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darkness visible,' it is probable that the undirected individual, mistaking his way, will eventually fall into the most terrific depths of despondency.

But to turn to the opposite side of the question. The imagination, as a source of pleasure, presents no circumscribed field for inquiry. Its pleasures are so varied, and frequently so decidedly innocent, when properly directed, that it is matter for lamentation that they should, by obtaining the mastery, be productive of evil consequences; but, unfortunately, this is sometimes the case. However, ill effects can only arise from our giving our imagination too loose a rein; keep it under control, and no danger can arise. I am fond of walking early, and alone, or at least with no companion other than my walking-stick, without which I am lost; and it is under these circumstances that my enjoyment of the beauties of Nature is least alloyed. But I walk not on the king's highway; I leave the haunts of men, and my time is spent in rambling beside the river, or in beating the bushes of a well known shady lane. I cull the most beautiful of the wild flowers; or, if tired, I recline beneath a high hedge, well hung with woodbine; or, if more industriously disposed, I climb the steep ascent, and take an almost unbounded view of the country around me, and then I have only to repeat

I am monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute ;
From the centre all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute! and, during the repetition, to exercise that faith (under such circumstances, trifling effort of imagination) of which fortune-tellers speak, and I will venture to affirm that my happiness surpasses that of King William; while my cares are-a cypher! 'Pleasure, to be real, must not be forced upon us,' says a moralist; and nothing can more decidedly be matter of choice than the pleasures of the imagination. In the case in point, the very opposite of compulsion is the fact; the very source of pleasure is unbounded, while

the pleasure itself is of the most ethereal kind—it is purely the pleasure of the mind. There are no grovelling appetites, no sordid desires, no bad passions, to gratify, for it is seldom that we are awakened from our imaginative dominion to the sensualities of its actual possession; but the mind riots in delights, and, dancing from scene to scene, unites all pleasures in all combinations.'

But the imagination can afford pleasures of a more exalted character. The philosopher, the philanthropist, the christian, can, every one in his own province, arrive at a pitch of far greater felicity, and see his honourable schemes of exertion grow to a state of higher perfection, in imagination, than in the matterof-fact walks of human life. But still it is desirable that persons carry not their imaginative pleasures to such an extent, as to let them interfere with, or unfit them for, the more substantial, though less pleasing, affairs which duty calls them to. The imagination would then be productive of evil, rather than good; and instead of being wholly a source of pleasure, it would, in the event, become a source of pain. If, by the characters enumerated, imaginative pleasures are carried to this unwarranted extent, the philosopher would become speculative; the philanthropist, visionary; and the christian, fanatical: they would lose their respectable standing in the world, and would become incapable of so great good as formerly.

It is highly important that too much reliance be not placed on the imagination. We cannot always live in the world of visionary delights; excursions there are justifiable; and though, in our every-day-matters, our imagination is frequently a pleasing companion, yet we must not depend upon it as a guide. To speak literally, imagination is not a sense the senses sometimes give false information, but generally they may be relied on; whereas, owing to its eccentricity, it is seldom that any reliance is to be placed upon the imagination. Our eye or our ear may, and sometimes does, mislead us; but who ever heard of an

individual, whose ear or eye has led him into a thou sandth part of the wild extravagances that are, in many individual cases, recorded of the imagination? Some persons have, when the imagination has overcome the senses, supposed themselves to have been changed into plants, and have stood in the garden, and insisted upon their servants watering them. One thought he was a barley-corn, and resolutely refused to walk abroad, lest he should be picked up and eaten by a fowl. Some have imagined themselves divested of the principle of immortality, while others have declared themselves really dead. A student carried his whim so far as to order the college bell to announce his departure; and because the ringer did not perform his part to the student's satisfaction, the latter tolled the bell for himself. It is recorded of an invalid, that, supposing the entrance to his chamber too narrow to permit his egress, and the doctor, to convince him of his error, ordering him to be carried through, the patient shortly after died, from no other cause than the imaginary breaking of his bones and dislocation of his joints. Another invalid, supposing his bed to be placed in a river, pointed to the floor, and said he should like to bathe in that stream; his fancy was humoured, and the consequence was his complete recovery. In all these cases, the imagination gives intelligence as the senses do, but in each case how false that intelligence is ! And how unfortunate the situation of each individual, his senses not having the power to disprove the statements of his imagination! In the last instance, certainly, we find a piece of good fortune for the patient; but his imagination might have stated something capable of most injurious effects: however, it serves most admirably, as associated with the previous cases, to illustrate the eccentricity of the imagination.

If the imagination commences its workings upon a mind originally nerveless, and especially if the individual is endued with a rather more than ordinary share of vanity, it is highly probable that it will lead him to

extreme lengths, producing consequences ludicrous or fatal, or both, according to accompanying circumstances. I have somewhere met with an illustration of this remark: it is a passage in the life of a country apothecary. He speculated in a lottery, and thought of a 20,000l. prize; he imagined that he had won it. Under the influence of this idea, he performed the most ridiculous antics. Walking from his parlour to his shop, and back again, cane in hand, he supposed himself in such a house as a man of 20,000l. can command. He laid out his shrubberies, his lawns; he made his fish-ponds; thought himself returned M. P.; a successful statesman; a knight; a baronet ; a peer; and at the head of an illustrious posterity. His brain became frenzied, it was more than his nerves could support; the brilliancy of the imaginary scene overcame him, and he demolished the whole paraphernalia of his profession. Vials, jars, bottles, gallipots, were levelled by his cane, and such a compound of animal, mineral, and vegetable medicine made as had never before been heard of; all lay in one heterogeneous heap.

But it is in solitude, particularly monastic solitude, that we find imagination holding her most undisputed sway. An individual shut up from the world, holds little or nothing in common with his fellow men; he knows nothing of their cares or their enjoyments; he feels not as they feel; and having no ties upon the world of sense, he is compelled, in many instances, for his pleasures and his pains, to travel in the world of imagination; and if superstition and slothfulness have any hold upon his mind, his thoughts and actions will be of the most dehasing nature, and the creations of his fancy the most disgusting that can be conceived. On the contrary, if the recluse be a man of mind-a man, the bent of whose disposition will lead him to mix active exertion with close study-a man who will spend a portion of his time in what has been aptly termed literary leisure-his imagination, so far from leading him into the excesses enume

rated, will become his most lively companion; and, with the exception of occasional eccentricity, it will not appear injured, but vivified, by seclusion.

U. C. K. L'E,

THE FAREWELL OF THE INJURED ONES.
SPREAD out the canvass to the wind,
And let us hasten from the shore,
The treach'rous hearts we leave behind
Shall vex our spirits now no more:
But as our ocean-path we tread,
And gaze upon the fading strand,
Let one fond fare-thee-well be said,
For oh! it is our native land.
Away, away, and, as we dash
Across the raging billow's foam,
Perchance some thought, like meteor-flash,
Will strive to lure us back to home:
But no! that home hath lost the charm
Which once was wont to give repose;
And they may sooner quell the storm,
Than make us to forget our woes.
Although the joys are not so sweet,

That now shall cradle in the heart,
The false ones we may chance to meet
Will be depriv'd of half their smart:
The eyes that kindly, fondly bless-

The lips, with their deceitful tone-
Will lose their bliss-their bitterness-
They will not be our lov'd-our own.
The sky is bright, the azure main
Reflects the brightness of the sky,
Hope's beacon-flame is lit again,
To guide us onward merrily:
Away, away, whatever Fate

Decrees to us of good or ill;
To all we love-to all we hate,
We bid one long, one last, farewell.

JAMES KNOX.

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