"The muse has broke the twilight gloom, "She deigns to bear the savage youth repeat, "In loose numbers wildly sweet, "Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. "Glory pursue, and generous shame, "Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame." I cannot help remarking further, the effect of the solemn and uniform flow of the verse in this exquisite stanza, in retarding the pronunciation of the reader; so as to arrest his attention to every successive picture, till it has time to produce its proper impression. More of the charm of poetical rhythm arises from this circumstance, than is commonly imagined. To those who wish to study the theory of poetical expression, no author in our language affords a richer variety of illustrations than the poet last quoted. His merits, in many other respects, are great; but his skill in this particular is more peculiarly conspicuous. How much he had made the principles of this branch of his art an object of study, appears from his letters published by Mr. Mason. I have sometimes thought, that, in the last line of the following passage, he had in view the two different effects of words already described; the effect of some, in awakening the powers of Conception and Imagination; and that of others, in exciting associated emotions: Continuation of the same Subject.-Relation of Imagination and of Taste to Genius. FROM the remarks made in the foregoing Sections, it is obvious, in what manner a person accustomed to analyze and combine his conceptions, may acquire an idea of beauties superiour to any which he has seen realized. It may also be easily inferred, that a habit of forming such intellectual combinations, and of remarking their effects on our own minds, must contribute to refine and to exalt the Taste, to a degree which it never can attain in those men, who study to improve it by the observation and comparison of external objects only. A cultivated Taste, combined with a creative Imagination, constitutes Genius in the Fine Arts. Without taste, imagination could produce only a random analysis and combination of our conceptions; and without imagination, taste would be destitute of the faculty of invention. These two ingredients of genius may be mixed together in all possible proportions; and where either is possessed in a degree remarkably exceeding what falls to the ordinary share of mankind, it may compensate in some measure for a deficiency in the other. An uncommonly correct taste, with little imagination, if it does not produce works which excite admiration, produces at least nothing which can offend. An uncommon fertility of imagination even when it offends, excites our wonder by its creative powers; and shews what it could have performed, had its exertions been guided by a more perfect model. In the infancy of the Arts, a union of these two powers in the same mind is necessary for the production of every work of genius. Taste, without imagination, is, in such a situation, impossible; for, as there are no monuments of ancient genius on which it can be formed, it must be the result of experiments, which nothing but the imagination of every individual can enable him to make. Such a taste must necessarily be imperfect, in consequence of the limited experience of which it is the result; but, without imagination, it could not have been acquired even in this imperfect degree. The In the progress of the Arts the case comes to be altered. productions of genius accumulate to such an extent, that taste may be formed by a careful study of the works of others; and, as formerly imagination had served as a necessary foundation for taste, so taste begins now to invade the province of imagination. The combinations which the latter faculty has been employed in making, during a long succession of ages, approach to infinity; and present such ample materials to a judicious selection, that with a high standard of excellence, continually present to the thoughts, industry, assisted by the most moderate degree of imagination, will, in time, produce performances, not only more free from faults, but incomparably more powerful in their effects, than the most original efforts of untutored genius, which, guided by an uncultivated taste, copies after an inferiour model of perfection. What Reynolds observes of Painting, may be applied to all the other Fine arts; that," as the "Painter, by bringing together in one piece, those beauties, which "are dispersed amongst a great variety of individuals, produces a "figure more beautiful that can be found in nature; so that artist "who can unite in himself the excellencies of the various painters, "will approach nearer to perfection than any of his masters."* of organ le vien SECTION IV. Of the Influence of Imagination on Human Character and Happiness. HITHERTO We have considered the as it is connected with the Fine Arts. power of Imagination chiefly But it deserves our attention • Page 152. cats? still more, on account of its extensive influence on human character and happiness. The lower animals, as far as we are able to judge, are entirely occupied with the objects of their present perceptions: and the case is nearly the same with the inferiour orders of our own species. One of the principal effects which a liberal education produces on the mind, is to accustom us to withdraw our attention from the objects of sense, and to direct it, at pleasure, to those intellectual combinations which delight the imagination. Even, however, among men of cultivated understandings, this faculty is possessed in very unequal degrees by different individuals; and these differences (whether resulting from original constitution or from early education) lay the foundation of some striking varieties in human character. What we commonly call sensibility, depends, in a great measure, on the power of imagination. Point out to two men, any object of compassion;—a man, for example, reduced by misfortune from easy circumstances to indigence. The one feels merely in proportion to what he perceives by his senses. The other follows, in imagination, the unfortunate man to his dwelling, and partakes with him and his family in their domestic distresses. He listens to their con As versation, while they recall to remembrance the flattering prospects This is beautifully illustrated in the Sentimental Journey of Sterne. While engaged in a train of reflections on the State Prisons in France, the accidental sight of a starling in a cage suggests to him the idea of a captive in his dungeon. He indulges his imagination, "and looks through the twilight of the grated door to take the pic"ture." 66 "I beheld," (says he,) "his body half-wasted away with long ex"pectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the "heart it is, which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish in thirty years the western "breeze had not once fanned his blood: he had seen no sun, no 66 moon, in all that time, nor had the voice of friend or kinsman "breathed through his lattice.- -His children-But here my "heart began to bleed, and I was forced to go on with another part "of the portrait. "He was sitting upon the ground, in the farthest corner of his 66 dungeon, on a little straw, which was alternately his chair and bed: 66 a little calendar of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all 66 over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there;-he "had one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I dark"ened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards "the door, then cast it down-shook his head, and went on with his "work of affliction." The foregoing observations may account, in part, for the effect which exhibitions of fictitious distress produce on some persons, who do not discover much sensibility to the distresses of real life. In a Novel, or a Tragedy, the picture is completely finished in all its parts; and we are made acquainted not only with every circumstance on which the distress turns, but with the sentiments and feelings of every character with respect to his situation. In real life we see, in general, only detached scenes of the Tragedy; and the impression is slight, unless imagination finishes the characters, and supplies the incidents that are wanting. It is not only to scenes of distress that imagination increases our sensibility. It gives us a double share in the prosperity of others, and enables us to partake, with a more lively interest, in every fortunate incident that occurs either to individuals or to communities. Even from the productions of the earth, and the vicissitudes of the year, it carries forward our thoughts to the enjoyments they bring to the sensitive creation, and by interesting our benevolent affections in the scenes we behold, lends a new charm to the beauties of nature. I have often been inclined to think, that the apparent coldness and selfishness of mankind may be traced, in a great measure, to a want of attention and a want of imagination. In the case of misfortunes which happen to ourselves, or to our near connexions, neither of these powers is necessary to make us acquainted with our situation; so that we feel, of necessity, the correspondent emotions. But without an uncommon degree of both, it is impossible for any man to comprehend completely the situation of his neighbour, or to have an idea of a great part of the distress which exists in the world. If we feel therefore more for ourselves than for others, the difference is to be ascribed, at least partly, to this; that, in the former case, the facts which are the foundation of our feelings, are more fully before us than they possibly can be in the latter. In order to prevent misapprehensions of my meaning, it is necessary for me to add, that I do not mean to deny that it is a law of our nature, in cases in which there is an interference between our own interest and that of other men, to give a certain degree of preference to ourselves; even supposing our neighbour's situation to be as completely known to us as our own. I only affirm, that, where this preference becomes blamable and unjust, the effect is to be accounted for partly in the way I mentioned.* One striking proof of * I say partly; for habits of inattention to the situation of other men undoubtedly presuppose some defect in the social affections. this is, the powerful emotions which may be occasionally excited in the minds of the most callous, when the attention has been once fixed, and the imagination awakened, by eloquent and circumstantial and pathetic description. 66 A very amiable and profound moralist, in the account which he has given of the origin of our sense of justice, has, I think, drawn a less pleasing picture of the natural constitution of the human mind, than is agreeable to truth. "To disturb," (say she,) "the happiness "of our neighbour, merely because it stands in the way of our own; "to take from him what is of real use to him, merely because it 66 may be of equal or of more use to us; or, to indulge, in this man"mer, at the expense of other people, the natural preference which every man has for his own happiness above that of other people, "is what no impartial spectator can go along with. Every man is, 66 no doubt, first and principally recommended to his own care; and as he is fitter to take care of himself than of any other person, it "is fit and right that it should be so. Every man, therefore, is much "more deeply interested in whatever immediately concerns himself, "than in what concerns any other man and to hear, perhaps, of the "death of another person with whom we have no particular con"nexion, will give us less concern, will spoil our stomach, or break our rest, much less than a very insignificant disaster which has be"fallen ourselves. But though the ruin of our neighbour may affect "us much less than a very small misfortune of our own, we must "not ruin him to prevent that small misfortune, nor even to prevent our own ruin. We must here, as in all other cases, view ourselves "not so much according to that light in which we may naturally ap66 pear to ourselves, as according to that in which we naturally ap66 pear to others.-Though every man may, according to the pro"verb, be the whole world to himself, to the rest of mankind he is a "most insignificant part of it. Though his own happiness may be of 66 more importance to him than that of all the world besides, to every "other person it is of no more consequence than that of any other man. Though it may be true, therefore, that every individual, in "his own breast, naturally prefers himself to all mankind, yet he "dares not look mankind in the face, and avow that he acts accord"ing to this principle. He feels that in this preference they can 66 never go along with him, and that how natural soever it may be "to him, it must always appear excessive and extravagant to them. "When he views himself in the light in which he is conscious that "others will view him, he sees that to them he is but one of the "multitude, in no respect better than any other in it. If he would "act so as that the impartial spectator may enter into the principles "of his conduct, which is what of all things he has the greatest de"sire to do, he must, upon this, as upon all other occasions, humble "the arrogance of his self-love, and bring it down to something "which other men can go along with." 66 66 I am ready to acknowledge, that there is much truth in this passage; and that a prudential regard to the opinion of others, might |