104 THE SENTIMENTALIST.
well. He lost them, he says in a sonnet addressed to his friend, Cyriac Skinner,
“Overplied
In liberty's defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side. “There are no descriptions of natural scenery more beautiful than some of those which we find in the Paradise Lost : doubtless these were dictated from the author's fervent recollection-the more fervent because he had no means of renewing them-of the images which he had stored up in his mind before blindness became his bitter portion. Nevertheless we have only to read the poems of Blacklock to be convinced that persons born blind, by whatever means they accomplish it, may sometimes exercise the power of describing natural scenery with as much accuracy, and, what is more extraordinary, with as much enthusiasm, as writers whose vision never was impaired.
There is not a more interesting chapter in the whole history of man, than that which displays his successful pursuit of knowledge under the numerous difficulties which blindness interposes in his way. By a variety of means, which it is unnecessary here to detail, they have learned the alphabet, arithmetic, and geography, and to play on the violin and piano. There are very few persons, perhaps, who are acquainted with the fact, that Huber, the author of the most minute, the most accurate, and by far the most popular treatise that has been yet written upon bees, was blind from his earliest infancy. Such a work as this would seem to require in the writer of it eyes of the very best description, yet it is understood that he had no other assistance while engaged in collecting the materials of it than that which he derived from his domestic, who mentioned to him the colour of the insect. Their form and size he ascertained by touch with wonderful facility. A Frenchman of the name of Lesuer, learned to read, to compose with characters in relief, to print; he was quite a master of his native language, of geography and music. There was a young cabinet-maker at Ingolstadt, who, having lost his sight by an explosion of gunpowder, employed himself in constructing pepper-mills, specimens of which may now be seen in the gallery of Munich. The guide tells you that he manufactured them without the assistance of any other instrument than a common knife.
In the Digby family there was a preceptor who surpassed the ablest players at chess, and shot arrows at long distances, with such precision as almost never to miss his mark. “He constantly went abroad, “says Sir Kenelm, “without a guide, and frequented most of the public promenades; he regularly took his place at table, and ate with such dexterity, that it was impossible to perceive he was blind; when any one spoke to him for the first time, he was able to tell with certainty his stature and the form of his body; and when his pupils recited in his presence, he knew in what situation and attitude they were. “Holman, the celebrated blind traveller, is another
instance of this kind. M. de Piles mentions a native of Cambassy, in Tuscany, who was an excellent designer. By means of touch alone he could seize with precision the form and proportions of the original. His portraits were striking likenesses. A nobleman, who suspected he was not quite blind, in order to put the matter to the test, caused the artist to take his portrait in a dark cave. The resemblance was perfect. A Dutch organist, who was blind from his early youth, became remarkably skilful in his profession. He also acquired the habit of distinguishing by the touch the different kinds of money, and even some colours. He was a capital card player, for he knew not only the cards which he kept for himself, but also those which he dealt out to others! The blind are generally great chess players. One is not surprised to hear that they are very little sensible of the graces of modesty; but it is painful to know, that they are also generally remarkable for their ingratitude. This fact, however, should never prevent us from extending to them our sympathy, and rendering them all the assistance in our power. There is one who will reward us in his own way, and at his own time, for every good action we do.
It is very curious to observe the activity of that compensating power, which nature has provided in all those cases, where persons have either been born blind or become so at an early period of life. It ought, at the same time, to be a subject of deep thankfulness with those, who have the good fortune to possess in perfection, the most delicate, the most complicated, and the most beautiful of all our organs.
THE SENTIMENTALIST.
WHEN the generous affections have become well-nigh paralytic, we have the reign of sentimentality. The greatness, the profitableness, at any rate the extremely ornamental nature of high feeling, and the luxury of doing good; charity, love, self-forgetfulness, devotedness, and all manner of godlike magnanimity, are everywhere insisted on, and pressingly inculcated in speech and writing, in prose and verse; Socinian preachers proclaim “benevolence “to all the four winds, and have “truth “engraved on their watch-seals-unhappily, with little or no effect. Were the limbs in right walking order, why so much demonstrating of motion? The barrenest of all mortals is the sentimentalist. Granting even that he were sincere, and did not wilfully deceive us, or without first deceiving himself, what good is in him? Does he not lie there as a perpetual lesson of despair, and type of bedrid, valetudinarian impotence? His is emphatically a virtue that has become, through every fibre, conscious of itself : it is all sick, and feels as if it were made of glass, and durst not touch or be touched. In the shape of work it can do nothing; at the utmost, by incessant nursing and caudling, keep itself alive.-Edinburgh Review.
