dreamily remembering the thoughts and feelings of comfort of younger winter fire-side evenings; and now, with "lack-lustre eyes," poring on the brighter coals, which glow like the face of Exercise, pleasing the imagination with those likenesses of things which minds of any heat may discern in the ever-changing aspect of a winter-fire. Pleasant it is to be roused from a reverie, "deep, and full of waking dreams," by the accustomed "Prudence Baldwin, my maid," who comes in with the candles, and goes out with the coal-skuttle. Pleasant it is to listen to the hum of distant music; or the far roar and stir of the Babel town, wafted, with monotonous repetitions, down the wide, warm chimney, to Meditation's drowsy ear. Pleasant it is to hear the rain patter at the windows, and the winds, who will be "howling at all hours," beating and flapping their wings without, yet cannot disturb the comfort and serenity within. Pleasant it is, about the muffin-time of evening, to be startled from this delicious moment of musing, (for meditation then may "think down hours to moments, and learning wiser grow without his books,") by a rap at our door, (as well known as some old familiar tune,) that announces the arrival of some treasured friends, (whose miniatures are hung in our hearts, and not o'er our mantle-piece,) who come freighted with the honey of literary toil, like to the merchant bees,

After a venture far as the Hesperides.

Pleasant are the usual number of "How d'ye does?" and an equal number of "Never so wells," and inquiries after the Smiths and the Joneses. Pleasant are the infinite rubbings of hands, and the warmings within and without the same; and the declarations of the utter impossibility of getting a coach. And after hats, umbrellas, great coats, paraboues, &c. are disposed" in order due," pleasant it is to jerk the parlour-bell with that warm and friendly haste that almost "jerks it down," and give command that the " bubbling and loud-hissing urn" be brought up; and pleasant is the fragrance of the tea, that "cheers, but not inebriates," steaming up like incense offered to the domestic lares; but neither the silent entré of "Prudence Baldwin, my maid," stealing in, like the moon, "with all her light;" nor call of welcome friends at the muffin-time of evening; nor the uncertain Johnsonian number of cups of the best Twining souchong without sugar, without health, are sweet!

C. W.

IMAGINATION versus MATTER-OF-FACT.

In this important case, Messieurs, the Critics, I am for the Plaintiff-or, if you will, Plaintive; indeed, I consider myself one of the fancy.' I need not tell you, that as a faithful advocate it will be my duty to exert myself for the interests of my client, and, as an honourable man, to do so without premeditated and wilful injustice to my opponents; but I have not sufficient legal effrontery, or affectation, to pretend that I can discuss the matter with the strictest impartiality-I know that my vocation and my inclinations conspire to bias my judgment. It is for you, the judges, to "bear a wary eye."

In a republic, such as that of letters, in a common-wealth, where the drone is never tolerated, it is not a slight injury to be accused of uselessness; yet, this is the defamation for which we have to seek reparation: this is the calumny which matterof-fact men direct against the finest creations of fancy, the divinest efforts of genius, the most delightful bodyings forth of inspiration.

Our vilifiers are of that class who are "wise in their generation," who have a profit-and-loss kind of taste, and an arithmetical species of apprehension. All their ideas are of the "gross and palpable." They comprehend the utility of nothing but what they can measure with a two-foot rule, or estimate by the rule of three. They would literally weigh a thought, or sum up an argument. Talk to them of sterling merit, and they think of standard gold. They value only those talents which are productive in tangibles, and ever consider "solid pudding better than empty praise." They are always for weight, measure, or numeration; per cent., per pound, or per yard. Things must be "sensible to feeling as to sight;" and their notions of feeling differ materially" from those of Mackenzie. They have no particular relish for rural felicity, nor any exuberant or cockneyish love for the beauties of Nature; but, propose an excursion, and they will tell you "the nearest way across the fields." In literature, if they study history, they acquire an accurate chronology of events, without concerning themselves much with causes and effects. They recollect the genealogy of the kings; but seldom trouble themselves about their personal characters or mode of government. In the biography of a celebrated man, they think it enough to tell you that he "proceeded, B. A. 1727, M. A. 1730, and took the degree of L.L.D. 1742;" and deem it far less interesting to record any peculiar trait of character, or early emanation of genius, than when he matriculated. "Cruden's Concordance" is their beau ideal of utility, and they almost

prefer it to the Bible itself. They are linguists and grammarians, but care little for the philosophy of language; they do not regard it as the key of knowledge, but as knowledge itself.

But, to meet them in their own way, perhaps we can "split the difference" with them. I once read a book, by a member of the French Academy, intended to demonstrate the mutual connexion and dependence of all the arts and sciences. Now I think an affinity may in like manner be shown to exist between all kinds of excellence. In truth, within the pale of reason, there are no such characters, as the mere matter-of-fact man, or the mere visionary; the one is an idiot, the other a maniac. The rarest works of imagination are "founded in fact ;" and the dullest mechanism of life exhibits some touch of fancy. Limited to the dull realities of life, divested of this intellectual charm, what a cold, formal, "Knickerbocker" kind of existence would this become! Proscribe that love of elegant superfluities which imagination generates, and innumerable thrifty dealers, steady lookers after the main chance, would find their "occupations gone." For many, who hold imaginative pleasures cheap, and sport with the ecstasies of virtues, are yet willing caterers to its desires; though in point of intrinsic worth, the vender and consumer of inutilities are at least at par.

How many substantial realities are there, which, though of little positive utility, possess a high conventional value. The diamond, for instance, even of the "first water," is but a hard,' dry matter-of-fact, of very little use; its innate brilliancy, for which it is so much prized, is not equivalent to a rushlight; but it has received the impress of imagination, and passes by the common consent of mankind, a current type of worth, beauty, and richness. In the vocabulary of the poet, the eyes of his mistress are diamonds, and her virtues gems. Crowns, sceptres, sultans, and sultanas, with all the magnificence of oriental story, crowd upon the mind at the very name. Nor has it any more ardent admirers, any who more readily appreciate its merits, than these same matter-of-fact gentry. It is a more compendious species of property, and more covetable than the gold of Ophir ; although that precious metal might be supposed to have greater claims upon their affections, from its possessing so many properties of indisputable usefulness, particularly that of ductility, a quality which always maintains its price; for if the market is always full, yet the demand is unceasing.

Imagination is, after all, an every-day commodity, and influences the commonest pursuits of life. It acts as a stimulant to the industry of the man of business, appearing to him in the similitude of a tempting" plum," to which Hope leads him on, and Fancy points the way. His golden dreams, and lofty speculations, may sometimes, perhaps, like an ignis fatuus, treache

rously betray him into the mire of the Gazette, yet how often does it light his way to the civic chair, or the honours of knighthood! Traverse this great city from Charing Cross to Aldgate Pump, and you shall have proof ocular of the supremacy of the ornamental. You will find the innumerable shops stored with the productions of genius, teeming with the beauties of nature and art; and perceive a play of fancy even in the fashion of the tools they are wrought with. "But, by proving its existence, you do not establish its utility." Granted. And I believe I must acknowledge that Milton's epic, like Falstaff's honour, will not "mend a leg;" that Shakspeare's Desdemona cannot rive the "gnarled oak;" that Titian's colouring would be but spare diet, nor could we be comfortably housed in St. Peter's Porch; that we cannot take the extent of an estate with Hexameters! and that "Lydian measures" would be but of little use to a tailor. But in all things there is a golden mean, where all that is truly excellent is certainly to be found. Even the illimitable genius of our "sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child," rising from earth to heaven, stoops to fuel its fire with facts. He has laid down a chart of the human mind, "from actual observation;" and written a history of the human heart" from the most authentic records." Even the author of "The Political Register," perhaps the plainest reasoner that ever wrote, and the most intolerant enemy of all that is figurative and metaphorical, has been shrewdly suspected of not always confining himself to mere matters-of-fact. Some writers there are who accumulate facts, as misers heap up gold, and leave their successors to use them. Others again there are, like Swedenbourg or Shelley, entranced and visionary seers," who seem not of this earth and yet are on't," who are as careful to exclude any alloy of reason and common sense from their works, as the thresher to clear the husk from the wheat.

Look into the business of men's lives, and you shall find the most mechanical, the most literal, and the most common-placed still pursuing some "coinage of the brain," some unsubstantial, and air-drawn ultimatum. It is a constituent part of our minds; and we can no more dispense with it, than with the exercise of our limbs. Even those who "live to eat," the least imaginative of our species, find some scope for it in the preparation of their viands; and I will not undertake to prove that its powers may not be as well devoted to the mysteries of roast and boiled, or the setting out a city feast, as to the composition of the Cartoons. The veriest plodding knave that vegetates, sometimes, sojourns in cloud-built mansions. And who would always hide himself in bricks and mortar? Who does? Nature.

Strip this gorgeous world of all extrinsic ornament; reduce its glorious works to the cold, heartless standard of direct and ob

vious utility; strip nature of her sparkling green, and clothe her in the quaker's drab; fill up the ravines with the mighty Andes ; arrest the forked lightning; silence the rolling thunder; and still the Atlantic wave; tame all the poetry of nature; divest society of its "pomps and vanities;" administer no longer to its factitious wants; direct your sumptuary laws against the luxury of thought; make Carlton House a wigwam, and the king a Cherokee chief :—would man be happier or better?

The powers of imagination are manifold and recondite. Its functions are multiform, creative, transmutative, talismanic. Its effects are elaborate or instantaneous, permanent, or evanescent. "You cannot have blood from a stone." Imagination hath made statues weep tears of blood. It can give identity, character, and interest to the "motes that people the sun-beam." It sets at nought the limits of "reason and the nature of things." The aspirations of the mind would be circumscribed by reality; the magic of imagination sets it free amidst interminable variety. It creates an Arctic paradise, and converts a Lapland winter to Italian summer, But if its uses in beautifying external nature are of questionable utility, what of the colouring it gives to that within us? Doth it not cause us to be satisfied with ourselves when none else are? Is it not excellent for an author to be able to penetrate the obscurity of ages, and console himself for the neglect of his contemporaries, by a prospect of his future glories? It prompted Aaron Hill, a writer almost forgotten in the lapse of half a century, to meet the gloomy account of his bookseller with an exulting anticipation of posthumous fame, and write thus to his indulgent and consoling friend the author of Clarissa:

"For my part, I am afraid to be popular. I see so many who write to the living, and deserve not to live, that I content myself with a resurrection when dead. It tells me nothing new of the low estimation of my writings: I have always known them, and expected them to be unpopular; nor shall I live to see them in another light. But there will rise a time, in which they will be seen in a far different one: I know it, on a surer hope than that of vanity."

The law is a profession which, with clamorous emphasis and much verbosity of pretence, affects to deal almost exclusively with facts. But I refer to any experienced appellant or respondent, who may have had the good or ill fortune to be involved in the magic spells of Westminster Hall, in support of the assertion, that it is redundantly embellished with fiction. With physic it is not very pleasant to meddle; but in proof of the taste and fancy with which it is adorned, I might cite "The Medical Spectator!" Divinity is still less approachable; yet I may be permitted to remark, that its history, from the sumptuous Vatican to the bald conventicle, in the legends of the ancient church, and the miraculous conversions of John Wesley, abundantly testifies VOL. I.

E