unrefreshing drainage from other men's meadows.

Sec. 7. Distinction between imagination and fancy.

This freshness, however, is not to be taken for an infallible sign of
imagination, inasmuch as it results also from a vivid operation of
fancy, whose parallel function to this division of the imaginative
faculty it is here necessary to distinguish.

I believe it will be found that the entirely unimaginative mind _sees_
nothing of the object it has to dwell upon or describe, and is therefore
utterly unable, as it is blind itself, to set anything before the eyes
of the reader.[56]

The fancy sees the outside, and is able to give a portrait of the
outside, clear, brilliant, and full of detail.[57]

The imagination sees the heart and inner nature, and makes them felt,
but is often obscure, mysterious, and interrupted, in its giving of
outer detail.

Take an instance. A writer with neither imagination nor fancy,
describing a fair lip, does not see it, but thinks about it, and about
what is said of it, and calls it well-turned, or rosy, or delicate, or
lovely, or afflicts us with some other quenching and chilling epithet.
Now hear fancy speak,--

"Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compared with that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly."[58]

The real, red, bright being of the lip is there in a moment But it is
all outside; no expression yet, no mind. Let us go a step farther with
Warner, of fair Rosamond struck by Eleanor.

"With that she dashed her on the lips
So dyed double red;
Hard was the heart that gave the blow,
Soft were those lips that bled."

The tenderness of mind begins to mingle with the outside color, the
imagination is seen in its awakening. Next Shelley,--

"Lamp of life, thy lips are burning
Through the veil that seems to hide them,
As the radiant lines of morning
Through thin clouds, ere they divide them."

There dawns the entire soul in that morning; yet we may stop if we
choose at the image still external, at the crimson clouds. The
imagination is contemplative rather than penetrative. Last, hear
Hamlet,--

"Here hung those lips that I have kissed, I know not how oft. Where be
your gibes now, your gambols, your songs, your flashes of merriment that
were wont to set the table on a roar?"

There is the e