The worst writer may easily happen to touch a spring which is connected in their minds with a long succession of beautiful images.

They are like the gigantic slaves of Aladdin, gifted with matchless power, but bound by spells so mighty that when a child whom they could have crushed touched a talisman, of whose secret he was ignorant, they immediately became his vassals.

It has more than once happened to me to see minds, graceful and majestic as the Titania of Shakspeare, bewitched by the charms of an ass's head, bestowing on it the fondest caresses, and crowning it with the sweetest flowers.

I need only mention the poems attributed to Ossian.

They are utterly worthless, except as an edifying instance of the success of a story without evidence, and of a book without merit.
They are a chaos of words which present no image, of images which have no archetype:--they are without form and void; and darkness is upon the face of them.