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the tendency of external situation to store the mind with a multiplicity of Conceptions; and the beauty of these combinations will depend entirely on the success with which the power of Taste has been cultivated. What we call, therefore, the power of Imagination, is not the gift of nature, but the result of acquired habits, aided by favourable circumstances. It is not an original endowment of the mind, but an accomplishment formed by experience and situation; and which, in its different gradations, fills up all the interval between the first efforts of untutored genius, and the sublime creations of Raphael or of Milton.

An uncommon degree of Imagination constitutes poetical genius; a talent which, although chiefly displayed in poetical composition, is also the foundation (though not precisely in the same manner) of various other Arts. A few remarks on the relation which Imagination bears to some of the most interesting of these, will throw additional light on its nature and office.

SECTION II.

Of Imagination considered in its Relation to some of the Fine Arts.

AMONG the Arts connected with Imagination, some not only take their rise from this power, but produce objects which are addressed to it. Others take their rise from Imagination, but produce objects which are addressed to the power of Perception.

To the latter of these two classes of Arts, belongs that of Gardening; or, as it has been lately called, the art of creating Landscape. In this Art, the designer is limited in his creation by nature; and his only province is to correct, to improve, and to adorn. As he cannot repeat his experiments, in order to observe the effect, he must call up, in his imagination, the scene which he means to produce; and apply to this ima ginary scene his taste and his judgment; or, in other words, to a lively conception of visible objects, he must add a power (which long experience and attentive observation alone can give him,) of judging beforehand, of the effect which they would produce if they were actually ex hibited to his senses. This power forms what Lord Chatham beautifully and expressively called, the Prophetic eye of Taste; that eye which (if I may borrow the language of Mr. Gray,) "sees all the beauties that a place is susceptible of, long before they are born; and when it plants "a seedling, already sits under the shade of it, and enjoys the effect it "will have, from every point of view that lies in the prospect."* But although the artist who creates a landscape, copies it from his imagination, the scene which he exhibits is addressed to the senses, and may produce its full effect on the minds of others, without any effort on their part, either of imagination or of conception.

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To prevent being misunderstood, it is necessary for me to remark, that, in the last observation, I speak merely of the natural effects produced by a landscape, and abstracted entirely from the pleasure which may result from an accidental association of ideas with a particular The effect resulting from such associations will depend, in a great measure, on the liveliness with which the associated objects are conceived, and on the affecting nature of the pictures which a creative

scene.

* GRAY's Works, by Mason, p. 277.

imagination, when once roused, will present to the mind; but the pleasures thus arising from the accidental exercise that a landscape may give to the imagination, must not be confounded with those which it is naturally fitted to produce.

In Painting, (excepting in those instances in which it exhibits a faithful copy of a particular object,) the original idea must be formed in the imagination, and, in most cases, the exercise of imagination must concur with perception, before the picture can produce that effect on the mind of the spectator which the artist has in view. Painting, therefore, does not belong entirely to either of the two classes of Arts formerly mentioned, but has something in common with them both.

As far as the Painter aims at copying exactly what he sees, he may be guided mechanically by general rules; and he requires no aid from that creative genius which is characteristical of the Poet. The pleasure, however, which results from painting, considered merely as an imitative art, is extremely trifling; and is specifically different from that which it aims to produce, by awakening the imagination. Even in portrait-painting, the servile copyist of nature is regarded in no higher light than that of a tradesman. "Deception," (as Reynolds has excellently observed,)" instead of advancing the art, is, in reality, carrying it back ❝to its infant state. The first essays of Painting were certainly nothing "but mere imitations of individual objects; and when this amounted "to a deception, the artist had accomplished his purpose."* When the history or the landscape Painter indulges his genius, in forming new combinations of his own, he vies with the Poet in the noblest exertion of the poetical art: and he avails himself of his professional skill, as the Poet avails himself of language, only to convey the ideas in his mind. To deceive the eye by accurate representations of particular forms, is no longer his aim; but, by the touches of an expressive pencil, to speak to the imaginations of others. Imitation, therefore, is not the end which he proposes to himself, but the means which he employs in order to accomplish it: nay, if the imitation be carried so far as to preclude all exercise of the spectator's imagination, it will disappoint, in a great measure, the purpose of the artist.

In Poetry, and in every other species of composition, in which one person attempts, by means of language, to present to the mind of another, the objects of his own imagination, this power is necessary, though not in the same degree, to the author and to the reader. When we peruse a description, we naturally feel a disposition to form, in our own minds, a distinct picture of what is described; and in proportion to the attention and interest which the subject excites, the picture becomes steady and determinate. It is scarcely possible for us to hear much of a particular town, without forming some notion of its figure and size and situation; and in reading history and poetry, I believe it seldom happens, that we do not annex imaginary appearances to the names of our favourite characters. It is, at the same time, almost certain, that the imaginations of no two men coincide upon such occasions; and, therefore, though both may be pleased, the agreeable impressions which they feel, may be widely different from each other

*Notes on MASON's Translation of FRESNOr's Poem on the Art of Painting, P. 114.

according as the pictures by which they are produced are more or less happily imagined. Hence it is, that when a person accustomed to dramatic reading sees, for the first time, one of his favourite characters represented on the stage, he is generally dissatisfied with the exhibition, however eminent the actor may be; and if he should happen, before this representation, to have been familiarly acquainted with the character, the case may continue to be the same through life. For my own part, I have never received from any Falstaff on the stage, half the pleasure which Shakspeare gives me in the closet; and I am persuaded, that I should feel some degree of uneasiness, if I were present at any attempt to personate the figure or the voice of Don Quixote or Sancho Panca. It is not always that the actor, on such occasions, falls short of our expectation. He disappoints us, by exhibiting something different from what our imagination had anticipated, and which consequently appears to us, at the moment, to be an unfaithful representation of the Poet's idea and until a frequent repetition of the performance has completely obliterated our former impressions, it is impossible for us to form an adequate estimate of its merit.

Similar observations may be applied to other subjects. The sight of any natural scene, or of any work of art, provided we have not previously heard of it, commonly produces a greater effect, at first, than ever afterwards: but if, in consequence of a description, we have been led to form a previous notion of it, I apprehend, the effect will be found less pleasing, the first time it is seen, than the second. Although the description should fall short greatly of the reality, yet the disappointment which we feel, on meeting with something different from what we expected, diminishes our satisfaction. The second time we see the scene, the effect of novelty is indeed less than before; but it is still considerable, and the imagination now anticipates nothing which is not realized in the perception.

The remarks which have been made, afford a satisfactory reason why so few are to be found who have a genuine relish for the beauties of poetry. The designs of Kent and of Brown evince in their authors a degree of imagination entirely analogous to that of a descriptive Poet; but when they are once executed, their beauties (excepting those which result from association) meet the eye of every spectator. In poetry the effect is inconsiderable, unless upon a mind which possesses some degree of the author's genius; a mind amply furnished, by its previous habits, with the means of interpreting the language which he employs; and able by its own imagination, to co-operate with the efforts of his art. It has been often remarked, that the general words which express complex ideas, seldom convey precisely the same meaning to different individuals, and that hence arises much of the ambiguity of language. The same observation holds, in no inconsiderable degree, with respect to the names of sensible objects. When the words River, Mountain, Grove, occur in a description, a person of lively conceptions naturally thinks of some particular river, mountain, and grove, that have made an impression on his mind; and whatever the notions are, which he is led by his imagination to form of these objects, they must necessarily approach to the standard of what he has seen. Hence it is evident that, according to the different habits and education of individuals, aç

cording to the liveliness of their conceptions, and according to the creative power of their imaginations, the same words will produce very different effects on different minds. When a person who has received his education in the country, reads a description of a rural retirement; the house, the river, the woods, to which he was first accustomed, present themselves spontaneously to his conception, accompanied, perhaps, with the recollection of his early friendships, and all those pleasing ideas which are commonly associated with the scenes of childhood and of youth. How different is the effect of the description upon his mind, from what it would produce on one who has passed his tender years at a distance from the beauties of nature, and whose infant sports are connected in his memory with the gloomy alleys of a commercial city!

But it is not only in interpreting the particular words of a description, that the powers of Imagination and Conception are employed.They are farther necessary for filling up the different parts of that picture, of which the most minute describer can only trace the outline. In the best description, there is much left to the reader to supply: and the effect which it produces on his mind will depend, in a considerable degree, on the invention and taste with which the picture is finished. It is therefore possible, on the one hand, that the happiest efforts of poetical genius may be perused with perfect indifference by a man of sound judgment, and not destitute of natural sensibility; and on the other hand, that a cold and common-place description may be the means of awakening, in a rich and glowing imagination, a degree of enthusiasm unknown to the author.

All the different arts which I have hitherto mentioned as taking their rise from the imagination, have this in common, that their primary object is to please. This observation applies to the art of Poetry no less than to the others; nay, it is this circumstance which characterizes Poetry, and distinguishes it from all the other classes of literary composition. The object of the Philosopher is to inform and enlighten mankind; that of the Orator, to acquire an ascendant over the will of others, by bending to his own purposes their judgments, their imaginations, and their passions: but the primary and the distinguishing aim of the Poet is to please; and the principal resource which he possesses for this purpose, is by addressing the imagination. Sometimes, indeed, he may seem to encroach on the province of the Philosopher or of the Orator; but, in these instances, he only borrows from them the means by which he accomplishes his end. If he attempts to enlighten and to inform, he addresses the understanding only as a vehicle of pleasure: if he makes an appeal to the passions, it is only to passions which it is pleasing to indulge. The Philosopher, in like manner, in order to accomplish his end of instruction, may find it expedient, occasionally to amuse the imagination, or to make an appeal to the passions: the Orator may, at one time, state to his hearers a process of reasoning; at another, a calm narrative of facts; and, at a third, he may give the reigns to poetical fancy. But still the ultimate end of the Philosopher is to instruct, and of the Orator to persuade; and whatever means they make use of, which are not subservient to this purpose, are out of place, and obstruct the effect of their labours.

The measured composition in which the Poet expresses himself, is only one of the means which he employs to please. As the delight

VOL. I.

31

which he conveys to the imagination, is heightened by the other agreeable impressions which he can unite in the mind at the same time; he studies to bestow, upon the medium of communication which he employs, all the various beauties of which it is susceptible. Among these beauties, the harmony of numbers is not the least powerful; for its effect is constant, and does not interfere with any of the other pleasures which language produces. A succession of agreeable perceptions is kept up by the organical effects of words upon the ear; while they inform the understanding by their perspicuity and precision, or please the imagination by the pictures they suggest, or touch the heart by the associations they awaken. Of all these charms of language the Poet may avail himself; and they are all so many instruments of his art. To the Philosopher and the Orator they may occasionally be of use: and to both they must be constantly so far an object of attention, that nothing may occur in their compositions, which may distract the thoughts, by offending either the ear or the taste; but the Poet must not rest satisfied with this negative praise. Pleasure is the end of his art; and the more numerous the sources of it which he can open, the greater will be the effect produced by the efforts of his genius.

The province of the poet is limited only by the variety of human enjoyments. Whatever is in reality subservient to our happiness, is a source of pleasure, when presented to our conceptions, and may sometimes derive from the heightenings of imagination a momentary charm, which we exchange with reluctance for the substantial gratifications of the senses. The province of the painter, and of the statuary, is confined to the imitation of visible objects, and to the exhibition of such intellectual and moral qualities, as the human body is fitted to express. In ornamental architecture, and in ornamental gardening, the sole aim of the artist is to give pleasure to the eye, by the beauty or sublimity of material forms. But to the poet all the glories of external nature; all that is amiable or interesting, or respectable in human character; all that excites and engages our benevolent affections; all those truths which make the heart feel itself better and more happy; all these supply materials, out of which he forms and peoples a world of his own, where no inconveniences damp our enjoyments, and where no clouds darken our prospects.

That the pleasures of poetry arise chiefly from the agreeable feelings which it conveys to the mind, by awakening the imagination, is a proposition which may seem too obvious to stand in need of proof. As the ingenious Inquirer, however, into "The Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful," has disputed the common notions upon this subject, I shall consider some of the principal arguments by which he has supported his opinion.

The leading principle of the theory which I am now to examine is, "that the common effect of poetry is not to raise ideas of things;" or, as I would rather choose to express it, its common effect is not to give exercise to the powers of conception and imagination. That I may not be accused of misrepresentation, I shall state the doctrine at length in the words of the author. "If words have all their possible extent of "power, three effects arise in the mind of the hearer. The first is the "sound; the second, the picture, or representation of the thing signified

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