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 instance he 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 speculationmight 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 time— that 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 pedantic 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, 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. We are accustomed to account for this, in what, I think, an erroneous way we plaintively confess, that we have grown old in feeling, and that the source of our tears is dried up. It may be so with many, but I rather think feeling to be more lasting than we suppose; that it is the taste which outgrows it, and finds not the old feelings ridiculous, but the manner in which they are represented unnatural. In short, I am inclined to lay the blame of my apathy on the authors, not on myself. Those works grew insipid to me, long ere I grew ashamed of being sad; and were so even at the time, when I imagined a pensive brow to be the only true characteristic of the bard. Although it has not quite arisen to a controversy, yet there have been passages on both sides, and much diversity of opinion on the question, "Whether melancholy or mirth be the true poetic temperament?" It would prove an interesting subject of discussion, more interesting, as it would be very unlikely ever to come to an issue. But the greatest blow, in my mind, ever given to the sublimity of sadness, comes from the doctrines of Gall and Spurzheim, which, whatever be their general merits, in this certainly have much reason. "The organ of melancholy," say they, "is but an enlargement of the organ of cowardice:-they are one and the same feeling, proceeding from the same defect in the constitution." This, without being any thing of a craniologist, appeared to me a very startling truth; and being very far gone at the time in a mental jaundice, it proved quite a restorative. The humiliating view, in which it represented all I was accustomed to look upon as sublime, was a complete overthrow to my received system of idealism. I was compelled to alter my whole plan, and both alone and in company determined "to be decked in smiles," lest I should have the ill luck to take myself, or be taken for-a coward. Y. TO ECHO. Echo! sole relic of the lovely fair, Who for Cephisus' son in hopeless love Far from the great, the giddy, and the proud PEARCE'S ACCOUNT OF ABYSSINIA. (Concluded from page 258.) OUR traveller mentions other interesting matter, which our limits do not permit us to detail; we must therefore refer the inquisitive reader to the Work itself. He says the Abyssinians are always feasting, excepting during their fasts. "They have great crying and howling for the dead, for many days, and appoint a particular day for a general cry, which ends their crying. If a great man dies, they make his effigy and cry and howl round it, firing their matchlocks, and tearing the skin off their temples and forehead, until the blood runs down their neck in such a horrible manner as would frighten any one unacquainted with these customs. They pretend to be so weak with sorrow that they cannot support themselves; one of them then begins to eulogize the actions, the beauty, and riches, of the deceased, and concluding in a sorrowful tone, they all together make a loud bellow, and tear their temples. This ceremony being over, they retire into a large house, where they eat and drink until they turn their sorrow into merriment and quarrelling." : The Abyssinians, says Pearce, have many children and relations on account of having so many women; he knew many great men who have had from 40 to 50 children, and all by different mothers: they do not know scarcely which child was born first, as they keep no record of time even the king or priest does not know his own age, "There are twelve lickcounts, or learned men, by whom all things are regulated; they keep the time. Their year begins from the day St. John was beheaded-1st of September with them, but 29th of August with us. Their year is divided into four parts-the first is called St. Matthew, the second St. Mark, the third St. Luke, the fourth St. John. They have other names also for those four quarters, viz. Zerry, Currunpt, Corvio, Aggie, i. e. Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter." The Abyssinians, like their Muhamedan neighbours, never keep a corpse in the house a moment after it is dead; but they immediately wash it, envelope it with cloth, and take it to the grave, without a coffin; none but the kings and the great men have coffins! They have all a father confessor, and Pearce was obliged to have one to entitle him to the name of Christian. Here follows a long description of various religious ceremonies and tricks of priests to delude or terrify the ignorant and superstitious people. The Abyssinians are great liars; no dependance can ever be put in them of whatever rank they may be. Their mode of evading an oath is curious: if the king swears he will forgive an offender, and then wishes to punish him, he will call his servants together, and say, "Servants, you see the oath I have taken; I scrape it clean away from my tongue that made it." He then puts his tongue out and scrapes the oath off with his teeth, and spitting, says, "When the rebel comes, you will do your duty as I shall order you." Their oaths are very solemn, but broken without hesitation. Pearce says he has known the following oath before the priests sworn to a falsity: "If what I now swear to, be not true, may God blow away my soul from me as I blow away the fire from this candle," which he immediately |