Points of Humour, Part 2 (of 2)

Let me play the fool: With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; And let my liver rather heat with wine, Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, Sit like his grandsire, cut in alabaster? Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice By being peevish? Shakspeare
CONTENTS

The best preface to this set of the Points of Humour is the former set, which, we are credibly informed, has favorably disposed the muscles of our readers for repeating a certain cackling sound, which is heart-food to our friend George Cruikshank.
One individual, for certain, has laughed over these Points, and he is a very worthy gentleman, who may be, discerned wedging his way through sundry piles of books in a remarkable part of Newgate-street, being opposite to the huge prison of that name. No one ever asked him after the sale of this little work, without observing an instantaneous distension of that feature of the face which is used for more purposes than merely grinning. It is to be devoutly hoped that this second set will not spoil his merriment, and that, as rather a coarse saying goes, he will not be made to sing to another tune.
The author, collector, compiler, editor, writer, or whatever name the daily or weekly critics may give him, for they have given him all these, will, undoubtedly, be heartily sorry should this change take place, for he avows that since the publication of the Points, the face of the worthy gentleman alluded to has been illuminated by one unclouded sunshine, so much so, indeed, that to enter his shop has been a constant resource against melancholy during this gloomy weather. A face lighted up with good humour in a dark shop, is like a blaze of light in the middle of one of Rembrandt's murky pictures.
It will be seen that the compiler has taken a hint, or rather followed a hint of one of the critics upon this little book. He has resorted for part of his materials, to the author, who is the richest of all in the humour of situation . Fielding has been suggested; but though some things, excellent in their kind, might be found in him, yet it will be observed, on a more accurate consideration, that this admirable author is infinitely less adapted to the pencil of Cruikshank, than his successor in the walk of humour. Fielding is a master in the power of laying open all the springs which regulate the motion of that curious piece of mechanism, the human heart. He wrote with the inspiration of genius, and is true to nature in her minutest circumstances. He involuntarily and unconsciously catches the look, the word, the gesture, which would undoubtedly have manifested itself, and which is in itself a strong gleam of light upon the whole character. His dramatis personae are not, generally, very extraordinary people.—He dealt in that which is common to all. While, on the contrary, Smollett is rich in that which is uncommon and eccentric. His field is among oddities, hobby-horses, foibles, and singularities of all kinds, which he groups in the most extraordinary manner, and colours for the most striking effect. We read Fielding with a satisfied smile, but it is over the page of Smollett that the loud laugh is heard to break forth.—How much at home our artist is in the conception of Smollett may be seen in the following, plates.