to examine their justness; and sometimes gives to the visions of his fancy the semblance of a more than common measure of science and profundity. In this case, indeed, I am far from supposing that the author himself is always misled by his own imagination. I believe that more frequently he employs it as a rhetorical engine to subjugate the reason of his readers; and I remark it, therefore, chiefly as an artifice against which his readers would do well to be on their guard. This very amusing style of reasoning was first rendered fashionable by Mr. Burke, and has since been adopted, with equal powers, by the writer to whom I allude. It seems, indeed, happily calculated for imposing on that degree of attention with which reviews are commonly read, and parliamentary speeches listened to. The passage which follows forms part of an argument in support of the pleasing prospects which opened to France at the time of the restoration of the Bourbons. It is but justice to this critic to premise, that his liberal and benevolent wishes for the spread of free institutions over the world, and in particular for a communication to our continental neighbours of such political blessings as we ourselves enjoy, seem to have warmed and exalted his imagination to a more than ordinary degree, at the very interesting crisis when this passage was composed.

"All the periods in which human society and human intellect have ever been known to make great and memorable advances, have followed close upon periods of general agitation and disorder. Men's minds, it would appear, must be deeply and roughly stirred before they become prolific of great conceptions or vigorous resolves; and a vast and alarming fermentation must pervade and agitate the whole mass of society, to inform it with that kindly warmth by which alone the seeds of genius and improvement can be expanded. The fact, at all events, is abundantly certain, and may be accounted for, we conceive, without mystery and without metaphors.

"A popular revolution in government or religion, or any thing else that gives rise to general and long-continued contention, naturally produces a prevailing disdain of authority and boldness of thinking in the leaders of the fray, together

with a kindling of the imagination and development of intellect in a great multitude of persons, who in ordinary times would have vegetated stupidly on the places where fortune had fixed them. Power and distinction, and all the higher prizes in the lottery of life, are brought within the reach of a far larger proportion of the community; and that vivifying spirit of ambition, which is the true source of all improvement, instead of burning at a few detached points on the summit of society, now pervades every portion of its frame. Much extravagance, and, in all probability, much guilt and much misery result, in the first instance, from this sudden extrication of talent and enterprise, in places where they can have no legitimate issue or points of application. But the contending elements at last find their spheres and their balance. The disorder ceases, but the activity remains. The multitudes that had been raised into intellectual existence by dangerous passions and crazy illusions, do not all relapse into their original torpor when their passions are allayed and their illusions dispelled. There is a great permanent addition to the power and the enterprise of the community; and the talent and the activity which at first convulsed the state by their unmeasured and misdirected exertions, ultimately bless and adorn it, under a more enlightened and less intemperate guidance. If we may estimate the amount of this ultimate good by that of the disorder which preceded it, we cannot be too sanguine in our calculations of the happiness that awaits the rising generation. The fermentation, it will readily be admitted, has been long and violent enough to extract all the virtue of all the ingredients that have been submitted to its action; and enough of scum has boiled over, and enough of pestilent vapour been exhaled, to afford a reasonable assurance that the residuum will be both ample and pure."1

Mr. Locke's aversion to similes is well known, and was undoubtedly carried to an extreme. Yet there is much truth and good sense in the following reflections: "They who in their discourse strike the fancy, and take the hearers' conceptions 1 Edinburgh Review, No. xlv. pp. 2, 3.

along with them as fast as their words flow, are the applauded talkers, and go for the only men of clear thoughts. Nothing contributes so much to this as similes, whereby men think they themselves understand better, because they are the better understood. But it is one thing to think right, and another thing to know the right way to lay our thoughts before others with advantage and clearness, be they right or wrong. Well chosen similes, metaphors, and allegories, with method and order, do this the best of anything, because, being taken from objects already known, and familiar to the understanding, they are conceived as fast as spoken; and the correspondence being concluded, the thing they are brought to explain and elucidate is thought to be understood too. Thus fancy passes for knowledge, and what is prettily said is mistaken for solid.”1

Under the same head, it may not be improper to take notice of what I conceive to be a vulgar error with respect to the supposed incompatibility of a lively imagination and a retentive memory. In point of fact, I apprehend it will be found, that of all the various auxiliaries to memory, imagination is the most powerful; and this, for the same reason that renders objects of sight so efficacious in recalling to us all the ideas or occurrences with which they have been accidentally associated. It is the power of imagination or of conception (for, in our present argument, these words may be used as synonymous) which enables us to place before the mind's eye the great outlines of any interesting scene which we have witnessed, and thereby furnishes to our powers of recollection a natural adminicle, precisely analogous to the topical memory of the ancient rhetoricians. I do not, at the same time, deny that there is some foundation for the remark so happily expressed in Pope's noted distich,

"Where beams of warm imagination play,
The memory's soft figures melt away.'

1 Conduct of the Understanding,

vation is collected from an intimate
knowledge of Human Nature.
As to the decay of Memory by the
vigorous exercise of Fancy, the poet
himself seems to have intimated the

The fact I apprehend to be this, that the colourings and finishing of Imagination are apt to blend themselves with the recollection of realities; and often impose on the observer himself, as well as on those to whom he communicates his information. This, unquestionably, is unfavourable to correctness of memory; and accordingly it is in the accuracy of their minute details, that men of warm Imaginations are chiefly to be distrusted. In point of comprehensiveness or grasp of memory, they may be expected to excel;-and, as far as I can judge from my own observations, they generally do so in a remarkable degree. Nor is this sort of memory, with all its defects, of inconsiderable value to a man of letters; inasmuch as the outline he possesses (general and imperfect as it may be) puts it always in his power, where his knowledge has been derived from books, to revive and correct the fading impres

cause of it in the epithet he has given to Imagination. For if, according to the Atomic Philosophy, the memory of things be preserved in a chain of ideas, produced by the animal spirits moving in continued trains, the force and the rapidity of the Imagination, perpetually breaking and dissipating the links of this chain, by forming new associations, must necessarily weaken and disorder the recollective faculty."

The Philosophy of the Human Mind must surely have made some progress since Warburton's time, for no commentator on Pope, possessed of Warburton's parts and learning, would now attempt to insult the easy faith of the public with a reflection so completely nonsensical and absurd.

"I have often experienced," Mr. Boswell gravely remarks in his Tour with Dr. Johnson through the Hebrides, "that scenes through which a man has passed, improve by lying in the memory; they grow mellow."

To account for this curious mental phenomenon, which he plainly considered as somewhat analogous to the

effect of time in improving the quality of wine, he has offered various theories, without, however, once touching upon the real cause the imperceptible influence of imagination in supplying the decaying impressions of memory. The fact, as he has stated it, was certainly most remarkably exemplified in his own case; for his stories, which I have often listened to with delight, seldom failed to improve wonderfully in such keeping as his memory afforded. They were much more amusing than even his printed anecdotes; not only from the picturesque style of his conversational, or rather his convivial diction, but perhaps still more from the humorous and somewhat whimsical seriousness of his face and manner. As for those anecdotes which he destined for the public, they were deprived of any chance of this sort of improvement, by the scrupulous fidelity with which (probably from a secret distrust of the accuracy of his recollection) he was accustomed to record every conversation which he thought interesting, a few hours after it took place.

sions by recurring to the original authorities. Among my own acquaintance, those whose writings display the most extensive and various knowledge, have been not more remarkable for capaciousness of memory, than for liveliness and warmth of Imagination.

Bayle observes of Plutarch, that he seems to have trusted to his memory too much; and that his memory was rather comprehensive than faithful. How far this criticism is just, I do not pretend to say, but the distinction between these two kinds of memory does honour to Bayle, as an observer of the varieties of intellectual character.

I have observed, in the first volume of this Work, that "the perfection of philosophical language, considered either as an instrument of thought, or as a medium of communication with others, consists in the use of expressions, which, from their generality, have no tendency to awaken the powers of conception and imagination; or, in other words, it consists in its approaching, as nearly as possible, in its nature, to the language of Algebra." "How different from this," I have said upon another occasion, "is the aim of poetry! Sometimes to subdue reason herself by her syren song; and in all her higher efforts, to revert to the first impressions, and to the first language of Nature; clothing every idea with a sensible image, and keeping the fancy for ever on the wing."

If there be any truth in these observations, the habits of thinking of the poet must be peculiarly adverse to metaphysical pursuits: And yet some remarkable examples, (it may be objected,) may be quoted in direct opposition to the universality of this conclusion. To speak only of our own times, an appeal may be made to the names of Darwin, of Beattie, and, above all, to that of my late amiable, and most ingenious and accomplished friend, Dr. Brown. To this objection, it must suffice at present to reply, that there is no rule so general as to admit of no exceptions;-and that, in my opinion, even Dr. Brown would have been a still better metaphysician if he had

1 Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind, vol. i. p. 181.

2

Philosophical Essays, p. 248. 3d edition. [Infra, vol. v.]