Transcriber’s Note
In this text version of “Miscellaneous Pieces, in Prose”, words in
italics are marked with _underscores_, words in small capitals are
shown in UPPER CASE.
Footnotes have been moved the end of paragraphs.
Variant spelling and irregular punctuation are retained.
The changes that have been made are listed at the end of the book.
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES,
IN
PROSE,
BY
JOHN AIKIN, M. D.
AND
ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD.
THE THIRD EDITION.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, IN ST. PAUL’S CHURCH-YARD,
M.DCC.XCII.
CONTENTS.
Page
_On the Province of Comedy_ 1
_The Hill of Science, a Vision_ 27
_On Romances, an Imitation_ 39
_Seláma, an Imitation of Ossian_ 47
_Against Inconsistency in our Expectations_ 59
_The Canal and the Brook, an Apologue_ 79
_On Monastic Institutions_ 88
_On the Pleasure derived from Objects of Terror;
with Sir Bertrand, a Fragment_ 119
_On the Heroic Poem of Gondibert_ 138
_An Enquiry into those Kinds of Distress which
excite agreeable Sensations; with a Tale_ 190
_Essay on Devotional Taste_ 220
ON THE PROVINCE OF COMEDY.
Various are the methods which art and ingenuity have invented to
exhibit a picture of human life and manners. These have differed from
each other, both in the mode of representation, and in the particular
view of the subject which has been taken. With respect to the first,
it is universally allowed that the dramatic form is by far the most
perfect. The circumstance of leaving every character to display itself
in its own proper language, with all the variations of tone and gesture
which distinguish it from others, and which mark every emotion of the
mind; and the scenic delusions of dress, painting, and machinery,
contribute to stamp such an appearance of reality upon dramatic
representations as no other of the imitative arts can attain. Indeed,
when in their perfection, they can scarcely be called imitations, but
the very things themselves; and real nature would perhaps appear less
perfect than her counterfeit.
The Drama has from early antiquity been distinguished into the two
grand divisions of Tragedy and Comedy. It would seem that the general
character of these was universally understood and agreed on, by the
adoption of the terms _tragic_ and _comic_, derived from them, into
the language of every civilized people. The former of these is, we
know, constantly applied to objects of terror and distress; the
latter, to those of mirth and pleasantry. There is, however, a more
comprehensive distinction of our feelings, which it is proper first to
consider.
When we examine the emotions produced in our minds by the view of
human actions, we shall observe a division into the _serious_, and the
_ludicrous_. I do not think it necessary to define or analyse feelings
with which all are well acquainted. It is enough to observe that
serious emotions are produced by the display of all the great passions
which agitate the soul, and by all those actions, which are under the
jurisdiction of the grand rules of religion and morality; and that
ludicrous emotions are excited by the improprieties and inconsistencies
of conduct or judgment in smaller matters; such as the effects of false
taste, or trifling passions. When we now apply the words _tragic_ and
_comic_, we shall at once perceive that the former can relate solely to
such subjects as occasion _serious_, and the latter to such as occasion
_ludicrous_ emotions.
Now, although the practice of writers has frequently introduced
ludicrous parts into the composition called a Tragedy, and serious
parts into that called a Comedy, yet it has ever been understood that
what constitutes the essential and invariable character of each is
something which is expressed by the terms _tragic_ and _comic_, and
comes under the head of _serious_ or _ludicrous_ emotions. Referring
therefore to a future consideration, the propriety of introducing
serious parts in a Comedy, I shall now lay down the character of Comedy
as _a dramatic composition, exhibiting a ludicrous picture of human
life and manners_.
There are two sources of ludicrous emotions which it is proper here
to distinguish. One of these arises from _character_, the other from
_incident_. The first is attached and appropriated to the person, and
makes a part, as it were, of his composition. The other is merely
accidental, proceeding from awkward situations, odd and uncommon
circumstances, and the like, which may happen indifferently to every
person. If we compare these with regard to their dignity and utility,
we shall find a further difference; since that proceeding from
_character_ belongs to a very respectable part of knowledge, that of
human manners; and has for its end the correction of foibles: whereas
that proceeding from _incident_ is mean and trivial in its origin, and
answers no other purpose than present mirth. ’Tis true, it is perfectly
natural to be pleased with risible objects, even of the lowest kind,
and a fastidious aversion to their exhibition may be accounted mere
affected nicety; yet, since we rank Comedy among the higher and more
refined species of composition, let us assign it the more honourable
office of exhibiting and correcting the ludicrous part of _characters_;
and leave to Bartholomew Fair the ingenious contrivances of facetious
drollery, and handicraft merriment.
The following sources may be pointed out from whence comic character is
derived.
Nations, like individuals, have certain leading features which
distinguish them from others. Of these there are always some of
a ludicrous cast which afford matter of entertainment to their
neighbours. Comedy has at all times made very free with national
peculiarities; and, although the ridicule has often been conducted in
a trivial and illiberal manner, by greatly overcharging the picture,
and introducing idle and unjust accusations, yet I think we need not go
so far as entirely to reject this sort of ludicrous painting; since it
may be as important to warn against the imitation of foreign follies,
as those of our own growth. Indeed, when a Frenchman or Irishman is
brought upon our stage merely to talk broken English, or make bulls,
there can be no plea either of wit or utility to excuse the illiberal
jest: but, when the nicer distinctions of national character are
exposed with a just and delicate ridicule, the spectacle may be both
entertaining and instructive. Amidst the tribe of foreign valets to
be met with on the English theatre, I would instance CANTON in the
_Clandestine Marriage_, as an admirable example of true national
character, independent on language and grimace. The obsequiousness
and attentive flattery of the servile Swiss-Frenchman are quite
characteristic, as well as the careless insolence and affected airs of
BRUSH the English footman[1]. O’FLAHERTY, the Irish soldier of fortune
in the _West Indian_, is an example of similar merit; much more so, I
think, than the character from which the piece has its title.
[1] I am concerned to observe an instance of illiberal national
ridicule without any merit of composition to palliate it, from
a respectable dramatic writer, which is also rendered much more
obnoxious by the circumstances. M. Voltaire’s _Ecossaise_ was
purposely written to exhibit a worthy English character; marked,
indeed, with some whimsical peculiarities, but distinguished by a
strong spirit of benevolence. It was impossible to expose national
foibles more gently than by combining them with national virtues.
When this Piece was brought on our stage under the title of the
_English Merchant_, a French valet was inserted among the _personæ
dramatis_, characterised by nothing but his false English, and for
no other end but to be exhibited as a scoundrel!
Although some part of the character of a nation is pretty uniform and
constant, yet its manners and customs in many points are extremely
variable. These variations are the peculiar modes and fashions
of the age; and hence the age, as well as the nation, acquires a
distinguishing character. Fashion, in general, usurps a dominion only
over the smaller and less important part of manners; such as dress,
public diversions, and other matters of taste. The improprieties
of fashion are therefore of the absurd and ludicrous kind, and
consequently fit subjects of comic ridicule. There is no source of
Comedy more fertile and pleasing than this; and none in which the
end of reformation is likely to be so well answered. An extravagant
fashion is exhibited upon the stage with such advantage of ridicule,
that it can scarcely stand long against it; and I make no doubt that
Moliere’s _Marquis de Mascarille_, and Cibber’s _Lord Foppington_, had
a considerable share in reforming the prevailing foppery of the times.
Fashion has also too much interfered in some more serious matters,
as the sentiments and studies of the age. Here too Comedy has made
its attacks; and the _Alchemist_, the _Virtuoso_, the _Antiquary_,
the _Belle Esprit_, have in their turns undergone the ridicule of the
stage, when their respective pursuits, by being fashionable, were
carried to a fanciful extravagance. It is well known that Moliere, in
his comedies of the _Femmes Sçavantes_, and the _Precieuses Ridicules_,
was as successful against the pedantry and pretensions to wit which
infected the French nation, and particularly the ladies, at that
period, as Cervantes in his attack upon knight-errantry.
There is another point of national or fashionable folly in which
Comedy might be very useful; yet the attempt has been found dangerous;
and perhaps the subject is too delicate for the stage, considering
the abuses to which it is liable. I mean popular superstition, and
priestcraft. Moliere, who with impunity had attacked every other
species of folly, was almost ruined by exposing a hypocrite and a
devotee; and the licentious ridicule of Dryden, and others of that
age, was generally aimed, not only against superstition, but religion.
The _Spanish Friar_, however, is an instance in which, with exquisite
humour, the ridicule can hardly be blamed as improper; and it certainly
did more hurt to Roman Catholic superstition than he could ever remedy
by his scholastic _Hind and Panther_. How far the _Minor_ comes under
the same description, would, probably, be a subject of dispute.
Particular ranks and professions of men have likewise characteristical
peculiarities which are capable of being placed in a ludicrous
view; and Comedy has made frequent use of this source of ridicule.
In exposing professional, as well as national absurdities, great
illiberality and unfairness have been shewn; both, probably, from
the same cause; a want of sufficient acquaintance with the whole
characters, and taking a judgment of them from a few external
circumstances. Yet, upon the whole, good effects may have arisen
even from this branch of Comedy; since, by attacking a profession on
a side where it was really weak, the members of it have been made
sensible of, and have reformed those circumstances which rendered them
ridiculous. A good-natured physician can never be angry at Moliere’s
most laughable exhibitions of the faculty, when he reflects that the
follies ridiculed, though exaggerated in the representation, had a
real existence; and, by being held up to public derision, have been
in a great measure reformed. The professors of law, being necessarily
confined to forms and rules, have not been able to benefit so much from
the comic ridicule of which they have enjoyed an equally plentiful
share.
Besides the arrangements which nation and profession make of mankind,
there are certain natural classes formed from the diversities of
personal character. Although the varieties of temper and disposition
in men are infinite, so that no two persons probably ever existed in
whom there was an exact conformity, yet there are certain leading
features of character which produce a general resemblance among
numerous individuals. Thus the proud man, the vain, the sanguine, the
splenetic, the suspicious, the covetous, the lavish, and so forth, are
a sort of abstract characters which divide the whole human race amongst
them. Now there are, belonging to all these, objects of ridicule which
it has been the business of Comedy to exhibit; and though, perhaps, no
one individual of each class perfectly resembled the person held to
view on the stage, yet if all the circumstances exhibited are contained
in the general character, it appears sufficiently natural. The _Miser_
of Moliere is not a picture of any one miser who ever lived, but
of a miser considered as forming a class of human characters. As
these general classes, however, are few in number, they must be soon
exhausted by the writers of Comedy, who have been obliged, for the
sake of variety, to exhibit those peculiarities which are more rare and
singular. Hence have been derived many pictures of that character which
we call an _humourist_; by which is meant a character distinguished by
certain ludicrous singularities from the rest of mankind. The humourist
is not without those marks of distinction which he may acquire, like
others, from rank, profession, or temper of mind; but all these are
displayed in him after a manner peculiarly his own, and dashed with
his leading oddities. A love of what is uncommon and out of the way
has often occasioned such extravagance in the representation of these
characters as to disgust from their want of probability; but, where a
due moderation is observed, and the peculiarities, though unusual, are
such as really exist in nature, great entertainment may be derived
from their exhibition. Of this kind are the admirable _Misanthrope_ and
_Malade Imaginaire_ of Moliere; and the _Old Bachelor_ and _Sir Sampson
Legend_ of Congreve.
From hence it appears but a small gradation to the exhibition of
individuals upon the stage; and yet the difference is important and
essential. That which marks out the distinction between individuals
of the same species is something entirely uncommunicable; therefore
the rational end of Comedy, which is the reformation of folly, cannot
take place in personal ridicule; for it will not be alledged that
reforming the person himself is the object. Nor can it scarcely ever
be just to expose an individual to the ridicule of the stage; since
folly, and not vice, being the proper subject of that ridicule, it is
hardly possible any one can deserve so severe a punishment. Indeed
the exposing of folly can scarcely be the plea; for all the common, or
even the rarer kinds of folly lie open to the attack of Comedy under
fictitious characters, by means of which the failing may be ridiculed
without the person. Personal ridicule must therefore turn, as we find
it always has done, upon bodily imperfections, awkward habits, and
uncouth gestures; which the low arts of mimickry inhumanly drag forth
to public view, for the mean purpose of exciting present merriment. In
the best hands, personal Comedy would be a degradation of the stage,
and an unwarrantable severity; but in the hands it would be likely, if
encouraged, to fall into, it would prove an intolerable nuisance. I
should therefore, without hesitation, join those who utterly condemn
this species of comic ridicule. It is also to be considered, that the
author shews his talents to disadvantage, and cannot lay any basis of
future fame, in this walk. For the resemblance which depends so much
upon mimickry is lost upon those of the audience who are not acquainted
with the original, and upon every one who only reads the piece. Mr.
Foote’s works will aptly exemplify this matter; in which the fund of
genuine Comedy, derived from happy strokes upon the manners of the
times, and uncommon, but not entirely singular characters, will secure
a lasting admiration, when the mimickry which supported the parts of
_Squintum_ and _Cadwallader_ is despised or forgotten.
Having thus attempted to trace the different sources of what I
conceive the essential part of true Comedy, the _ridicule derived from
character_, it remains to say somewhat of the mixture of additional
matter which it has received as a composition.
During a considerable period of modern literature, _wit_ was a
commodity in great request, and frequently to be met with in all kinds
of composition. It was no where more abundant than in Comedy, the
genius of which it appeared peculiarly to suit, from its gaiety and
satyrical smartness. Accordingly, the language of Comedy was a string
of repartees, in which a thought was bandied about from one to another,
till it was quite run out of breath. This made a scene pass off with
great vivacity; but the misfortune was, that distinction of character
was quite lost in the contest. Every personage, from the lord to the
valet, was as witty as the author himself; and, provided good things
enow were said, it was no matter from whom they came. Congreve, with
the greatest talents for true comic humour, and the delineation of
ludicrous characters, was so over-run with a fondness for brilliancy, as
frequently to break in upon consistency. Wit is an admirable ornament
of Comedy, and, judiciously applied, is a high relief to humour, but
should never interfere with the more essential parts.
We are now, however, happily free from all manner of danger of an
inundation of wit. No Congreve arises to disturb the sententious
gravity, and calm simplicity of modern Comedy. A moralist may
congratulate the age on hearing from the theatre compositions as pure,
serious and delicate, as are given from the pulpit. When we consider
how much wit and humour, at the time they were most prevalent, were
perverted to vicious purposes, we may rejoice at the sacrifice;
yet we may be allowed to feel a regret at the loss of an amusement
which might, certainly, have been reconciled with innocence; nay,
might perhaps have pleaded utility beyond what is substituted in its
room. _Sentimental Comedy_, as it is called, contains but very faint
discrimination of character, and scarcely any thing of ridicule.
Its principal aim is to introduce elegant and refined sentiment,
particularly of the benevolent cast; and to move the heart by tender
and interesting situations. Hence they are, in general, much more
affecting than our modern Tragedies, which are formed upon nearly the
same plan, but labour under the disadvantage of a formal, stately
stile, and manners removed too far from the rank of common life. One
would not, perhaps, wish altogether to banish from the stage pieces so
moral and innocent; yet it is a pity they are not distinguished by some
appropriated name from a thing they so little resemble as true Comedy.
I fear, a view of modern manners in other respects will scarcely
allow us to flatter ourselves that this change in the theatre chiefly
proceeds from improved morality. It may, perhaps, be more justly
attributed to a false delicacy of taste, which renders us unable to
bear the representation of low life; and to a real deficiency in
genius. With respect to the first, genuine Comedy knows no distinction
of rank, but can as heartily enjoy a humourous picture in the common
walks of life, where indeed the greatest variety is to be found, as
in the most cultivated and refined. Some have placed the distinction
between Farce and Comedy in the rank from whence the characters are
taken; but, I think, very improperly. If there is any real distinction
besides the length of the pieces, I should take it from the different
source of the humour; which in Farce is mere ludicrous incident, but in
Comedy, ridiculous character. This criterion, however, will not at all
agree with the titles under which each species has already appeared.
As to the other cause, deficiency of genius, it too plainly appears
in many other productions. Cold correctness has laid her repressing
hand upon imagination, and damped all her powers. The example of the
ancients has been thought to justify the gravity and simplicity of
modern Comedy. But, great as they were in many qualities of the mind,
in those of wit and humour they were still more defective than even
ourselves in the present age. They, who would eagerly catch at a
wretched pun, or a meager piece of plot, were certainly with-held from
witticism and drollery by want of invention, not justness of taste. I
admire, in the pure Latin of Terence, the elegant sentiment, and still
more the knowledge of the human heart, with which he abounds; but I
would not on that account compare his genius, at least in Comedy, with
Moliere and Congreve.
Lenibus atque utinam scriptis adjuncta foret vis
Comica --------- --------- ---------
Moral sentiment is the cheapest product of the mind. Novels, and
magazines, and even news-papers, are full of it; but wit and humour
threaten to leave us with Chesterfield and Sterne.
Still, however, I would hope the state of Comedy is not desperate. The
_Clandestine Marriage_ exhibits an example of comic merit, as various
and perfect as perhaps any piece in our language. All the sources
of ludicrous character have contributed to it. National ridicule
appears in Canton, and professional in Sterling. Lord Ogleby is an
excellent humourist. Mrs. Heidleberg and her niece, besides a comic
pettishness of temper, have plenty of fashionable follies, modified by
city vulgarism. Even the lovers of tender sentiment have their share
in the entertainment; and I by no means would object to its occasional
introduction, when, as it were, offering itself from the circumstances.
Then, besides Mr. Foote’s comic theatre, we have several pieces, which,
though ranged under the list of Farces, contain true and original
Comedy. Of these we may instance the _Citizen_, _Polly Honeycomb_,
_the Upholsterer_, _the Apprentice_, and _the Oxonian in Town_. It is
a mistake to suppose that the matter of Comedy can ever fail. Though
general characters may be exhausted, yet the prevailing follies and
fashions of the times, with the singularities starting up in particular
ranks and orders of men, must constantly supply food for the ridicule
of the stage. This is lawful game; and the pursuit of it is well worthy
the encouragement of the public, so long as it is unattended with the
licentiousness which disgraced the wit of the last age. Let ridicule be
sacred to the interests of good sense and virtue; let it never make a
good character less respectable, nor a bad one less obnoxious; but let
us not resign its use to common-place maxim, and insipid sentiment.
THE HILL OF SCIENCE,
A VISION.
In that season of the year when the serenity of the sky, the various
fruits which cover the ground, the discoloured foliage of the trees,
and all the sweet, but fading graces of inspiring autumn, open the mind
to benevolence, and dispose it for contemplation; I was wandering in
a beautiful and romantic country, till curiosity began to give way to
weariness; and I sat me down on the fragment of a rock overgrown with
moss, where the rustling of the falling leaves, the dashing of waters,
and the hum of the distant city, soothed my mind into the most perfect
tranquillity, and sleep insensibly stole upon me, as I was indulging
the agreeable reveries which the objects around me naturally inspired.
I immediately found myself in a vast extended plain, in the middle of
which arose a mountain higher than I had before any conception of. It
was covered with a multitude of people, chiefly youth; many of whom
pressed forwards with the liveliest expression of ardour in their
countenance, though the way was in many places steep and difficult. I
observed, that those who had but just begun to climb the hill, thought
themselves not far from the top; but as they proceeded, new hills were
continually rising to their view; and the summit of the highest they
could before discern, seemed but the foot of another, till the mountain
at length appeared to lose itself in the clouds. As I was gazing on
these things with astonishment, my good Genius suddenly appeared.
‘The mountain before thee,’ said he, ‘is the HILL OF SCIENCE. On the
top is the temple of Truth, whose head is above the clouds, and whose
face is covered with a veil of pure light. Observe the progress of her
votaries; be silent, and attentive.’
I saw that the only regular approach to the mountain was by a gate,
called the gate of languages. It was kept by a woman of a pensive and
thoughtful appearance, whose lips were continually moving, as though
she repeated something to herself. Her name was MEMORY. On entering
this first enclosure, I was stunned with a confused murmur of jarring
voices, and dissonant sounds; which increased upon me to such a
degree, that I was utterly confounded, and could compare the noise to
nothing but the confusion of tongues at Babel. The road was also rough
and stony, and rendered more difficult by heaps of rubbish, continually
tumbled down from the higher parts of the mountain; and by broken ruins
of ancient buildings, which the travellers were obliged to climb over
at every step; insomuch that many, disgusted with so rough a beginning,
turned back, and attempted the mountain no more: while others, having
conquered this difficulty, had no spirits to ascend further, and
sitting down on some fragment of the rubbish, harangued the multitude
below with the greatest marks of importance and self-complacency.
About half way up the hill, I observed on each side the path a thick
forest covered with continual fogs, and cut out into labyrinths, cross
alleys, and serpentine walks, entangled with thorns and briars. This
was called the _wood of error_: and I heard the voices of many who
were lost up and down in it, calling to one another, and endeavouring
in vain to extricate themselves. The trees in many places shot their
boughs over the path, and a thick mist often rested on it; yet never
so much but that it was discernable by the light which beamed from the
countenance of Truth.
In the pleasantest part of the mountain were placed the bowers of the
Muses, whose office it was to cheer the spirits of the travellers, and
encourage their fainting steps with songs from their divine harps. Not
far from hence were the _fields of fiction_, filled with a variety of
wild flowers springing up in the greatest luxuriance, of richer scents
and brighter colours than I had observed in any other climate. And
near them was the _dark walk of allegory_, so artificially shaded,
that the light at noon-day was never stronger than that of a bright
moon-shine. This gave it a pleasingly romantic air for those who
delighted in contemplation. The paths and alleys were perplexed with
intricate windings, and were all terminated with the statue of a Grace,
a Virtue, or a Muse.
After I had observed these things, I turned my eyes towards the
multitudes who were climbing the steep ascent, and observed amongst
them a youth of a lively look, a piercing eye, and something fiery and
irregular in all his motions. His name was GENIUS. He darted like an
eagle up the mountain, and left his companions gazing after him with
envy and admiration: but his progress was unequal, and interrupted by
a thousand caprices. When Pleasure warbled in the valley, he mingled in
her train. When Pride beckoned towards the precipice, he ventured to
the tottering edge. He delighted in devious and untried paths; and made
so many excursions from the road, that his feebler companions often
outstripped him. I observed that the Muses beheld him with partiality;
but Truth often frowned and turned aside her face. While Genius was
thus wasting his strength in eccentric flights, I saw a person of a
very different appearance, named APPLICATION. He crept along with a
slow and unremitting pace, his eyes fixed on the top of the mountain,
patiently removing every stone that obstructed his way, till he saw
most of those below him who had at first derided his slow and toilsome
progress. Indeed there were few who ascended the hill with equal and
uninterrupted steadiness; for, beside the difficulties of the way,
they were continually solicited to turn aside by a numerous crowd of
Appetites, Passions, and Pleasures, whose importunity, when they had
once complied with, they became less and less able to resist; and,
though they often returned to the path, the asperities of the road were
more severely felt, the hill appeared more steep and rugged, the fruits
which were wholesome and refreshing, seemed harsh and ill-tasted, their
sight grew dim, and their feet tript at every little obstruction.
I saw, with some surprize, that the Muses, whose business was to cheer
and encourage those who were toiling up the ascent, would often sing in
the bowers of Pleasure, and accompany those who were enticed away at
the call of the Passions. They accompanied them, however, but a little
way, and always forsook them when they lost sight of the hill. Their
tyrants then doubled their chains upon the unhappy captives, and led
them away without resistance to the cells of Ignorance, or the mansions
of Misery. Amongst the innumerable seducers, who were endeavouring to
draw away the votaries of Truth from the path of Science, there was
one so little formidable in her appearance, and so gentle and languid
in her attempts, that I should scarcely have taken notice of her, but
for the numbers she had imperceptibly loaded with her chains. INDOLENCE
(for so she was called), far from proceeding to open hostilities, did
not attempt to turn their feet out of the path, but contented herself
with retarding their progress; and the purpose she could not force them
to abandon, she persuaded them to delay. Her touch had a power like
that of the Torpedo, which withered the strength of those who came
within its influence. Her unhappy captives still turned their faces
towards the temple, and always hoped to arrive there; but the ground
seemed to slide from beneath their feet, and they found themselves at
the bottom before they suspected that they had changed their place. The
placid serenity which at first appeared in their countenance, changed
by degrees into a melancholy languor, which was tinged with deeper and
deeper gloom as they glided down the _stream of insignificance_; a dark
and sluggish water, which is curled by no breeze, and enlivened by no
murmur, till it falls into a dead sea, where the startled passengers
are awakened by the shock, and the next moment buried in the gulph of
oblivion.
Of all the unhappy deserters from the paths of Science, none seemed
less able to return than the followers of Indolence. The captives of
Appetite and Passion could often seize the moment when their tyrants
were languid or asleep to escape from their enchantment; but the
dominion of Indolence was constant and unremitted, and seldom resisted
till resistance was in vain.
After contemplating these things, I turned my eyes towards the top
of the mountain, where the air was always pure and exhilarating, the
path shaded with laurels and other ever-greens, and the effulgence
which beamed from the face of the Goddess seemed to shed a glory round
her votaries. Happy, said I, are they who are permitted to ascend the
mountain!--but while I was pronouncing this exclamation with uncommon
ardour, I saw standing beside me a form of diviner features and a more
benign radiance. Happier, said she, are those whom VIRTUE conducts to
the mansions of Content!--What, said I, does Virtue then reside in
the vale?--I am found, said she, in the vale, and I illuminate the
mountain. I cheer the cottager at his toil, and inspire the sage at his
meditation. I mingle in the crowd of cities, and bless the hermit in
his cell. I have a temple in every heart that owns my influence; and
to him that wishes for me I am already present. Science may raise you
to eminence, but I alone can guide you to felicity! While the Goddess
was thus speaking, I stretched out my arms towards her with a vehemence
which broke my slumbers. The chill dews were falling around me, and the
shades of evening stretched over the landscape. I hastened homeward,
and resigned the night to silence and meditation.
ON ROMANCES,
AN IMITATION.
Of all the multifarious productions which the efforts of superior
genius, or the labours of scholastic industry, have crowded upon the
world, none are perused with more insatiable avidity, or disseminated
with more universal applause, than the narrations of feigned events,
descriptions of imaginary scenes, and delineations of ideal characters.
The celebrity of other authors is confined within very narrow limits.
The Geometrician and Divine, the Antiquary and the Critic, however
distinguished by uncontested excellence, can only hope to please those
whom a conformity of disposition has engaged in similar pursuits; and
must be content to be regarded by the rest of the world with the smile
of frigid indifference, or the contemptuous sneer of self-sufficient
folly. The collector of shells and the anatomist of insects is little
inclined to enter into theological disputes: the Divine is not apt to
regard with veneration the uncouth diagrams and tedious calculations of
the Astronomer: the man whose life has been consumed in adjusting the
disputes of lexicographers, or elucidating the learning of antiquity,
cannot easily bend his thoughts to recent transactions, or readily
interest himself in the unimportant history of his contemporaries: and
the Cit, who knows no business but acquiring wealth, and no pleasure
but displaying it, has a heart equally shut up to argument and fancy,
to the batteries of syllogism, and the arrows of wit. To the writer of
fiction alone, every ear is open, and every tongue lavish of applause;
curiosity sparkles in every eye, and every bosom is throbbing with
concern.
It is, however, easy to account for this enchantment. To follow the
chain of perplexed ratiocination, to view with critical skill the airy
architecture of systems, to unravel the web of sophistry, or weigh the
merits of opposite hypotheses, requires perspicacity, and presupposes
learning. Works of this kind, therefore, are not so well adapted to
the generality of readers as familiar and colloquial composition; for
few can reason, but all can feel; and many who cannot enter into an
argument, may yet listen to a tale. The writer of Romance has even
an advantage over those who endeavour to amuse by the play of fancy;
who, from the fortuitous collision of dissimilar ideas produce the
scintillations of wit; or by the vivid glow of poetical imagery delight
the imagination with colours of ideal radiance. The attraction of
the magnet is only exerted upon similar particles; and to taste the
beauties of Homer, it is requisite to partake his fire; but every one
can relish the author who represents common life, because every one can
refer to the originals from whence his ideas were taken. He relates
events to which all are liable, and applies to passions which all have
felt. The gloom of solitude, the languor of inaction, the corrosions
of disappointment, and the toil of thought, induce men to step aside
from the rugged road of life, and wander in the fairy land of fiction;
where every bank is sprinkled with flowers, and every gale loaded with
perfume; where every event introduces a hero, and every cottage is
inhabited by a Grace. Invited by these flattering scenes, the student
quits the investigation of truth, in which he perhaps meets with no
less fallacy, to exhilarate his mind with new ideas, more agreeable,
and more easily attained: the busy relax their attention by desultory
reading, and smooth the agitation of a ruffled mind with images of
peace, tranquillity, and pleasure: the idle and the gay relieve the
listlessness of leisure, and diversify the round of life by a rapid
series of events pregnant with rapture and astonishment; and the
pensive solitary fills up the vacuities of his heart by interesting
himself in the fortunes of imaginary beings, and forming connections
with ideal excellence.
It is, indeed, no ways extraordinary that the mind should be charmed
by fancy, and attracted by pleasure; but that we should listen
with complacence to the groans of misery, and delight to view the
exacerbations of complicated anguish, that we should choose to chill
the bosom with imaginary fears, and dim the eyes with fictitious
sorrow, seems a kind of paradox of the heart, and can only be credited
because it is universally felt. Various are the hypotheses which have
been formed to account for the disposition of the mind to riot in
this species of intellectual luxury. Some have imagined that we are
induced to acquiesce with greater patience in our own lot, by beholding
pictures of life, tinged with deeper horrors, and loaded with more
excruciating calamities; as, to a person suddenly emerging out of a
dark room, the faintest glimmering of twilight assumes a lustre from
the contrasted gloom. Others, with yet deeper refinement, suppose that
we take upon ourselves this burden of adscititious sorrows, in order to
feast upon the consciousness of our own virtue. We commiserate others,
say they, that we may applaud ourselves; and the sigh of compassionate
sympathy is always followed by the gratulations of self-complacent
esteem. But surely they who would thus reduce the sympathetic emotions
of pity to a system of refined selfishness, have but ill attended to
the genuine feelings of humanity. It would, however, exceed the limits
of this paper, should I attempt an accurate investigation of these
sentiments. But, let it be remembered, that we are more attracted by
those scenes which interest our passions, or gratify our curiosity,
than those which delight our fancy: and, so far from being indifferent
to the miseries of others, we are, at the time, totally regardless
of our own. And let not those on whom the hand of Time has impressed
the characters of oracular wisdom, censure with too much acrimony
productions which are thus calculated to please the imagination, and
interest the heart. They teach us to think, by inuring us to feel:
they ventilate the mind by sudden gusts of passion; and prevent the
stagnation of thought, by a fresh infusion of dissimilar ideas.
SELÁMA;
AN IMITATION OF OSSIAN.
What soft voice of sorrow is in the breeze? what lovely sun-beam of
beauty trembling on the rock? Its bright hair is bathed in showers; and
it looks faint and dim, through its mist on the rushy plain. Why art
thou alone, maid of the mournful look? The cold dropping rain is on
the rocks of Torléna, the blast of the desart lifts thy yellow locks.
Let thy steps be in the hall of shells, by the blue winding stream
of Clutha: let the harp tremble beneath thy fingers; and the sons of
heroes listen to the music of songs.
Shall my steps be in the hall of shells, and the aged low in the dust?
The father of Seláma is low behind this rock, on his bed of wither’d
leaves: the thistle’s down is strewed over him by the wind, and mixes
with his grey hair. Thou art fallen, chief of Etha! without thy fame;
and there is none to revenge thy death. But thy daughter will sit,
pale, beside thee, till she sinks, a faded flower, upon thy lifeless
form. Leave the maid of Clutha, son of the stranger! in the red eye of
her tears!
How fell the car-borne Connal, blue-eyed mourner of the rock. Mine arm
is not weakened in battle; nor my sword without its fame.
Connal was a fire in his youth, that lighten’d through fields of
renown: but the flame weakly glimmered through grey ashes of age.
His course was like a star moving through the heavens: it walketh in
brightness, but leaveth no track behind; its silver path cannot be
found in the sky. The strength of Etha is rolled away like a tale of
other years; and his eyes have failed. Feeble and dark, he sits in his
hall, and hears the distant tread of a stranger’s steps; the haughty
steps of Tonthormo, from the roar of Duvranno’s echoing stream. He
stood in the hall like a pillar of darkness, on whose top is the red
beam of fire: wide rolled his eyes beneath the gloomy arch of his bent
brow; as flames in two caves of a rock, over-hung with the black pine
of the desart. They had rolled on Seláma, and he asked the daughter
of Connal. Tonthormo! breaker of shields! thou art a meteor of death
in war, whose fiery hair streams on the clouds, and the nations are
withered beneath its path. Dwell, Tonthormo! amidst thy hundred hills,
and listen to thy torrent’s roar; but the soft sigh of the virgins is
with the chief of Crono; Hidallan is the dream of Seláma, the dweller
of her secret thoughts. A rushing storm in war, a breeze that sighs
over the fallen foe; pleasant are thy words of peace, and thy songs
at the mossy brook. Thy smiles are like the moon-beams trembling
on the waves. Thy voice is the gale of summer that whispers among
the reeds of the lake, and awakens the harp of Moilena with all its
lightly-trembling strings. Oh that thy calm light was around me! my
soul should not fear the gloomy chief of Duvranno. He came with his
stately steps.--My shield is before thee, maid of my love! a wall of
shelter from the lightning of swords. They fought. Tonthormo bends
in all his pride, before the arm of youth. But a voice was in the
breast of Hidallan, shall I slay the love of Seláma? Seláma dwells in
thy dark bosom, shall my steel enter there? Live, thou storm of war!
He gave again his sword. But, careless as he strode away, rage arose
in the troubled thoughts of the vanquish’d. He mark’d his time, and
sidelong pierced the heart of the generous son of Semo. His fair hair
is spread on the dust, his eyes are bent on the trembling beam of
Clutha. Farewel, light of my soul! They are closed in darkness. Feeble
wast thou then, my father! and in vain didst thou call for help. Thy
grey locks are scatter’d, as a wreath of snow on the top of a wither’d
trunk; which the boy brushes away with his staff; and careless singeth
as he walks. Who shall defend thee, my daughter! said the broken voice
of Etha’s chief. Fair flower of the desart! the tempest shall rush
over thee; and thou shalt be low beneath the foot of the savage son
of prey. But I will wither, my father, on thy tomb. Weak and alone I
dwell amidst my tears, there is no young warrior to lift the spear, no
brother of love! Oh that mine arm were strong! I would rush amidst the
battle. Seláma has no friend!
But Seláma has a friend, said the kindling soul of Reuthamir. I will
fight thy battles, lovely daughter of kings; and the sun of Duvranno
shall set in blood. But when I return in peace, and the spirits of thy
foes are on my sword, meet me with thy smiles of love, maid of Clutha!
with thy slow-rolling eyes. Let the soft sound of thy steps be heard in
my halls, that the mother of Reuthamir may rejoice. Whence, she will
say, is this beam of the distant land? Thou shalt dwell in her bosom.
My thoughts are with him who is low in the dust, son of Cormac! But
lift the spear, thou friend of the unhappy! the light of my soul may
return.
He strode in his rattling arms. Tall, in a gloomy forest, stood the
surly strength of Duvranno. Gleaming behind the dark trees was his
broad shield; like the moon when it rises in blood, and the dusky
clouds sail low, and heavy, athwart its path. Thoughts, like the
troubled ocean, rush’d over his soul, and he struck, with his spear,
the sounding pine. Starting, he mix’d in battle with the chief of
woody Morna. Long was the strife of arms; and the giant sons of the
forest trembled at their strokes. At length Tonthormo fell--The sword
of Reuthamir wav’d, a blue flame, around him. He bites the ground in
rage. His blood is poured, a dark red stream, into Oithona’s trembling
waves. Joy brighten’d in the soul of Reuthamir; when a young warrior
came, with his forward spear. He moved in the light of beauty; but his
words were haughty and fierce. Is Tonthormo fallen in blood, the friend
of my early years? Die, thou dark-soul’d chief! for never shall Seláma
be thine, the maid of his love. Lovely shone her eyes, through tears,
in the hall of her grief, when I stood by the chief of Duvranno, in the
rising strife of Clutha.
Retire, thou swelling voice of pride! thy spear is light as the taper
reed. Pierce the roes of the desart; and call the hunter to the feast
of songs, but speak not of the daughter of Connal, son of the feeble
arm! Seláma is the love of heroes.
Try thy strength with the feeble arm, said the rising pride of youth.
Thou shalt vanish like a cloud of mist before the sun, when he looks
abroad in the power of his brightness, and the storms are rolled away
from before his face.
But thou thyself didst fall before Reuthamir, in all thy boasting
words. As a tall ash of the mountain, when the tempest takes its green
head and lays it level on the plain.
Come from thy secret cave, Seláma! thy foes are silent and dark. Thou
dove that hidest in the clefts of the rocks! the storm is over and
past. Come from thy rock, Seláma! and give thy white hand to the chief
who never fled from the face of glory, in all its terrible brightness.
She gave her hand, but it was trembling and cold, for the spear was
deep in her side. Red, beneath her mail, the current of crimson
wandered down her white breast, as the track of blood on Cromla’s
mountains of snow, when the wounded deer slowly crosses the heath, and
the hunters cries are in the breeze. Blest be the spear of Reuthamir!
said the faint voice of the lovely, I feel it cold in my heart. Lay me
by the son of Semo. Why should I know another love? Raise the tomb of
the aged, his thin form shall rejoice, as he sails on a low-hung cloud,
and guides the wintry storm. Open your airy halls, spirits of my love!
And have I quench’d the light which was pleasant to my soul? said
the chief of Morna. My steps moved in darkness, why were the words
of strife in thy tale? Sorrow, like a cloud, comes over my soul, and
shades the joy of mighty deeds. Soft be your rest in the narrow house,
children of grief! The breeze in the long whistling grass shall not
awaken you. The tempest shall rush over you, and the bulrush bow its
head upon your tomb, but silence shall dwell in your habitation; long
repose, and the peace of years to come. The voice of the bard shall
raise your remembrance in the distant land, and mingle your tale of woe
with the murmur of other streams. Often shall the harp send forth a
mournful sound, and the tear dwell in the soft eyes of the daughters of
Morna.
Such were the words of Reuthamir, while he raised the tombs of the
fallen. Sad were his steps towards the towers of his fathers, as musing
he cross’d the dark heath of Lena, and struck, at times, the thistle’s
beard.
AGAINST INCONSISTENCY IN OUR EXPECTATIONS.
“What is more reasonable, than that they who take pains for any thing,
should get most in that particular for which they take pains? They
have taken pains for power, you for right principles; they for riches,
you for a proper use of the appearances of things: see whether they
have the advantage of you in that for which you have taken pains, and
which they neglect: If they are in power, and you not, why will not
you speak the truth to yourself, that you do nothing for the sake of
power, but that they do every thing? No, but since I take care to have
right principles, it is more reasonable that I should have power. Yes,
in respect to what you take care about, your principles. But give up to
others the things in which they have taken more care than you. Else it
is just as if, because you have right principles, you should think it
fit that when you shoot an arrow, you should hit the mark better than
an archer, or that you should forge better than a smith.”
CARTER’S EPICTETUS.