ul for the same reason that the object, had it been
presented in the real world, would have been recognized as
supremely beautiful; because while embodying a known type of
form, -- being, that is, a proper man, animal, or vegetable, -- it
possessed in an extraordinary degree those direct charms which
most subjugate our attention.

Imaginary forms then differ in dignity and beauty not according to
their closeness to fact or type in nature, but according to the ease
with which the normal imagination reproduces the synthesis they
contain. To add wings to a man has always been a natural fancy;
because man can easily imagine himself to fly, and the idea is
delightful to him. The winged man is therefore a form generally
recognized as beautiful; although it can happen, as it did to
Michael Angelo, that our appreciation of the actual form of the
human body should be too keen and overmastering to allow us to
relish even so charming and imaginative an extravagance. The
centaur is another beautiful monster. The imagination can easily
follow the synthesis of the dream in which horse and man melted
into one, and first gave the glorious suggestion of their united
vitality.

The same condition determines the worth of imaginary
personalities. From the gods to the characters of comedy, all are, in
proportion to their beauty, natural and exhilarating expressions of
possible human activity. We sometimes remould visible forms into
imaginary creatures; but our originality in this respect is meagre
compared with the profusion of images of action which arise in us,
both asleep and awake; we constantly dream of new situations,
extravagant adventures, and exaggerated passions. Even our
soberer thoughts are very much given to following the possible
fortunes of some enterprise, and foretasting the satisfactions of
love and ambition. The mind is therefore particularly sensitive to
pictures of action and character; we are easily induced to follow
the fortunes of any hero, and share his sentiments.

Our will, as Descartes said in a different context, is infinite, while
our intelligence is finite; we follow experience pretty closely in our
ideas of things, and even the furniture of fairyland bears a sad
resemblance to that of earth; but there is no limit to the elasticity of
our passion; and we love to fancy ourselves kings and beggars,
saints and villains, young and old, happy and unhappy. There
seems to be a boundless capacity of development i