manner as to answer the purposes of life; nor is it necessary that we should."

In farther confirmation of this doctrine, Mr. Burke refers to the poetical works of the late amiable and ingenious Dr. Blacklock. "Here," says he, " is a poet, doubtless as much affected by his own descriptions, as any that reads them can be; and yet he is affected with this strong enthusiasm, by things of which he neither has, nor can possibly have, any idea, farther than that of a bare sound; and why may not those who read his works be affected in the same manner that he was, with as little of any real ideas of the things described."

Before I proceed to make any remarks on these passages, I must observe in general, that I perfectly agree with Mr. Burke, in thinking that a very great proportion of the words which we habitually employ, have no effect to "raise ideas in the mind;" or to exercise the powers of conception and imagination. My notions on this subject I have already sufficiently explained in treating of Abstraction.

I agree with him farther, that a great proportion of the words which are used in poetry and eloquence, produce very powerful effects on the mind, by exciting emotions which we have been accustomed to associate with particular sounds; without leading the imagination to form to itself any pictures or representations; and his account of the manner in which such words operate, appears to me satisfactory.. "Such words are in reality but mere sounds; but they are sounds, which, being used on particular occasions, wherein we receive some good, or suffer some evil; or see others affected with good or evil; or which we hear applied to other interesting things or events; and being applied in such a variety of cases, that we know readily by habit to what things they belong, they produce in the mind, whenever they are afterwards mentioned, effects similar to those of their occasions. The sounds being often used without reference to any particular occasion, and carrying still their first impressions, they at last utterly lose their connexion with the particular occasions that gave rise to them; yet the sound, without any annexed notion, continues to operate as before."

Notwithstanding, however, these concessions, I cannot admit that it is in this way poetry produces its principal effect. Whence is it that general and abstract expressions are so tame and lifeless, in comparison of those which are particular and figurative? Is it not because the former do not give any exercise to the imagination, like the latter? Whence the distinction, acknowledged by all critics, ancient and modern, between that charm of words which evaporates in the process of translation, and those permanent beauties, which presenting to the mind the distinctness of a picture, may impart pleasure to the most remote regions and ages? Is it not, that in the one case, the Poet addresses himself to associations which are local and temporary; in the other, to those essential principles of human nature, from which Poetry and Painting derive their common attractions? Hence, among the various sources of the sublime, the peculiar stress laid by Longinus on what he calls visions, (φαντασίαι)—ὅταν ἃ λέγης, ὑπ' ἐνθου σιασμοῦ καὶ πάθους βλέπειν δοκῇς, καὶ ὑπ ̓ οψιν τιθῇς τοῖς ἀκούουσιν.*

In treating of Abstraction I formerly remarked, that the perfection of philosophical style is to approach as nearly as possible to that species of language we employ in algebra, and to exclude every expression which has a tendency to divert the attention by exciting the imagination, or to bias the judgment by casual associations. For this purpose the philosopher ought to be sparing in the employment of figurative words, and to convey his notions by general terms which have been accurately defined. To the Orator, on the other hand, when he wishes to prevent the cool exercise of the understanding, it may, on the same account, be frequently useful to delight or to agitate his hearers, by blending with his reasonings the illusions of poetry, or the magical influence of sounds consecrated by popular feelings. A regard to the different ends thus aimed at in Philosophical and in Rhetorical composition, renders the ornaments

* De Sublim. § xv.—“ Quas pavrarías Græci vocant, nos sanè Visiones appellamus; per quas imagines rerum absentium ita repræsentantur animo, ut eas cernere oculis ac præsentes habere videamur." QUINCT. Inst. Orat. vi. 2.

which are so becoming in the one, inconsistent with good taste and good sense, when adopted in the other.

In poetry, as truths and facts are introduced, not for the purpose of information, but to convey pleasure to the mind, nothing offends more, than those general expressions which form the great instrument of philosophical reasoning. The original pleasures, which it is the aim of poetry to recall to the mind, are all derived from individual objects; and, of consequence, (with a very few exceptions, which it does not belong to my present subject to enumerate,) the more particular, and the more appropriated its language is, the greater will be the charm it possesses.

With respect to the description of the course of the Danube already quoted, I shall not dispute the result of the experiment to be as the author represents it. That words may often be applied to their proper purposes, without our annexing any particular notions to them, I have formerly shown at great length; and I admit that the meaning of this description may be so understood. But to be understood, is not the sole object of the poet : his primary object is to please; and the pleasure which he conveys will, in general, be found to be proportioned to the beauty and liveliness of the images which he suggests. In the case of a poet born blind, the effect of poetry must depend on other causes; but whatever opinion we may form on this point, it appears to me impossible, that such a poet should receive, even from his own descriptions, the same degree of pleasure, which they may convey to a reader, who is capable of conceiving the scenes which are described. Indeed this instance which Mr. Burke produces in support of his theory, is sufficient of itself to show, that the theory cannot be true in the extent in which it is stated.

By way of contrast to the description of the Danube, I shall quote a stanza from Gray, which affords a very beautiful example of the two different effects of poetical expression. The pleasure conveyed by the two last lines resolves almost entirely into Mr. Burke's principles; but, great as this pleasure is, how inconsiderable is it in comparison of that arising from the continued and

varied exercise which the preceding lines give to the imagination?

"In climes beyond the solar road,

Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom,

To cheer the shivering native's dull abode.

And oft, beneath the odorous shade,

Of Chili's boundless forests laid,

She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,
In loose numbers wildly sweet,

Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track where'er the goddess roves,

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 illustration 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:

"Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-ey'd Fancy hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictur'd urn

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.".

SECTION III.

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 superior 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 power; and shows what it could have performed had its exertions been guided by a more per

fect model.

In the infancy of the Arts, an 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