of the languid faculty turned towards the objects which excited the
most forcible emotions in the poet’s heart, firing his imagination; 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 farther observed, that uncultivated minds are only to be moved
by
forcible representations. To rouse the thoughtless, objects must be contrasted,
calculated to excite tumultuous emotions. The unsubstantial picturesque forms which
a
contemplative man gazes on, and often follows with ardour till 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 rarely turned back on themselves; of course, their emotions, though
sometimes fervid, are always transient, and the nicer perceptions which distinguish
the man of taste are not felt, or make such a slight impression as scarcely to excite
any pleasurable sensations. Is it surprising, then, that fine scenery is often
overlooked by those who yet may be delighted by the same imagery concentrated and
contrasted 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 pre-determined to
admire what the suffrage of time announces 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 and its canker-worm, luxury, have
made considerable advances. Those calm emotions are not sufficiently lively to serve
as a relaxation to the voluptuary, or even for the moderate pursuers of artificial
pleasures. In the present state of society, the understanding must bring back the
feelings to nature, or the sensibility must have attained such strength, as rather
to
be sharpened than [Page 282] destroyed by the strong exercise of passions.

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 charms of nature, when sensation, rather than reason, imparts delight,
frequently makes a libertine of him, by leading him to prefer the tumult of love,
a
little refined by sentiment, to the calm pleasure of affectionate friendship, in
whose sober satisfactions reason, mixing her tranquilizing convictions, whispers that
content, not happiness, is the reward, or consequence, of virtue in this world.

W.Q.