call "imagery," is not the
product of imagination, but a restless pursuit of comparison, and a lax
use of language. Instead of presenting us with an image of the object,
they present us with something which they tell us is like the
object---which it rarely is. The thing itself has no clear significance
to them, it is only a text for the display of their ingenuity. If,
however, we turn from poetasters to poets, we see great accuracy in
depicting the things themselves or their suggestions, so that we may be
certain the things presented themselves in the field of the poet's
vision, and were painted because seen. The images arose with sudden
vivacity, or were detained long enough to enable their characters to be
seized. It is this power of detention to which I would call particular
notice, because a valuable practical lesson may be learned through a
proper estimate of it. If clear Vision be indispensable to success in
Art, all means of securing that clearness should be sought. Now one
means is that of detaining an image long enough before the mind to
allow of its being seen in all its characteristics. The explanation
Newton gave of his discovery of the great law, points in this
direction; it was by always thinking of the subject, by keeping it
constantly before his mind, that he finally saw the truth. Artists
brood over the chaos of their suggestions, and thus shape them into
creations. Try and form a picture in your own mind of your early
skating experience. It may be that the scene only comes back upon you
in shifting outlines, you recall the general facts, and some few
particulars are vivid, but the greater part of the details vanish again
before they can assume decisive shape; they are but half nascent, or
die as soon as born: a wave of recollection washes over the mind, but
it quickly retires, leaving no trace behind. This is the common
experience. Or it may be that the whole scene flashes upon you with
peculiar vividness, so that you see, almost as in actual presence, all
the leading characteristics of the picture. Wordsworth may have seen
his early days in a succession of vivid flashes, or he may have
attained to his distinctness of vision by a steadfast continuity of
effort, in which what at first was vague became slowly definite as he
gazed. It is certain that only a very imaginative mind could have seen
such details as he has gathered together in the lines describing how he

"Cut across the reflex of a star;
Ima