Imagination is, more properly, the power of carrying on a given feeling into other situations, which must be done best according to the hold which the feeling itself has taken of the mind.18 In new and unknown combinations the impression must act by sympathy, and not by rule, but there can be no sympathy where there is no passion, no original interest. The personal interest may in some cases oppress and circumscribe2 the imaginative faculty3, as in the instance of Rousseau: but in general the strength and consistency4 of the imagination will be in proportion to the strength and depth of feeling; and it is rarely that a man even of lofty genius will be able to do more than carry on his own feelings and character, or some prominent and ruling passion, into fictitious5 and uncommon6 situations. Milton has by allusion7 embodied8 a great part of his political and personal history in the chief characters and incidents of Paradise Lost. He has, no doubt, wonderfully adapted and heightened them, but the elements are the same; you trace the bias9 and opinions of the man in the creations of the poe above the definition of genius. ‘Born universal heir to all humanity,’ he was ‘as one, in suffering all who suffered nothing’; with a perfect sympathy with all things, yet alike indifferent to all: who did not tamper10 with Nature or warp11 her to his own purposes; who ‘knew all qualities with a learned spirit,’ instead of judging of them by his own predilections12; and was rather ‘a pipe for the Muse13’s finger to play what stop she pleasd,’ than anxious to set up any character or pretensions14 of his own. His genius consisted in the faculty of transforming himself at will into whatever he chose: his originality was the power of seeing every object from the exact point of view in which others would see it. He was the Proteus of human intellect. Genius in ordinary is a more obstinate15 and less versatile16 thing. It is sufficiently17 exclusive and self-willed, quaint18 and peculiar19. It does some one thing by virtue20 of doing nothing else: it excels in some one pursuit by being blind to all excellence21 but its own. It is just the reverse of the cameleon; for it does not borrow, but lends its colour to all about it; or like the glow-worm, discloses a little circle of gorgeous light in the twilight22 of obscurity, in the night of intellect that surrounds it. So did Rembrandt. If ever there was a man of genius, he was one, in the proper sense of the term. He lived in and revealed to otters23 a world of his own, and might be said to have invented a new view of nature. He did not discover things out of nature, in fiction or fairy land, or make a voyage to the moon ‘to descry24 new lands, rivers or mountains in her spotty globe,’ but saw things in nature that every one had missed before him and gave others eyes to see them with. This is the test and triumph of originality, not to show us what has never been, and what we may therefore very easily never have dreamt of, but to point out to us what is before our eyes and under our feet, though we have had no suspicion of its existence, for want of sufficient strength of intuition, of determined25 grasp of mind, to seize and retain it. Rembrandt’s conquests were not over the ideal, but the real. He did not contrive26 a new story or character, but we nearly owe to him a fifth part of painting, the knowledge of chiaroscuro— a distinct power and element in art and nature. He had a steadiness, a firm keeping of mind and eye, that first stood the shock of ‘fierce extremes’ in light and shade, or reconciled the greatest obscurity and the greatest brilliancy into perfect harmony; and he therefore was the first to hazard this appearance upon canvas, and give full effect to what he saw and delighted in. He was led to adopt this style of broad and startling contrast from its congeniality to his own feelings: his mind grappled with that which afforded the best exercise to its master-powers: he was bold in act, because he was urged on by a strong native impulse. Originality is then nothing but nature and feeling working in the mind. A man does not affect to be original: he is so, because he cannot help it, and often without knowing it. This extraordinary artist indeed might be said to have had a particular organ for colour. His eye seemed to come in contact with it as a feeling, to lay hold of it as a substance, rather than to contemplate27 it as a visual object. The texture28 of his landscapes is ‘of the earth, earthy’— his clouds are humid, heavy, slow; his shadows are ‘darkness that may be felt,’ a ‘palpable obscure’; his lights are lumps of liquid splendour! There is something more in this than can be accounted for from design or accident: Rembrandt was not a man made up of two or three rules and directions for acquiring genius.
I am afraid I shall hardly write so satisfactory a character of Mr. Wordsworth, though he too, like Rembrandt, has a faculty of making something out of nothing, that is, out of himself, by the medium through which he sees and with which he clothes the barrenest subject. Mr. Wordsworth is the last man to ‘look abroad into universality,’ if that alone constituted genius: he looks at home into himself, and is ‘content with riches fineless.’ He would in the other case be ‘poor as winter,’ if he had nothing but general capacity to trust to. He is the greatest, that is, the most original poet of the present day, only because he is the greatest egotist. He is ‘self-involved, not dark.’ He sits in the centre of his own being, and there ‘enjoys bright day.’ He does not waste a thought on others. Whatever does not relate exclusively and wholly to himself is foreign to his views. He contemplates29 a whole-length figure of himself, he looks along the unbroken line of his personal identity. He thrusts aside all other objects, all other interests, with scorn and impatience30, that he may repose31 on his own being, that he may dig out the treasures of thought contained in it, that he may unfold the precious stores of a mind for ever brooding over itself. His genius is the effect of his individual character. He stamps that character, that deep individual interest, on whatever he meets. The object is nothing but as it furnishes food for internal meditation32, for old associations. If there had been no other being in the universe, Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry would have been just what it is. If there had been neither love nor friendship, neither ambition nor pleasure nor business in the World, the author of the Lyrical Ballads33 need not have been greatly changed from what he is — might still have ‘kept the noiseless tenour of his way,’ retired34 in the sanctuary35 of his own heart, hallowing the Sabbath of his own thoughts. With the passions, the pursuits, and imaginations of other men he does not profess36 to sympathise, but ‘finds tongues in the trees, books in the running brooks37, sermons in stones, and good in everything.’ With a mind averse38 from outward objects, but ever intent upon its own workings, he hangs a weight of thought and feeling upon every trifling39 circumstance connected with his past history. The note of the cuckoo sounds in his ear like the voice of other years; the daisy spreads its leaves in the rays of boyish delight that stream from his thoughtful eyes; the rainbow lifts its proud arch in heaven but to mark his progress from infancy40 to manhood; an old thorn is buried, bowed down under the mass of associations he has wound about it; and to him, as he himself beautifully says,
The meanest flow’r that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
It is this power of habitual41 sentiment, or of transferring the interest of our conscious existence to whatever gently solicits42 attention, and is a link in the chain of association without rousing our passions or hurting our pride, that is the striking feature in Mr. Wordsworth’s mind and poetry. Others have left and shown this power before, as Wither43, Burns, etc., but none have felt it so intensely and absolutely as to lend to it the voice of inspiration, as to make it the foundation of a new style and school in poetry. His strength, as it so often happens, arises from the excess of his weakness. But he has opened a new avenue to the human heart, has explored another secret haunt and nook of nature, ‘sacred to verse, and sure of everlasting44 fame.’ Compared with his lines, Lord Byron’s stanzas45 are but exaggerated common-place, and Walter Scott’s poetry (not his prose) old wives’ fables46.19 There is no one in whom I have been more disappointed than in the writer here spoken of, nor with whom I am more disposed on certain points to quarrel; but the love of truth and justice which obliges me to do this, will not suffer me to blench47 his merits. Do what he can, he cannot help being an original-minded man. His poetry is not servile. While the cuckoo returns in the spring, while the daisy looks bright in the sun, while the rainbow lifts its head above the storm —
Yet I’ll remember thee, Glencairn,
And all that thou hast done for me!
Sir Joshua Reynolds, in endeavouring to show that there is no such thing as proper originality, a spirit emanating48 from the mind of the artist and shining through his works, has traced Raphael through a number of figures which he has borrowed from Masaccio and others. This is a bad calculation. If Raphael had only borrowed those figures from others, would he, even in Sir Joshua’s sense, have been entitled to the praise of originality? Plagiarism49, in so far as it is plagiarism, is not originality. Salvator is considered by many as a great genius. He is what they call an irregular genius. My notion of genius is not exactly the same as theirs. It has also been made a question; whether there is not more genius in Rembrandt’s Three Trees than in all Claude Lorraine’s landscapes. I do not know how that may be; but it was enough for Claude to have been a perfect landscape-painter.
Capacity is not the same thing as genius. Capacity may be described to relate to the quantity of knowledge, however acquired; genius, to its quality and the mode of acquiring it. Capacity is power over given ideas combinations of ideas; genius is the power over those which are not given, and for which no obvious or precise rule can be laid down. Or capacity is power of any sort; genius is power of a different sort from what has yet been shown. A retentive50 memory, a clear understanding, is capacity, but it is not genius. The admirable Crichton was a person of prodigious51 capacity; but there is no proof (that I know) that he had an atom of genius. His verses that remain are dull and sterile52. He could learn all that was known of any subject; he could do anything if others could show him the way to do it. This was very wonderful; but that is all you can say of it. It requires a good capacity to play well at chess; but, after all, it is a game of skill, and not of genius. Know what you will of it, the understanding still moves in certain tracks in which others have trod it before, quicker or slower, with more or less comprehension and presence of mind. The greatest skill strikes out nothing for itself, from its own peculiar resources; the nature of the game is a thing determinate and fixed53: there is no royal or poetical54 road to checkmate your adversary55. There is no place for genius but in the indefinite and unknown. The discovery of the binomial theorem was an effort of genius; but there was none shown in Jedediah Buxton’s being able to multiply 9 figures by 9 in his head. If he could have multiplied 90 figures by 90 instead of 9, it would have been equally useless toil56 and trouble.20 He is a man of capacity who possesses considerable intellectual riches: he is a man of genius who finds out a vein57 of new ore. Originality is the seeing nature differently from others, and yet as it is in itself. It is not singularity or affectation, but the discovery of new and valuable truth. All the world do not see the wh looking at. Habit blinds them to some things; short-sightedness to others. Every mind is not a gauge58 and measure of truth. Nature has her surface and her dark recesses59. She is deep, obscure, and infinite. It is only minds on whom she makes her fullest impressions that can penetrate60 her shrine61 or unveil her Holy of Holies. It is only those whom she has filled with her spirit that have the boldness or the power to reveal her mysteries to others. But Nature has a thousand aspects, and one man can only draw out one of them. Whoever does this is a man of genius. One displays her force, another her refinement62; one her power of harmony, another her suddenness of contrast; one her beauty of form, another her splendour of colour. Each does that for which he is bast fitted by his particular genius, that is to say, by some quality of mind into which the quality of the object sinks deepest, where it finds the most cordial welcome, is perceived to its utmost extent, and where again it forces its way out from the fulness with which it has taken possession of the mind of the student. The imagination gives out what it has first absorbed by congeniality of temperament63, what it has attracted and moulded into itself by elective affinity64, as the loadstone draws and impregnates iron. A little originality is more esteemed65 and sought for than the greatest acquired talent, because it throws a new light upon things, and is peculiar to the individual. The other is common; and may be had for the asking, to any amount.
The value of any work is to be judged of by the quantity of originality contained in it. A very little of this will go a great way. If Goldsmith had never written anything but the two or three first chapters of the Vicar of Wakefield or the character of a Village Schoolmaster, they would have stamped him a man of genius. The editors of Encyclopedias66 are not usually reckoned the first literary characters of the age. The works of which they have the management contain a great deal of knowledge, like chests or warehouses68, but the goods are not their own. We should as soon think of admiring the shelves of a library; but the shelves of a library are useful and respectable. I was once applied69 to, in a delicate emergency, to write an article on a difficult subject for an Encyclopedia67, and was advised to take time and give it a systematic70 and scientific form, to avail myself of all the knowledge that was to be obtained on the subject, and arrange it with clearness and method. I made answer that as to the first, I had taken time to do all that I ever pretended to do, as I had thought incessantly71 on different matters for twenty years of my life;21 that I had no particular knowledge of the subject in question, and no head for arrangement; and that the utmost I could do in such a case would be, when a systematic and scientific article was prepared, to write marginal notes upon it, to insert a remark or illustration of my own (not to be found in former Encyclopedias), or to suggest a better definition than had been offered in the text. There are two sorts of writing. The first is compilation72; and consists in collecting and stating all that is already known of any question in the best possible manner, for the benefit of the uninformed reader. An author of this class is a very learned amanuensis of other people’s thoughts. The second sort proceeds on an entirely73 different principle: instead of bringing down the account of knowledge to the point at which it has already arrived, it professes74 to start from that point on the strength of the writer’s individual reflections; and supposing the reader in possession of what is already known, supplies deficiencies, fills up certain blanks, and quits the beaten road in search of new tracts75 of observation or sources of feeling. It is in vain to object to this last style that it is disjointed, disproportioned, and irregular. It is merely a set of additions and corrections to other men’s works, or to the common stock of human knowledge, printed separately. You might as well expect a continued chain of reasoning in the notes to a book. It skips all the trite76, intermediate, level common-places of the subject, and only stops at the difficult passages of the human mind, or touches on some striking point that has been overlooked in previous editions. A view of a subject, to be connected and regular, cannot be all new. A writer will always be liable to be charged either with paradox77 or common-place, either with dulness or affectation. But we have no right to demand from any one more than he pretends to. There is indeed a medium in all things, but to unite opposite excellencies is a task ordinarily too hard for mortality. He who succeeds in what he aims at, or who takes the lead in any one mode or path of excellence, may think himself very well off. It would not be fair to complain of the style of an Encyclopedia as dull, as wanting volatile78 salt; nor of the style of an Essay because it is too light and sparkling, because it is not a caput mortuum. So it is rather an odd objection to a work that it is made up entirely of ‘brilliant passages’— at least it is a fault that can be found with few works, and the book might be pardoned for its singularity. The censure79 might indeed seem like adroit80 flattery, if it were not passed on an author whom any objection is sufficient to render unpopular and ridiculous. I grant it is best to unite solidity with show, general information with particular ingenuity81. This is the pattern of a perfect style; but I myself do not pretend to be a perfect writer. In fine, we do not banish82 light French wines from our tables, or refuse to taste sparkling Champagne83 when we can get it because it has not the body of Old Port. Besides, I do not know that dulness is strength, or that an observation is slight because it is striking. Mediocrity, insipidity84, want of character is the great fault.
Mediocribus esse poetis
Non Dii, non homines, non concessere columnae.
Neither is this privilege allowed to prose-writers in our time any more than to poets formerly85.
It is not then acuteness of organs or extent of capacity that constitutes rare genius or produces the most exquisite86 models of art, but an intense sympathy with some one beauty or distinguishing characteristic in nature. Irritability87 alone, or the interest taken in certain things, may supply the place of genius in weak and otherwise ordinary minds. As there are certain instruments fitted to perform certain kinds of labour, there are certain minds so framed as to produce certain chef-d’oeuvres in art and literature, which is surely the best use they can be put to. If a man had all sorts of instruments in his shop and wanted one, he would rather have that one than be supplied with a double set of all the others. If he had them twice over, he could only do what he can do as it is, whereas without that one he perhaps cannot finish any one work he has in hand. So if a man can do one thing better than anybody else, the value of this one thing is what he must stand or fall by, and his being able to do a hundred other things merely as well as anybody else would not alter the sentence or add to his respectability; on the contrary, his being able to do so many other things well would probably interfere88 with and encumber89 him in the execution of the only thing that others cannot do as well as he, and so far be a drawback and a disadvantage. More people, in fact, fail from a multiplicity of talents and pretensions than from an absolute poverty of resources. I have given instances of this elsewhere. Perhaps Shakespear’s tragedies would in some respects have been better if he had never written comedies at all; and in that case his comedies might well have been spared, though they must have cost us some regret. Racine, it is said, might have rivalled Moliere in comedy; but he gave up the cultivation90 of his comic talents to devote himself wholly to the tragic91 Muse. If, as the French tell us, he in consequence attained92 to the perfection of tragic composition, this was better than writing comedies as well as Moliere and tragedies as well as Crebillon. Yet I count those persons fools who think it a pity Hogarth did not succeed better in serious subjects. The division of labour is an excellent principle in taste as well as in mechanics. Without this, I find from Adam Smith, we could not have a pin made to the degree of perfection it is. We do not, on any rational scheme of criticism, inquire into the variety of a man’s excellences93, or the number of his works, or his facility of production. Venice Preserved is sufficient for Otway’s fame. I hate all those nonsensical stories about Lope de Vega and his writing a play in a morning before breakfast. He had time enough to do it after. If a man leaves behind him any work which is a model in its kind, we have no right to ask whether he could do anything else, or how he did it, or how long he was about it. All that talent which is not necessary to the actual quantity of excellence existing in the world, loses its object, is so much waste talent or talent to let. I heard a sensible man say he should like to do some one thing better than all the rest of the world, and in everything else to be like all the rest of the world. Why should a man do more than his part? The rest is vanity and vexation of spirit. We look with jealous and grudging94 eyes at all those qualifications which are not essential; first, because they are superfluous95, and next, because we suspect they will be prejudicial. Why does Mr. Kean play all those harlequin tricks of singing, dancing, fencing, etc.? They say, ‘It is for his benefit.’ It is not for his reputation. Garrick indeed shone equally in comedy and tragedy. But he was first, not second-rate in both. There is not a greater impertinence than to ask, if a man is clever out of his profession. I have heard of people trying to cross-examine Mrs. Siddons. I would as soon try to entrap96 one of the Elgin Marbles into an argument. Good nature and common sense are required from all people; but one proud distinction is enough for any one individual to possess or to aspire97 to.
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1
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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circumscribe
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| v.在...周围划线，限制，约束 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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tamper
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| v.干预，玩弄，贿赂，窜改，削弱，损害 | |
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warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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otters
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| n.（水）獭( otter的名词复数 )；獭皮 | |
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descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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solicits
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| 恳请 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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blench
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| v.退缩，畏缩 | |
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emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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plagiarism
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| n.剽窃，抄袭 | |
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retentive
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| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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encyclopedias
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| n.百科全书， （某一学科的）专科全书( encyclopedia的名词复数 ) | |
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encyclopedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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insipidity
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| n.枯燥无味，清淡，无精神；无生气状 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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encumber
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| v.阻碍行动，妨碍，堆满 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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96
entrap
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| v.以网或陷阱捕捉，使陷入圈套 | |
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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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