Opera is hooted from the stage. Society, by degrees, is constructed into
a machine that carries us safely and insipidly from one end of life to
the other, in a very comfortable prose style.

"Obscurity her curtain round them drew,
And siren Sloth a dull quietus sung."

The remarks which have been here made, would, in some measure, lead to a
solution of the question of the comparative merits of painting and
poetry. I do not mean to give any preference, but it should seem that
the argument which has been sometimes set up, that painting must affect
the imagination more strongly, because it represents the image more
distinctly, is not well founded. We may assume without much temerity,
that poetry is more poetical than painting. When artists or connoisseurs
talk on stilts about the poetry of painting, they shew that they know
little about poetry, and have little love for the art. Painting gives
the object itself; poetry what it implies. Painting embodies what a
thing contains in itself: poetry suggests what exists out of it, in any
manner connected with it. But this last is the proper province of the
imagination. Again, as it relates to passion, painting gives the event,
poetry the progress of events: but it is during the progress, in the
interval of expectation and suspense, while our hopes and fears are
strained to the highest pitch of breathless agony, that the pinch of the
interest lies.

"Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma or a hideous dream.
The mortal instruments are then in council;
And the state of man, like to a little kingdom,