Essays and Tales

J >> Joseph Addison >> Essays and Tales

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GENIUS.

- Cui mens divinior, atque os
Magna sonaturum des nominis hujus honorem.
HOR., Sat. i. 4, 43.

On him confer the poet's sacred name,
Whose lofty voice declares the heavenly flame.

There is no character more frequently given to a writer than that of
being a genius. I have heard many a little sonneteer called a fine
genius. There is not a heroic scribbler in the nation that has not
his admirers who think him a great genius; and as for your
smatterers in tragedy, there is scarce a man among them who is not
cried up by one or other for a prodigious genius.

My design in this paper is to consider what is properly a great
genius, and to throw some thoughts together on so uncommon a
subject.

Among great geniuses those few draw the admiration of all the world
upon them, and stand up as the prodigies of mankind, who, by the
mere strength of natural parts, and without any assistance of art or
learning, have produced works that were the delight of their own
times and the wonder of posterity. There appears something nobly
wild and extravagant in these great natural geniuses, that is
infinitely more beautiful than all turn and polishing of what the
French call a bel esprit, by which they would express a genius
refined by conversation, reflection, and the reading of the most
polite authors. The greatest genius which runs through the arts and
sciences takes a kind of tincture from them and falls unavoidably
into imitation.

Many of these great natural geniuses, that were never disciplined
and broken by rules of art, are to be found among the ancients, and
in particular among those of the more Eastern parts of the world.
Homer has innumerable flights that Virgil was not able to reach, and
in the Old Testament we find several passages more elevated and
sublime than any in Homer. At the same time that we allow a greater
and more daring genius to the ancients, we must own that the
greatest of them very much failed in, or, if you will, that they
were much above the nicety and correctness of the moderns. In their
similitudes and allusions, provided there was a likeness, they did
not much trouble themselves about the decency of the comparison:
thus Solomon resembles the nose of his beloved to the tower of
Lebanon which looketh towards Damascus, as the coming of a thief in
the night is a similitude of the same kind in the New Testament. It
would be endless to make collections of this nature. Homer
illustrates one of his heroes encompassed with the enemy, by an ass
in a field of corn that has his sides belaboured by all the boys of
the village without stirring a foot for it; and another of them
tossing to and fro in his bed, and burning with resentment, to a
piece of flesh broiled on the coals. This particular failure in the
ancients opens a large field of raillery to the little wits, who can
laugh at an indecency, but not relish the sublime in these sorts of
writings. The present Emperor of Persia, conformable to this
Eastern way of thinking, amidst a great many pompous titles,
denominates himself "the sun of glory" and "the nutmeg of delight."
In short, to cut off all cavilling against the ancients, and
particularly those of the warmer climates, who had most heat and
life in their imaginations, we are to consider that the rule of
observing what the French call the bienseance in an allusion has
been found out of later years, and in the colder regions of the
world, where we could make some amends for our want of force and
spirit by a scrupulous nicety and exactness in our compositions.
Our countryman Shakespeare was a remarkable instance of this first
kind of great geniuses.

I cannot quit this head without observing that Pindar was a great
genius of the first class, who was hurried on by a natural fire and
impetuosity to vast conceptions of things and noble sallies of
imagination. At the same time can anything be more ridiculous than
for men of a sober and moderate fancy to imitate this poet's way of
writing in those monstrous compositions which go among us under the
name of Pindarics? When I see people copying works which, as Horace
has represented them, are singular in their kind, and inimitable;
when I see men following irregularities by rule, and by the little
tricks of art straining after the most unbounded flights of nature,
I cannot but apply to them that passage in Terence:

- Incerta haec si tu postules
Ratione certa facere, nihilo plus agas
Quam si des operam, ut cum ratione insanias.
Eun., Act I., Sc. 1, I. 16.

You may as well pretend to be mad and in your senses at the same
time, as to think of reducing these uncertain things to any
certainty by reason.

In short, a modern Pindaric writer compared with Pindar is like a
sister among the Camisars compared with Virgil's Sibyl; there is the
distortion, grimace, and outward figure, but nothing of that divine
impulse which raises the mind above itself, and makes the sounds
more than human.

There is another kind of great geniuses which I shall place in a
second class, not as I think them inferior to the first, but only
for distinction's sake, as they are of a different kind. This
second class of great geniuses are those that have formed themselves
by rules, and submitted the greatness of their natural talents to
the corrections and restraints of art. Such among the Greeks were
Plato and Aristotle; among the Romans, Virgil and Tully; among the
English, Milton and Sir Francis Bacon.

The genius in both these classes of authors may be equally great,
but shows itself after a different manner. In the first it is like
a rich soil in a happy climate, that produces a whole wilderness of
noble plants rising in a thousand beautiful landscapes without any
certain order or regularity; in the other it is the same rich soil,
under the same happy climate, that has been laid out in walks and
parterres, and cut into shape and beauty by the skill of the
gardener.

The great danger in these latter kind of geniuses is lest they cramp
their own abilities too much by imitation, and form themselves
altogether upon models, without giving the full play to their own
natural parts. An imitation of the best authors is not to compare
with a good original; and I believe we may observe that very few
writers make an extraordinary figure in the world who have not
something in their way of thinking or expressing themselves, that is
peculiar to them, and entirely their own.

It is odd to consider what great geniuses are sometimes thrown away
upon trifles.

"I once saw a shepherd," says a famous Italian author, "who used to
divert himself in his solitudes with tossing up eggs and catching
them again without breaking them; in which he had arrived to so
great a degree of perfection that he would keep up four at a time
for several minutes together playing in the air, and falling into
his hand by turns. I think," says the author, "I never saw a
greater severity than in this man's face, for by his wonderful
perseverance and application he had contracted the seriousness and
gravity of a privy councillor, and I could not but reflect with
myself that the same assiduity and attention, had they been rightly
applied, 'might' have made a greater mathematician than Archimedes."

THEODOSIUS AND CONSTANTIA.

Illa; Quis et me, inquit, miseram et te perdidit, Orpheu? -
Jamque vale: feror ingenti circumdata nocte,
Invalidasque tibi tendens, heu! non tua, palmas.
VIRG., Georg., iv. 494.

Then thus the bride: "What fury seiz'd on thee,
'Unhappy man! to lose thyself and me? -
And now farewell! involv'd in shades of night,
For ever I am ravish'd from thy sight:
In vain I reach my feeble hands, to join
In sweet embraces--ah! no longer thine!"
DRYDEN.

Constantia was a woman of extraordinary wit and beauty, but very
unhappy in a father who, having arrived at great riches by his own
industry, took delight in nothing but his money. Theodosius was the
younger son of a decayed family, of great parts and learning,
improved by a genteel and virtuous education. When he was in the
twentieth year of his age he became acquainted with Constantia, who
had not then passed her fifteenth. As he lived but a few miles
distant from her father's house, he had frequent opportunities of
seeing her; and, by the advantages of a good person and a pleasing
conversation, made such an impression in her heart as it was
impossible for time to efface. He was himself no less smitten with
Constantia. A long acquaintance made them still discover new
beauties in each other, and by degrees raised in them that mutual
passion which had an influence on their following lives. It
unfortunately happened that, in the midst of this intercourse of
love and friendship between Theodosius and Constantia, there broke
out an irreparable quarrel between their parents; the one valuing
himself too much upon his birth, and the other upon his possessions.
The father of Constantia was so incensed at the father of
Theodosius, that he contracted an unreasonable aversion towards his
son, insomuch that he forbade him his house, and charged his
daughter upon her duty never to see him more. In the meantime, to
break off all communication between the two lovers, who he knew
entertained secret hopes of some favourable opportunity that should
bring them together, he found out a young gentleman of a good
fortune and an agreeable person, whom he pitched upon as a husband
for his daughter. He soon concerted this affair so well, that he
told Constantia it was his design to marry her to such a gentleman,
and that her wedding should be celebrated on such a day.
Constantia, who was overawed with the authority of her father, and
unable to object anything against so advantageous a match, received
the proposal with a profound silence, which her father commended in
her, as the most decent manner of a virgin's giving her consent to
an overture of that kind. The noise of this intended marriage soon
reached Theodosius, who, after a long tumult of passions which
naturally rise in a lover's heart on such an occasion, wrote the
following letter to Constantia:-

"The thought of my Constantia, which for some years has been my only
happiness, is now become a greater torment to me than I am able to
bear. Must I then live to see you another's? The streams, the
fields, and meadows, where we have so often talked together, grow
painful to me; life itself is become a burden. May you long be
happy in the world, but forget that there was ever such a man in it
as

"THEODOSIUS."

This letter was conveyed to Constantia that very evening, who
fainted at the reading of it; and the next morning she was much more
alarmed by two or three messengers that came to her father's house,
one after another, to inquire if they had heard anything of
Theodosius, who, it seems, had left his chamber about midnight, and
could nowhere be found. The deep melancholy which had hung upon his
mind some time before made them apprehend the worst that could
befall him. Constantia, who knew that nothing but the report of her
marriage could have driven him to such extremities, was not to he
comforted. She now accused herself for having so tamely given an
ear to the proposal of a husband, and looked upon the new lover as
the murderer of Theodosius. In short, she resolved to suffer the
utmost effects of her father's displeasure rather than comply with a
marriage which appeared to her so full of guilt and horror. The
father, seeing himself entirely rid of Theodosius, and likely to
keep a considerable portion in his family, was not very much
concerned at the obstinate refusal of his daughter, and did not find
it very difficult to excuse himself upon that account to his
intended son-in-law, who had all along regarded this alliance rather
as a marriage of convenience than of love. Constantia had now no
relief but in her devotions and exercises of religion, to which her
affections had so entirely subjected her mind, that after some years
had abated the violence of her sorrows, and settled her thoughts in
a kind of tranquillity, she resolved to pass the remainder of her
days in a convent. Her father was not displeased with a resolution
which would save money in his family, and readily complied with his
daughter's intentions. Accordingly, in the twenty-fifth year of her
age, while her beauty was yet in all its height and bloom, he
carried her to a neighbouring city, in order to look out a
sisterhood of nuns among whom to place his daughter. There was in
this place a father of a convent who was very much renowned for his
piety and exemplary life: and as it is usual in the Romish Church
for those who are under any great affliction, or trouble of mind, to
apply themselves to the most eminent confessors for pardon and
consolation, our beautiful votary took the opportunity of confessing
herself to this celebrated father.

We must now return to Theodosius, who, the very morning that the
above-mentioned inquiries had been made after him, arrived at a
religious house in the city where now Constantia resided; and
desiring that secrecy and concealment of the fathers of the convent,
which is very usual upon any extraordinary occasion, he made himself
one of the order, with a private vow never to inquire after
Constantia; whom he looked upon as given away to his rival upon the
day on which, according to common fame, their marriage was to have
been solemnised. Having in his youth made a good progress in
learning, that he might dedicate himself more entirely to religion,
he entered into holy orders, and in a few years became renowned for
his sanctity of life, and those pious sentiments which he inspired
into all who conversed with him. It was this holy man to whom
Constantia had determined to apply herself in confession, though
neither she nor any other, besides the prior of the convent, knew
anything of his name or family. The gay, the amiable Theodosius had
now taken upon him the name of Father Francis, and was so far
concealed in a long beard, a shaven head, and a religious habit,
that it was impossible to discover the man of the world in the
venerable conventual.

As he was one morning shut up in his confessional, Constantia
kneeling by him opened the state of her soul to him; and after
having given him the history of a life full of innocence, she burst
out into tears, and entered upon that part of her story in which he
himself had so great a share. "My behaviour," says she, "has, I
fear, been the death of a man who had no other fault but that of
loving me too much. Heaven only knows how dear he was to me whilst
he lived, and how bitter the remembrance of him has been to me since
his death." She here paused, and lifted up her eyes that streamed
with tears towards the father, who was so moved with the sense of
her sorrows that he could only command his voice, which was broken
with sighs and sobbings, so far as to bid her proceed. She followed
his directions, and in a flood of tears poured out her heart before
him. The father could not forbear weeping aloud, insomuch that, in
the agonies of his grief, the seat shook under him. Constantia, who
thought the good man was thus moved by his compassion towards her,
and by the horror of her guilt, proceeded with the utmost contrition
to acquaint him with that vow of virginity in which she was going to
engage herself, as the proper atonement for her sins, and the only
sacrifice she could make to the memory of Theodosius. The father,
who by this time had pretty well composed himself, burst out again
in tears upon hearing that name to which he had been so long
disused, and upon receiving this instance of an unparalleled
fidelity from one who he thought had several years since given
herself up to the possession of another. Amidst the interruptions
of his sorrow, seeing his penitent overwhelmed with grief, he was
only able to bid her from time to time be comforted--to tell her
that her sins were forgiven her--that her guilt was not so great as
she apprehended--that she should not suffer herself to be afflicted
above measure. After which he recovered himself enough to give her
the absolution in form: directing her at the same time to repair to
him again the next day, that he might encourage her in the pious
resolution she had taken, and give her suitable exhortations for her
behaviour in it. Constantia retired, and the next morning renewed
her applications. Theodosius, having manned his soul with proper
thoughts and reflections, exerted himself on this occasion in the
best manner he could to animate his penitent in the course of life
she was entering upon, and wear out of her mind those groundless
fears and apprehensions which had taken possession of it; concluding
with a promise to her, that he would from time to time continue his
admonitions when she should have taken upon her the holy veil. "The
rules of our respective orders," says he, "will not permit that I
should see you; but you may assure yourself not only of having a
place in my prayers, but of receiving such frequent instructions as
I can convey to you by letters. Go on cheerfully in the glorious
course you have undertaken, and you will quickly find such a peace
and satisfaction in your mind which it is not in the power of the
world to give."

Constantia's heart was so elevated within the discourse of Father
Francis, that the very next day she entered upon her vow. As soon
as the solemnities of her reception were over, she retired, as it is
usual, with the abbess into her own apartment.

The abbess had been informed the night before of all that had passed
between her novitiate and father Francis: from whom she now
delivered to her the following letter:-

"As the first-fruits of those joys and consolations which you may
expect from the life you are now engaged in, I must acquaint you
that Theodosius, whose death sits so heavy upon your thoughts, is
still alive; and that the father to whom you have confessed yourself
was once that Theodosius whom you so much lament. The love which we
have had for one another will make us more happy in its
disappointment than it could have done in its success. Providence
has disposed of us for our advantage, though not according to our
wishes. Consider your Theodosius still as dead, but assure yourself
of one who will not cease to pray for you in father

"FRANCIS."

Constantia saw that the handwriting agreed with the contents of the
letter; and, upon reflecting on the voice of the person, the
behaviour, and above all the extreme sorrow of the father during her
confession, she discovered Theodosius in every particular. After
having wept with tears of joy, "It is enough," says she; "Theodosius
is still in being: I shall live with comfort and die in peace."

The letters which the father sent her afterwards are yet extant in
the nunnery where she resided; and are often read to the young
religious, in order to inspire them with good resolutions and
sentiments of virtue. It so happened that after Constantia had
lived about ten years in the cloister, a violent fever broke out in
the place, which swept away great multitudes, and among others
Theodosius. Upon his death-bed he sent his benediction in a very
moving manner to Constantia, who at that time was herself so far
gone in the same fatal distemper that she lay delirious. Upon the
interval which generally precedes death in sickness of this nature,
the abbess, finding that the physicians had given her over, told her
that Theodosius had just gone before her, and that he had sent her
his benediction in his last moments. Constantia received it with
pleasure. "And now," says she, "if I do not ask anything improper,
let me be buried by Theodosius. My vow reaches no further than the
grave; what I ask is, I hope, no violation of it." She died soon
after, and was interred according to her request.

The tombs are still to be seen, with a short Latin inscription over
them to the following purpose:-

"Here lie the bodies of Father Francis and Sister Constance. They
were lovely in their lives, and in their death they were not
divided."

GOOD NATURE.

Sic vita erat: facile omnes perferre ac pati:
Cum quibus erat cunque una, his sese dedere,
Eorum obsequi studiis: advorsus nemini;
Nunquam praeponens se aliis. Ita facillime
Sine invidia invenias laudem. -
TER., Andr., Act i. se. 1.

His manner of life was this: to bear with everybody's humours; to
comply with the inclinations and pursuits of those he conversed
with; to contradict nobody; never to assume a superiority over
others. This is the ready way to gain applause without exciting
envy.

Man is subject to innumerable pains and sorrows by the very
condition of humanity, and yet, as if Nature had not sown evils
enough in life, we are continually adding grief to grief, and
aggravating the common calamity by our cruel treatment of one
another. Every man's natural weight of affliction is still made
more heavy by the envy, malice, treachery, or injustice of his
neighbour. At the same time that the storm beats on the whole
species, we are falling foul upon one another.

Half the misery of human life might be extinguished, would men
alleviate the general curse they lie under, by mutual offices of
compassion, benevolence, and humanity. There is nothing, therefore,
which we ought more to encourage in ourselves and others, than that
disposition of mind which in our language goes under the title of
good nature, and which I shall choose for the subject of this day's
speculation.

Good-nature is more agreeable in conversation than wit, and gives a
certain air to the countenance which is more amiable than beauty.
It shows virtue in the fairest light, takes off in some measure from
the deformity of vice, and makes even folly and impertinence
supportable.

There is no society or conversation to be kept up in the world
without good nature, or something which must bear its appearance,
and supply its place. For this reason, mankind have been forced to
invent a kind of artificial humanity, which is what we express by
the word good-breeding. For if we examine thoroughly the idea of
what we call so, we shall find it to be nothing else but an
imitation and mimicry of good nature, or, in other terms,
affability, complaisance, and easiness of temper, reduced into an
art. These exterior shows and appearances of humanity render a man
wonderfully popular and beloved, when they are founded upon a real
good nature; but, without it, are like hypocrisy in religion, or a
bare form of holiness, which, when it is discovered, makes a man
more detestable than professed impiety.

Good-nature is generally born with us: health, prosperity, and kind
treatment from the world, are great cherishers of it where they find
it; but nothing is capable of forcing it up, where it does not grow
of itself. It is one of the blessings of a happy constitution,
which education may improve, but not produce.

Xenophon, in the life of his imaginary prince whom he describes as a
pattern for real ones, is always celebrating the philanthropy and
good nature of his hero, which he tells us he brought into the world
with him; and gives many remarkable instances of it in his
childhood, as well as in all the several parts of his life. Nay, on
his death-bed, he describes him as being pleased, that while his
soul returned to Him who made it, his body should incorporate with
the great mother of all things, and by that means become beneficial
to mankind. For which reason, he gives his sons a positive order
not to enshrine it in gold or silver, but to lay it in the earth as
soon as the life was gone out of it.

An instance of such an overflowing of humanity, such an exuberant
love to mankind, could not have entered into the imagination of a
writer who had not a soul filled with great ideas, and a general
benevolence to mankind.

In that celebrated passage of Sallust, where Caesar and Cato are
placed in such beautiful but opposite lights, Caesar's character is
chiefly made up of good nature, as it showed itself in all its forms
towards his friends or his enemies, his servants or dependents, the
guilty or the distressed. As for Cato's character, it is rather
awful than amiable. Justice seems most agreeable to the nature of
God, and mercy to that of man. A Being who has nothing to pardon in
Himself, may reward every man according to his works; but he whose
very best actions must be seen with grains of allowance, cannot be
too mild, moderate, and forgiving. For this reason, among all the
monstrous characters in human nature, there is none so odious, nor
indeed so exquisitely ridiculous, as that of a rigid, severe temper
in a worthless man.

This part of good nature however, which consists in the pardoning
and overlooking of faults, is to be exercised only in doing
ourselves justice, and that too in the ordinary commerce and
occurrences of life; for, in the public administrations of justice,
mercy to one may be cruelty to others.

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