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tem of thought, or style of composition. all its varied parts it consists of the ordinary Yet of imagination, as well as impression, and familiar features of humanity; and in we are unable to say decidedly that it does thinking of this wayward and capricious benot exist, because, like impression, it only ing, whose accumulated wrongs and misebecomes perceptible to us through the me- ries have almost stupified his energies, whose dium of words; and as all individuals are melancholy, natural or induced, has connot able to use this medium with force and verted the "brave, o'erhanging firmament" perspicuity, we necessarily lose many of the into "a pestilent congregation of vapours," brilliant conceptions of those around us. we feel with him in all his weakness, as We may however assert as an indisputable with a man; and for him with all his faults, fact, that poetry of the highest order was as for a brother. In memory too, how disnever yet produced without the powerful tinet is Hamlet from all the creations of infeexercise of the faculty of imagination. rior minds! He seems to occupy a place in history, rather than in fiction; and in searching out the principles of human feeling, we refer to him as to one whose existence was real, rather than ideal. This may be said of all Shakespeare's characters, and so powerful is the evidence of truth impressed upon them, that where he chooses to depart from circumstantial fact, our credence clings to him in preference to less imaginative historians.

As a wonderful instance of the force and efficacy of imagination, as well as of impression, power, and taste, we might single out Milton, were it not that power is more essentially the characteristic of his works. He has equals in the other requisites of a poet, while in power he stands unrivalled.

But, supreme in the region of imagination is our inimitable Shakespeare; and that he is inimitable is perhaps the greatest proof of the perfection of his imaginative powers. The heroes of Byron have been multiplied through so many copies that we have grown weary of the original; but who can imitate the characters of Shakespeare? And yet how perfectly human is every individual of the multitude which he has placed before us-so human as to be liked and disliked, according to the peculiar cast of mind in the persons who pronounce upon them; just in the same manner as characters in ordinary life attract or repel those with whom they come in contact. Every one forms the same opinion of the Corsair, because he has a few distinctive qualities, by which he is known and copied; while no two individuals agree upon the character of Hamlet—a character of all others perhaps least capable of imitation. Yet let us ask, is Hamlet less natural than Conrad? Quite the reverse. If ever the poet's mind conceived a perfectly original man, it is Hamlet, in whose mysterious nature is displayed the most astonishing effort of imagination; and yet so true is the dark picture to the principles of human nature, that we perceive at once the representation of a creature formed after the similitude of ourselves.

The fact is, that though as a whole it stands alone, even in the world of fiction, in

Perhaps the most remarkable fact in connection with the genius of this wonderful writer, is the immense variety of his characters. In almost all other fictitious writings, we recognize the same hero, appearing in different forms—sometimes seated on an eastern throne, and sometimes presiding over the rude ceremonial of an Indian wigwam; while the same heroine figures in the "sable stole" of a priestess, or in the borrowed ornaments of a bandit's bride. But the people of Shakespeare amongst whom we seem to live, are in no way beholden to situation or costume, for appearing to be what they really are. They have an actual identity— an individuality that would be distinctly perceptible in any other circumstances, or under any other disguise.

One of the favorite painters of our day, or rather of yesterday, has but three heads, which serve all his purposes-an old man with white hair and flowing beard, a Grecian female, and a semi-roman hero; and in the same way many of our writers make use of three or more distinctions of character-a hero and a heroine-a secondary hero to thwart their loves-a secondary heroine to assist either one party or the other-perhaps to play at cross purposes with her mistress or her friend: and a fool or buffoon,

(who varies least of all,) to rush upon the stage when more important personages are likely to be reduced to a dilemma. But in Shakespeare even the fools are as motley as the garb they wear; and the women, who with other writers vary only from the tender to the heroic, are of all ages, and of all distinctions of character and feeling; while amongst the immense number of men whom he introduces to our acquaintance, there is no single instance of greater resemblance than we find in real life. Perhaps the nearest approach to similarity is in the blundering absurdities of justices of the peace, or country magistrates, a class of people with whom ("if ancient tales say true") it is probable the poet may have been brought into no very pleasing kind of contact, and hence arises the vein of satire which flows through every description of their conduct and conversation.

Beyond this, there is another striking proof of the wonderful extent of Shakespeare's imaginative powers. Throughout the whole of his plays we never recognize the man himself. In the works of almost every other writer, the author appears before us, and we become in some measure acquainted with his peculiar tone of mind and individual cast of character; but Shakespeare is equally at home with the gloomy or the gay, the licentious or the devout, the sublime or the familiar, the terrific or the lovely. We never detect him identifying himself either with the characters, or the sentiments of others; and though we wonder, and speculate upon the mind that could thus play with all the feelings of humanity, Shakespeare himself remains invisible and unknown, like a master magician regulating the machinery which at the same time conceals his own person, and astonishes the world.

The Tempest is generally considered the most imaginative of Shakespeare's plays, and certainly it contains little, in scenery, or circumstance, that can be associated with ordinary life. In the character of Prospero, we are forcibly struck with the originality of the conception; because it combines what is not to be found elsewhere-the art of a necromancer with the dignity of a man of honour and integrity; and when he lays down his magic wand, "unites the spell,"

and doffs the mantle of enchantment, he stands before us, not debased and powerless, but full of the native majesty of a nobleman and a prince. To his daughter, the pure and spiritual Miranda, one of our most talented, yet most feminine writers,* has so lately done, perhaps more than justice, that nothing can be added to her own exquisitely poetical description of the island nymph, who has "sprung up into beauty beneath the eye of her father, the princely magician; her companions the rocks and woods, the many-shaped, many-tinted clouds and the silent stars; her playmates the ocean billows that stoop their foamy crests, and run rippling to kiss her feet."

Of Ariel, the "delicate Ariel," that most ethereal essence that ever assumed the form of beauty in the glowing visions of imagination, what can we say? so entirely and purely spiritual is this aerial being, that we know not whether to speak of him as calling up "spirits from the vasty deep," rolling the thunder clouds along the stormy heavens, whelming the helpless mariners in the foaming surge, and dashing their "goodly bark" upon the echoing rocks; or if her, gentle, willing, and obedient, hastening on ready service at a moment's bidding, and asking for the love, as well as the approbation, of the island lord. We know of nothing within the range of ordinary thought from which the character of Ariel can be borrowed, and certainly it is the nearest in approach to a perfectly original conception, of any which in our literature adorns the page of fiction.

Of Caliban, too monstrous for a mantoo fiendish for a beast, it may also be said that he is entirely the creature of imagination; and indeed throughout the whole of this astonishing drama, the mind of the author seems to have taken the widest possible range of which human genius is capable. The very existence of these beings upon a solitary island, isolated and shut out from human fellowship, involves, in difficulties as strange as insurmountable to ordinary powers, the usual course of thought and action, and renders it infinitely more reconcilable to

Mrs. Jameson.

our prejudices, that Prospero, in such a situa

tion,

"with the stars,

And the quick spirits of the universe" should hold "his dialogues."

How beautiful, amidst all the complicated machinery of her father's magic, is the delicate simplicity of Miranda! She wonders not at the prodigies around her, because her trust and her love are centered in her father, and she believes him to have power to dissolve as well as to enforce the spell; yet why he should exercise this power for any other than humane and gracious purposes, she is at a loss to conceive, and therefore she ventures to call his attention to the wreck of a "brave vessel" which she has first seen dashed amongst the rocks, and then she adds

"Had I been any God of power, I would

Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er
It should the good ship so have swallow'd, and
The freighting souls within her."

Finding the natural disposition to wonder and inquire, just dawning in her mind, Prospero thinks it time to explain the mystery of their situation, and then follows that touching and beautiful description of their former life, their wrongs, and sufferings, which, occasionally interrupted by the jealousy of the narrator, lest the attention of his child should wander, and by her simple ejaculations of wonder and concern, is unparalleled alike for its imaginative charm, and for its accordance with the principles of nature. For instance, when Miranda is questioned by her father whether she can remember a time before she came into that cell, and whether she can recall such by any other house, or person, or image, she

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I boarded the king's ship: now on the beak,
Now on the waste, the deck, in every cabin,
I flam'd amazement. Sometimes I'd divide
And burn in many places: on the top-mast,
The yards, and bolt-sprit, would I flame distinctly,
Then meet, and join: Jove's lightnings, the precursors
O' the dreadful thunder clap, more momentary
And sight outrunning were not. The fire and cracks
Of sulphurous roaring, the most mighty Neptune
Seem'd to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble,
Yea, his dread trident shake."

After all this, the imperative magician requires yet farther service, when Ariel, in language true to a nature more human than his own, meekly reminds his master of the

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Thou dost; and think'st it much to tread the ooze
Of the salt deep;

To run upon the sharp wind of the north;
To do me business in the veins of the earth,
When it is bak'd with frost."

There is certainly too much of harshness and contempt to suit our feelings, in the language which Prospero addresses to his "tricksy spirit." But yet sometimes, when Ariel asks of the diligent execution of his master's mission, "Was't not well done?" and receives a gracious answer full of approbation; when the magician turns away from coarser natures to welcome with smiles his invincible messenger in the air; and especially when at last he dismisses him, with

"My Ariel,

This is thy charge; then to the elements
Be free, and fare thou well!"'

Thus breaking his bondage with the gentleness of affection; we have only to extend our thoughts a little farther beyond the sphere of common life, and we feel that a spirit, gentle, and pure, and elastic, like that of Ariel, would be more than soothed by a single word or look of kindness-more than rewarded with all it could desire, centred in the glorious blessing of liberty.

Even the monster Caliban has also an imagination amongst all his brutalities, or how could he thus describe the influence of the magic spell, by which his being was surrounded?

"Be not afear'd, the isle is full of noises,

Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twanging instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices,
That if I then had wak'd after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought, would open and show riches,
Ready to drop upon me; that when I waked,
I cried to dream again."

The following passage, well known to every reader, can never become too familiar, or lose its poetic and highly imaginative charm by repetition:

"these our actors.

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;

And, like this unsubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."-

How beautiful, and still imaginative is the scene, in which the heart of the magician begins to melt for the sufferings of those he has been afflicting with retributive justice!

"Say, my spirit,

How fares the king and his followers 7

ARIEL.

Confined together
In the same fashion as you gave in charge;
Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir,

In the lime grove which weatherfends your cell;
They cannot budge, till your release. The king,
His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted;
And the remainder mourning over them,
Brim-full of sorrow and dismay; but, chiefly,
Him that you term'd the good old lord, Gonzalo,
His tears run down his beard, like winter drops
From eaves of reeds: your charm so strongly works
'em,

That if you now beheld them, your affections
Would become tender.

PROSPERO.

Dost thou think so, spirit?

ARIEL. Mine would, sir, were I human. PROSPERO.

And mine shall.

Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their afflictions? and shall not myself,
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,
Passion'd as they, be kindlier mov'd than thou art?
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the
quick,

Yet with my nobler reason, 'gainst my fury
Do I take part: the rarer action is

In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent,
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend
Not a frown further. Go, release them, Ariel!
My charms I'll break, their senses I'll restore,
And they shall be themselves.

I'll fetch them, sir.

ARIEL.

PROSPERO.

Ye elves, of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves;
And
ye, that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him,

When he comes back; you demy-puppets, that

By moon-shine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime
Is it to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew: by whose aid
(Weak masters though ye be.) I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire, and rifled Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-bas'd promontory
Have I made shake: and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command,
Have wak'd their sleepers; op'd, and let them forth,
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure: and when I have requir'd
Some heavenly music, (which even now I do,)
To work mine end upon their senses, that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And, deeper than did ever plummet sound,
I'll drown my book."

It is easy to bring proofs of the existence of imagination-more easy from the pen of Shakespeare than from that of any other writer; but what language shall describe its power! what hand shall reach to the utmost boundary of space and time-from the source of light to the centre of darkness— | from the heights of heaven, to the depths of hell, to draw forth the attributes of imagination, and embody them in a visible sign? Countless as the varieties of human character are those of the nature and office of this active principle; and whatever is the tendency of the mind-to happiness or misery -to good or evil, imagination, faithful to the impulse of the feelings, ranges through creation, collecting sweets or bitters-delicious food, or deadly poison.

with storm and tempest, pouring the waters of bitternes upon the pleasant paths of earth, and calling upon the troubled elements to bring their tribute of despair.

What then is imagination to the good or to the evil? An angel whose protecting wings are stretched out above the pathway to the gates of heaven-a demon whose ghastly image beckons from precipice to gulf-down, down into the fathomless abyss of endless night: a gentle visitant, who brings a tribute of sweet flowers-a fearful harbinger of storms and darkness: a voice of melody that sings before us as we journey on a cry that tells of horrors yet to come: a wreath of beauty shadowing our upward gaze-a crown of thorns encircling a bleeding brow: a wilderness of verdure spread beneath our wandering steps-an adder in that verdure lurking to destroy: a comforter whose smile diffuses light-an enemy whose envenomed arrow rankles in the heart: a joyful messenger going forth upon an embassy of love—a hideous monster howling at the gates of hell.

True to the impulse of nature, imagination rushes forth with certain aim, and never brings home sweets to the malevolent, or poison to the pure heart; but penetrating into paths unknown, gathers riches for the supply of confidence and hope, or collecting its evidence from "trifles light as air," sharpens the pangs of envy and mistrust.

There are who treat imagination as a light to be extinguished-a power to be overcome-a demon to be exorcised. But ask the child who sits with sullen brow beneath unnatural discipline, whether imagi

This faculty, more than any other, bespeaks the progress, or the declension of the immortal soul. Like the dove of peace, it soars with the spirit in its upward flight-nation is not pointing to flowery paths, and like the ominous raven it goes before it in its stimulating his unbroken will to seek them downward fall. To those who seek for in despite of stripes and tears. Ask the beauty and happiness, imagination lifts the self-isolated misanthrope, when lonely and veil of nature, and discloses all her charms, unloved he broods over the dark future and unfolds the rosebud to the morning sun, the joyless past, whether imagination does wakens the lark to sing his matins to the not call up images of social comfort, of purple dawn, or folds back the mantle of friendly intercourse, and "homefelt delight," misty clouds, and calls upon the day-beam which his sad solitude can never know. to arise; while those who close their eyes Ask the pale monk whose daily penance upon the loveliness that smiles around them, drags him to an early grave, whether imit darkens with a tenfold gloom, sharpening agination steals not with the moonbeams the thorns that lie beneath their feet, stun- into his silent cell, whispering of another ning the ear with the harsh tumult of dis-heaven than that of which he reads-a heacordant sounds, rousing the bellowing deep ven even upon earth, to which a broken vow,

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