understand that? of course you are acquainted with Latin?" Oh yes;-but-but-make as if I were not; explain the Oh-y meaning of that to me.' And afterwards. M.Jourdain. I must let you into a secret. You must know I'm in love with a lady of quality, and I want you to help me in composing a little kind of a billet-doux. That will be gallant, you know. Master. To be sure. verse? What, would you have this billet-doux in M. Jourdain. Oh, no, no, no verse. • Master. You choose plain prose. M. Jourdain. No, I don't choose either prose or verse. • Master. It must be one or the other. M. Jourdain. Why must it? • Master. Because we can only express ourselves in prose or verse. M. Jourdain. What! is there nothing but prose and verse? Master. No, Sir. All that is not verse is prose, and all that is • not prose is verse. M Jourdain Why, when one talks, what is that? • Master. Prose. M. Jourdain. What! when I tell the servant to bring me my night-cap and slippers, is that prose?' &c. Away goes M. Jourdain with the grand discovery to his wife and maid-servant. 'M. Jourdain. You speak like brute heasts; I'm ashamed of your ignorance. For instance, do you know what that is you are saying. Madame Jourdain. Yes, I know that what I am saying is very 'well said, and that you ought to think of living after another • fashion. • M. Jourdain. I'm not talking of that; I ask you what-what those words are that you are saying. • Madame Jourdain. Very sensible words, to be sure: I wish conduct were as much so your M. Jourdain. I tell you, I'm not talking of that. What I ask you is this, this that I'm saying, what I'm saying now to you, what ⚫ is it? • Madame Jourdain. Why, nonsense. M. Jourdain. Pooh! pooh! that's not what I mean. This that we are both saying? the language that we are using to one another? • Madame Jourdain. Anon. • M. Jourdain. What is it called? • Madame Jourdain. Why, what people chuse. M. Jourdain. It's prose, you dunce. • Madame Jourdain. Prose? M.Jourdain. Yes, prose. All that is not verse is prose, and all ⚫ that is not prose is verse.' Or, let us take an instance from "Les femmes savantes." A vain poet is reciting his verses ("To a Lady in a Fever") to some ladies who affect to be judges. Trissotin. Sure you had lull'd to sleep your sense, And to lodge so loyally, Your most cruel enemy. Felise. Ah! what a sweet beginning! • Armande How gallant That turn is! · Philaminte. Ah, for running easy verse Armande. Lull'd your sense to sleep! • Can any thing be finer? Eelise. Lodge your enemy! 'Don't you prefer that? Philaminte. Aye, but then, remember, Belise. Come, let us hear the rest. Trissotin Sure you had lull'd to sleep your sense, And to lodge so royally, • Your most cruel enemy. • Beise. Ah! lull'd your sense to sleep! ‹ Armande. Your cruel enemy!' Philaminte. With such magnificence!' so royally.' • Trissotin. Bid it go, whate'er they say, • From that rich saloon away, 'Or the proud ungrateful elf • Will attack your lonely self. Belise. Ah, stop, for pity; let me, let me breathe. 'Armande. Give me a moment's leisure to admire. • Philaminte. One feels, while hearing this, a kindly fainting Glide to the bottom of one's very soul. • Armande. Bid it go, whate'er they say, • From that rich saloon away. • That rich saloon!' Oh, what a sweet expression! Philaminte. Bid it go, whate'er they say.' • Whate'er they say 's in admirable taste. • In my opinion, 'tis invaluable. Armande. And I'm in love too with whate'er they say.' • Belise. It is most happy sure. 'Whate'er they say!' &c. We will make one more extract from the "Malade Imaginaire" Argan, the valetudinarian, is cockered and spirited up' till he refuses to take some medicines of his apothecary', M. Purgon, on which the enraged Æsculapian cries out • Since you don't chuse to be cured by me Argan. It is not fault. my Purgon. Since you have withdrawn yourself from the obedience 6 you owe your doctor Toinette. Oh, to be sure; that cries out for vengeance. • Purgon. Since you have rebelled against my appointments— Argan. Not I. • Purgon. I have to tell you that I abandon you; I abandon you to < your bad constitution, to the disorder of your intestines, to the corruption of your blood, to the acidity of your bile, to the feculence ' of your humours. Argan. Good heaven! Purgon. And before four days are over your head, you shall be in the ward of incurables. Argon. Oh! Purgon. You shall fall into trady-pepsy. Argan. Mr. Purgon! Purgon. From a trady-pepsy into a dys-pepsy Argan. Mr. Purgon! Purgon. From a dyspepsy into an apepsy- Purgon. From an apepsy into a lientery— Purgon. From a dysentery into a dropsy- Purgon. From a dropsy into death.' Now in these passages we cannot at all perceive that we laugh at the view of any incongruous parts or circumstances.' We laugh at the oddities and infirmities of human character; and, if we were asked why we laugh at them, we answer, because they are ridiculous, and, if we are asked why they appear ridiculous, truly we cannot tell, but they do appear so for all that, and therefore we laugh. Lest, however, it should be thought that some advantage is gained by thus running us with questions till we can give no answer, we may just observe, that every theory on every subject is liable to the same inconvenience. Why do you laugh, we might retort, at the view of unsuitable or incongruous parts or circumstances?' We must come at last to some natural feeling, of which we can give no account, and truly it appears more rational to laugh, where vice may be put out of countenance, than to laugh at these said incongruities. We may just observe that laughable qualities may be so mixed up with amiable ones, as not to render a character ridiculous. There is something even venerable in the oddities of Sir Roger de Coverley or my uncle Toby.' Just as many vices may be given to a character, which yet, by the intermixture of glittering qualities, shall be far from odious. As to wit, we will not quarrel with the received definition of it, because we certainly have not a better to propose in it's place yet we think that we could point out some exceedingly witty sayings, which hardly fall within its limit. We have now gone through all the subjects in this book. If we have said but little of the author, it has been, because there is but little to be said of him. He brings forth nothing original, nor does he say old things in a remarkably striking manner. Moreover, he is sometimes tedious, and his quotations are not always culled in the very best taste. But after all, we can recommend the book to our readers as containing a great deal of very just criticism. Art. IV. The Traveller; or Meditations on various Subjects, written on board a Man of War. To which is added, Converse with the World unseen. By James Meikle, late Surgeon at Carnwath. To which is prefixed a Life of the Author. Second edition. 12mo. pp. lxxxix. 294. Price 4s. 6d. 8vo. Price 8s. Ogle. Art. V. The Select Remains of Mr. James Meikle, late Surgeon in Carnwath; or Extracts from MSS. found among his Papers, &c. Fourth edition. 8vo. pp. ix. 488. Price 8s. Ogle. Art. VI Solitude Sweetened; or Miscellaneous Meditations on vari◄ ous religious Subjects, written in distant parts of the World. By James Meikle. Fifth edition. 8vo. pp. xii. 514. Price 8s. 12mo. 4s. 6d. Ogle. IT is a very common, but a very true remark, that when reli gion takes possession of the heart, it refuses to hold a divided empire, or, in other words, that it never displays its true character, or consistent influence, unless where its supremacy is undisputed. All that is variable in the principles, mean and unworthy in the actions, censurable in the tempers and dispositions, of religious professors, arises from a disregard to the claims of religion itself. Another law usurps the dominion of the heart, and it is to this contravention and rebellion, that every inconsistency, as well as every vice, is to be attributed. In saying, however, that the predominance of religious principle is inseparable from its reality, we by no means design to sanction a rude, obtrusive, ostentatious declaration of its peculiar feelings. This instead of exhibiting a proof, excites a suspicion of its sincerity. The hypocrite, like the pedant, always oversteps "the modesty of nature," and defeats his intentions by his very eagerness to secure them. The indications of genuine excellence are spontaneous and unassuming. Let the sacred discoveries of Christian truth make a right impression, and what will be the natural and unforced result? Doubtless this; that the "newness" of the heart will be evinced in the new direction of its sensibilities, and in the new practices, gradually forming themselves into habits, by which the character will be marked. It is the consciousness of those emotions which religious prin ciples excite, and on which all their true effect depends, that constitutes we apprehend what is intended to be expressed by the term experience. The word, we know, will sound very strange in some ears; but it nevertheless has a meaning, and a very important one. It is not, strictly speaking, mere knowledge; for knowledge, however accurate and extensive, may be destitute of a corresponding influence on the heart. Nor is it, on the other hand, mere morality; for morality, if unsupported by the peculiar motives which Christian truth supplies, is widely distant from the holiness of the gospel. In our view of the matter, experience is the necessary and intermediate qualification which converts knowledge into wisdom, and purifies the springs of action at their source. If our meaning should still be obscure, we cannot do better than refer the reader to the unpretending volumes before us. They exhibit, we think, a very interesting illustration of the value and utility of that kind of religion to which the term experimental is fitly applied. We have seldom met with a variety of human character more deserving of contemplation. Here is a man exposed, during a great part of his life, to the vices and temptations of a ship of war, who is not merely uncontaminated by the surrounding pestilence, but is distinguished by a holy susceptibility of disposition, an exquisite tenderness of conscience, and the rigid observance of every personal and relative duty. If it is asked, how in such circumstances he maintained the continuity of his religious course unbroken, we have no hesitation in replying, by that daily habit of fervent and devout meditation, the fruits of which are given to the world in these posthumous volumes. We regret that so long a time has elapsed since their first publication, before we have had an opportunity to record their worth. The number of editions, however, through which they have passed, is a pleasing indication that they are regarded by the religious public as a valuable acquisition to the stores of our devotional theology. To indulge largely in extracts from such compositions, would be hardly compatible with the plan of a miscellaneous journal: we shall therefore in the present article confine ourselves chiefly to the account of the author's life. His biographer (the Rev. Mr. Peddie, of Edinburgh) informs us, that the subject of his memoir was born at Carnwath, a village in the upper part of Clydesdale, on the 19th of May, O. S. 1730. His parents were pious, but poor; and were made still poorer by ineffectual attempts to obtain the possession of a considerable estate in the neighbourhood of Hamilton, to which they deemed themselves entitled. Their eldest son died in his twenty-fifth year, after having been educated as a surgeon; and in his grave, they buried their hopes of a comVOL. X. 2 E |