TASTE AND IMAGINATION.
Figurative language seems to have confounded the ideas of most writers
upon metaphysics. Imagination, Memory, and Reason, have been long
introduced to our acquaintance as allegorical personages, and we have
insensibly learned to consider them as real beings. The "viewless
regions" of the soul, have been portioned out amongst these ideal
sovereigns; but disputes have, nevertheless, sometimes arisen
concerning the boundaries of intellectual provinces. Amongst the
disputed territories, those of Imagination have been most frequently
the seat of war; her empire has been subject to continual revolution;
her dominions have been, by potent invaders, divided and subdivided.
Fancy,[59] Memory,[60] Ideal presence,[61] and Conception,[62] have
shared her spoils.
By poets, imagination has been addressed as the great parent of
genius, as the arbiter, if not the creator, of our pleasures; by
philosophers, her name has been sometimes pronounced with horror; to
her fatal delusions, they have ascribed all the crimes and miseries of
mankind. Yet, even philosophers have not always agreed in their
opinions: whilst some have treated Imagination with contempt, as the
irreconcileable enemy of Reason, by others[63] she has been considered
with more respect, as Reason's inseparable friend; as the friend who
collects and prepares all the arguments upon which Reason decides; as
the injured, misrepresented power who is often forced to supply her
adversaries with eloquence, who is often called upon to preside at her
own trial, and to pronounce her own condemnation.
Imagination is "_the power_," we are told, of "_forming images_:" the
word image, however, does not, strictly speaking, express any thing
more than a representation of an object of sight; but the power of
imagination extends to objects of all the senses.
"I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says I must not stay.
I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away."
Imagination hears the voice, as well as sees the hand; by an easy
license of metaphor, what was originally used to express the operation
of our senses, is extended to them all. We do not precisely say, that
Imagination, forms _images_ of past sounds, or tastes, or smells; but
we say that she forms ideas of them; and ideas, we are told, are
mental images. It has been suggested by Dr. Darwin, that all these
analogies between images and thoughts have, probably, originated in
our observing the little pictures painted on the retina of the eye.
It is difficult certainly, if not impossible, to speak of the
invisible operations of the mind or body, without expressing ourselves
in metaphor of some kind or other; and we are easily misled by
allusions to sensible objects, because when we comprehend the
allusion, we flatter ourselves that we understand the theory which it
is designed to illustrate. Whether we call ideas images in popular
language, or vibrations, according to Dr. Hartley's system, or modes
of sensation with Condillac, or motions of the sensorium, in the
language of Dr. Darwin, may seem a matter of indifference. But even
the choices of names is not a matter of indifference to those who wish
to argue accurately; when they are obliged to describe their feelings
or thoughts by metaphoric expressions, they will prefer the simplest;
those with which the fewest extraneous associations are connected.
Words which call up a variety of heterogeneous ideas to our minds, are
unfit for the purposes of sober reasoning; our attention is distracted
by them, and we cannot restrain it to the accurate comparison of
simple proportions. We yield to pleasing reverie, instead of exerting
painful voluntary attention. Hence it is probably useful in our
attempts to reason, especially upon metaphysical subjects, to change
from time to time our nomenclature,[64] and to substitute terms which
have no relation to our old associations, and which do not affect the
prejudices of our education. We are obliged to define with some degree
of accuracy the sense of new terms, and we are thus led to compare our
old notions with more severity. Our superstitious reverence for mere
symbols is also dissipated; symbols are apt to impose even upon those
who acknowledge their vanity, and who profess to consider them merely
as objects of vulgar worship.
When we call a class of our ideas _images_ and pictures, a tribe of
associations with painting comes into our mind, and we argue about
Imagination as if she were actually a paintress, who has colours at
her command, and who, upon some invisible canvass in the soul,
portrays the likeness of all earthly and celestial objects. When we
continue to pursue the same metaphor in speaking of the moral
influence of Imagination, we say that her _colouring_ deceives us,
that her _pictures_ are flattering and false, that she draws objects
out of proportion, &c. To what do all these metaphors lead? We make no
new discoveries by talking in this manner; we do not learn the cause
or the cure of any of the diseases of the mind; we only persuade
ourselves that we know something, when we are really ignorant.
We have sedulously avoided entering into any metaphysical
disquisitions; but we have examined with care the systems of theoretic
writers, that we may be able to avail ourselves of such of their
observations as can be reduced to practice in education. With respect
to the arts, imagination may be considered practically in two points
of view, as it relates to our taste, and as it relates to our talents
for the arts. Without being a poet, or an orator, a man may have a
sufficient degree of imagination to receive pleasure from the talents
of others; he may be a critical judge of the respective merits of
orators, poets, and artists. This sensibility to the pleasures of the
imagination, when judiciously managed, adds much to the happiness of
life, and it must be peculiarly advantageous to those who are
precluded by their station in society from the necessity of manual
labour. Mental exercise, and mental amusements, are essential to
persons in the higher ranks of life, who would escape from the fever
of dissipation, or from the lethargy of ennui. The mere physical
advantages which wealth can procure, are reducible to the short sum of
"_meat, fire, and clothes_." A nobleman of the highest birth, and with
the longest line of ancestry, inherits no intuitive taste, nor can he
purchase it from the artist, the painter, or the poet; the possession
of the whole Pinelli library could not infuse the slightest portion of
literature. Education can alone give the full power to enjoy the real
advantages of fortune. To educate the taste and the imagination, it is
not necessary to surround the heir of an opulent family with masters
and connoisseurs. Let him never hear the jargon of amateurs, let him
learn the art "not to admire." But in his earliest childhood cultivate
his senses with care, that he may be able to see and hear, to feel and
understand, for himself. Visible images he will rapidly collect in his
memory; but these must be selected, and his first associations must
not be trusted to accident. Encourage him to observe with attention
all the works of nature, but show him only the best imitations of art;
the first objects that he contemplates with delight, will remain long
associated with pleasure in his imagination; you must, therefore, be
careful, that these early associations accord with the decisions of
those who have determined the national standard of taste. In many
instances taste is governed by arbitrary and variable laws; the
fashions of dress, of decoration, of manner, change from day to day;
therefore no exclusive prejudices should confine your pupil's
understanding. Let him know, as far as we know them, the general
principles which govern mankind in their admiration of the sublime and
beautiful; but at the same time give him that enlarged toleration of
mind, which comprehends the possibility of a taste different from our
own. Show him, and you need not go further than the Indian skreen, or
the Chinese paper in your drawing room, for the illustration, that
the sublime and beautiful vary at Pekin, at London, on Westminster
bridge, and on the banks of the Ganges. Let your young pupil look over
a collection of gems or of ancient medals; it is necessary that his
eye should be early accustomed to Grecian beauty, and to all the
classic forms of grace. But do not suffer him to become a bigot,
though he may be an enthusiast in his admiration of the antique. Short
lessons upon this subject may be conveyed in a few words. If a child
sees you look at the bottom of a print for the name of the artist,
before you will venture to pronounce upon its merits, he will follow
your example, and he will judge by the authority of others, and not by
his own taste. If he hears you ask, who wrote this poem? Who built
this palace? Is this a genuine antique? he will ask the same questions
before he ventures to be pleased. If he hears you pronounce with
emphasis, that such a thing comes from Italy, and therefore must be in
good taste, he will take the same compendious method of decision upon
the first convenient occasion.
He will not trouble himself to examine why utility pleases, nor will
he analyze his taste, or discover why one proportion or one design
pleases him better than another; he will, if by example you teach him
prejudice, content himself with repeating the words, proportion,
antique, picturesque, &c. without annexing any precise ideas to these
words.
Parents, who have not turned their attention to metaphysics, may,
perhaps, apprehend, that they have something very abstruse or
intricate to learn, before they can instruct their pupils in the
principles of taste: but these principles are simple, and two or three
entertaining books, of no very alarming size, comprise all that has
yet been ascertained upon this subject. Vernet's Theorie des
Sentiments Agreables; Hogarth's Analysis of Beauty; an Essay of Hume's
on the standard of taste; Burke's Sublime and Beautiful; Lord Kames's
Elements of Criticism; Sir Joshua Reynold's Discourses; and Alison on
Taste; contain so much instruction, mixed with so much amusement, that
we cannot think that it will be a _terrible task_ to any parent to
peruse them.
These books are above the comprehension of children; but the
principles which they contain, can be very early illustrated in
conversation. It will be easy, in familiar instances, to show children
that the fitness, propriety, or utility of certain forms, recommends
them to our approbation: that uniformity, an appearance of order and
regularity, are, in some cases, agreeable to us; contrast, in others:
that one class of objects pleases us from habit, another from novelty,
&c. The general principle that governs taste, in the greatest variety
of instances, is the association of ideas, and this, fortunately, can
be most easily illustrated.
"I like such a person, because her voice puts me in mind of my
mother's. I like this walk, because I was very happy the last time I
was here with my sister. I think green is the prettiest of all
colours; my father's room is painted green, and it is very cheerful,
and I have been very happy in that room; and, besides, the grass is
green in spring." Such simple observations as these, come naturally
from children; they take notice of the influence of association upon
their taste, though, perhaps, they may not extend their observations
so as to deduce the general principle according to philosophical
forms. We should not lay down for them this or any other principle of
taste, as a rule which they are to take for granted; but we should
lead them to class their own desultory remarks, and we should excite
them to attend to their own feelings, and to ascertain the truth, by
experiments upon themselves. We have often observed, that children
have been much entertained with comparing the accidental circumstances
they have met with, and the unpremeditated expressions used in
conversation, with any general maxim. In this point of view, we may
render even general maxims serviceable to children, because they will
excite to experiment: our pupils will detect their falsehood, or,
after sufficient reflection, acknowledge their truth.
Perhaps it may be thought, that this mode of instruction will tend
rather to improve the judgment than the taste; but every person of
good taste, must have also a good judgment in matters of taste:
sometimes the judgment may have been partially exercised upon a
particular class of objects, and its accuracy of discrimination may be
confined to this one subject; therefore we hastily decide, that,
because men of taste may not always be men of universally good
judgment, these two powers of the mind are unnecessary to one another.
By teaching the philosophy, at the same time that we cultivate the
pleasures, of taste, we shall open to our pupils a new world; we shall
give them a new sense. The pleasure of every effect will be increased
by the perception of its cause; the magic of the scenery will not lose
its power to charm, though we are aware of the secret of the
enchantment.
We have hitherto spoken of the taste for what is beautiful; a taste
for the sublime we should be cautious in cultivating. Obscurity and
terror are two of the grand sources of the sublime; analyze the
feeling, examine accurately the object which creates the emotion, and
you dissipate the illusion, you annihilate the pleasure.
"What seemed its head, the likeness of a kingly crown had on."
The indistinctness of the head and of the kingly crown, makes this a
sublime image. Upon the same principle,
"Danger, whose limbs, of giant mould,
No mortal eye can fix'd behold,"
always must appear sublime as long as the passion of fear operates.
Would it not, however, be imprudent in education to permit that early
propensity to superstitious terrors, and that temporary suspension of
the reasoning faculties, which are often essential to our taste for
the sublime? When we hear of "Margaret's grimly ghost," or of the
"dead still hour of night," a sort of awful tremor seizes us, partly
from the effect of early associations, and partly from the solemn tone
of the reader. The early associations which we perhaps have formed of
terror, with the ideas of apparitions, and winding sheets, and sable
shrouds, should be unknown to children. The silent solemn hour of
midnight, should not to them be an hour of terror. In the following
poetic description of the beldam telling dreadful stories to her
infant audience, we hear only of the pleasures of the imagination; we
do not recollect how dearly these pleasures must be purchased by their
votaries:
"* * * * * * finally by night
The village matron, round the blazing hearth,
Suspends the infant audience with her tales,
Breathing astonishment! of witching rhymes,
And evil spirits; of the death-bed call
Of him who robbed the widow, and devour'd
The orphan's portion; of the unquiet souls
Ris'n from the grave to ease the heavy guilt
Of deeds in life concealed; of shapes that walk
At dead of night, and clank their chains, and wave
The torch of hell around the murd'rer's bed.
At every solemn pause the crowd recoil,
Gazing each other speechless, and congeal'd
With shiv'ring sighs; till, eager for th' event,
Around the beldam all erect they hang,
Each trembling heart with grateful terrors quell'd."[65]
No prudent mother will ever imitate this eloquent village matron, nor
will she permit any beldam in the nursery to conjure up these sublime
shapes, and to quell the hearts of her children with these grateful
terrors. We were once present when a group of speechless children sat
listening to the story of Blue-beard, "breathing astonishment." A
gentleman who saw the charm beginning to operate, resolved to
counteract its dangerous influence. Just at the critical moment, when
the fatal key drops from the trembling hands of the imprudent wife,
the gentleman interrupted the awful pause of silence that ensued, and
requested permission to relate the remainder of the story.
Tragi-comedy does not offend the taste of young, so much as of old
critics; the transition from grave to gay was happily managed.
Blue-beard's wife afforded much diversion, and lost all sympathy the
moment she was represented as a curious, tattling, timid, ridiculous
woman. The terrors of Blue-beard himself subsided when he was properly
introduced to the company; and the denouement of the piece was managed
much to the entertainment of the audience; the catastrophe, instead of
freezing their young blood, produced general laughter. Ludicrous
images, thus presented to the mind which has been prepared for horror,
have an instantaneous effect upon the risible muscles: it seems better
to use these means of counteracting the terrors of the imagination,
than to reason upon the subject whilst the fit is on; reason should be
used between the fits.[66] Those who study the minds of children know
the nice touches which affect their imagination, and they can, by a
few words, change their feelings by the power of association.
Ferdinand Duke of Tuscany was once struck with the picture of a child
crying: the painter,[67] who was at work upon the head, wished to give
the duke a proof of his skill: by a few judicious strokes, he
converted the crying into a laughing face. The duke, when he looked at
the child again, was in astonishment: the painter, to show himself
master of the human countenance, restored his first touches; and the
duke, in a few moments, saw the child weeping again. A preceptor may
acquire similar power over the countenance of his pupil if he has
studied the oratorical art. By the art of oratory, we do not mean the
art of misrepresentation, the art of deception; we mean the art of
showing the truth in the strongest light; of exciting virtuous
enthusiasm and generous indignation. Warm, glowing eloquence, is not
inconsistent with accuracy of reasoning and judgment. When we have
expressed our admiration or abhorrence of any action or character, we
should afterwards be ready coolly to explain to our pupils the justice
of our sentiments: by this due mixture and alternation of eloquence
and reasoning, we may cultivate a taste for the moral and sublime, and
yet preserve the character from any tincture of extravagant
enthusiasm. We cannot expect, that the torrent of passion should never
sweep away the land-marks of exact morality; but after its overflowing
impetuosity abates, we should take a calm survey of its effects, and
we should be able to ascertain the boundaries of right and wrong with
geometrical precision.
There is a style of bombast morality affected by some authors, which
must be hurtful to young readers. Generosity and honour, courage and
sentiment, are the striking qualities which seize and enchant the
imagination in romance: these qualities must be joined with justice,
prudence, economy, patience, and many humble virtues, to make a
character really estimable; but these would spoil the effect, perhaps,
of dramatic exhibitions.
Children may with much greater safety see hideous, than gigantic
representations of the passions. Richard the Third excites abhorrence;
but young Charles de Moor, in "The Robbers," commands our sympathy;
even the enormity of his guilt, exempts him from all ordinary modes of
trial; we forget the murderer, and see something like a hero. It is
curious to observe, that the legislature in Germany, and in England,
have found it necessary to interfere as to the representation of
Captain Mac Heath and the Robbers; two characters in which the tragic
and the comic muse have had powerful effects in exciting imitation.
George Barnwell is a hideous representation of the passions, and
therefore beneficial.
There are many sublime objects which do not depend upon terror, or at
least upon false associations of terror, for their effect; and there
are many sublime thoughts, which have no connection with violent
passions or false ideas of morality. These are what we should select,
if possible, to raise, without inflating, the imagination. The view of
the ocean, of the setting or the rising sun, the great and bold scenes
of nature, affects the mind with sublime pleasure. All the objects
which suggest ideas of vast space, or power, of the infinite duration
of time, of the decay of the monuments of ancient grandeur, or of the
master-pieces of human art and industry, have power to raise sublime
sensations: but we should consider, that they raise this pleasure only
by suggesting certain ideas; those who have not the previous ideas,
will not feel the pleasure. We should not, therefore, expect that
children should admire objects which do not excite any ideas in their
minds; we should wait till they have acquired the necessary knowledge,
and we should not injudiciously familiarize them with these objects.
Simplicity is a source of the sublime, peculiarly suited to children;
accuracy of observation and distinctness of perception, are essential
to this species of the sublime. In Percy's collection of ancient
ballads, and in the modern poems of the Ayreshire ploughman, we may
see many instances of the effect of simplicity. To preserve our
pupil's taste from a false love of ornament, he must avoid, either in
books or in conversation, all verbose and turgid descriptions, the use
of words and epithets which only fill up the measure of a line.
When a child sees any new object, or feels any new sensation, we
should assist him with appropriate words to express his thoughts and
feelings: when the impression is fresh in his mind, the association,
with the precise descriptive epithets, can be made with most
certainty. As soon as a child has acquired a sufficient stock of words
and ideas, he should be from time to time exercised in description;
we should encourage him to give an exact account of his own feelings
in his own words. Those parents who have been used to elegant, will
not, perhaps, be satisfied with the plain, descriptions of unpractised
pupils; but they should not be fastidious; they should rather be
content with an epithet too little, than with an epithet too much; and
they should compare the child's description with the objects actually
described, and not with the poems of Thomson or Gray, or Milton or
Shakespeare. If we excite our pupils to copy from the writings of
others, they never can have any originality of thought. To show
parents what sort of simple descriptions they may reasonably expect
from children, we venture to produce the following extempore
description of a summer's evening, given by three children of
different ages.
July 12th, 1796. Mr. ---- was walking out with his family, and he
asked his children to describe the evening just as it appeared to
them. "There were three bards in Ossian's poems," said he, "who were
sent out to see what sort of a night it was; they all gave different
descriptions upon their return; you have never any of you read Ossian,
but you can give us some description of this evening; try."
B---- (a girl of 14.) "The clouds in the west are bright with the
light of the sun which has just set; a thick mist is seen in the east,
and the smoke which had been _heaped up_ in the day-time, is now
spread, and mixes with the mist all round us; the noises are heard
more plainly (though there are but few) than in the day-time; and
those which are at a distance, sound almost as near as those which are
close to us; there is a red mist round the moon."
C---- (a girl of eleven years old.) "The western clouds are pink with
the light of the sun which has just set. The moon shines red through
the mist. The smoke and mist make it look dark at a distance; but the
few objects near us appear plainer. If it was not for the light of
the moon, they would not be seen; but the moon is exceedingly bright;
it shines upon the house and the windows. Every thing sounds busy at a
distance; but what is near us is still."
S---- (a boy between nine and ten years old). "The sun has set behind
the hill, and the western clouds are tinged with light. The mist mixes
with the smoke, which rises from the heaps of weeds which some poor
man is burning to earn bread for his family. The moon through the mist
peeps her head, and sometimes she _goes back_, retires into her bower
of clouds. The few noises that are heard, are heard very plain--very
plainly."
We should observe, that the children who attempted these little
descriptions, had not been habituated to the _poetic trade_; these
were the only descriptions of an evening which they ever made. It
would be hurtful to exercise children frequently in descriptive
composition; it would give them the habit of exact observation, it is
true, but something more is necessary to the higher species of poetry.
Words must be selected which do not represent only, but which suggest,
ideas. Minute veracity is essential to some sorts of description; but
in a higher style of poetry, only the large features characteristic of
the scene must be produced, and all that is subordinate must be
suppressed. Sir Joshua Reynolds justly observes, that painters, who
aim merely at deception of the eye by exact imitation, are not likely,
even in their most successful imitations, to rouse the imagination.
The man who mistook the painted fly for a real fly, only brushed, or
attempted to brush it, away. The exact representation of such a common
object, could not raise any sublime ideas in his mind; and when he
perceived the deception, the wonder which he felt at the painter's
art, was a sensation no wise connected with poetic enthusiasm.
As soon as young people have collected a variety of ideas, we can
proceed a step in the education of their fancy. We should sometimes in
conversation, sometimes in writing or in drawing, show them how a few
strokes, or a few words, can suggest or combine various ideas. A
single expression from Caesar, charmed a mutinous army to instant
submission. Unless the words "_Roman Citizens!_" had suggested more
than meets the ear, how could they have produced this wonderful
effect? The works of Voltaire and Sterne abound with examples of the
skilful use of the language of suggestion: on this the wit of
Voltaire, and the humour and pathos of Sterne, securely depend for
their success. Thus, corporal Trim's eloquence on the death of his
young master, owed its effect upon the whole kitchen, including "the
fat scullion, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees," to the
well-timed use of the mixed language of action and suggestion.
"'Are we not here now?' continued the corporal (striking the end of
his stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of
health and stability) 'and are we not' (dropping his hat upon the
ground) 'gone in a moment?'"
"Are we not here now, and gone in a moment?" continues Sterne, who, in
this instance, reveals the secret of his own art. "There was nothing
in the sentence; it was one of your self-evident truths we have the
advantage of hearing every day; and if Trim had not trusted more to
his hat than his head, he had made nothing at all of it."
When we point out to our pupils such examples in Sterne, we hope it
will not be understood, that we point them out to induce servile
imitation. We apprehend, that the imitators of Sterne have failed from
not having discovered that the interjections and ---- dashes of this
author, are not in themselves beauties, but that they affect us by
suggesting ideas. To prevent any young writers from the intemperate or
absurd use of interjections, we should show them Mr. Horne Tooke's
acute remarks upon this mode of embellishment. We do not, however,
entirely agree with this author in his abhorrence of interjections.
We do not believe that "where speech can be employed they are totally
useless; and are always insufficient for the purpose of communicating
our thoughts."[68] Even if we class them, as Mr. Tooke himself
does,[69] amongst "involuntary convulsions with oral sound," such as
groaning, shrieking, &c. yet they may suggest ideas, as well as
express animal feelings. Sighing, according to Mr. Tooke, is in the
class of interjections, yet the poet acknowledges the superior
eloquence of sighs:
"Persuasive words, and _more persuasive_ sighs."
"'I wish,' said Uncle Toby, with a deep sigh (after hearing the story
of Le Fevre) 'I wish, Trim, I was asleep.'" The sigh here adds great
force to the wish, and it does not mark that Uncle Toby, from
vehemence of passion, had returned to the brutal state of a savage who
has not learnt the use of speech; but, on the contrary, it suggests to
the reader, that Uncle Toby was a man of civilized humanity; not one
whose compassion was to be excited merely as an animal feeling by the
actual _sight_ of a fellow-creature in pain, but rather by the
description of the sufferer's situation.
In painting, as well as in writing, the language of suggestion affects
the mind, and if any of our pupils should wish to excel in this art,
they must early attend to this principle. The picture of Agamemnon
hiding his face at the sacrifice of his daughter, expresses little to
the eye, but much to the imagination. The usual signs of grief and joy
make but slight impression; to laugh and to weep are such common
expressions of delight or anguish, that they cannot be mistaken, even
by the illiterate; but the imagination must be cultivated to enlarge
the sphere of sympathy, and to render a more refined language
intelligible. It is said that a Milanese artist painted two peasants,
and two country-girls, who laughed so heartily, that _no one_ could
look at them without laughing.[70] This is an instance of sympathy
unconnected with imagination. The following is an instance of sympathy
excited by imagination. When Porcia was to part from Brutus, just
before the breaking out of the civil war, "she endeavoured," says
Plutarch, "as well as possible, to conceal the sorrow that oppressed
her; but, notwithstanding her magnanimity, a picture betrayed her
distress. The subject was the parting of Hector and Andromache. He was
represented delivering his son Astyanax into her arms, and the eyes of
Andromache were fixed upon him. The resemblance that this picture bore
to her own distress, made _Porcia_ burst into tears the moment she
beheld it." If Porcia had never read Homer, Andromache would not have
had this power over her imagination and her sympathy.
The imagination not only heightens the power of sympathy with the
emotions of all the passions which a painter would excite, but it is
likewise essential to our taste for another class of pleasures.
Artists, who like Hogarth would please by humour, wit, and ridicule,
must depend upon the imagination of the spectators to supply all the
intermediate ideas which they would suggest. The cobweb over the poor
box, one of the happiest strokes of satire that Hogarth ever invented,
would probably say nothing to the inattentive eye, or the dull
imagination. A young person must acquire the language, before he can
understand the ideas, of superior minds.
The taste for poetry must be prepared by the culture of the
imagination. The united powers of music and poetry could not have
triumphed over Alexander, unless his imagination had assisted "the
mighty master."
"With downcast looks the joyless victor sat,
Revolving in his altered soul
The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow."
The sigh and the tears were the consequences of Alexander's own
thoughts, which were only recalled by kindred sounds. We are well
aware, that savage nations, or those that are imperfectly civilized,
are subject to enthusiasm; but we are inclined to think, that the
barbarous clamour with which they proclaim their delight in music and
poetry, may deceive us as to the degree in which it is felt: the
sensations of cultivated minds may be more exquisite, though they are
felt in silence. It has been supposed, that ignorance is extremely
susceptible of the pleasures of wonder: but wonder and admiration are
different feelings: the admiration which a cultivated mind feels for
excellence, of which it can fully judge, is surely a higher species of
pleasure, than the brute wonder expressed by "a foolish face of
praise." Madame Roland tells us, that once, at a sermon preached by a
celebrated Frenchman, she was struck with the earnest attention
painted in the countenance of a young woman who was looking up at the
preacher. At length the fair enthusiast exclaimed, "My God, how he
perspires!" A different sort of admiration was felt by Caesar, when the
scroll dropped from his hand whilst he listened to an oration of
Cicero's.
There are an infinite variety of associations, by which the orator has
power to rouse the imagination of a person of cultivated
understanding; there are comparatively few, by which he can amuse the
fancy of illiterate auditors. It is not that they have less
imagination than others; they have equally the power of raising vivid
images; but there are few images which can be recalled to them: the
combinations of their ideas are confined to a small number, and words
have no poetic or literary associations in their minds: even amongst
children, this difference between the power we have over the
cultivated and uncultivated mind, early appears. A laurel leaf is to
the eye of an illiterate boy nothing more than a shrub with a shining,
pale-green, pointed leaf: recall the idea of that shrub by the most
exact description, it will affect him with no peculiar pleasure: but
associate early in a boy's mind the ideas of glory, of poetry, of
olympic crowns, of Daphne and Apollo; by some of these latent
associations the orator may afterwards raise his enthusiasm. We shall
not here repeat what has been said[71] upon the choice of literature
for young people, but shall once more warn parents to let their pupils
read only the best authors, if they wish them to have a fine
imagination, or a delicate taste. When their minds are awake and warm,
show them excellence; let them hear oratory only when they can feel
it; if the impression be vivid, no matter how transient the touch.
Ideas which have once struck the imagination, can be recalled by the
magic of a word, with all their original, all their associated force.
Do not fatigue the eye and ear of your vivacious pupil with the
monotonous sounds and confused images of vulgar poetry. Do not make
him repeat the finest passages of Shakespeare and Milton; the effect
is lost by repetition; the words, the ideas are profaned. Let your
pupils hear eloquence from eloquent lips, and they will own its power.
But let a drawling, unimpassioned reader, read a play of
Shakespeare's, or an oration of Demosthenes, and if your pupil is not
out of patience, he will never taste the charms of eloquence. If he
feels a fine sentiment, or a sublime idea, pause, leave his mind full,
leave his imagination elevated. Five minutes afterwards, perhaps, your
pupil's attention is turned to something else, and the sublime idea
seems to be forgotten: but do not fear; the idea is not obliterated;
it is latent in his memory; it will appear at a proper time, perhaps a
month, perhaps twenty years afterwards. Ideas may remain long useless,
and almost forgotten in the mind, and may be called forth by some
corresponding association from their torpid state.
Young people, who wish to make themselves orators or eloquent writers,
should acquire the habit of attending first to the general impression
made upon their own minds by oratory, and afterwards to the cause
which produced the effect; hence they will obtain command over the
minds of others, by using the knowledge they have acquired of their
own. The habit of considering every new idea, or new fact, as a
subject for allusion, may also be useful to the young orator. A change
from time to time in the nature of his studies, will enlarge and
invigorate his imagination. Gibbon says, that, after the publication
of his first volume of the Roman history, he gave himself a short
holyday. "I indulged my curiosity in some studies of a very different
nature: a course of anatomy, which was demonstrated by Dr. Hunter, and
some lessons of chemistry, which were delivered by Dr. Higgins. The
principles of these sciences, and a taste for books of natural
history, contributed to multiply my ideas and images; and the
anatomist and chemist may sometimes track me in their own snow."
Different degrees of enthusiasm are requisite in different
professions; but we are inclined to think, that the imagination might
with advantage be cultivated to a much higher degree than is commonly
allowed in young men intended for public advocates. We have seen
several examples of the advantage of a general taste for the belles
lettres in eminent lawyers;[72] and we have lately seen an ingenious
treatise called Deinology, or instructions for a Young Barrister,
which confirms our opinion upon this subject. An orator, by the
judicious preparation of the minds of his audience, may increase the
effect of his best arguments. A Grecian painter,[73] before he would
produce a picture which he had finished, representing a martial
enterprise, ordered martial music to be played, to raise the
enthusiasm of the assembled spectators; when their imagination was
sufficiently elevated, he uncovered the picture, and it was beheld
with sympathetic transports of applause.
It is usually thought, that persons of extraordinary imagination are
deficient in judgment: by proper education, this evil might be
prevented. We may observe that persons, who have acquired particular
facility in certain exercises of the imagination, can, by voluntary
exertion, either excite or suppress certain trains of ideas on which
their enthusiasm depends. An actor, who storms and raves whilst he is
upon the stage, appears with a mild and peaceable demeanor a moment
afterwards behind the scenes. A poet, in his inspired moments, repeats
his own verses in his garret with all the emphasis and fervour of
enthusiasm; but when he comes down to dine with a mixed convivial
company, his poetic fury subsides, a new train of ideas takes place in
his imagination. As long as he has sufficient command over himself to
lay aside his enthusiasm in company, he is considered as a reasonable,
sensible man, and the more imagination he displays in his poems, the
better. The same exercise of fancy, which we admire in one case, we
ridicule in another. The enthusiasm which characterizes the man of
genius, borders upon insanity.
When Voltaire was teaching mademoiselle Clairon, the celebrated
actress, to perform an impassioned part in one of his tragedies, she
objected to the violence of his enthusiasm. "Mais, monsieur, on me
prendroit pour une possedee!"[74] "Eh, mademoiselle," replied the
philosophic bard, "il faut etre un possede pour reussir en aucun art."
The degree of enthusiasm, which makes the painter and poet set, what
to more idle, or more busy mortals, appears an imaginary value upon
their respective arts, supports the artist under the pressure of
disappointment and neglect, stimulates his exertions, and renders him
almost insensible to labour and fatigue. Military heroes, or those who
are "_insane with ambition_,"[75] endure all the real miseries of
life, and brave the terrors of death, under the invigorating influence
of an extravagant imagination. Cure them of their enthusiasm, and they
are no longer heroes. We must, therefore, decide in education, what
species of characters we would produce, before we can determine what
degree, or what habits of imagination, are desirable.
"Je suis le Dieu de la danse!"[76] exclaimed Vestris; and probably
Alexander the Great did not feel more pride in his Apotheosis. Had any
cynical philosopher undertaken to cure Vestris of his vanity, it would
not have been a charitable action. Vestris might, perhaps, by force of
reasoning, have been brought to acknowledge that a dancing-master was
not a divinity, but this conviction would not have increased his
felicity; on the contrary, he would have become wretched in proportion
as he became rational. The felicity of enthusiasts depends upon their
being absolutely incapable of reasoning, or of listening to reason
upon certain subjects; provided they are resolute in repeating their
own train of thoughts without comparing them with that of others, they
may defy the malice of wisdom, and in happy ignorance may enjoy
perpetual delirium.
Parents, who value the happiness of their children, will consider
exactly what chance there is of their enjoying unmolested any partial
enthusiasm; they will consider, that by early excitations, it is very
easy to raise any species of ambition in the minds of their pupils.
The various species of enthusiasm necessary to make a poet, a painter,
an orator, or a military hero, may be inspired, without doubt, by
education. How far these are connected with happiness, is another
question. Whatever be the object which he pursues, we must, as much as
possible, ensure our pupil's success. Those who have been excited to
exertion by enthusiasm, if they do not obtain the reward or admiration
which they had been taught to expect, sink into helpless despondency.
Whether their object has been great or small, if it has been their
favourite object, and they fail of its attainment, their mortification
and subsequent languor are unavoidable. The wisest of monarchs
exclaimed, that all was vanity and vexation of spirit; he did not,
perhaps, feel more weary of the world than the poor juggler felt, who,
after educating his hands to the astonishing dexterity of throwing up
into the air, and catching as they fell, six eggs successively,
without breaking them, received from the emperor, before whom he
performed, six eggs to reward the labour of his life!
This poor man's ambition appears obviously absurd; and we are under no
immediate apprehension, that parents should inspire their children
with the enthusiasm necessary to the profession of a juggler: but,
unless some precautions are taken, the objects which excite the
ambition of numbers, may be placed so as to deceive the eye and
imagination of children; and they may labour through life in pursuit
of phantoms. If children early hear their parents express violent
admiration for riches, rank, power, or fame, they catch a species of
enthusiasm for these things, before they can estimate justly their
value; from the countenance and manner, they draw very important
conclusions. "Felicity is painted on your countenance," is a polite
phrase of salutation in China. The taste for looking happy, is not
confined to the Chinese: the rich and great,[77] by every artifice of
luxury, endeavour to impress the spectator with the idea of their
superior felicity. From experience we know, that the external signs of
delight are not always sincere, and that the apparatus of luxury is
not necessary to happiness. Children who live with persons of good
sense, learn to separate the ideas of happiness and a coach and six;
but young people who see their fathers, mothers, and preceptors, all
smitten with sudden admiration at the sight of a fine phaeton, or a
fine gentleman, are immediately infected with the same absurd
enthusiasm. These parents do not suspect, that they are perverting
the imagination of their children, when they call them with foolish
eagerness to the windows to look at a fine equipage, a splendid
cavalcade, or a military procession; they perhaps summon a boy, who is
intended for a merchant, or a lawyer, to hear "the spirit stirring
drum;" and they are afterwards surprised, if he says, when he is
fifteen or sixteen, that, "_if his father pleases_, he had rather go
into the army, than go to the bar." The mother is alarmed, perhaps,
about the same time, by an unaccountable predilection in her
daughter's fancy for a red coat, and totally forgets having called the
child to the window to look at the smart cockades, and to hear the
tune of "See the conquering hero comes."
"Hear you me, Jessica," says Shylock to his daughter, "lock up my
doors; and when you hear the drum, and the vile squeaking of the
wry-necked fife, clamber not you up into the casements then."
Shylock's exhortations were vain; Jessica had arrived at years of
discretion, and it was too late to forbid her clambering into the
casements; the precautions should have been taken sooner; the epithets
vile squeaking and wry-necked fife, could not alter the lady's taste:
and Shylock should have known how peremptory prohibitions and
exaggerated expressions of aversion operate upon the female
imagination; he was imprudent in the extreme of his caution. We should
let children see things as they really are, and we should not
prejudice them either by our exclamations of rapture, or by our
affected disgust. If they are familiarized with show, they will not be
caught by it; if they see the whole of whatever is to be seen, their
imagination will not paint things more delightful than they really
are. For these reasons, we think that young people should not be
restrained, though they may be guided in their tastes; we should
supply them with all the information in which they are deficient, and
leave them to form their own judgments.
Without making it a matter of favour, or of extraordinary
consequence, parents can take their children to see public
exhibitions, or to partake of any amusements which are really
agreeable; they can, at the same time, avoid mixing factitious with
real pleasure. If, for instance, we have an opportunity of taking a
boy to a good play, or a girl to a ball, let them enjoy the full
pleasure of the amusement, but do not let us excite their imagination
by great preparations, or by anticipating remarks: "Oh, you'll be very
happy to-morrow, for you're to go to the play. You must look well
to-night, for you are going to the ball. Were you never at a ball? Did
you never see a play before? Oh, _then_ you'll be delighted, I'm
sure!" The children often look much more sensible, and sometimes more
composed, in the midst of these foolish exclamations, than their
parents. "Est ce que je m'amuse, maman?" said a little girl of six
years old, the first time she was taken to the playhouse.
Besides the influence of opinion, there are a number of other
circumstances to be considered in cultivating the imagination; there
are many other circumstances which must be attended to, and different
precautions are necessary, to regulate properly the imagination of
children of different dispositions, or temperaments. The disposition
to associate ideas, varies in strength and quickness in opposite
temperaments: the natural vivacity or dulness of the senses, the habit
of observing external objects, the power of voluntary exertion, and
the propensity to reverie, must all be considered before we can adapt
a plan of education exactly to the pupil's advantage. A wise preceptor
will counteract, as much as possible, all those defects to which a
child may appear most liable, and will cultivate his imagination so as
to prevent the errours to which he is most exposed by natural, or what
we call natural, disposition.
Some children appear to feel sensations of pleasure or pain with more
energy than others; they take more delight in feeling than in
reflection; they have neither much leisure nor much inclination for
the intellectual exertions of comparison or deliberation. Great care
should be taken to encourage children of this temper to describe and
to compare their sensations. By their descriptions we shall judge what
motives we ought to employ to govern them, and if we can teach them to
compare their feelings, we shall induce that voluntary exertion of
mind in which they are naturally defective. We cannot compare or judge
of our sensations without voluntary exertion. When we deliberate, we
repeat our ideas deliberately; and this is an exercise peculiarly
useful to those who feel quickly.
When any pleasure makes too great an impression upon these children of
vivid sensations, we should repeat the pleasure frequently, till it
begins to fatigue; or we should contrast it, and bring it into direct
comparison with some other species of pleasure. For instance, suppose
a boy had appeared highly delighted with seeing a game at cards, and
that we were apprehensive he might, from this early association,
acquire a taste for gaming, we might either repeat the amusement till
the playing at cards began to weary the boy, or we might take him
immediately after playing at cards to an interesting comedy; probably,
the amusement he would receive at the playhouse, would be greater than
that which he had enjoyed at the card-table; and as these two species
of pleasure would immediately succeed to each other, the child could
scarcely avoid comparing them. Is it necessary to repeat, that all
this should be done without any artifice? The child should know the
meaning of our conduct, and then he will never set himself in
opposition to our management.
If it is not convenient, or possible, to dull the charm of novelty by
repetition, or to contrast a new pleasure with some other superior
amusement, there is another expedient which may be useful; we may call
the power of association to our assistance: this power is sometimes a
full match for the most lively sensations. For instance, suppose a boy
of strong feelings had been offended by some trifle, and expressed
sensations of hatred against the offender obviously too violent for
the occasion; to bring the angry boy's imagination to a temperate
state, we might recall some circumstance of his former affection for
the offender; or the general idea, that it is amiable and noble to
command our passion, and to forgive those who have injured us. At the
sight of his mother, with whom he had many agreeable associations, the
imagination of Coriolanus raised up instantly a train of ideas
connected with the love of his family, and of his country, and
immediately the violence of his sensations of anger were subdued.
Brutus, after his friend Cassius has apologized to him for his "rash
humour," by saying, "that it was hereditary from his mother," promises
that the next time Cassius is over-earnest with "his Brutus, he will
think his mother chides, and leave him so;" that is to say, Brutus
promises to recollect an association of ideas, which shall enable him
to bear with his friend's ill humour.
Children, who associate ideas very strongly and with rapidity,[78]
must be educated with continual attention. With children of this
class, the slightest circumstances are of consequence; they may at
first appear to be easily managed, because they will remember
pertinaciously any reproof, any reward or punishment; and, from
association, they will scrupulously avoid or follow what has, in any
one instance, been joined with pain or pleasure in their imagination:
but unfortunately, accidental events will influence them, as well as
the rewards and punishments of their preceptors; and a variety of
associations will be formed, which may secretly govern them long
before their existence is suspected. We shall be surprised to find,
that even where there is apparently no hope, or fear, or passion, to
disturb their judgment, they cannot reason, or understand reasoning.
On studying them more closely, we shall discover the cause of this
seeming imbecility. A multitude of associated ideas occur to them
upon whatever subject we attempt to reason, which distract their
attention, and make them change the terms of every proposition with
incessant variety. Their pleasures are chiefly secondary reflected
pleasures, and they do not judge by their actual sensations so much as
by their associations. They like and dislike without being able to
assign any sufficient cause for their preference or aversion. They
make a choice frequently without appearing to deliberate; and if you,
by persuading them to a more detailed examination of the objects,
convince them, that according to the common standard of good and evil,
they have made a foolish choice, they will still seem puzzled and
uncertain; and, if you leave them at liberty, will persist in their
original determination. By this criterion we may decide, that they are
influenced by some secret false association of ideas; and, instead of
arguing with them upon the obvious folly of their present choice, we
should endeavour to make them trace back their ideas, and discover the
association by which they are governed. In some cases this may be out
of their power, because the original association may have been totally
forgotten, and yet those connected with it may continue to act: but
even when we cannot succeed in any particular instance in detecting
the cause of the errour, we shall do the pupils material service by
exciting them to observe their own minds. A tutor, who carefully
remarks the circumstances in which a child expresses uncommon grief or
joy, hope or fear, may obtain complete knowledge of his associations,
and may accurately distinguish the proximate and remote causes of all
his pupil's desires and aversions. He will then have absolute command
over the child's mind, and he should upon no account trust his pupil
to the direction of any other person. Another tutor, though perhaps of
equal ability, could not be equally secure of success; the child would
probably be suspected of cunning, caprice, or obstinacy, because the
causes of his tastes and judgments could not be discovered by his new
preceptor.
It often happens, that those who feel pleasure and pain most strongly,
are likewise most disposed to form strong associations of ideas.[79]
Children of this character are never stupid, but often prejudiced and
passionate: they can readily assign a reason for their preference or
aversion; they recollect distinctly the original sensations of
pleasure or pain, on which their associations depend; they do not,
like Mr. Transfer in Zelucco, like or dislike persons and things,
because they have _been used to them_, but because they have received
some injury or benefit from them. Such children are apt to make great
mistakes in reasoning, from their registering of coincidences hastily;
they do not wait to repeat their experiments, but if they have in one
instance observed two things to happen at the same time, they expect
that they will always recur together. If one event precedes or follows
another accidentally, they believe it to be the cause or effect
of its concomitant, and this belief is not to be shaken in their
minds by ridicule or argument. They are, consequently, inclined
both to superstition and enthusiasm, according as their hopes
and fears predominate. They are likewise subject to absurd
antipathies--antipathies which verge towards insanity.
Dr. Darwin relates a strong instance of antipathy in a child from
association. The child, on tasting the gristle of sturgeon, asked what
gristle was? and was answered, that gristle was like the division of a
man's nose. The child, disgusted at this idea, for twenty years
afterwards could never be persuaded to taste sturgeon.[80]
Zimmermann assures us, that he was an eye-witness of a singular
antipathy, which we may be permitted to describe in his own words:
"Happening to be in company with some English gentlemen, all of them
men of distinction, the conversation fell upon antipathies. Many of
the company denied their reality, and considered them as idle stories,
but I assured them that they were truly a disease. Mr. William
Matthews, son to the governor of Barbadoes, was of my opinion, because
he himself had an antipathy to spiders. The rest of the company
laughed at him. I undertook to prove to them that this antipathy _was
really an impression on his soul, resulting from the determination of
a mechanical effect_. (We do not pretend to know what Dr. Zimmermann
means by this.) Lord John Murray undertook to shape some black wax
into the appearance of a spider, with a view to observe whether the
antipathy would take place at the simple figure of the insect. He then
withdrew for a moment, and came in again with the wax in his hand,
which he kept shut. Mr. Matthews, who in other respects was a very
amiable and moderate man, immediately conceiving that his friend
really had a spider in his hand, clapped his hand to his sword with
extreme fury, and running back towards the partition, cried out most
horribly. All the muscles of his face were swelled, his eyes were
rolling in their sockets, and his body was immoveable. We were all
exceedingly alarmed, and immediately ran to his assistance, took his
sword from him, and assured him that what he conceived to be a spider,
was nothing more than a bit of wax, which he might see upon the table.
"He remained some time in this spasmodic state; but at length he began
to recover, and to deplore the horrible passion from which he still
suffered. His pulse was very strong and quick, and his whole body was
covered with a cold perspiration. After taking an anodyne draft, he
resumed his usual tranquillity.
"We are not to wonder at this antipathy," continues Zimmermann; "the
spiders at Barbadoes are very large, and of an hideous figure. Mr.
Matthews was born there, and his antipathy was therefore to be
accounted for. Some of the company undertook to make a little waxen
spider in his presence. He saw this done with great tranquillity, but
he could not be persuaded to touch it, though he was by no means a
timorous man in other respects. Nor would he follow my advice to
endeavour to conquer this antipathy by first drawing parts of spiders
of different sorts, and after a time whole spiders, till at length he
might be able to look at portions of real spiders, and thus gradually
accustom himself to whole ones, at first dead, and then living
ones."[81]
Dr. Zimmermann's method of cure, appears rather more ingenious, than
his way of accounting for the disease. Are all the natives of
Barbadoes subject to convulsions at the sight of the large spiders in
that island? or why does Mr. William Matthews' having been born there
account so satisfactorily for his antipathy?
The cure of these unreasonable fears of harmless animals, like all
other antipathies, would, perhaps, be easily effected, if it were
judiciously attempted early in life. The epithets which we use in
speaking of animals, and our expressions of countenance, have great
influence on the minds of children. If we, as Dr. Darwin advises, call
the spider _the ingenious spider_, and the frog _the harmless frog_,
and if we look at them with complacency, instead of aversion,
children, from sympathy, will imitate our manner, and from curiosity
will attend to the animals, to discover whether the commendatory
epithets we bestow upon them, are just.
It is comparatively of little consequence to conquer antipathies which
have trifling objects. An individual can go through life very well
without eating sturgeon, or touching spiders; but when we consider the
influence of the same disposition to associate false ideas too
strongly in more important instances, we shall perceive the necessity
of correcting it by education.
Locke tells us of a young man, who, having been accustomed to see an
old trunk in the room with him when he learned to dance, associated
his dancing exertions so strongly with the sight of this trunk, that
he could not succeed by any voluntary efforts in its absence. We have,
in our remarks upon attention,[82] pointed out the great
inconveniences to which those are exposed who acquire associated
habits of intellectual exertion; who cannot speak, or write, or think,
without certain habitual aids to their memory or imagination. We must
further observe, that incessant vigilance is necessary in the moral
education of children disposed to form strong associations; they are
liable to sudden and absurd dislikes or predilections, with respect to
persons, as well as things; they are subject to caprice in their
affections and temper, and liable to a variety of mental infirmities,
which, in different degrees, we call passion or madness. Locke tells
us, that he knew a man who, after having been restored to health by a
painful operation, had so strongly associated the idea and figure of
the operator with the agony he had endured, that though he
acknowledged the obligation, and felt gratitude towards this friend
who had saved him, he never afterwards could bear to see his
benefactor. There are some people who associate so readily and
incorrigibly the idea of any pain or insult they have received from
another, with his person and character, that they can never afterwards
forget or forgive. They are hence disposed to all the intemperance of
hatred and revenge; to the chronic malice of a Jago, or the acute
pangs of an Achilles. Homer, in his speech of Achilles to Agamemnon's
mediating ambassadors, has drawn a strong and natural picture of the
progress of anger. It is worth studying as a lesson in metaphysics.
Whenever association suggests to the mind of Achilles the injury he
has received, he loses his reason, and the orator works himself up
from argument to declamation, and from declamation to desperate
resolution, through a close linked connection of ideas and
sensations.
The insanities of ambition, avarice, and vanity, originate in early
mistaken associations. A feather, or a crown, or an alderman's chain,
or a cardinal's hat, or a purse of yellow counters, are unluckily
associated in the minds of some men with the idea of happiness, and,
without staying to deliberate, these unfortunate persons hunt through
life the phantasms of a disordered imagination. Whilst we pity, we are
amused by the blindness and blunders of those whose mistakes can
affect no one's felicity but their own; but any delusions which prompt
their victims to actions inimical to their fellow-creatures, are the
objects not unusually of pity, but of indignation, of private aversion
and public punishment. We smile at the avaricious insanity of the
miser, who dresses himself in the cast-off Wig of a beggar, and pulls
a crushed pancake from his pocket for his own and for his friend's
dinner.[83] We smile at the insane vanity of the pauper, who dressed
himself in a many-coloured paper star, assumed the title of Duke of
Baubleshire, and as such required homage from every passenger.[84] But
are we inclined to smile at the outrageous vanity of the man who
styled himself the son of Jupiter, and who murdered his best friend
for refusing him divine honours? Are we disposed to pity the
slave-merchant, who, urged by the maniacal desire for gold, hears
unmoved the groans of his fellow-creatures, the execrations of
mankind, and that "small still voice," which haunts those who are
stained with blood.
The moral insanities which strike us with horror, compassion, or
ridicule, however they may differ in their effects, have frequently
one common origin; an early false association of ideas. Persons who
mistake in measuring their own feelings, or who neglect to compare
their ideas, and to balance contending wishes, scarcely merit the
name of _rational_ creatures. The man, who does not deliberate, is
lost.
We have endeavoured, though well aware of the difficulty of the
subject, to point out some of the precautions that should be used in
governing the imagination of young people of different dispositions.
We should add, that in all cases the pupils attention to his own mind
will be of more consequence, than the utmost vigilance of the most
able preceptor; the sooner he is made acquainted with his own
character, and the sooner he can be excited to govern himself by
reason, or to attempt the cure of his own defects, the better.
There is one habit of the imagination, to which we have not yet
adverted, the habit of reverie. In reverie we are so intent upon a
particular train of ideas, that we are unconscious of all external
objects, and we exert but little voluntary power. It is true that some
persons in castle-building both reason and invent, and therefore must
exert some degree of volition; even in the wildest reverie, there may
be traced some species of consistency, some connection amongst the
ideas; but this is simply the result of the association of ideas.
Inventive castle-builders are rather nearer the state of insanity than
of reverie; they reason well upon false principles; their airy fabrics
are often both in good taste and in good proportion; nothing is
wanting to them but a foundation. On the contrary, nothing can be more
silly than the reveries of silly people; they are not only defective
in consistency, but they want all the unities; they are not
extravagant, but they are stupid; they consist usually of a listless
reiteration of uninteresting ideas; the whole pleasure enjoyed by
those addicted to them consists in the facility of repetition.
It is a mistaken notion, that only people of ardent imaginations are
disposed to reverie; the most indolent and stupid persons waste their
existence in this indulgence; they do not act always in consequence of
their dreams, therefore we do not detect their folly. Young people of
active minds, when they have not sufficient occupation, necessarily
indulge in reverie; and, by degrees, this wild exercise of their
invention and imagination becomes so delightful to them, that they
prefer it to all sober employments.
Mr. Williams, in his Lectures upon Education, gives an account of a
boy singularly addicted to reverie. The desire of invisibility had
seized his mind, and for several years he had indulged his fancy with
imagining all the pleasures that he should command, and all the feats
that he could perform, if he were in possession of Gyges's ring. The
reader should, however, be informed, that this castle-builder was not
a youth of strict veracity; his confession upon this occasion, as upon
others, might not have been sincere. We only state the story from Mr.
Williams.
To prevent children from acquiring a taste for reverie, let them have
various occupations both of mind and body. Let us not direct their
imagination to extraordinary future pleasures, but let us suffer them
to enjoy the present. Anticipation is a species of reverie; and
children, who have promises of future pleasures frequently made to
them, live in a continual state of anticipation.
To cure the habit of reverie when it has once been formed, we must
take different methods with different tempers. With those who indulge
in the _stupid reverie_, we should employ strong excitations, and
present to the senses a rapid succession of objects, which will
completely engage without fatiguing them. This mode must not be
followed with children of different dispositions, else we should
increase, instead of curing, the disease. The most likely method to
break this habit in children of great quickness or sensibility, is to
set them to some employment which is wholly new to them, and which
will consequently exercise and exhaust all their faculties, so that
they shall have no life left for castle-building. Monotonous
occupations, such as copying, drawing, or writing, playing on the
harpsichord, &c. are not, _if habit has made them easy_ to the pupil,
fit for our purpose. We may all perceive, that in such occupations,
the powers of the mind are left unexercised. We can frequently read
aloud with tolerable emphasis for a considerable time together, and at
the same time think upon some subject foreign to the book we hold in
our hands.
The most difficult exercises of the mind, such as invention, or strict
reasoning, are those alone which are sufficient to subjugate and chain
down the imagination of some active spirits. To such laborious
exercises they should be excited by the encouraging voice of praise
and affection. Imaginative children will be more disposed to invent
than to reason, but they cannot perfect any invention without
reasoning; there will, therefore, be a mixture of what they like and
dislike in the exercise of invention, and the habit of reasoning will,
perhaps, gradually become agreeable to them, if it be thus dexterously
united with the pleasures of the imagination.
So much has already been written by various authors upon the pleasures
and the dangers of imagination, that we could scarcely hope to add any
thing new to what they have produced: but we have endeavoured to
arrange the observations which appeared most applicable to practical
education; we have pointed out how the principles of taste may be
early taught without injury to the general understanding, and how the
imagination should be prepared for the higher pleasures of eloquence
and poetry. We have attempted to define the boundaries between the
enthusiasm of genius, and its extravagance; and to show some of the
precautions which may be used, to prevent the moral defects to which
persons of ardent imagination are usually subject. The degree in which
the imagination should be cultivated must, we have observed, be
determined by the views which parents may have for their children, by
their situations in society, and by the professions for which they are
destined. Under the government of a sober judgment, the powers of the
imagination must be advantageous in every situation; but their value
to society, and to the individuals by whom they are possessed, depends
ultimately upon the manner in which they are managed. A magician,
under the control of a philosopher, would perform not only great, but
useful, wonders. The homely proverb, which has been applied to fire,
may with equal truth be applied to imagination: "It is a good servant,
but a bad master."
FOOTNOTES:
[58] Priestley has ably given the desiderata of electricity, vision,
&c.
[59] Wharton's Ode to Fancy.
[60] Gerard.
[61] Lord Kames.
[62] Professor Stewart.
[63] V. An excellent essay of Mr. Barnes's on Imagination. Manchester
Society, vol. i.
[64] It is to be hoped that the foreign philosophers, who, it is said,
are now employed in drawing up a new metaphysical nomenclature, will
avail themselves of the extensive knowledge, and original genius of
the author of Zoonomia.
[65] Akenside.
[66]
"Know there are words and spells which can control, Between the fits,
the fever of the soul."
Pope.
[67] Peter of Cortona.
[68] V. Epea Pteroenta, p. 88.
[69] Chapter on Grammar.
[70] V. Camper's Works, p. 126.
[71] V. Chapter on Books.
[72] Lord Mansfield, Hussey Burgh, &c.
[73] Theon.
[74] "But, Sir, I shall be taken for one possessed!"
"Well, Ma'am, you must be _like one possessed_, if you would succeed
in any art."
[75] Dr. Darwin.
[76] "I am the god of dancing!"
[77] V. Smith's Moral Theory.
[78] Temperament of increased association. Zoonomia.
[79] V. Zoonomia. Temperament of increased sensibility and association
joined.
[80] Zoonomia, vol. ii.
[81] Monthly Review of Zimmermann on Experience in Physic. March 1783,
p. 211.
[82] V. Chapter on Attention.
[83] Elwes. See his Life.
[84] There is an account of this poor man's death in the Star, 1796.