On Original Composition In A Letter To The Author of Sir Charles Grandison. Si habet aliquot tanquam pabulum studii et doctrinae, otiosa senectute nihil est jucundius. Cic. London: Printed for A. Millar, in The Strand; and M.DCC LIX. CHAPTER III DEAR SIR, We confess the follies of youth without a blush; not so those of age. However, keep me a little in countenance by considering that age wants amusements more, though it can justify them less, than the preceding periods of life. How you may relish the pastime here sent you, I know not. It is miscellaneous in its nature, somewhat licentious in its conduct; and, perhaps, not over-important in its end. However, I have endeavored to make some amends by digressing into subjects more important, and more suitable to my season of life. A serious thought standing single, among many of a lighter nature, will sometimes strike the careless wanderer after amusement only, with useful awe: as monumental marbles scattered in a wide pleasure-garden (and such there are) will call to recollection those who would never have sought it in a churchyard walk of mournful yews. To one such monument I may conduct you, in which is a hidden lustre, like the sepulchral lamps of old; but not like them' will this be extinguished, but shine the brighter for being produced, after so long concealment, into open day. You remember that your worthy patron, and our common friend, put some questions on the serious drama, at the same time when he desired our sentiments on original and moral composition. Though I despair of breaking through the frozen obstructions of age, and care's incumbent cloud, into that flow of thought and brightness of expression which such polite subjects2 require, yet will I hazard some conjectures on them. I begin with original composition; but,3 first, a few thoughts on composition in general. Some are of opinion that its growth, at present, is too luxuriant, and that the press is overcharged. Overcharged, I think, it could never be, if none were admitted but such as brought their imprimatur from sound understanding and the public good. | Wit, indeed, however brilliant, should not be permitted to gaze self-enamoured on its useless charms in that fountain of fame, (if so I may call the press,) if beauty is all that it has to boast; but, like the first Brutus, it should 1 those 'subjects so polite 'Composition; and the more willingly, as it seems an original subject to me, who have seen nothing hitherto written on it. But sacrifice its most darling offspring to the sacred interests of virtue, and real service of mankind. This restriction allowed, the more composition the better. To men of letters and leisure, it is not only a noble amusement, but a sweet refuge; it improves their parts and promotes their peace; it opens a back-door out of the bustle of this busy and idle world into a delicious garden of moral and intellectual fruits and flowers, the key of which is denied to the rest of mankind. When stung with idle anxieties, or teazed with fruitless impertinence, or yawning over insipid diversions, then we perceive the blessing of a lettered recess. With what a gust do we retire to our disinterested and immortal friends in our closet and find our minds, when applied to some favorite theme, as naturally and as easily quieted and refreshed as a peevish child (and peevish children are we all till we fall asleep) when laid to the breast! Our happiness no longer lives on charity; nor bids fair for a fall by leaning on that most precarious and thorny pillow, another's pleasure, for our repose. How independent of the world is he who can daily find new acquaintance that at once entertain and improve him, in the little world, the minute but fruitful creation of his own mind! These advantages composition affords us, whether we write ourselves, or in more humble amusement peruse the works of others. While we bustle through the thronged walks of public life, it gives us a respite, at least, from care; a pleasing pause of refreshing recollection. If the country is our choice or fate, there it rescues us from sloth and sensuality, which, like obscene vermin, are apt gradually to creep unperceived into the delightful bowers of our retirement and to poison all its sweets. Conscious guilt robs the rose of its scent, the lily of its lustre; and makes an Eden a deflowered and dismal scene. Moreover, if we consider life's endless evils, what can be more prudent than to provide for consolation under them? A consolation under them the wisest of men have found in the pleasures of the pen. Witness, among many more, Thucydides, Xenophon, Tully, Ovid, Seneca, Pliny the younger, who says, In uxoris infirmitate, et amicorum periculo, aut morte turbatus, ad studia, unicum doloris levamentum, confugio. And why not add to these their modern equals, Raleigh, Milton, Clarendon, under the same shield, unwounded by misfortune, and nobly smiling in distress? Composition was a cordial to these under the frowns of fortune; but evils there are which her smiles cannot prevent or cure. Among these 'Chaucer, Raleigh, Bacon, are the languors of old age. If those are held honorable who in a hand benumbed by time have grasped the just sword in defence of their country, shall they be less esteemed whose unsteady pen vibrates to the last in the cause of religion, of virtue, of learning? Both these are happy in this, that, by fixing their attention on objects most important, they escape numberless little anxieties and that tedium vitae which hangs often so heavy on its evening hours. May not this insinuate some apology for my spilling ink and spoiling paper so late in life? But there are who write with vigor and success to the world's delight and their own renown. These are the glorious fruits where genius prevails. The mind of a man of genius is a fertile and pleasant field; pleasant as Elysium, and fertile as Tempe; it enjoys a perpetual spring. Of that spring originals are the fairest flowers: imitations are of quicker growth, but fainter bloom. Imitations are of two kinds; one of nature, one of authors: the first we call "originals," and confine the term "imitation" to the second. I shall not enter into the curious inquiry of what is, or is not, strictly speaking, original, content with what all must allow, that some compositions are more so than others; and the more they are so, I say, the better. Originals are, and ought to be, great favorites, for they are great benefactors; they extend the republic of letters, and add a new province to its dominion: imitators only give us a sort of duplicates of what we had, possibly much better, before; increasing the mere drug of books, while all that makes them valuable, knowledge and genius, are at a stand. The pen of an original writer, like Armida's wand, out of a barren waste calls a blooming spring: out of that blooming spring an imitator is a transplanter of laurels, which sometimes die. on removal, always languish in a foreign soil. But suppose an imitator to be most excellent, (and such there are,) yet still he but nobly builds on another's foundation; his debt is, at least, equal to his glory; which, therefore, on the balance, cannot be very great. On the contrary, an original, though but indifferent (its originality being set aside,) yet has something to boast; it is something to say with him in Horace, Meo sum pauper in aere; and to share ambition with no less than Caesar, who declared he had rather be the first in a village than the second at Rome. Still farther: an imitator shares his crown, if he has one, with the chosen object of his imitation; an original enjoys an undivided applause. An original may be said to be of a vegetable nature: it rises spontaneously from the vital root of genius; it grows, it is not made; imitations |