ng action of the fancy.
The dragon is drawn from head to tail, vulture eyes, serpent teeth,
forked tongue, fiery crest, armor, claws and coils as grisly as may be;
his den is drawn, and all the dead bones in it, and all the savage
forest-country about it far and wide; we have him from the beginning of
his career to the end, devouring, rampant, victorious over whole armies,
gorged with death; we are present at all the preparations for his
attack, see him receive his death-wound, and our anxieties are finally
becalmed by seeing him lie peaceably dead on his back.

Sec. 13. And suggestive, of the imagination.

All the time we have never got into the dragon heart, we have never once
felt real pervading horror, nor sense of the creature's being; it is
throughout nothing but an ugly composition of claw and scale. Now take
up Turner's Jason, Liber Studiorum, and observe how the imagination can
concentrate all this, and infinitely more, into one moment. No far
forest country, no secret paths, nor cloven hills, nothing but a gleam
of pale horizontal sky, that broods over pleasant places far away, and
sends in, through the wild overgrowth of the thicket, a ray of broken
daylight into the hopeless pit. No flaunting plumes nor brandished
lances, but stern purpose in the turn of the crestless helmet, visible
victory in the drawing back of the prepared right arm behind the steady
point. No more claws, nor teeth, nor manes, nor stinging tails. We have
the dragon, like everything else, by the middle. We need see no more of
him. All his horror is in that fearful, slow, grinding upheaval of the
single coil. Spark after spark of it, ring after ring, is sliding into
the light, the slow glitter steals along him step by step, broader and
broader, a lighting of funeral lamps one by one, quicker and quicker; a
moment more, and he is out upon us, all crash and blaze among those
broken trunks;--but he will be nothing then to what he is now.

Sec. 14. This suggestiveness how opposed to vacancy.

Now, it is necessary here very carefully to distinguish between that
character of the work which depends on the imagination of the beholder,
and that which results from the imagination of the artist, for a work is
often called imaginative when it merely leaves room for the action of
the imagination; whereas though nearly all imaginative works do this,
yet it may be done also by works that have in them no imagination at
all. A few shapeless scratche