CHAPTER IV.

IMAGINATION.

"Not willingly in his presence would I behold the sun setting behind our mountains, or listen to a tale of distress or virtue; I should be ashamed of the quiet tear on my own cheek."-COLERIDGE.

THE word Imagination has been perverted from its true signification, and used in various others. In common parlance, it stands for memory and for conception. For example: "I cannot imagine what you said to me yesterday," for, "I cannot remember." "I have not seen my most intimate friend for a year, and cannot imagine how she looks," meaning, "I cannot conceive," &c. We say, too, when we are lost in thought, that something occupies our imagination, when it is in fact an act of reflection. Metaphysicians describe imagination as that power of the mind which is exerted in the selection and formation of new combinations of ideas. When we summon at will any particular class of ideas, it is sometimes called Fancy. A creative imagination must have the aid of conception, judgment, abstraction, and taste. It is the power which inspires the poet, the historical painter, and the landscape gardener. To enjoy and appreciate the efforts of their genius, we must possess no inconsiderable degree of imagination.

The poet may give to "airy nothings a local habitation and a name;" but if his reader has neither conception nor imagination, they remain in his mind " things invisible."

The painter's delineation of passion, or of noble and virtuous sentiments brought into action, may strike the sight agreeably, but calls forth no throb of sympathy where there is no imagination. Neither will the beautiful wood, the velvet lawn, the limpid river with its sparkling cascade, the secluded hermitage, the more classic temple and gray ruin, when combined, by the skill of the artist, in imitation

of living landscape, affect an ordinary mind, destitute of imagination, more than any other combination of earth, wood, and water.

"A primrose on the river's brim,

A yellow primrose is to him,

And it is nothing more."

But the absence or weakness of imagination affects not the taste alone; it may exert a potent influence upon the moral character.

Sensibility depends chiefly upon imagination.

Watch the effect produced by the reading of Shakspeare's Lear upon two young ladies of different character. Observe the quivering lip, the moistening eye, the trembling voice of one, while that master-spirit reveals Regan and Goneril's filial ingratitude and cruelty, and the faithful Cordelia's simple and tender affection. See the other turn a cold, dull eye of wonder upon her friend who is thus moved, or curl her lip in scorn at what she deems weakness or affectation.

Some of the coldness and selfishness existing in the world have been traced by philosophy to a want of imagination. She who steps over the low threshold of poverty, and takes her seat by the humble bed of sickness, without one gleam of imagination to reveal the deep and hidden miseries of the sufferer who lies there, cannot offer sympathy so true and acceptable, as one whose imagination at once portrays all the gloomy accompaniments of poverty and woe, and by a natural transition makes herself the sufferer. The latter may smooth the pillow with a more trembling hand, and present the healing cup with less firmness; but the thrilling voice of kindness, and the beautiful glow of sympathetic tenderness, find their ready way to the sufferer's heart. In this case we suppose, of course, that sensibility is under the control of right reason. The one whose heart is thus softened will make greater sacrifices of personal comfort and convenience than the less imaginative one, who, because she cannot conceive of suffering, and cannot, by any possibility, place herself in the same situation, remains unmoved and comparatively selfish. We are to

suppose, in this case, that they are both governed by principle, and that the desire to do good has brought them both to the home of poverty.

Imagination is a powerful incentive to virtue; it exalts the standard of excellence, enlarges the sphere of benevolent action, and vividly depicts the glories of a future state of reward. It thus gives wings to that faith which is "the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen."

Who doubts that Howard, by his solitary fireside, often called up those pictures of misery, the bolts, chains, and dungeons of incarcerated men, until he was led to minister to their wants and woes? Or that the missionary has often portrayed the miseries of those "who sit in darkness," until he resolves to venture life itself to bear to them the light of truth? Or that the servant and soldier of Christ, who has contemplated the character of St. Paul until he has formed a perfect conception of it, would be warmed in zeal, and stimulated to action, by imagining Paul surrounded by his own duties and responsibilities?

Imagination often leads to trustfulness of disposition and warmth of friendship. The bright side of character presents itself, embellished with hues of the mind's creation. Vir tues cluster around the loved, and transform them from the weakness of human nature to an ideal perfection. A distinguished female writer of our own times says: "I never met in real life, nor ever read in tale or history, of any woman, distinguished for intellect of the highest order, who was not also remarkable for this trustingness of spirit, this hopefulness and cheerfulness of temper, which is compatible with the most serious habits of thought, and the most profound sensibility."

But we are compelled to acknowledge that the noble power of imagination is often uncontrolled by reason, especially in the female mind.

An ill-regulated imagination produces in some too great exhilaration and too ardent expectations, while in others it gives birth to morbid sensibility and causeless melancholy.

If all objects are to you illuminated by the dazzling tints of fancy, it seems cruel to rob them of this fascinating charm. Yet the sober colouring of truth best suits the mental eye: it is like the refreshing green in which nature has clothed her fields and groves-it does not "dazzle to blind;" but a too vivid imagination, like the aurora borealis, throws upon all objects its beautiful but unnatural hue. You imagine yourself a heroine, and exult in your air-built castles; how can you descend to the homely realities of life? You picture a "sweet little isle of your own," with all the means and appliances for happiness; how will this world of sober reality disgust you!

Perhaps you have already met with disappointment, and are sinking into a state of sickly sentimentalism. You sit at your window by moonlight, and sigh to the echoing breeze; you scribble a dolorous ode to her pale ladyship, complaining of the fickleness of friendship, the unsympathizing world, and the heart's loneliness. Your pillow is nightly bedewed with tears; but for what, or for whom, it is impossible to tell. Your griefs flow from the wild and disjointed views of your situation, furnished by an ill-regulated imagination-combinations of circumstances such as never did, and never will, come within your own experience. Zimmerman tells us, that "the learned Molanus, having, during a course of many years, detached his mind from all objects of sense, neglected all seasonable and salutary diversion, and given an uncontrolled license to the imagination, fancied, in the latter part of his life, that he was a barleycorn; and although he received his friends with great. courtesy and politeness, and conversed upon subjects both of science and devotion with great ease and ingenuity, he could never afterwards be persuaded to stir from home, lest, as he expressed his apprehension, he should be picked up in the streets and swallowed by a fowl!" This author adds: "The female mind is still more subject to these delusions of disordered fancy; for as their feelings are more exquisite, and their imaginations more active, than those of the other sex, solitude, when carried to excess, affects them

in a much greater degree." Beware, gentle reader; you are not much in danger of imagining yourself a barleycorn, but you may think yourself a heroine, and be picked up by some fool whom you fancy a hero. Pardon me; you will smile at your own follies, if you have not, indeed, occasion to deplore them, when sobered by coming years and the rough realities of life. To prevent imagination from leading you far from duty and happiness,—

1. Inquire earnestly what are the object and end of your existence. You will find they are too serious and momentous to allow you to dream away any part of life. A brief probation, involving the interests of eternity, demands all your energies.

2. Learn your true condition in life, and enter actively into its duties. Regular employment will give you a healthy tone of mind, as well as invigorate the body. Early rising and laborious occupation are admirable correctives to a disordered fancy.

3. Endeavour to relieve or to alleviate the sufferings which come within your reach. Instead of wasting your feelings upon fictitious sorrow, seek out that which is real, and be zealous in the ministry of consolation.

4. Read books of sound reasoning or sober fact; abjure novels, and deny yourself, for a time, the luxury of poetry of a sentimental character.

5. Cultivate and learn to value the society of people of plain, practical sense; they will teach you the folly of romantic expectations; by contrasting their cheerful contentment in an humble lot with your own wild reachings after ideal happiness, you may learn to extract comfort from your condition. The imagination and sensibility that are elementary constituents of poetical genius, often bring misery to their gifted possessor. Common sense is needed as a balance-wheel. But there may be some who have been so closely fastened down to matters of fact, that imagination has been entirely repressed. There is, however, little danger in youth of clipping too closely the wings of fancy. Carefully cultivate attention, conception, judgment, reason