No. 9.

PLEASURE AFTER PAIN.

We greatly admire the sentiment which the poet Dryden expresses in one of his most celebrated odes, 'Sweet is pleasure after pain.' We have often experienced its truth, and are quite in love with the paradox, that our miseries both multiply and heighten our enjoyments. The Creator, undoubtedly, could have prevented the entrance of evil, both physical and moral, into our world. We can easily imagine a condition of things from which pain, in all its shapes, should have been excluded. We ean fancy a state fair and smiling, as we believe Eden to have been-its beauty without one marring speck, its happiness without a single particle of alloy. We can realize, in thought at least, that golden age about which the poets have sung so sweetly, and on which the mind loves to linger. But in such a scene there must have been awanting one very exquisite kind of pleasure-' the pleasure after pain;' the inhabitants of such a world must have been deprived of a species of joy as high in its tone, perhaps, as any we taste. There might, in such a system of things, have been much worthy of its Author, and reflective of his glory. The powers of nature might have produced as astonishing results as they do at present, and have been balanced with as exquisite skill. The stars might have shone in a firmament as deep and blue as that in whose bosom they now burn. The planets might have woven their mystic dance round a sun as vast and lustrous as that they circle now. The clouds might have been clothed in as rich a purple. The flowers might have yielded as delicious a perfume. The mountains might have reared their heads as majestically on high, the brooks prattled as merrily, and the rivers rolled as grandly to the sea. The seasons might have performed their wonted rounds; the shower and the sunshine combined their fructifying energies, and trees and herbs clothed the face of the earth. There might also have been creatures to partake of what was thus liberally provided; and earth, and air, and water, have teemed with sentient existences. There might, too, have been-the crown and ornament of the whole-a being gifted with reason and affection, capable of admiring the beauty such a system would present, and tracing the wisdom from which it sprang; qualified not only to enjoy the good, but to love and adore the Giver. This in truth-the absence of evil supposed--is but our notion of primeval Paradise. In such a world, however, there would, as we have said, have been awanting that very exquisite kind of delight derived from the remembrance of pain! The power of contrast comes to our aid in the creation of this joy; contrast, indeed, is the principal element of the

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happiness we are speaking of. The classical reader will promptly recall the use which the hero of the Eneid made of the 'pleasure after pain' principle, when he was beset with hardships and dangers. He revived his own spirit, and he cheered the drooping spirits of his companions, by adverting to the future, and intimating the probability, that the time might come when the recollection of what they were then enduring would prove a source of enjoyment. Perhaps,' exclaimed the son of the venerable Anchises, 'it will one day yield us delight to remember these sufferings.'

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We detect in the kingdom of nature emblems of the principle in question; as, indeed, all great and lovely principles have their adumbrations in nature. Earth, with its grand and beautiful scenes, was educed from an unshapely mass, without form and void.' The gold which glitters most lustrously is that which the fire has tortured into purity. There is no calm so tranquil as that which succeeds the hurricane; no sunshine so bright and gladdening as that which breaks on the earth through an April shower. Were it not for the power of variety and contrast, what joy should we have from the most delicious of the seasons? Do not the bleakness and dreariness of winter lend a charm to the beauties of the spring and the glories of summer? And do we not detect in these, and numerous other instances, the operation and the type of the sentiment we profess so warmly to admire-'sweet is pleasure after pain?' The power of the law of contrast is indeed remarkable. We know, for example, that a sweet and lovely scene never looks so attractive as when placed side by side with one which is rugged and grand; that never does a cottage home, with its blooming garden and patch of verdure around it, seem so bewitching an object as when situated at the base of some towering Alpine summit. Beauty reposing on the lap of grandeur, is an idea with which every enthusiastic admirer of fine scenery is familiar. Painters know this principle well, and in selecting subjects for their sketches, they are fond of such a combination of the beautiful and sublime as that in question. Again, in delineating character, poets and novelists avail themselves of this same law to heighten the effect of their descriptions. We have placed side by side the gentle and the stern, the timid and the brave, the intriguing and the open, the selfish and the generous: opposite qualities, in short, are placed in vivid contrast with one another, so that, just as the cottage home we have supposed looks all the more charming that it reposes at the foot of the gloomy Alpine precipice, the attributes of virtue wear all the more enticing aspect when seen in immediate contrast with those of vice.

glance of his piercing eye; everything in the shape of affectation excited in him a disgust as implacable' as even a Cowper could feel. If possible, with still deeper aversion did his manly nature regard cant in its various forms and disguises; and his motto in reference to it was, spare no arrows.' But the mean, the low, the paltry, the dishonourable, in nations or in individuals, moved all the fountains of his bile, and awakened all the energy of his invective. Always lively, generally witty, he is never eloquent, except when emptying out his vials of indignation upon baseness in all its shapes. His is the ire of a genuine English gentleman, all of the olden time.' It was in this spirit that he recently explained, in his own way, the old distinctions of Meum and Tuum to Brother Jonathan, when the latter, he thought, was lamentably inclined to forget them. It was the same sting of generous indignation which, in the midst of his character of Mackintosh, prompted the memorable picture of that extraordinary being who, by his transcendent talents and his tortuous movements-his head of gold, and his feet of miry clay-has become the glory, the riddle, and the regret of his country, his age, and his species.

bosom.

As a writer, Smith is little more than a very clever, witty, and ingenious pamphleteer. He has effected no permanent chef d'œuvre; he has founded no school; he has left little behind him that the world will not willingly let die;' he has never drawn a tear from a human eye, nor excited a thrill of grandeur in a human His reviews are not preserved by the salt of original genius, nor are they pregnant with profound and comprehensive principle; they have no resemblance to the sibylline leaves which Burke tore out from the vast volume of his mind, and scattered with imperial indifference among the nations; they are not the illuminated indices of universal history, like the brilliant papers of Macaulay; they are not specimens of pure and perfect English, set with modest but magnificent ornaments, like the criticisms of Jeffrey or of Hall; nor are they the excerpts, rugged and rent away by violence, from the dark and iron tablet of an obscure and original mind, like the reviews of Foster: but they are exquisite jeux d'esprit, admirable occasional pamphlets, which, though now they look to us like spent arrows, yet assuredly have done execation, and have not been spent in vain. And as, after the lapse of a century and more, we can still read with pleasure Addison's 'Old Whig and Freeholder,' for the sake of the exquisite humour and inimitable style in which forgotten feuds and dead logomachies are embalmed, so may it be, a century still, with the articles on Bentham's Fallacies and on the Game Laws, and with the letters of the witty and ingenious Peter Plymley. There is much at least in those singular productions-in their clear and manly sense-in their broad native fun-in their rapid, careless, and energetic style-and in their bold, honest, liberal, and thoroughly English spirit-to interest several succeeding generations, if not to secure the 'rare and regal' palm of immortality.

Sidney Smith was a writer of sermons as well as of political squibs. Is not their memory eternized in one of John Foster's most ponderous pieces of sarcasm? In an evil hour the dexterous and witty critic came forth from behind the fastnesses of the Edinburgh Review, whence, in perfect security, he had shot his quick glancing shafts at Methodists and Missions, at Christian Observers

and Eclectic Reviews, at Owens and Styles, and (what the more wary Jeffrey, in the day of his power, always avoided) became himself an author, and, mirabile dictu, an author of sermons. It was as if he wished to give his opponents their revenge; and no sooner did his head peep forth from beneath the protection of its shell than the elephantine foot of Foster was prepared to crush it in the dust. It was the precise position of Saladin with the Knight of the Leopard, in their memorable contest near the Diamond of the Desert. In the skirmish Smith had it all his own way; but when it came to close quarters, and when the heavy and mailed hand of the sturdy Baptist had confirmed its grasp on his opponent, the disparity was prodigious, and the discomfiture of the light horseman complete. But why recall the memory of an obsolete quarrel and a forgotten field? The sermonsthe causa belli-clever but dry, destitute of earnestness and unction are long since dead and buried; and their review remains their only monument.

Even when, within his own stronghold, our author intermeddled with theological topics, it was seldom with felicity or credit to himself. His onset on missions was a sad mistake; and in attacking the Methodists and poor pompous John Styles, he becomes as filthy and foulmouthed as Swift himself. His wit forsakes him, and a rabid invective ill supplies its place; instead of laughing, he raves and foams at the mouth. Indeed, although an eloquent and popular preacher, and in many respects an ornament to his cloth, there was one radical evil about Smith: he had mistaken his profession. He was intended for a barrister, or a literary man, or a member of parliament, or some line of life into which he could have flung his whole soul and strength. As it was, but half his heart was in a profession which, of all others, would require the whole. He became consequently a rather awkward medley of buffoon, politician, preacher, literateur, divine, and diner-out. Let us grant, however, that the ordeal was severe, and that, if a very few have weadown. No one coincides more fully than the writer of thered it better, many more have ignominiously broken this article with Coleridge in thinking that every literary man should have a profession; but in the name of common sense let it be one fitted for him, and for which he is fitted-one suited to his tastes as well as to his talents -to his habits as well as to his powers-to his heart as well as to his head.

As a conversationist, Sidney Smith stood high among the highest-a Saul among a tribe of Titans. His jokes were not rare and refined, like those of Rogers and Jekyll; they wanted the slyness of Theodore Hooke's inimitable equivoque; they were not poured forth with the prodigal profusion of Hood's breathless and bickering puns; they were rich, fat, unctuous, always bordering on farce, but always avoiding it by a hair's-breadth. No finer cream, certes, ever mantled at the feasts of Holland House than his fertile brain supplied; and, to quote himself, it would require a forty-parson power' of lungs and language to do justice to his convivial merits. An acquaintance of ours sometimes met him in the company of Jeffrey and Macaulay-a fine concord of first-rate performers, content, generally, to keep each within his own part, except when, now and then, the ardent genius of the the concert into a magnificent solo. author of the Lays' burst out irresistibly, and changed

Sidney Smith we never saw, and his personnel, there fore, we cannot describe. We always figure him, however, to ourselves as a round, fat, oily man of God,' with a strongly marked forehead, and an unspeakable twinkle others to determine. Altogether we could have better in his eye. How far this resembles the original, we leave spared a better man.' Has not his death 'eclipsed the gaiety of nations ?' Has not a Fourth Estate of Fun expired from the midst of us? Must not even Brother Jonathan drop a tear while he thinks that the scourge that so mercilessly lashed him is now broken? And shall not all his admirers unite with us in inscribing upon his grave 'Alas! poor Yorick ?'

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

THE NATIONAL ASSEMBLY. On the 2d of May, 1789, the states-general assembled, and the discordant materials of which it consisted were instantly seen. The consequences of Neckar's neglect to provide for the meeting of the nobles, clergy, and third estate (or commons), in separate, or at least in two distinct chambers, were quickly visible. The two former orders met in their own halls; and after verifying their powers,' as it was termed-that is, inquiring into the authenticity of each member's election-they constituted' themselves, as we should name it, and proceeded to business. But a far different scene occurred in the chamber of the commons. There the members felt that the duplication of their number was a useless form, unless it were brought to bear upon one chamber, where their numerical equality to the other two orders united could not fail to put them on a parity now, and give them a preponderance, if, as expected, they should be joined by any discontented members of the other bodies hereafter. They accordingly refused even to verify their powers, or to take any step, unless in the presence of the two others. Several weeks were lost in attempts to intimidate or cajole them; but they resolutely stood out, and resisted every effort. Several of the discoutented clergy and nobles in the mean time joined them. After the lapse of a fortnight, the greater part of the clergy went over: the higher in expectation of gaining them by address, the humbler with the design of sympathizing in their grievances. In a few days more the remaining clergy and nobles joined them, as the commons had previously taken the bold step of proclaiming themselves, and those who had already followed them, the National Assembly, and proceeded to business in the absence of the others.

This union produced temporary tranquillity, but the elements of discord soon broke forth. The commons had previously been too deeply offended by the court readily to forgive, or to show an humble disposition, now that they were triumphant. On the first day the states-general met, the whole proceeded in a body to the church of Notre Dame, with the king at their head-the clergy and nobles in carriages, and the commons on foot. The latter, too, had been insulted, by being constrained to walk bareheaded, and to stand while the others were scated in church. Numbers of them, especially the Laughty Mirabeau-a noble by birth, who, disappointed of a seat amongst the members of his own order, had offered himself as a representative of the commons, and been unanimously elected-evinced their indignation and contempt; and when the court subsequently attempted to prevent them meeting in their own hall, on pretext that it required to be shut up for repairs, they proceeded to a tennis-court in the neighbourhood, and there, in language ominous and sonorous as a thunder-storm which at the moment prevailed, they swore never to separate until they had framed a constitution for the country. The court in vain attempted to prevent their future meetings here by the wretched expedient of ordering the tennis-hall to be prepared for the diversion of the princes. The stern members of the commons treated the expedient with disdain; and when the king's chamberlain (the Marquis de Bréze) entered with the royal commands for their dispersion, Go,' said Mirabeau, 'you have neither right nor business here. Tell your master we are here by the voice of the people, and we shall not be dispersed except by the force of the bayonet.'

overawe them; but it was too late. His cajolery was considered insincere, his menaces treated with defiance; and the poor irresolute king-whose kindly professions had been his own, his threats those of his ministry-withdrew, i more irresolute, perplexed, and incapable than ever.

The vessel of the state was now abandoned to the most daring hand that chose to seize it; and the Abbé Sieyes was the only one that for a moment disputed its command with Mirabeau. While the elections for the statesgeneral were pending, he had written a pamphlet asking What is the Third Estate P' and he had shown it to consist of half the capital and three-fourths of the intelligence of France. This had procured him immense popularity; and his quiet resolution when the king sent his chamberlain with orders for the dispersion of the commons, gained him still more. We are to-day as we were yesterday,' said he imperturbably on that occasion, when the chamber was irresolute for a moment after the delivery of Mirabeau's daring speech, half trembling between the dread of royal resentment and their own orator's audacity-We are to-day as we were yesterday; let us deliberate;' and the assembly proceeded to business in a tone calm and inflexible as his own. But his influence did not henceforth increase; he was too speculative and sententious for practical purposes; and though capable of framing constitutions, he was incapable of controlling Mirabeau was of a different calibre; and he accordingly was the man who in future stirred and guided the revolutionary storm, until it burst all limits and overwhelmed every obstacle immediately after his death.

men.

Mirabeau's resentment of the contemptuous treatment he had received at the hands of his brother nobles was quickly visible. On the night of the 4th of August, the whole of the hereditary privileges of the nobles were abolished at a sweep, and a celebrated decree went forth declaring all Frenchmen equal. From this decreeknown as that of the Rights of Man'-the transit to the church was but a moment; and notwithstanding the opposition of Sieyes, who, on this occasion, stood by his order, its whole property was confiscated for the benefit of the state. Provision, however, was made for the sup port of religion. The clergy were henceforth declared stipendiaries of the country; and a sum equal to £2009 for an archbishop, £1000 for a bishop, from £200 to £500 for inferior dignitaries, and nothing less than £50 allotted to the humblest, was enrolled on the national book. Few of the higher clergy, whose previous incomes had been enormous, concurred in this provision; and though some of the nobles had, in a moment of enthu... i siasm, led away by Mirabeau's impassioned eloquence, acquiesced in the abolition of their titles, both orders | henceforth united in resisting to the utmost farther innovations, and, when they found their resistance idle, increased the popular ferment by flying from the country as emigrants. Monsieur and Count D'Artois-afterwards Louis XVIII. and Charles X.-brothers of the king, were amongst the first who set this pusillanimous example, and they were followed by a host of others, whose vices and frivolity in foreign countries were said to be quite as conspicuous as their dignity and virtues.

Still the revolution proceeded with unresisted and irresistible power. The Duke de Brezzio proposed to stop it by asking carte blanche from Louis for twenty heads

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