The Inventors, who inherited little or nothing from their predecessors, appear to have pursued their insulated studies in the full independence of their mind and development of their inventive faculty; they stood apart, in seclusion, the solitary lights of their age.  Such were the founders of our literature—­Bacon and Hobbes, Newton and Milton.  Even so late as the days of Dryden, Addison, and Pope, the man of genius drew his circle round his intimates; his day was uniform, his habits unbroken; and he was never too far removed, nor too long estranged from meditation and reverie:  his works were the sources of his pleasure ere they became the labours of his pride.

But when a more uniform light of knowledge illuminates from all sides, the genius of society, made up of so many sorts of genius, becomes greater than the genius of the individual who has entirely yielded himself up to his solitary art.  Hence the character of a man of genius becomes subordinate.  A conversation age succeeds a studious one; and the family of genius, the poet, the painter, and the student, are no longer recluses.  They mix with their rivals, who are jealous of equality, or with others who, incapable of valuing them for themselves alone, rate them but as parts of an integral.

The man of genius is now trammelled with the artificial and mechanical forms of life; and in too close an intercourse with society, the loneliness and raciness of thinking is modified away in its seductive conventions.  An excessive indulgence in the pleasures of social life constitutes the great interests of a luxuriant and opulent age; but of late, while the arts of assembling in large societies have been practised, varied by all forms, and pushed on to all excesses, it may become a question whether by them our happiness is as much improved, or our individual character as well formed as in a society not so heterogeneous and unsocial as that crowd termed, with the sort of modesty peculiar to our times, “a small party:”  the simplicity of parade, the humility of pride engendered by the egotism which multiplies itself in proportion to the numbers it assembles.

It may, too, be a question whether the literary man and the artist are not immolating their genius to society when, in the shadowiness of assumed talents—­that counterfeiting of all shapes—­they lose their real form, with the mockery of Proteus.  But nets of roses catch their feet, and a path, where all the senses are flattered, is now opened to win an Epictetus from his hut.  The art of multiplying the enjoyments of society is discovered in the morning lounge, the evening dinner, and the midnight coterie.  In frivolous fatigues, and vigils without meditation, perish the unvalued hours which, true genius knows, are always too brief for art, and too rare to catch its inspirations.  Hence so many of our contemporaries, whose card-racks are crowded, have produced only flashy fragments.  Efforts, but not works—­they seem to be effects without causes; and as a great author, who is not one of them, once observed to me, “They waste a barrel of gunpowder in squibs.”