An essay on the manners and genius of the literary character: By I. D'Israeli.

CHAP. IV. On some Characteristics of a Youth of Genius.

I PROPOSE to sketch some of the mis|fortunes which often attend a writer, or an artist. Should my picture prove to be a faithful representation, my feelings will dispose me to lament my talent.

To what an unknown height might an adequate education elevate the human character, if it were possible at his birth to detect the future genius. The ostrich has the sagacity to discover in it's eggs, those which are worthy of her genial warmth, and separates them from the rest, which would have proved sterile to the solicitous cares of a mother. It is not thus with the human race. If we could perceive the man of genius, in "the na|tal hour," we might select him from the croud, and nourish the giant, with

the aliment a giant may be supposed to require. At the age of twenty his ma|turity would appear; and he would have performed at thirty whatever a Horace or a Livy have done; while the vigour of life yet remained to shew us something more exquisite in fancy, and more com|plicate, yet clear in reasoning, than at present we can possibly conceive. But, alas! it is only the romantic eye of the poet, which can observe the graces wreathing his cradle with myrtles. I quit my fantastic man of genius to descend to nature and to experience.

It is rather singular that none but princes, and monsters, have the privi|lege or exciting public curiosity at their birth. A man of genius is dropt among the people, and has first to encounter the difficulties of ordinary men, without that confined talent which is adapted to a mean destimation. Parents, of honest

dispositions, are the victims of the de|termined propensity of a son, to a Virgil or an Euclid; and the first step into life of a man of genius is disobedience and grief.

The frequent situation of such a man is described with great simplicity, by the astrologer Lilly, whether he were a man of genius or not, in the curious memoirs of his life. He there tells us, that having proposed to his father that he should try his fortune in London, where he hoped his learning and his talents might prove serviceable to him, he observes that his father (who was incapable of dis|covering his latent genius in his studious dispositions) very willingly consented to get rid of him,

for I could not work, drive the plough, or endure any coun|try labour; my father oft would say I was good for nothing.

—The fathers of most of our men of genius have employed

the same expressions as the father of Lilly.

An apparent indolence hangs about contemplative genius; he loves the re|pose of the body, and the activity of the mind. It is known that most men of great abilities in their puerile days, have retired from the sports of their mates, and while they were folded up in their little wild abstractions, have appeared dull to dunces. We often hear, from the early companions or intimates of a man of genius, that at school he had been remarkably heavy and unpromising; but, in truth, he was only remarkably pensive, and often pertinaciously assi|duous. The great Bossuet at school would never join with his young companions, but preferred plodding over a book.—They revenged themselves by a boyish jest of calling him, bos suetus aratro, an ox daily toiling in the plough. It is curious

to observe, that the young painters, to ridicule the constant labours of Domeni|chino in his youth, did him the honour to distinguish him also by the title of great Ox. Chatterton offers still a better, though a more melancholy in|stance. It is in this manner that one man of genius generally resembles another.

This inaction of body, and activity of mind, they retain throughout life. A man of genius is rarely enamoured of common amusements. And the boy who was unadroit at marbles, and refused sca|ling the wall of an orchard, when a man, seldom excels as an agile hunter, or an elegant dancer. I am describing the en|thusiasm of talent, not it's uninteresting mediocrity. A man of genius is the surest testimony on this point. Let us attend to the minstrel of Dr. Beattie.

Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled, Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped.

The exploit of strength, dexterity or speed, To him nor vanity, nor joy could bring.

Would Edwin this majestic scene resign, For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?

I repeat, his mind alone has activity.—The fire side in the winter, and some favourite tree in the summer, will be his seats; his amusements become studies, and his meditations are made in his walks, as well as in his chair. These are some of the marks which distinguish him from the man of the world.

We have been able to discover this disposition in youthful genius; the same characterises his age. It was thus when Mecenas, accompanied by Virgil and Horace, retired one day into the country, the minister amused himself with a ten|nis-ball; the two poets reposed on a vernal bank, beneath a delicious shade.

Pliny was pleased with the Roman mode of hunting, which admitted him to sit a whole day with his tablets and stylus, that (he says) if I return with empty nets, my tablets may at least be full.

Among the inauspicious circumstances which frequently attend the first exertions of juvenile genius, is the want of sensi|bility and discernment, in the literary man or artist whose regard and counsels he solicits. Remote from the world of taste, he cultivates with ardour, but not with art, talents which tremble in the feebleness of infancy. When the intel|lectual offspring is struggling with pain, and fear, into existence, the hand that should aid it's delivery repels with an un|natural barbarity. As Churchill says,

They crush a Bard, just bursting from the shell!

In these wild hours of youth and fancy, the juvenile writer roves like an insulated

wanderer. Thrown on an enchanted isle, his ear listens with an artless impatience for the celestial tones of an Ariel. It is his unhappy fate to encounter a brutal and malicious Caliban. Such has been the situation of several men of genius when they first addressed themselves to an unworthy man of letters for their protector.

Another unfriendly influence over young genius is the want of discernment in those, who have the direction of their talents. Pope was often heard to say, that he could learn nothing from his masters, for they wanted sagacity to dis|cover the bent of his genius; and the preceptors of Thomson, reprimanded the poet, for being too poetical in some of his exercises. The judicious Quintilian observes, that it is not sufficient that a master instructs his scholars in science; but he should also cultivate those par|ticular

good qualities nature has be|stowed on each; to add, to those which are deficient, to correct some, and to change others.

It is a melancholy truth, that the period at which men receive the colour of their life, is that which is generally least regarded. When we most want judgment, we have none; and age is often passed only in lamentations over youth. The eventful moment which determines our future years, is min|gled and lost among hours which can|not be recalled. Physicians tell us, that there is a certain point in youth, at which our constitution takes it's form, and on which the sanity of life revolves. The existence of genius, experiences a similar dangerous moment. Taste er|roneously directed, or genius unsubdued; feebleness not invigorated, or vigour not softened; are the accidents which render

even a superior mind defective in it's best performances. Children by the neg|ligence of their parents become ricketty, and all their life retain some trace of the unhappy distortion of their limbs. The predominant blemishes of an author, if enquired into, will be found generally to originate in their indulgence at a time when they wanted a Quintilian, to deter them by exercising some contrary quality to that, of which they were vitiously en|amoured. The epigrammatic points, and swelling thoughts of Young; the remote conceits of Cowley, and the turgidity of Johnson, might probably have been avoided by their authors, had the bent of their mind at an early period, been moulded by a critic hand. Few literary vices are radical, unless permitted to strike deeply in the soil. Oaks, are but saplings, till they are suffered to become oaks.

The peculiarities of genius are often derived from local habits, or accidental circumstances; and this remark shews the unwearied vigilance necessary to be observed in the progress and formation of genius. Rembrandt is one instance; his peculiarity of shade was derived from the circumstance of his father's mill re|ceiving light from an aperture at the top, which habituated him afterwards to that singular manner of broad shades. The same analogy may be traced in the hu|man intellect. A man of genius is often determined to shape his mind into a par|ticular form, by the books of his youth. Dr. Franklin tells us, that when young, and wanting books, he accidentally found De Foe's Essay on Projects, from which work he thinks impressions were derived that afterwards influenced some of the principal events of his life. It was by a studious perusal of Plutarch's illustrious

men, that Rousseau received that gran|deur of sentiment which distinguishes all his compositions, and created him that romantic and sensitive being he ever re|mained.

If we except some rare instances, no writer can display his talents so indispu|tably that the world shall be conscious of his exalted genius, at an early period. Du Bos and Helvetius have fixed that great hour in the short day of man, about the age of thirty; and I recollect an old Spanish writer lays it down as an axiom, that no author should publish a book under the age of thirty-five. It is cer|tain that many of our first geniuses, have not evinced their abilities till forty. Some indeed spring suddenly like a flower; while others expand gradually like a tree. Some are like diamonds which receive their fine polish from an ela|borate

art, while others resemble pearls which are born with their beautiful lustre.

Is it enquired if during this long pe|riod a man of genius does not give some evident marks of his future powers? I answer that sometimes he does; some|times he does not; and sometimes they are dubious. They are frequently dubi|ous, because the grossest pedant attends to his studies, if not with the same af|fection, at least with as much constancy as the finest genius. Who can distinguish between pertinacity and genius? It is, perhaps, impossible to know if a young student will be a compiler, or an historian.

The first effusions of a man of genius may be so rude, as were those of Swift and Dryden, that no reasonable hope can be formed of his happy progress. The juvenile productions of many great writers evince nothing of that perfection they afterwards obtained; and probably

Raphael when he first shadowed his rude man, on his father's earthenware, had not one stroke of that ideal beauty, which one day his head was to conceive, and his hand to attempt.

Sometimes a superior mind gives no evidence of it's great powers; genius may, like Aeneas, be veiled by a cloud, and remain unperceived even by it's as|sociates; as in the case of Goldsmith, whom even his literary companions re|garded as a compiler, not as a writer of taste. Hume was considered for his so|briety and assiduity, as capable of be|coming a good merchant; of Johnson it was said, that he would never offend in conversation, and of Boileau, that he had no great understanding, but would speak ill of no one. Farquhar, who afterwards joined to great knowledge of the world, the liveliest talents, was at college a heavy companion, and unreasonably dull.

These, from numerous instances, will be sufficient. Again, when a superior mind evinces it's early genius, it is not always done with all it's energy; we have several who began versifiers, and concluded poets.

It happens, however, that sometimes genius unequivocally discovers itself in the puerile age. Some appear to have meditated on the art they love, on the bosom of their nurse; and they are pain|ters and poets before they know the names of their colours, and the fabric of their verse. Michael Angelo, as yet a child, wherever he went, employed him|self in drawing, which so much alarmed his noble parents, who were fearful their family might be dishonoured by a man of genius, that they mingled castigations with their reprimands. Angelo relin|quished the pencil, but it was only to take the brush. When he attempted statuary, his father blushed to think his

son was a stone-cutter. Angelo persisted, and became a great man in opposition to his noble progenitors. Velasquez, a Spa|nish painter, when he performed his school tasks, filled them with sketches and drawings; and, as some write their names on their books, his were known by exhibiting specimens of his genius.

An observation may be introduced here which is due to the parents of a man of genius.

We never read the biography of a great character, whether he excelled in letters, or the fine arts, without repro|bating the domestic persecution of those, who opposed his inclinations, and en|deavoured to unfeather the tender pinion of juvenile genius. No poet but is roused with indignation, at the recollection of the Port Royal Society thrice burning the poetical romance, which Racine at length got by heart; no geometrician

but bitterly criminates the father of Pascal for not suffering him to read Euclid, which he at length understood without reading; no painter, but exe|crates the parents of Angelo, for snatch|ing the pencil from his hand, though at length he became superior to every artist. All this is unjust.

Let us place ourselves in the situation of a parent of a man of genius, and we shall find another association of ideas concerning him than those we have at present. We see a great man, they a disobedient child; we see genius, they obstinacy. The career of genius is rarely that of fortune; and very often that of contempt. Even in it's most flattering aspect, what is it, but plucking a few brilliant flowers from precipices, while the reward terminates in the honour? The anxious parent is more desirous of his son's cultivating the low-lands where

industry may reap, in silent peace, no precarious harvest. But I even confess that many parents are themselves not so insensible to glory, but that they would prefer a splendid poverty, to an obscure opulence; but who is to be certain that a young man is obeying the solicitation of true genius, or merely the fondness for an art, in which he must never be an artist? Literary men themselves fre|quently are averse to encourage the lite|rary dispositions of their children.

It is certain that a love for any art, in youth, is no evidence of genius. The casual perusal of Spenser, which might produce a Cowley, has no doubt given birth to a croud of unknown poets. We have a considerable number of minor artists, of all kinds, who never attain to any degree of eminence, and yet in their youth felt a warm inclination for their art. If the impulse of genius, and the

perseverance of desire, if conception and imitation, could ever be accurately dis|tinguished in the philosophy of the mind, it would be one of the most useful of me|taphysical speculations. But philoso|phers have not yet agreed of the nature of genius, for while some conceive it to be a gift; others think it an acquisition.

We now proceed to some reflections on the friends of youthful genius.

The friends of a young writer are ge|nerally prejudicial. To find a sage Quintilian in a private circle, is as rare as to discover a silver mine in Devon|shire; it is supposed there are several, but it is difficult to know where nature has placed them.* 1.1

We may observe, that the productions of taste are much more unfortunate than those of reasoning. Every man has a tolerable degree of judgment, and with a slight exertion, atchieves the compre|hension of a piece of argument; but taste is of such rarity, that a long life may be passed by some, without ever meeting with a person of that cultured and sure taste, which can touch and feel

the public opinion, before the public forms it's opinion.

When a young writer's first essay is shown, some, through mere inability of censure, see nothing but beauties; others, with equal imbecillity can see none; and others, out of pure malice, see nothing but faults. Few great writers have been born in that fortunate and rare circle, where every man has taste, and some have candour. A young writer, if he suffers his mind to float from uncertainty to uncertainty, will only lose many years before he discovers the imbecillity and defective taste of the narrow circle of his critics.

A young artist must banish despon|dence, even in the rudest efforts of art. He must obey the fervid impulse at the cost of the pleasures of his age, and the contempt of his associates. It may also be no improper habit to preserve his ju|venile

compositions. By contemplating them he may perceive some of his pre|dominant errors; reflect on the gradual corrections; resume an old manner more happily, invent a new one from the old he had neglected; and often may find something so fine, among his most irre|gular productions, that it may serve to embellish his most finished compositions. I cannot but apply to this subject, a happy simile of Dryden, which a young writer, in the progress of his studies, should often recollect.

As those who unripe veins in mines explore, On the rich bed, again, the warm turf lay, Till time digests the yet imperfect ore, And knows it will be gold another day.

Let him therefore at once supply the marble, and be himself the sculptor; he must learn to hew out, to form, and to polish his genius. He must appeal from a contracted circle, to the public; and

throughout life, must hold this as a maxim, if he would preserve the neces|sary tranquillity to pursue his studies, that the opinion of an individual must be accounted as nothing; not even if this opinion should appear in print. Helve|tius justly observes, what does the opi|nion of any individual mean? Only, that if favourable, he entertains the same ideas as myself; and if unfavourable, that we differ.

Who but the public can arbitrate be|tween an artist and his critic? Should even the censures of the critic be just, and the artist notwithstanding please, it is an additional evidence, that he is among the greatest artists. It is thus with Shakespeare and Churchill.

If several of our first writers had at|tended to the sentiments of their friends, we should have lost some of our most precious compositions. The friends of

Thomson could discern nothing but faults in his early productions, not ex|cepting his sublime Winter! This poet of humanity has left a vindictive epi|gram against one of these friends, and it is perhaps the only ill-natured lines, he ever wrote. He came with impatience to London, published, and made his genius known. Voltaire, when his Brutus was unsuccessful, was advised not to turn his attention to the stage. He replied to his friends by writing Zara, Alzire, and Mahomet. The Mirror when published in Edinburgh was "fastidiously" re|ceived; the authors appealed from Edin|burgh to London, and they have pro|duced the literary pleasures of thousands!

It is dangerous for a young writer to resign himself to the opinions of his friends; it is alike dangerous to pass them with inattention. What an em|barrassment! If he has not an excellent

judgment he will not know what to re|ject and what to receive of those varying opinions; and if he has an excellent judgment, he wants little of their aid.

A young writer must long and dili|gently study his great models without venturing on the vanity of criticism. He who begins to analyse before he is ac|quainted with the nature of his materials, like an ignorant chymist, may suppose he is making experiments, when he is in the act of injuring his untutored and au|dacious hand. He must read for many years his authors, as some the gospels, with the same faith and the same admi|ration. For what he once wanted in|tellectual relish, he will come to admire, and what he admires he will imitate. He cannot too often peruse those many criti|cal performances which the philosophical taste of the age has produced. It should be considered, that by reading an excel|lent

critic, he receives the knowledge of many years in a few hours. The dis|coveries of art are tardy, and criticism supplies this deficiency. The more ex|tensive an artist's knowledge of what has been done, the more vast will be his powers in knowing what to do. Those who do not read criticism, will not even merit to be criticised. Yet we have un|reflecting students who inquire of the utility of criticism? Nothing may be of happier consequence than a habit of comparing his thoughts and his style with the compositions of his masters. If in the comparison, the silent voice of sentiment exclaims in his heart,

I also am a painter,

it is not improbable that the young artist may become a Cor|regio.* 1.2 If in meditating on the con|fessions

of Rousseau, he recollects that he has experienced the same sensations from the same circumstances, and that he has encountered the same difficulties, and vanquished them by the same means; he may hope one day that the world will re|ceive him as their benefactor. If in a constant perusal of the finest writers, he sees his sentiments sometimes anticipa|ted, and in the tumult of his mind as it comes in contact with their's, new ones arise, let him prosecute his studies, with ardour and intrepidity, with the fair hope, that one day, he may acquire the talents of a fine writer. Let him then,

—wake the strong divinity of soul, That conquers chance and fate.— Akenside.

Notes

• * 1.1

  It is a duty I owe as an individual, not to pass over in silence the mention of Devonshire, which I have long considered as the classical county of England. It has it's poets and it's antiquaries, it's musicians and it's painters. There is, perhaps, in consequence, that diffusion of urbanity in the manners of many of it's chief inhabitants, which graces enlightened opulence. Devonshire has produced more illustrious characters than I believe any other county. A Montesquien and a Du Bos would attribute this to the felicity of the climate, where myrtles grow unsheltered in the open air. And perhaps the air which cherishes myrtles in our northern clime, may have no inconsiderable effect on men. The speculation may not be merely fanci|ful; here the earth displays a more luxuriant herbage on a softer mould; the skies a brighter azure, and the airs blow with what poets call,

  The silky-soft favonian gale. Young.

  A Devonshire poet is the only English bard who has a right to transpose the epithets of Virgil in his de|scriptions of Spring. It is a soil favourable to myrtles and artists.
• * 1.2

  This sentiment is nobly expressed by Montesquieu in the close of his preface to his great work on laws. There he says, with a consciousness of mind—

  I do not think that I have been totally deficient in point of genius. When I have seen what so many great men, both in France and Germany, have writ be|fore me, I have been lost in admiration, but I have not lost my courage. I have said with Corregio, Ed Io anche son Pittore.