of humour, of which Lucian furnishes numerous examples. In this kind of writing, comic comparisons, particularly when in part moral and in part physical, produce a great effect. The first chapter of Tom Jones may here serve as an example. The author compares himself to a landlord, his work to dishes, and the titles to his chapters to the garnish. The same may be said of the singular mania of Uncle Toby, in Tristram Shandy, and of many passages in the Spectator, Tatler, &c. which may all serve as models of true humour. In the Idler, by Johnson, there is also a simile of this kind. The author proves, that all the ingredients which compose a bowl of punch, may be found in a very social company. That beverage, says he, is composed of spirits, acid, sugar, and water. The spirits, which are inflammable, and evaporate easily, are images of the vivacity of the mind; the acid of the lemon juice represents the sharpness of raillery; the sugar is the emblem of indulgence and flattery, and the water that of unmeaning prattle. Authors who are endowed with humour of character, shew it also in their writings; traits of it escape them, even in spite of themselves, when they wish to treat a serious and grave subject. Sir Robert L'Estrange, in his translation of Josephus, speaks of a queen, whose passions were very violent, to whom an ambassador had made a proposition that was displeasing. The scene in the original is, "Scarcely had his discourse ended, but the queen suddenly arose;" which Sir Roger translates, "Scarce had the ambassador finished his speech, but presently up was madam." No one will be surprised at the humour which reigns in the writings of la Fontaine, when he knows that this author one day very seriously asked an ecclesiastic whether St. Augustine or Rabelais had most wit? A humorous author does better in attacking small faults than great vices. Men often inconsiderarely fall into them; they, therefore, require to be warned of their danger, while the laws take care to repress crimes. The Archbishop de la Caza was consequently right in saying that he would be more thankful for the means of securing himself from the sting of insects, than of preventing the bite of tigers and lions. I have nothing to add concerning my antidote to melancholy. I exhort those who are subject to frequent paroxisms of it, to dose themselves with a few pages from Lucian, Don Quixote, Tom Jones, Tristram Shandy, and other works of that kind; the salutary effects of which they will goon experience. || REMARKS.-The explanation or definition given of the word humour contains a part, but far from the whole, of its meaning. Were a man, characterised for cruelty, to assert that he would have all the Eton scholars nailed to the garden wall, each by the ear, because one of them had stolen a peach, we should rather be shocked by the barbarity of the sentiment than excited to laugh by the grimaces with which the imagination might be struck. But were the same thing asserted by a man of known humanity and goodness of heart, a humourist, who, on such occasions, assumed a whimsical gravity, it would excite hearty laughter. It is a great mistake to suppose that humour offends the received laws of good breeding. To insult the feelings may sometimes produce mirth, but much more frequently disgust and pain. An English gentleman, of the first fashion, but a humourist, among other means of diverting his friends, used sometimes to quarrel with himself, and proceed from step to step, till at last he became so unmannerly to himself, that he was obliged, from respect to the company, to kick himself out of the room. The humour of the scene was not in words that might offend good manners, but in the absolute gravity with which it was performed. Among other efforts of humour, which seem to be national, the English have a variety of songs; the humour of which it would be difficult to write. Thus, "an old woman cloathed in grey" has nothing, apparently, that should excite much laughter; but a humourist will imitate the old woman's shrill voice, and mark his hand with black, so as to caricature her face; and, by opening his thumb while he sings, make grimaces that will set the table in a roar. This must be heard and seen to be conceived. Another will introduce successively the meuling of the cat, the hooting of the owl, the braying of the ass, &c.; and, by the perfect imitation of the discordant notes of various animals, excite peals of laughter. Some of these humourists, it is true, have the habitual character of buffoonery: but others are men of elegant minds and refined manners. He who, in his attempts, offends good breeding must change his manner; or he cannot become a humourist, in the pleasant, and perhaps the only true sense of the term: for, to call a man a humourist, who has some extravagant habits, as, for example, who should daily beat his servants because they did not prevent barrel organs from playing in his street, appears to be a peculiar, if not a strained and affected use of the word. AN ENQUIRY CONCERNING PRINCIPLE AND SENTIMENT; IN REPLY TO "The Distinction between Principle and Sentiment considered," in La Belle Assemblee for April, Page 139. idea that arises in the contemplation of nature or society. When in a beautiful morning of spring we look abroad and behold creation bursting forth in a thousand different forms, in all lovely, in all beneficently marked by the powerful hand that showers his vivifying heat upon them, shall we repress any of the pure sentiments which at the beck of the smallest reflection instantly arise ? Is not every truly valuable principle enlivened by such a scene? And yet how enlivened except by the sentiments which awaken in the heart? Say, if you will, that the devotion which depends upon such a prospect cannot be permanent cannot be a fixed principle, and that on the survey of different appearances, it might be liable to be affected with very dissimilar senti WITH no design to confute, but with an earnest one to excite an interesting debate, am I induced to reply to the author of the excellent Essay entitled, "the Distinction between Principle and Sentiment considered," which appeared in the last Number of La Belle Assemblée. Debates on such topics must necessarily have their good effects; they enable us to compare sensations, to fix the wavering definitions of metaphysical knowledge, and to shew their connection with the moral duties of man. By such short discussions those particular characteristics which each individual attaches to certain affections of the mind become apparent; the human disposition offers itself to contemplation with all those rules of action, whether derived from the head or the heart, that influence the conduct, and a chain of ideas may be obtained by whichments; while that founded on sound and steadmore perfect documents concerning our mental impulses may be derived than those which at present form the truly abstruse, yet interesting study of the soul. Determined by such motives, I venture to enter into an enquiry concerning the nature of Principle and Sentiment, thei: different functions, and what preference should be given to either in the direction of our actions. By Principle I understand those confirmed opinions of right and wrong implanted by reason and education. If I am permitted to rest upon this definition, it will be manifest (indeed too manifest under the present system of education, and from the pernicious doctrines daily offered to the expanding reason of youth) that there may be such a thing as false principle, and that the whole conduct may be under the direction of erroneous opinions, deduced from notions which in the days of infancy have been received as truths. By the word Sentiment, I distinguish that natural sense of good and beautiful, of evil and deformity, which exists in the mind, independent of instruction, and which may be discovered in different degrees, even among the brute creation This, I assert, can be contaminated by false principle only, and that therefore whatever may be the evils laid to the charge of Sentiment, they necessarily originate in the errors which have become principles in the mind, and which shed a baneful influence over every fast opinion, though colder, would be more constant; though less ecstatic, would be less liable to be eradicated. To this I reply, that the unadulterated bosom which can once feel the delight of such sensation will easily recover it, and all the sentiments that depend upon it; nature abounds with objects which on every hand present the most lively inducements to the contemplation. But that if ever the obstacles of life, the gloom of discontent, or the labyrinths of erroneous reasoning induce the man of cold principles to let go his hold, he is lost for ever. Sentiment, the rational part of those sensations in which God and nature speak to the soul, is in him a mute organ, he hears no voice but the obstinate pride of a deadening principle, and is lost for ever! But I do not purpose to consider the possibility of a separation between just principle and natural sentiment; I never beheld the one unaccompanied by the other, and I perceive that the author of "The Distinction," &c. has argued not so much against Sentiment as against the affectation of it in opposition to virtuous principle; although by the general term of sentiment the most perfect attribute of the soul becomes involved in the condemnation so eloquently pronounced. Sentiment, when taken in a metaphysical view, may be defined to be that power of the mind that receives our sensa tions, and converts them into ideas; it is the first connecting agent between the body and the soul; it arranges our perceptions, and rules over them; it is the very life of reason, which, without it, is irresolute, slowly deciding, seldom acting. "Irresolute in this-unfixed in that, "With thoughts unconscious what they would be at; "Still hesitating, fearful to do ill, "Quintus does nothing well, nor ever will." PASCHASIUS. Sentiment is the organ of sympathy, the first spring of all the social affections; by it alone we become acquainted with our rank in nature, and our obligations to domestic and political institutions. Principle ought to consist in determined rules founded on deductions made by reason from the experience of our own sentiments, or received from the sentiments of others whom we respect. False deductions create false principles, and these in a short time corrupt or deaden every sentiment. Then arises that affectation which inde d prevails so much in the present day; but which has equally prevailed in times past, and will do so until the truths of real science, the science of self-knowledge and social obligations shall have strengthened our reasoning faculties, and made manifest the motives and consequences of all our actions. It is so difficult to define with accuracy the moral attributes of the mind, that I am not entirely certain whether I have a just idea of the two objects which the author of "The Distinction," &c. has discussed. The characteristics assigned to Sentiment at the end of the Essay are so dissimilar to those at the beginning, that I am inclined to conclude that affectation of sentiment, false taste, and irrational sensation are blended together under one general appellation. But it would be an endless labour in the present indeterminate state of metaphysical knowledge to fix denominations on the vague and incomprehensible faculties of the mind. Moral authors are in general careless in their use of terms, which increases the confusion, and when a disquisition is reduced to the definition of a name, it is then entangled in an inscrutable labyrinth. Could we be assured of the unerring purity of sentiment there would be no argument against our continually submitting to its influence, except such as might be suggested through the prudential motives of self-love. Every thing that is offered to our contemplation, either in the wants of nature or in the offices of society, calls us from ourselves, and makes us behold our dependence upon duties reciprocally observed; every primitive sentiment must therefore be ne cessarily virtuous. We perceive misery, and we desire to relieve it; we hear the voice of gladness, and we wish to increase it by congenial hilarity; we gaze upon beauty, and the sentiments of love and beauty possess our hearts. From our primitive sentiments proceed whatever is excellent in the arts, whatever is sublime in the sciences, whatever is laudable in political institutions, praiseworthy in domestic economy, honourable in public transactions, endearing in private rela tions. For whence should principles have derived their knowledge, whence the strength of their regulations but from those natural conceptions, which by the unprejudiced mind are no sooner felt than established, and which, although we may stifle by false habits and perverted principles, we can never entirely separate from those natural impulses to which the heart is ever recurring. The man of sentiment weeps indeed at fictitious distress, trembles at the consequences of imaginary crimes, is susceptible of all the emotions which eloquence or poetry can assume; but if restrained by the voice of prudence or by the testimonies of deceit or imposition that surround him on every side, and compel him to act with a cold principle of mistrust in real life, what is to be blamed? Surely the false rules of conduct, the perverted principles of the multitude. He whose sensibility is drawn towards an imaginary tale of pity correctly natural, would feel the same interest in a real circumstance were it possible to divest the mind of that suspicion which is the natural consequence of frequent intercourse with the world. The young and inexperienced are mostly directed by the influence of scnsibility, and are often the victims of a false species of sentiment arising from its indulgence. For unless guarded by true sentiment united to just principle, sensibility has victims whose excruciating tortures are beyond the powers of description. To pure sentiment appear to belong those provinces of judgment which cultivate or cherish the arts, or that permit and foster the benevolent and genial passions. The former are imitations of nature; the latter are her offspring; the management of each therefore belongs to that part of the mind which she seems peculiarly to claim as her own, and to have stamped with a sort of instructive power. To just principle belong the boundaries of selflove and social justice; integrity in all its forms; patience, perseverance, and the severities of duty. Knowledge, whether derived from education or experience, is the great support of principle. When science shall throw her emanations over To a void and unfeeling mind the richest ob- || Hagley, one summer's afternoon, young Palemon Jects of admiration pass unobserved or unadmired: but to the heart susceptible of sensibility the smallest incident affords a boundless field for reflection, and opens a passage to the fanciful and unlimited sallies of imagination. About the middle of June, on my return from the university of Oxford, though I had visited some of the most enchanting scenes of nature, as well as the mechanical wonders of art, my mind received the most permanent impression from an object, in itself the most trivial to appearance. Chance led me to Worcester, and as I walked with a friend in the cloisters of the cathedral, a small tombstone in the western corner caught my eye, with only the single Latin word "Miserrimus," the most wretched of men, inscribed on it. It is needless to mention the crowd of suggestions that at once arose on my mind; some souls can conceive more from a hint than others from the most florid description. I could not help exclaiming, "Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid A heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to exstacy the living lyre." But my friend soon convinced me, by the short recital of a melancholy tale, that "This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play." What I shall relate (says he) may perhaps convince you that the good are to look beyond this world for their reward; and it may serve to shew how small an incident may be the origin of the greatest event of a man's life. Though my tale may be destitute of the interesting adventures of fiction, I hope it will claim some attention when I assure you it has truth for its basis. At a watering-trough on the road side near stopped to water a little horse he rede. It happened also that an elderly gentleman was at the same instant engaged in the same act. Travellers dwell not on formal introductions; the old gentleman was pleased with the open and innocent conversation of Palemon; and he, on the other hand, had every reason to be highly delighted with the affectionate behaviour of his aged companion. It may be sufficient to say, that as they were journeying to the same town, the old gentleman urgently invited Palemon to his house he was the grandfather of Amelia. The since elegant and accomplished Amelia was then but a child, younger than Palemon. Together would they play, and indulge with temporary pleasure each puerile recreation; though they met and parted almost with indifference. This acquaintance continued for some years, until Palemon, passing in his way to the University, stopped a few days at the house of his friends. He was now more than seventeen, and had made considerable progress in most of the polite arts, and took great delight in accompanying the voice of Amelia on the piano-forte; nor did her mental and personal improvement fail to gain its due influence over his heart: she had in her disposition and person every thing that was desirable in a partner for life. He now felt at his parting with her an unusual heaviness; and during the rest of the journey was pensive and dejected; and if at any time she occurred to his thoughts, his mind became agitated and confused. The first ligatures of love are so slender as to be scarcely perceptible, but on receiving the smallest encouragement they become irresistibly strong. I need not (continued my friend) detain you with intermediate circumstances. I could repeat to you their successive interviews for several years, replete with the most tender and interest ing scenes, but I will be brief as possible. Was But I should have told you (continued he) About this time (says my friend) he formed the determination of seeking that prosperity abroad which his country denied him. He went, but did not return for some years; indeed he was generally supposed to be dead; when, to 183 siderable prosperity: and, to his surprize, found Towards his last moments he sent for me. them more. Here my friend paused. I think I saw a tear in his eye. After a short interval he resumed his narrative. When I had paid the last sad tribute to the poor remains of Palemon, I hastened to Amelia: but I hastened to another scene of wretchedness. I was informed that her end was near; that since the arrival of Palemon she had refused every support of mind and body. The dejection of woe was strongly depicted on the face of every domestic. I feared for the worst, yet dared not make farther enquiry. I entered the chamber of sorrow, but the cold hand of death had for ever Good God! your wife! you the husband of closed the eyes of Amelia, of-my Wife! Amelia? Yes, Sir, I was born to be unhappy; but you may share the sweet blessings of felicity and love. Yet at some future day, in the mansions of joy and prosperity, cast sometimes a thought on my wretched life of penance and misery, and let some tender heart drop a tear at the recital of my woes : and when I am dead, let the word MISERRIMUS be inscribed on my grave. MUSIPHILUS. No. IV. Vol. I. |