that historic truth is gained, not only by the logical processes of the intellect, but by that inventive power which can discover the truth when argument alone could not have disclosed it; and it has been wisely said, that the union of the poet and the philosopher is essential to form the perfect historian. It is not, I think, possible to find, in the records of all literature, one great historian in the constitution of whose mind the imaginative faculty is not a large element—the ability, not simply to reason about historic testimony, but also to behold the past-to see it with the mind's eye; and this is essentially the same thing as poetic vision, by which the dead, the distant, are made living and present. It is only when this philosophic and poetic power combined looks upon the multitudinous facts of past times, that these facts are duly arrayed and harmonized into just order and proportion. Amid the actual occurrences, how much is there that is unmeaning and worthless-nay, worse than worthless, because often obtrusive, and standing between our minds and that which is significant and valuable. All such obstructions the genuine historian sweeps away in silence; and knowledge is acquired, not only by what is told, but by what is left untold. Men, and the deeds of men, are to be exhibited in the just subordination to the controlling agencies of their times. The simple chronicler may be content to make his record of events with no discrimination; but history is more than a chronological table, and the historian must idealize the actual; he must give it such a form, that we may see the causes of events, and the living, actuating principles that were at work in them. Now, when the philosophic or the imaginative eye of the historian-(I care not which it be called, for I

believe all true philosophy is imaginative, and all genuine. imagination is philosophical)-when the eye of the historian contemplates a period of history, after deep study, he sees all that is important, and influential, and permanent, and he sees it in all its essential character and reality, while a thousand insignificant circumstances have faded out of his thoughts. Thus it is that the actual is idealized into the highest and purest truth.

Reflect how often our sense of truth is impaired or impeded by the pressure on our minds of what is actual, and visible, and present. A faithful painter may, in the highest style of his art, portray a human face with all its characteristic expression and in all its true individuality; and yet the nearest relatives are not only the hardest to satisfy, but, by the very nature of their familiarity with the subject, will often be the worst judges of the likeness. Again, I believe we are all of us very apt to fail in appreciating the best and the noblest parts in the characters of those whom we know familiarly, for the thousand familiarities of common life interpose; and it is sad to think, that often it is not until Death hath hallowed and idealized the character, that we can do it justice. Then the eye can no longer see the familiar face, the ear no longer catch sounds of the familiar voice; but the soul, apart from the senses, is left to the solemn, solitary work, and beholds the strength and the purity of the spirit that has passed away, more truly than when it was incarnate, in this life.

I use these illustrations to show how much that which is matter of fact, as it is called, often stands in the way of truth; and I cannot doubt, that one of the great moral purposes for which the Imagination has been implanted

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in us is, that it may enable us to triumph over the bondage of the senses, of which it may be said, as of the elements of fire and water, that they are good servants, but very bad masters. The soul must keep dominion over them, or else we are sure to be beset by the manifold mischiefs and miseries of materialism in some or other of its forms. The most elevated sense of truth in the spirit of a man may be grievously and disastrously disturbed by the presence of that which affects only the senses. It is said that Volney was made an infidel by his travels in Palestine; and though it is fearful to think of faith dying out of a Christian's soul in consequence of his eyes having before them the visible presence of the Holy Land, yet there is a natural process by which such a defection is conceivable.

When, at a distance, we think of Mount Sinai, or of the Mount of Olives, or of that other more awful eminence, they are more spiritual than material places of the earth. The "Delectable Mountains" in the Pilgrim's Progress are, to my mind, scarce more visionary; and with such feelings, the events that give a sanctity to those spots, are in perfect harmony. But when the traveller actually stands upon that ground,-when it is visible and tangible,—and when, feeling the very soil, the vegetation, and the stones, beneath his feet, he calls to mind Jehovah's presence on that selfsame place, or the Saviour's incarnate life, then the impression of the senses and the spiritual associations may come in conflict. In the heart of Volney it proved an irreconcilable conflict, and faith yielded to what was sensuous. It may well be believed, that any one who visits that land, not in the reverential spirit of the early Christian pilgrim, but with

the thoughtless sight-seeing temper of the modern traveller, has need to pray that his faith be strengthened before his eyes rest on places, which, before, had only been apprehended by his imagination.

In the composition of history, and eminently in the historical drama, there must needs be this poetic process, by which the actual is subordinated to the ideal, that which is inconsiderable put out of sight, and such unity given to the subject as will best display its real truth. It is one of the chief functions of the Imagination to give. unity and harmony to the materials of which it treats; and, perhaps, I may explain this more clearly by reference to an act kindred to historical poetry,-I mean, historical painting. In one of the most admirable of the Elia Essays, so full of a fine and humorous philosophy, Charles Lamb has observed that "not all that is optically possible to be seen is to be shown in every picture. By a wise falsification, the great masters of painting got at their true conclusions, by not showing the actual appearances, that is, all that was to be seen at any given moment by an indifferent eye, but only what the eye might be supposed to see in the doing or suffering of some portentous action."* In this same essay, he shows, by a careful comparison, that it is in their barrenness of the imaginative faculty, that most modern works of art are so inferior to the paintings by the great masters, which, on this very account, were so much more impressive and truthful. He exemplifies this deficiency in Martin's historical paintings, which are familiar to us all by the help

* Essay on the Barrenness of the Imaginative Faculty in the Productions of Modern Art. Lamb's Prose Works, vol. iii. p. 176.

of the engravings; and in the Belshazzar's Feast of that artist, after noticing the alarm which has thrown the well-dressed lords and ladies in the Hall of Belus into such admired confusion, he justly asks,-"Is this an adequate exponent of supernatural terror? The way in which the finger of God writing judgments would have been met by a guilty conscience? There is a human fear, and a divine fear. The one is disturbed, restless, and bent upon escape. The other is bowed down, effortless, and passive."* This same scriptural subject has been treated by another modern artist-one whose genius was full of that imaginative power, which was the glory of the old masters-I mean our countryman, the late Washington Allston; and I wish that you had seen that great, but unfinished painting, were it only that I might now the better appeal to it as an illustration, to show how the imagination can worthily and triumphantly reproduce the events of history. On beholding it, one is made to feel that the supernatural writing was a transaction, so to speak, between God and that impious king-the prophet participating in divine power, while he is inspired to interpret the mysterious words. You see that it is upon Belshazzar that the awful terror has fallen with all its weight—that it is he still gorgeous with barbaric pearl and gold, and just now so proud in his profanity—that it is he, and, perhaps, he alone that has beheld the fingers of a hand come forth and write upon the palace walls; and that it is his spirit which is withered by the prophet's interpretation-"God hath numbered thy kingdom and finished it. Thou art weighed in the balances

Lamb's Prose Works, vol. iii. p. 173.