lower orders, are here universally cased in a clean white cap, without any bonnet. Market-day at Calais afforded us a good opportunity of seeing them assembled, and we pronounced them decidedly more cleanly and better dressed than the same ranks in England; even the fishwomen forming a contrast, by their clean head-dresses and stockings, and decent attire as well as demeanour, to that utter abandonment of person and language, for which the ladies of Billingsgate have rendered themselves so notorious. This favourable impression was confirmed on the following evening, when a few sous procured us admission to the Vauxhall of the place, consisting of a shabby room for dancing, with a band of three or four fiddlers, and a small open plat, for the same purpose, surrounded by arbours. It was crowded to excess with soldiers, sailors, and tradespeople, all well-dressed, many of the women even deserving to be termed genteel, if not elegant, in their appearance, and all dancing waltzes and quadrilles, with a spirit, grace, and decorum, that would have done honour to a more select assemblage. Several couples, who could not get admittance into the grand saloon (as it was rather undeservedly called), were dancing outside, while a refreshment-room at the end, notwithstanding the inviting notice that all sorts of liquors were to be had within, at prices subjoined, did not contain a single tenant.-In England, all this would have been reversed; and, as if to complete the contrast, the evening on which we witnessed this universal scene of festivity, was Sunday. Calais is a fortified town of some extent; and having a good market, an extensive pier, and daily intercourse with Eugland possesses attractions as a place of residence for our countrymen, of which a good many have availed themselves. [To be continued.] SONG. AVAUNT with your babble of Venus and Cupid, I never could yet be thus silly or stupid, I worship, at sunset beneath the blue dome, Unaided, amid the romantic seclusion, Her priest and attendant-I fling o'er the air The incense of passion; secure from intrusion, Though crowds of young gallants my priesthood would share ; For I am no Jesuit, nor proselytes need, While flowers, birds, and zephyrs, with planets above, Pay homage to her, and, adopting my creed, Unite in the blissful religion of love. J SONNET. YES! it is beautiful-that summer scene, With all the lights of morning o'er it gleaming,- A thought whose presence quenches not, nor checks With noble thoughts of Immortality. PANANTI'S EPIGRAMS. E. T. PANANTI, who is chiefly known in England by his interesting account of his captivity among the Turks, is much esteemed in Florence as a wit and a pure Tuscan writer. His epigrams are in great circulation in Italian society, where they are admired for their causticity, political allusion, boldness, and liberality of sentiment. The volume which he has printed, though pruned of whatever might give umbrage to the powers that be, has considerable merit. A large part, however, consists of translations from the French, English, and ancient epigrammatists; and of those picces which are original, many partake too much of the licentiousness, as well as of the purity of diction of the fifteenth century, to render them generally acceptable to an English public. EPIGRAM FROM PANANTI. IN vece di far atti Di carità, di speme, E dell' anima i fatti In vece d'aggiustar, sull' ore estreme Della sua vita Rombo calcolava, Fino a quanto montava La spesa del suo male. Tanto al medico, tanto allo speziale, Tanto per l'inventario e sepoltura Tanto ci vuol per rimbiancar le mura, Tanto in messe ed in altre opere buone, Oltre il render la dote alla consorte. Oh! gridò con ragione E' così spaventevole la morte. Stretch'd on his bed of death old Thomas lying, And pretty certain he was dying, Instead of summing his offences, Began to reckon his expenses, For mixture, bolus, draught and pill, A long apothecary's bill; And guineas gone in paying doctors, With fees t'attorneys, and to proctors; M. MELANCHOLY. "Gode il cor di trattar le sue ferite." MONTI. I HAVE been mightily puzzled to find out what there is in Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, that could have induced Johnson to forego for it, in particular, the habitual comfort of his morning's nap. The sentence in which he records this, has led thousands of pensive gentlemen to purchase the book: it is in every library with its leaves seldom cut half through Democritus Junior's string of impertinencies to the reader. The reason is, that melancholy wants more to be fed than analyzed: it is a natural craving, and demands nourishment instead of medicine. To prescribe antidotes for it, as for poison, is the very way to convert it into the evil they would avoid. Johnson was a great empiric in mental subjects: he was always doctoring his disposition, and, being a strenuous assertor of the power of the will, was fain to have himself a machine-resistless and obedient to the direction of pure intellect. Even the most subtle operations of the mind-literary compositions, for instancehe would have to depend upon resolution alone, independent of health, weather, or any other external causes. It is very likely that this sentiment, dogmatically and determinately felt as it was by him, might have had the effect of producing a habit of mind calculated to corroborate the truth of the opinion. Besides, his clear and compact body of thought was one from which a thread of speculation might be woven at any time. He had no "half-perceptions," none of the intuitive penetration, the second sight in metaphysics, which is not to be elicited but at happy intervals. His reflections were part of a solid mass of coarse but sterling sense-ready to be cut out into syllogisms at any time. But of the elegant, the fine, the airy truths, which are struck out like sparks in momentary collision, he knew nothing. He was independent of inspiration, and therefore might contemn and make light of those poetic gleams of intelligence, the mollia tempora, and the casualties, on which genius, proud and mighty as it is, must in a great measure depend. He endeavoured to be as despotic over himself as he was over others, and chid his rebellious feelings in the same authoritative tone that he used to his living antagonists. But those proved more stubborn were not to be brow-beaten-" naturam expellas furca ;" and a melancholy, which he was compelled to own constitutional, overcame all his theory. It was doubtless in pursuit of this self-hostility (for the pugnacious philosopher could not but dispute with himself, when a more convenient opponent did not offer) that he gave up his morning's sleep to the study of Burton. It is not likely that he gained from the perusal any remedy, or alleviation of his disease, beyond what the necessary occupation afforded, since it continued to oppress him to his latest hour. And any pleasure he derived from it, was perhaps owing more to his own eagerness on the subject of which it treats, than to any power of wit or eloquence in the author. The having conquered a long and perplexing work is generally attended with a proud feeling of self-complacency, which, I cannot help thinking, forms the greatest part of the pleasure so copiously drawn by the tasteful from the much-lauded productions of our ancestors. Montaigne I can admire, for, though not above all pedantry, he was above that of logic, of definition, and division. His thoughts flow naturally, and however discursive, draw the reader unconsciously with them; his quotations come from his memory, not from his common-place book; in short, if we can call any author friend, it is Montaigne. But reading Burton I can compare to nothing but walking on the edge of a saw; no one thought is linked to another by the natural association--all is abrupt, angular, unnatural. Critics say, that to enjoy and judge rightly of an author, we should place ourselves in the circumstances of his age and timethat over Homer we should be Grecian, over Virgil, Roman. To such a classic change of character I have no objection; but really that we should become monks and pedants in order to enjoy an old gentleman, however witty and humorous he may be, is too revolting a request upon our powers of diversity. But above all, it is most unreasonable to demand this of the melancholy reader, who is possessed with a feeling directly hostile to all scholasticism and dantic wit; to such a feeling I can imagine nothing so disgusting as the mixture of philosophy and buffoonery, which is palmed on it as its kindred. Melancholy is essentially anti-dramatic, and cannot by any means be made to step out of itself. Nature is conformed to it, not it to nature; all objects that come within its sphere of vision become assimilated, and assume its colours. The gayest, the gladdest, and the brightest, take a sombre hue in its presence; and the gaiety of human life is to it but the saddest of sorrows. To such a feeling, the page of fretful reasoning and piecemeal analysis must be the height of impertinence. The mind in its buoyant mood may look into it as a curiosity, and be amused by its extravagance. But to admire it-to hold it up as a wonderful production of genius-to make it the companion of the lonely hour, is the effect of something beyond pure taste. What shall we say to the impertinent casuist, that intrudes "Where heavenly pensive Contemplation dwells, pe to inform the meditative poet, that all his sad moods and hallowed visions are but the effects of flatulency;-that will attempt to prove we are indebted for Petrarch's poetic griefs to wind, and for Childe Harold to indigestion?" Who would compare imaginations,” says a whimsical author, "with a leg of pork or a German sausage?" I know several;-but one person in particular, who becoming too strongly impressed with this doctrine of mental effects from physical causes, succeeded in metamorphosing himself from a poet and a philosopher, into a self-quack and a hypochondriac. Formerly, "with all his imperfections on his head," he wrote pretty verse and sound prose, unconscious that his supper of the last night should have rendered him totally incapable of such things. But now he knows better; his pen has not touched paper these many months, and his tongue can run on no subject but Elixir of Vitriol and Anderson's Pills. I owe Mr. Burton a grudge for the loss of my intellectual friend, and intend paying him for it one day or other, as soon as I can muster courage,-brush up my old Latin, and older English, for the purpose of wading him through. Though youth be a season of jollity, yet it is in hours of sadness that the man is most strongly reminded of the days of yore. The deep feeling of melancholy is the only one that extends like a clue through life, that blends present, past, and future, into one, and places our identity palpably before us. It is the point at which we all feel at home; and when, after intervals of apathy and distraction, we return to it, it seems as if life, like time, were but a series of revolutions, and at certain periods found itself at the very goal from whence it first started. It may be fantastical, but I really look upon melancholy moods in some such light, as if the soul came to Aries again,-resumed its original position, that it might take the same old views, and recruit the same old feelings. This is the holiday-hour of life, when we turn aside from the high road of human trouble, and shake hands with years and thoughts long past. When we con over our young likings and antipathies, perceive them to have been the germs of existing prejudices, and acknowledge with the poet, "The child to be the father of the man." There is nothing so refreshing to the mind, as for a while to cast off its years, and dispense with its maturity; but though it is possible to effect this in contemplation-over books it is not easy. Though feeling may retrace its steps, and put on its youth again, taste will not: it is a stubborn mentor, and in spite of us will be cavilling. The days were when we could dwell over Werter, Richardson, Zimmerman, and merge our very souls in their pages. How cursedly a few years have improved us; the smile usurps the place of the tear that has been, and we associate nothing but ludicrous ideas with the quondam heroes of our romantic thoughts, VOL. II. NO. X. 2 G |