were slow in their operation, but his heart was ardent; it was in con66 sequence of his own meditations, that he became impassioned: he dis"covered no sudden emotions, but all his feelings grew upon reflection. "It has, perhaps, happened to him to fall in love gradually with a woman, by dwelling on the idea of her during her absence. Sometimes "he would part with you with all his former affection; but if an ex"pression had escaped you, which might bear an unfavourable construc66 tion, he would recollect it, examine it, exaggerate it, perhaps dwell upon it for a month. and conclude by a total breach with you Hence "it was, that there was scarce a possibility of undeceiving him; for the "light which broke in upon him at once was not sufficient to efface the "wrong impressions which had taken place so gradually in his mind. It was extremely difficult, too, to continue long on an intimate footing "with him. A word, a gesture, furnished him with matter of profound "meditation: he connected the most trifling circumstances like so many "mathematical propositions, and conceived his conclusions to be supported by the evidence of demonstration. I believe," continues this ingenious writer, "that imagination was the strongest of his faculties, "and that it had almost absorbed all the rest. He dreamed rather than "existed. and the events of his life might be said, more properly, to have passed in his mind, than without him: a mode of being, one should "have thought, that ought to have secured him from distrust, as it pre"vented him from observation; but the truth was, it did not hinder "him from attempting to observe; it only rendered his observations 66 erroneous. That his soul was tender, no one can doubt, after having "read his works; but his imagination sometimes interposed between his reason and his affections, and destroyed their influence: he appeared "sometimes void of sensibility; but it was because he did not perceive "objects such as they were. Had he seen them with our eyes, his heart "would have been more affected than ours."

In this very striking description we see the melancholy picture of sensibility and genius approaching to insanity. It is a case, probably, that but rarely occurs, in the extent here described: but, I believe, there is no man who has lived much in the world, who will not trace many resembling features to it, in the circle of his own acquaintances; perhaps there are few, who have not been occasionally conscious of some resemblance to it in themselves.

To these observations we may add, that by an excessive indulgence in the pleasures of imagination, the taste may acquire a fastidious refinement unsuitable to the present situation of human nature; and those intellectual and moral habits, which ought to be formed by actual experience of the world, may be gradually so accommodated to the dreams of poetry and romance, as to disqualify us for the scene in which we are destined to act. Such a distempered state of the mind is an endless source of error; more particularly when we are placed in those critical situations, in which our conduct determines our future happiness or misery; and which, on account of this extensive influence on human life, form the principal ground-work of fictitious composition. The effect of novels, in misleading the passions of youth, with respect to the most interesting and important of all relations, is one of the many instances of the inconveniences resulting from an ill-regulated imagination.

The passion of love has been, in every age, the favourite subject of the poets, and has given birth to the finest productions of human genius. These are the natural delight of the young and susceptible, long before the influence of the passions is felt; and from these a romantic mind forms to itself an ideal model of beauty and perfection, and becomes enamoured with its own creation. On a heart which has been long accustomed to be thus warmed by the imagination, the excellencies of real characters make but a slight impression: and, accordingly, it will be found, that men of a romantic turn, unless when under the influence of violent passions, are seldom attached to a particular object. Where, indeed, such a turn is united with a warmth of temperament, the effects are different; but they are equally fatal to happiness. As the distinctions which exist among real characters are confounded by false and exaggerated conceptions of ideal perfection, the choice is directed to some object by caprice and accident; a slight resemblance is mistaken for an exact coincidence; and the descriptions of the poet and novelist are applied literally to an individual, who perhaps falls short of the common standard of excellence. "I am certain," says the Author last quoted, in her account of the character of Rousseau," that he never formed an attachment which was not founded on caprice. It was illusions alone that could captivate his passions; and "it was necessary for him always to accomplish his mistress from his 66 own fancy. I am certain also," she adds, "that the woman whom he "loved the most, and perhaps the only woman whom he loved constantly, was his own Julie."

In the case of this particular passion, the effects of a romantic imagi nation are obvious to the most careless observer; and they have often led moralists to regret, that a temper of mind so dangerous to happiness should have received so much encouragement from some writers of our own age, who might have employed their genius to better purposes. These, however, are not the only effects which such habits of study have on the character. Some others, which are not so apparent at first view, have a tendency, not only to mislead us where our happiness is at stake, but to defeat the operations of those active principles, which were intended to unite us to society. The manner in which imagination influences the mind, in the instances which I allude to at present, is curious, and deserves a more particular explanation.

I shall have occasion afterwards to shew, in treating of our moral powers, that experience diminishes the influence of passive impressions on the mind, but strengthens our active principles. A course of debauchery deadens the sense of pleasure, but increases the desire of gratification. An immoderate use of strong liquors destroys the sensibility of the palate, but strengthens the habit of intemperance. The enjoyments we derive from any favourite pursuit gradually decay as we ad. vance in years and yet we continue to prosecute our favourite pursuits with increasing steadiness and vigour.

On these two laws of our nature is founded our capacity of moral improvement. In proportion as we are accustomed to obey our sense of duty, the influence of the temptations to vice is diminished; while, at the

The following reasoning was suggested to me by a passage in Butler's Analogy, which the reader will find in Note (U.) at the end of the volume.

same time, our habit of virtuous conduct is confirmed. How many passive impressions, for instance, must be overcome, before the virtue of beneficence can exert itself uniformly and habitually! How many circumstances are there in the distresses of others, which have a tendency to alienate our hearts from them, and which prompt us to withdraw from the sight of the miserable! The impressions we receive from these are unfavourable to virtue: their force, however, every day diminishes, and it may perhaps, by perseverance, be wholly destroyed. It is thus that the character of the beneficent man is formed. The passive impressions which he felt originally, and which counteracted his sense of duty, have lost their influence, and a habit of beneficence is become part of his nature.

It must be owned, that this reasoning may, in part, be retorted; for among those passive impressions, which are weakened by repetition, there are some which have a beneficial tendency. The uneasiness, in particular, which the sight of distress occasions, is a strong incentive to acts of humanity; and it cannot be denied that it is lessened by experience. This might naturally lead us to expect, that the young and unpractised would be more disposed to perform beneficent actions, than those who are advanced in life, and who have been familiar with scenes of misery. And, in truth, the fact would be so, were it not that the effect of custom on this passive impression is counteracted by its effect on others; and, above all, by its influence in strengthening the active habit of beneficence. An old and experienced physician is less affected by the sight of bodily pain, than a younger practitioner; but he has acquired a more confirmed habit of assisting the sick and helpless, and would offer greater violence to his nature, if he should withhold from them any relief that he has in his power to bestow. In this case, we see a beautiful provision made for our moral improvement, as the effects of experience on one part of our constitution are made to counteract its effects on another.

If the foregoing observations be well founded, it will follow, that habits of virtue are not to be formed in retirement, but by mingling in the scenes of active life, and that an habitual attention to exhibitions of fictitious distress, is not merely useless to the character, but positively hurtful.

It will not, I think, be disputed, that the frequent perusal of pathetic compositions diminishes the uneasiness which they are naturally fitted to excite. A person who indulges habitually in such studies, may feel a growing desire of his usual gratification, but he is every day less and less affected by the scenes which are presented to him. I believe it would be difficult to find an actor long hackneyed on the stage, who is capable of being completely interested by the distresses of a tragedy. The effect of such compositions and representations, in rendering the mind callous to actual distress, is still greater; for as the imagination of the Poet almost always carries him beyond truth and nature, a familiarity with the tragic scenes which he exhibits, can hardly fail to deaden the impression produced by the comparatively trifling sufferings which the ordinary course of human affairs presents to us. In real life, a provision is made for this gradual decay of sensibility, by the proportional decay of other passive impressions, which have an opposite tendency,' and by the additional force which our active habits are daily acquiring.

Exhibitions of fictitious distress, while they produce the former change on the character, have no influence in producing the latter on the contrary, they tend to strengthen those passive impressions which counteract beneficence. The scenes into which the Novelist introduces us are, in general, perfectly unlike those which occur in the world. As his object is to please, he removes from his descriptions every circumstance which is disgusting, and presents us with histories of elegant and dignified distress. It is not such scenes that human life exhibits. We have to act, not with refined and elevated characters, but with the mean, the illiterate, the vulgar, and the profligate. The perusal of fictitious history has a tendency to increase that disgust which we naturally feel at the concomitants of distress, and to cultivate a false refinement of taste, inconsistent with our condition as members of society. Nay, it is possible for this refinement to be carried so far, as to withdraw a man from the duties of life, and even from the sight of those distresses which he might alleviate. And, accordingly, many are to be found, who, if the situations of romance were realized, would not fail to display the virtues of their favourite characters, whoзe sense of duty is not sufficiently strong to engage them in the humble and private scenes of human misery.

To these effects of fictitious history we may add, that it gives no exercise to our active habits. In real life, we proceed from the passive impression to those exertions which it was intended to produce. In the contemplation of imaginary sufferings, we stop short at the impression, and whatever benevolent dispositions we may feel, we have no opportunity of carrying them into action.

From these reasonings, it appears, that an habitual attention to exhibitions of fictitious distress, is in every view calculated to check our moral improvement. It diminishes that uneasiness which we feel at the sight of distress, and which prompts us to relieve it. It strengthens that disgust which the loathsome concomitants of distress excite in the mind, and which prompts us to avoid the sight of misery; while, at the same time, it has no tendency to confirm those habits of active beneficence, without which, the best dispositions are useless. I would not, however, be understood to disapprove entirely of fictitious narratives or of pathetic compositions. On the contrary, I think that the perusal of them may be attended with advantage, when the effects which I have mentioned are corrected by habits of real business. They soothe the mind when ruffled by the rude intercourse of society, and stealing the attention insensibly from our own cares, substitute, instead of discontent and distress, a tender and pleasing melancholy. By exhibitions of characters a little elevated above the common standard, they have a tendency to cultivate the taste in life; to quicken or disgust at what is mean or offensive, and to form the mind insensibly to elegance and dignity. Their tendency to cultivate the powers of moral perception has never been disputed; and when the influence of such perceptions is powerfully felt, and is united with an active and manly temper, they render the character not only more amiable, but more happy in itself, and more useful to others; for although a rectitude of judgment with respect to conduct, and strong moral feelings, do, by no means, alone constitute virtue; yet they are frequently necessary to direct our behaviour in the more critical situations of life; and they increase the interest we take in the general pros.

perity of virtue in the world. I believe, likewise, that, by means of fictitious history, displays of character may be most successfully given, and the various weaknesses of the heart exposed. I only meant to insinuate, that a taste for them may be carried too far; that the sensibility which terminates in imagination, is but a refined and selfish luxury; and that nothing can effectually advance our moral improvement, but an attention to the active duties which belong to our stations.

SECTION VI.

Continuation of the same subject.-Important Uses to which the power of Imagination is subservient.

THE faculty of Imagination is the great spring of human activity, and the principal source of human improvement. As it delights in presenting to the mind scenes and characters more perfect than those which we are acquainted with, it prevents us from ever being completely satisfied with our present condition, or with our past attainments, and engages us continually in the pursuit of some untried enjoyment, or of some ideal excellence. Hence the ardour of the selfish to better their fortunes, and to add to their personal accomplishments; and hence the zeal of the Patriot and the Philosopher to advance the virtue and the happiness of the human race. Destroy this faculty, and the condition of man will become as stationary as that of the brutes.

When the notions of enjoyment or of excellence which imagination has formed, are greatly raised above the ordinary standard, they interest the passions too deeply to leave us at all times the cool exercise of reason, and produce that state of the mind which is commonly known by the name of Enthusiasm ; a temper which is one of the most fruitful sources of error and disappointment; but which is a source, at the same time, of heroic actions and of exalted characters. To the exaggerated conceptions of eloquence which perpetually revolved in the mind of Cicero; to that idea which haunted his thoughts of aliquid immensum infinitumque; we are indebted for some of the most splendid displays of human genius; and it is probable that something of the same kind has been felt by every man who has risen much above the level of humanity, either in speculation or in action. It is happy for the individual, when these enthusiastic desires are directed to events which do not depend on the caprice of fortune.

The pleasure we receive from the higher kinds of poetry takes rise, in part, from that dissatisfaction which the objects of imagination inspire us with, for the scenes, the events, and the characters, with which our senses are conversant. Tired and disgusted with this world of imperfection, we delight to escape to another of the poet's creation, where the charms of nature wear an eternal bloom, and where sources of enjoyment are opened to us, suited to the vast capacities of the human mind. On this natural love of poetical fiction, Lord Bacon has founded a-very ingenious argument for the soul's immortality; and, indeed, one of the most important purposes to which it is subservient, is to elevate the mind above the pursuits of our present condition, and to direct the views to higher objects. In the mean time, it is rendered subservient also, VOL. I.

33