There seems to be an opinion gaining ground fast, in spite of all the
shaking of conventional heads, that the Poets of the present day are
equal to all others, excepting one: however this may be, it is
certain we are not fair judges, because of the natural reason stated
before; and there is decidedly one great fault in the moderns, that
not only do they study models with which they can never become
intimately acquainted, but that they neglect, or rather reject as
worthless, that which they alone can carry on with perfect success: I
mean the knowledge of themselves, and the characteristics of their
own actual living. Thus, if a modern Poet or Artist (the latter much
more culpably errs) seeks a subject exemplifying charity, he rambles
into ancient Greece or Rome, awakening not one half the sympathy in
the spectator, as do such incidents as may be seen in the streets
every day. For instance; walking with a friend the other day, we met
an old woman, exceedingly dirty, restlessly pattering along the kerb
of a crowded thoroughfare, trying to cross: her eyes were always
wandering here and there, and her mouth was never still; her object
was evident, but for my own part, I must needs be fastidious and
prefer to allow her to take the risk of being run over, to overcoming
my own disgust.
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