weep and shed tears for such as seem to feel nothing for themselves than for those who give way to all the weakness of sorrow," why do we so entirely and completely sympathize with the weakness of Lear? Would our sympathy be greater if he had a more stubborn nature, a nature that rendered him insensible to the ingratitude of his children? I doubt it much, and so, I believe, would Mr. Smith, if the question had been put to him. In fact, if Lear had not so lively and acute a sense of his children's ingratitude, and if this sense had not taken such strong possession of his mind as to render him incapable of every manly effort to contend either with the passions by which he was distracted, or the difficulties by which he was surrounded, in a word, if he had not been the weakest of all men, and the best natured of all men, we would not sympathize with him as we do, more than with any other tragic character whatever. Lear is, perhaps, the greatest example of human weakness which stands upon record in the history of the stage. His good-nature was the effect of his weakness, or rather, perhaps, his weakness was the effect of his good-nature; for it is certain, that good-nature is seldom found connected with the sterner and more austere virtues, particularly with that magnanimity which is so graceful in the eyes of Mr. Smith. Good-nature is chiefly to be found in those weak, tender, and sympathetic minds,

whose happiness seems to consist in the happiness of others. It is this weakness, however, this tenderness, this good-nature, this "milk of human kindness," that appears, of all other virtues, the most amiable and the most interesting to us, and, consequently, we are less disposed to check our sympathies when we behold such virtue in distress. Whoever is most apt to indulge in sympathy for the woes of others, is also most apt to excite it for his own.

It is evident, then, that neither joy nor comedy imparts such heartfelt pleasure as we derive from Tragic representations,-from the luxury of sympa-· thizing in sorrows not our own; and it is equally evident, that the softer affections of the heart are more pleasing, more attractive, and more apt to excite our sympathies, than the sterner and severer virtues, however high they may stand in the estimation of the world, and however calculated to excite our admiration and surprise. The latter virtues are generally the result of education or early associations, and may, therefore, be more properly called virtues of the head than of the heart; but the former are the offspring of nature alone, and cannot be eradicated from the heart of which they have once taken possession, though they may be considerably influenced and determined in their operations by the influence of education, situations, and circumstances.

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CHAP. VI.

Examination of Mr. Burke and Mr. Knight's Theories.

BURKE, in his "Sublime and Beautiful," has many just and profound observations on the source of Tragic Pleasure; but, like all other theories on the subject, the one which he has adopted applies not to the remote, original, but to the immediate, or proximate cause, or rather causes, of this pleasure. When I say they apply to the immediate or proximate causes, I do not mean that they unfold even these; but that he seems to have confined himself to what he considered the immediate agency which produced the effect. In the first place, he very justly rejects the supposition which makes this pleasure arise from "the comfort which we receive in considering, that so melancholy a story is no more than a fiction;" and he equally rejects that which makes it arise from "the contemplation of our own freedom from the evils which we see represented." The reasons which he assigns for

rejecting these theories are worth quoting. "I am afraid," he says, "it is a practice much too common, in inquiries of this nature, to attribute the cause of feelings which merely arise from the mechanical construction of our bodies, or from the natural frame and constitution of our minds, to certain conclusions of the reasoning faculty on the objects presented to us, for I should imagine, that the influence of reason, in producing our passions, is nothing near so extensive as it is commonly believed."

It is curious to perceive so profound and metaphysical a writer venturing to acknowledge his suspicions, that "the influence of reason, in producing our passions, is nothing near so extensive as it is commonly believed." Had Burke ventured a step further, and said decidedly, that reason had no influence whatever in producing our passions, he would have asserted a fact which no weight of authority could disprove, however bold and sceptical it might appear to those who have not learned to distinguish between reason and feeling. In fact, the only influence which reason possesses over our feelings, is that of moderating, or supressing them altogether. Accordingly, a man who, while he witnesses a scene of distress, begins to reflect on his own happiness in being free from it, is infinitely less moved, and less interested in the fate of the suffering victim, than he who, while

he indulges in all those feelings which the scene before him is calculated to excite, makes no reflection whatever, but what unconsciously arises from his sympathy with the distressed.

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Burke does not confine the pleasure derived from Tragic sources to the stage. Real distress, he thinks, is a source of still greater pleasure than the mere imitation of it; and hence he infers, that the nearer the imitation approaches the reality, the more powerful is its effect. In no case, however, does he admit imitative distress to produce equal pleasure with that which it represents. Choose," he says, "a day to represent the most sublime and affecting tragedy we have; and appoint the most favourite actors, spare no cost upon the scenes and decorations; unite the greatest efforts of poetry, painting, and music; and when you have collected your audience, just at the moment when their minds are erect with expectation, let it be reported that a state criminal of high rank is to be executed in the adjoining square; in a moment the emptiness of the theatre would demonstrate the comparative weakness of the imitative arts, and proclaim the triumph of real sympathy."* Here, then, the sole pleasure we receive is attributed to sympathy; but, as I have already shewn, so far as our pleasure is of a sympathetic

* Sublime and Beautiful, P. 1. Sec. xv.

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