ent. It is not the simple image-making power, then, for mental reproduction gives you an image or picture of any former object of perception, as you have seen it - a portrait of the past, true and faithful to the original.

Some writers would differ from the view now expressed. Some of the Germans assign to imagination the double office of producing the new and reproducing the old; the latter they call imaginative reproduction. In what respect this latter differs from the faculty of mental reproduction in general, it is difficult to perceive. When I remember a word spoken, or a song, I have the conception of a sound, or a series of sounds. When I remember an object in nature, as a mountain, a house, etc., I have the conception of a material object, having some definite form, and figure, outline, proportion, magnitude, etc. The conception of the absent object presents itself in such a case, of course, as an image or picture of the object to the mental eye. It is as really the work of conception reproductive, however, to replace, in this case, the absent object as once perceived, as it is to bring back to mind any thing else that has once been before it; e. g., a spoken word or a date in history. We may, if we please, term this faculty, as employed on objects of sight, conception imaginative, and distinguish it from the same faculty as employed in reproducing other objects; but it were certainly better to appropriate the term imagination to the single and far higher province of creation- the office of conceiving the ideal under the form of the sensible.

§ VIII.-IMAGINATION A VOLUNTARY POWER, OR PROCESS.

Is it an act which the mind puts forth when it will, and with holds when it will? Or is it a mere passive susceptibility of the mind to be impressed in this particular way? As the harp lies passive to the wind, which comes and goes we know not how or whither, so does the mind lie open to such thoughts and fancies as flit over 't, and call forth its hidden

harmonies as they pass by? Those who, with Dr. Brown, resolve imagination into mere suggestion, of course take the latter view.

Often spontaneous. - Undoubtedly, the greater part of our ideal conceptions are spontaneous-the thoughts that rise at the instant, unpremeditated, uncalled, the suggestions of the passing moment or event. This is true of our daily reveries, and all the little romances we construct, when we give the reins to fancy, and a "varied scene of thought" — to use the beautiful expression of Cudworth-passes before us, peopled with forms unreal and illusive. There is no special volition to call up these conceptions, or such as these. They take their rise and hue from the complexion of the mind at the time, and the character of the preceding concep tions, in the ever moving, ever varying series and procession of thought. They are like the shifting figures on the curtain in a darkened room, shadows coming and going, as the forms of those without move hither and thither. So far, all is spontaneous. Nay, more: It is, doubtless, impossible, by direct volition, to call up any conception, ideal or otherwise; since this, as Dr. Brown has well argued, would be "either to will without knowing what we will, which is absurd," or else to have already the conception which we wished to have, which is not less absurd.

If no intentional Activity, then Imagination not a Faculty. Is there then no intentional creation of new and ideal conceptions, of images, similes, metaphors, and other like material of a lively and awakened fancy, but merely a casual suggestion of such and such thoughts, quite beyond any control and volition or even purpose of ours? If so, then, after all, is it proper to speak of a faculty of imagination, since we have not, in this case, the power of doing the thing under consideration? We merely sit still in the dark. ened room, and watch the figures as they come and go, with some desire that the thing may go on, some appreciation of it, Come critical judgment of the different formas and movements

The Mind not wholly passive in the Process.—I reply this is not altogether so. The mind is not altogether passive in this thing; there is an activity involved in the process, and that of the mind's own. There is a power, either original or acquired, of conceiving such thoughts as are now under consideration, a readiness for them, a proneness to them, a bias, propensity, inclination, more powerful in some than in others, by virtue of which this process occurs. We may call this a faculty, though, more strictly, perhaps, a suscepti bility, but it is, in truth, one of the endowments of the mind, part of its furniture, one form of its activity.

A more direct voluntary Element. But there is, further than this, and more directly, a voluntary element in the process. It is in our power to yield, or not, to this propensity, this inclination to the ideal; to put forth the mental activity in this direction, or to withhold it; to say whether or not the imagination shall have its free, full play, and with liberated wing soar aloft through her native skies; whether our speech shall be simple argument, unadorned stout logic, or logic not less stout, clothed with the pleasing, rustling drapery which a lively imagination is able to throw, like a splendid robe, over the naked form of truth.

There is, then, really a mental activity, and an activity in some degree under control of the will, in the process we are considering.

Same Difficulty lies elsewhere. The same difficulty which meets us here, meets us elsewhere, and lies equally against other mental powers. We cannot, by direct volition, remember a past event, for this implies, as in the case of the volition to imagine a given scene, either that the thing is already in view, or else that we will we know not what. Yet, as every one knows, there is a way of recalling past events; a faculty or power of doing this thing; a faculty which we exercise when we please.

The same may be said of the power of thought in general. We cannot, by direct volition, think of any given thing, for

to will to th nk of it is already to have thought of it, yet there is mental activity involved in every process of thought a mental power exercised, a faculty of some sort exercised. Nor is it a power altogether beyond our own control. We can direct our thoughts, can govern them, can turn them, as we do a water course, that will flow somewhere, but whose channel we may lead this way or that.

Influence upon the Mind. As to the benefits arising from the due use and exercise of this faculty, not much, perhaps, is requisite to be said. It gives vividness to our conceptions, it raises the tone of our entire mental activity, it adds force to our reasoning, casts the light of fancy over the sombre plodding steps of judgment, gilds the recollections of the past, and the anticipations of the future, with a coloring not their own. It lights up the whole horizon of thought, as the sunrise flashes along the mountain tops, and lights up the world. It would be but a dreary world without that light.

Influence on the Orator. — By its aid the orator presents his clear, strong argument in its own simple strength and beauty, or commands those skilful touches, that, by a magic spell, thrill all hearts in unison. There floats before his mind, ever as he proceeds, the beau ideal of what his argument should be; toward this he aspires, and those aspirations make him what he is. No man is eloquent who has not the imagination requisite to form and keep vividly before him such an ideal.

On the Artist.· By its aid the artist breathes into the Inanimate marble the breath of life, and it becomes a living sou. By its aid, deaf old Beethoven, at his stringless instrument, calls up the richest harmony of sound, and blind old Milton, in his darkness and desolateness, takes his magician's wand, and lo! there rises before him the vision of that Para

dise where man, in his primeval innocence, walked with God.

On other Minds. Nor is it the poet, the orator, the artist, alone, that derive benefit from the exercise of this faculty, or have occasion to make use of it. It is of inestimable value to us all. It opens for us new worlds, enlarges the sphere of our mental vision, releases us from the bonds and bounds of the actual, and gives us, as a bird let loose, the wide firmament of thought for our domain. It gilds the bald, sullen actualities, and stern realities of life, as the morning reddens the chill, snowy summits of the Alps, till they glow in resplendent beauty.

On the Spectator and Observer. — It is of service, not to him who writes alone, but to him who reads; not to him who speaks alone, but to him who hears; not to the artist alone, but to the observer of art; for neither poet, nor orator, nor artist, can convey the full meaning, the soul, the inspi ration of his work, to one who has not the imagination to appreciate and feel the beauty, and the power, that lie hidden there. There is just as much meaning in their works, to us, as there is soul in us to receive that meaning. The man of no imagination sees no meaning, no beauty, no power, in the Paradise Lost, the symphonies of Beethoven and Mozart, the Transfiguration of Raphael, the Aurora of Guido, or the master-pieces of Canova and Thorwalsden.

Errors of Imagination. — Undoubtedly there are errors, mistakes, prejudices, illusions of the imagination; mistakes in judgment, in reasoning, in the affairs of practical life, the source of which is to be found in some undue influence, some wrong use, of the imagination. We mistake its conceptions for realities. We dwell upon its pleasing visions till we for get the sober face of truth. We fancy pleasures, benefits results which will never be realized, or we look upon the dark and dreary side of things till all nature wears the sombre hue of our disordered fancy.

Not, therefore, to set aside its due Culture. --All this we