must surely have left much
unobserved. I have lived, till now, within the circuit of these mountains, and
yet cannot walk abroad without the sight of something which I had never beheld
before, or never heeded.«
    »The business of a poet, said Imlac, is to examine, not the individual, but
the species; to remark general properties and large appearances: he does not
number the streaks of the tulip, or describe the different shades in the verdure
of the forest. He is to exhibit in his portraits of nature such prominent and
striking features, as recall the original to every mind; and must neglect the
minuter discriminations, which one may have remarked, and another have
neglected, for those characteristicks which are alike obvious to vigilance and
carelessness.
    But the knowledge of nature is only half the task of a poet; he must be
acquainted likewise with all the modes of life. His character requires that he
estimate the happiness and misery of every condition; observe the power of all
the passions in all their combinations, and trace the changes of the human mind
as they are modified by various institutions and accidental influences of
climate or custom, from the spriteliness of infancy to the despondence of
decrepitude. He must divest himself of the prejudices of his age or country; he
must consider right and wrong in their abstracted and invariable state; he must
disregard present laws and opinions, and rise to general and transcendental
truths, which, will always be the same: he must therefore content himself with
the slow progress of his name; contemn the applause of his own time, and commit
his claims to the justice of posterity. He must write as the interpreter of
nature, and the legislator of mankind, and consider himself as presiding over
the thoughts and manners of future generations; as a being superiour to time and
place.
    His labour is not yet at an end: he must know many languages and many
sciences; and, that his stile may be worthy of his thoughts, must, by incessant
practice, familiarize to himself every delicacy of speech and grace of harmony.«
 

                                   Chapter XI

               Imlac's narrative continued. A hint on pilgrimage

Imlac now felt the enthusiastic fit, and was proceeding to aggrandize his own
profession, when the prince cried out, »Enough! Thou hast convinced me, that no
human being can ever be a poet. Proceed with thy narration.«
    »To be a poet, said Imlac, is indeed very difficult.« »So difficult,
returned the prince, that I will at present hear no more of his labours. Tell me
whither you went