A TASTE for rural scenes, in the present state of
society, appears 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 pleasures which the country
affords, the theme is never exhausted. Yet it may be made a question, whether this
ro- [Page 160] mantic 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 to 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, when I joined[Page 161] the social circle, every
tongue rang changes on the pleasures of the country.

Having frequently had occasion to make the same observation, I was led to endeavour,
in one of my solitary rambles, 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 sensations, in all their native
wildness and simplicity, when fancy, awakened by the sight of interesting objects,
was most actively at work. At such moments, sensibility quickly furnishes similes,
and the sublimated spirits combine images, which rising spontaneously, it is not
necessary coldly to ransack the understanding or memory, till the laborious efforts
of judg-[Page 162]ment exclude present sensations, and damp the fire of
enthusiasm.

The effusions of a vigorous mind, will ever tell us how far the understanding has
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, gives us only an image of his mind, when he
was
actually alone, conversing with himself, and marking the impression which nature had
made on his[Page 163]own heart.—If, at this sacred moment, the idea of some
departed friend, some tender recollection when the soul was most alive to tenderness,
intruded unawares into his thoughts, the sorrow which it produced is artlessly, yet
poetically expressed—and who can avoid sympathizing?

Love to 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[Page 164] that formed, and the mind that contemplates it! These are not the weak responses
of ceremonial devotion; nor, to express them, would the poet need another poet's aid:
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 fancy,
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 analyzed. For however eloquently we may boast of[Page 165]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 seems naturally to have been borrowed from 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 the poet 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, who walks
on the waves,[Page 166]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 to trace, 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, though 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 tenour of them, and the[Page 167]dream is
over, when truth is grossly violated, or images introduced, selected from books, and
not from local manners or popular prejudices.

In a more advanced state of civilization, a poet is rather the creature of art, than
of nature. The books that he reads in his youth, become a hot-bed in which artificial
fruits are produced, beautiful to the common eye, though they want the true hue and
flavour. His images do not arise from sensations; they are 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; yet
they are men of stone; insipid figures, that never convey to the mind the idea of
a
portrait taken from life, where the soul gives[Page 168]spirit and homogeneity to
the whole. The silken wings of fancy are shrivelled by rules; and a desire of
attaining elegance of diction, occasions an attention to words, incompatible 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: yet his readers, without knowing what to find fault with, do not find
themselves warmly interested. In the works of the poets who fasten on their
affections, they see grosser faults, and the very images which shock their taste in
the modern; still they do not appear as puerile or extrinsic in one as the[Page 169]other.—Why?—because they did not appear so to the author.

It may sound paradoxical, after observing that those productions want vigour, that
are merely the work of imitation, in which the understanding has violently directed,
if not extinguished, the blaze of fancy, to assert, that, though genius be only
another word for exquisite sensibility, the first observers of nature, the true
poets, exercised their understanding much more than their imitators. But they
exercised it to discriminate things, whilst their followers were busy to borrow
sentiments and arrange 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,[Page 170]I must observe, 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, and how superficial the
cultivation must have been, which their understanding had received.

Dr. Johnson, I know, has given a
definition of genius, which would overturn my reasoning, if I were to admit it.—He
imagines, 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,
experience seems to prove, that those minds have appeared most vigorous, that have
pursued a study, after nature had discovered a bent; for it would be absurd to
suppose, that a slight impres-[Page 171]sion made on the weak faculties of a boy,
is the fiat of fate, and not to be effaced by any succeeding impression, or
unexpected difficulty. Dr. Johnson in
fact, appears sometimes to be of the same opinion (how consistently I shall not now
enquire), 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 may produce some poets, 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 inclined to conclude that they will
seldom rouse the passions, or amend the heart.

And, to return to the first subject of discussion, the reason why most people are
more interested by a scene describ-[Page 172]ed by a poet, than by a view of
nature, probably arises from the want of a lively imagination. The poet contracts
the
prospect, and, selecting the most picturesque part in his camera, the judgment is directed, and the whole force of the languid faculty
turned towards the objects which excited the most forcible emotions in the poet's
heart; 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 further observed, that gross minds are only to be moved by
forcible representations. To rouse the thoughtless, objects must be presented,
calculated to produce tumultuous emotions; the unsubstantial, picturesque forms which
a contemplative man gazes on, and often follows with [Page 173]ardour till he is
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 seldom turned on themselves; consequently their
emotions, though sometimes fervid, are always transient, and the nicer perceptions
which distinguish the man of genuine taste, are not felt, or make such a slight
impression as scarcely to excite any pleasurable sensations. Is it surprising then
that they are often overlooked, even by those who are delighted by the same images
concentrated 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 feel-[Page 174]ings any
liberty; for, instead of cultivating their faculties and reflecting on their
operations, they are busy collecting prejudices; and are predetermined to admire what
the suffrage of time announces as 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, or rather luxury, has made
considerable advances—those calm sensations are not sufficiently lively to serve as
a
relaxation to the voluptuary, or even to the moderate pursuer of artificial
pleasures. In the present state of society, the understanding must bring back the
feelings to nature, or the sensibility must have such native strength, as rather to
be whetted than[Page 175]destroyed by the strong exercises of passion.

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