_The prevalent View._--This question is closely connected with that just discussed. The usual definitions make the faculty under consideration a mere process of combining and arranging ideas previously in the mind, so as to form new compounds. You have certain conceptions. These you combine one with another, as a child puts together blocks that lie before him, to suit himself, now this uppermost, now that, and the result is a world of imagination. It is the mere arrangement of previous conceptions, and not itself a power of producing or connecting any thing. And even this arrangement of former conceptions is itself a _spontaneous_ casual process, according to Dr. Brown, not properly a _power_ of the mind. _Makes Imagination little else than Invention._--According to this view, imagination is hardly to be distinguished from mere _invention_ in the mechanic arts, which is the result of some new combination of previously existing materials. The construction of a steam-pump with a new kind of valve, is as really a work of imagination, as Paradise Lost. The man who contrives a carding-machine, and the man who conceives the Transfiguration, the Apollo Belvidere, or the Iliad, are exercising both the same faculty--merely combining in new forms the previous possessions of the mind. _This View inadequate._--This is a very meagre and inadequate view, as it seems to me, of the faculty of imagination. It fixes the attention upon, and elevates into the importance of a definition, a circumstance in itself unimportant, while it overlooks the essential characteristic of the faculty to be defined. The _creative activity_ of the mind is lost sight of in attending to the _materials_ on which it works. _The Distinctive Element of Imagination overlooked._--Imagination I take to be the power of conceiving the ideal. The elements which enter into and compose that ideal conception, are, indeed, elements previously existing, not themselves the mind's creations; but the conception itself is the mind's own creation, and this creative activity, this power of conceiving the purely ideal, is the very essence of that which we are seeking to define. True, the separate conceptions which enter into the composition of Paradise Lost--trees, flowers, rivers, mountains, angels, deities--were already in the poet's mind before he began to meditate the sublime epic. They were but the material on which he wrought. Has he then created nothing, conceived nothing? Have we truly and adequately described that immortal poem when we say that it is a mere combination of trees, rivers, hills, and angels, in certain proportions and relations not previously attempted?