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portion of earth in which my poor old friend is deposited, are returned to dust as well as he, and that there is no difference in the grave between the imaginary and the real monarch.



K. Phil. Patience, good lady, comfort, gentle Constance.
Cons. No, I defy all counsel, all redress,

But that which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, Death, oh amiable, lovely Death!
Thou odoriferous stench, sound rottenness,
Arise from forth the couch of lasting night,
Thou hate and terror to prosperity,
And I will kiss thy detestable bones;
And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows,
And ring these fingers with thy household worms,
And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust,
And be a carrion monster like thyself:

Come grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st,
And buss thee as thy wife; Misery's love!
O, come to me!


MELANCHOLY, or fixed grief, is gloomy, sedentary, motionless. The lower jaw falls; the lips pale, the eyes are cast down, half shut, eye-lids swollen and red, or livid, tears trickling silent and unperceived; with a total inattention to every thing that passes. Words, if any, few; and those dragged out, rather than spoken; the accents weak and interrupted, sighs breaking into the middle of sentences and words. Melancholy, when softened by time, assumes a less gloomy character, and may more properly be termed Pensiveness; in which stage it is not always unpleasing. This sort of Philosophical Melancholy, is admirably described by Milton, Collins, and other poets..


With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,

Pale melancholy sat retir'd;

And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul,

And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Through glades and glooms, the mingled measures stole.

Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,

Round an holy calm diffusing

Love of peace, and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.


-hail, thou goddess, sage and holy,

Hail, divinest Melancholy,

Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight,
And therefore to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue.

Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of Folly,
Most musical, most melancholy,
Thee, chantress, oft the woods among
I woo to hear thy evening song,-
-may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and nightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth shew,
And every herb that sips the dew;
'Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain,
These pleasures, Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.


Foreboding, or anticipation of any unfortunate event that may happen, produces the species of melancholy called Sadness, as in the following Examples:-


In sooth, I know not why I am so sad,

It wearies me, you say it wearies you;

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff 'tis made of, whereof 'tis born,

I am to learn-and such a want wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.


This battle fares like to the morning's war,

When dying clouds contend with glowing light;

What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,

Can neither call it perfect day, or night,

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea,
Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;-

'Would I were dead! if God's good will were so :

For what is in this world, but grief and woe?

O God! methinks, it were a happy life,

To be no better than a homely swain;

To sit upon a hill as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,

Thereby to see the minutes how they run.


Of comfort no man speak:

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;

Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes,

Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth,

Let's chuse executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not so,-for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own, but death:
And that small model of the barren earth,
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heaven's sake, let's sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been depos'd, some slain in war;
Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd,
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd :-For within the hollow crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps death his court, and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene

To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,—
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin,

Bores through his castle-wall, and-farewell king,—
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence. Throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while;
I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends; subjected thus,
How can you say to me,—I am a king?


How use doth breed a habit in a man!
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns;
Here can I sit alone, unseen of

And to the nightingale's complaining notes,
Tune my distresses, and record my woes.
O thou that dost inhabit in my breast,
Leave not the mansion so long tenantless;
Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall,
And leave no memory of what it was.
Repair me with thy presence, SILVIA;

Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain !


The nature of philosophic melancholy is well described by, and exemplified in, the character of Jaques, in Shakespeare's "As you Like it," who in the following speech, after describing various kinds of melancholy, explains the nature of his own; which it is to be observed however, has a mixture of cynical

ness in it, differing from the mild kind of melancholy called pensiveness.


I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these; but it is a melancholy of my own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.


The melancholy Jaques grieves at that,
And in that kind swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you;
To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood,
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on th' extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.

Duke. But what said Jaques ?

Did he not moralize on the spectacle?

Lord. O yes, into a thousand similes;

First, for his weeping in the needless stream;
Poor deer, quoth he, thou mak'st a testament
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more

To that which hath too much. Then being alonę,
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends;
"Tis' right, quoth he; thus misery doth part
The flux of company :-anon, a careless herd
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,
And never stays to greet him; aye, quoth Jaques,
Sweep on, ye fat and greasy citizens,
'Tis just the fashion; wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and kill them up
In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time!
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death! but out brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.—


FEAR, (violent and sudden) opens very wide the eyes and mouth; shortens the nose; draws down the eyebrows: gives the countenance an air of wildness; covers it with deadly paleness; draws back the elbows parallel with the sides; lifts up the open hands and fingers together to the height of the breast; so that the palms face the dreadful object, like shields opposed to it; one foot is drawn back behind the other, so that the body seems shrinking from the danger, and putting itself in a posture for flight. The heart beats violently; the breath is quick and short; the whole body is thrown into a general tremor. The voice is weak and trembling; the sentences are short, and the meaning confused and incoherent. Collins, thus describes Fear in his Ode on the Passions.

First Fear, her hand its skill to try,
Amidst the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd!-she knew not why?
E'en at the sounds herself had made.

Fear of imminent danger, real or fancied, produces in timorous persons, as women and children, violent shrieks without any articulate sound of words; and sometimes irrovocably confounds the understanding, producing a silent and motionless torpidity, which is followed by faintings, and oftentimes by death.

Fear is but active grief, avoiding pain,

Yet flies too faintly, and avoids in vain;

While stagnant spirits thick'ning as they spread,

O'er the cold heart, crawl slow like living lead,

What though the eye's prompt ray, keen light'ning dart,
'Tis fruitless,-loos'ning fibres lame the heart.


THE SCHOOL-BOY CROSSING A CHURCH YARD AT NIGHT. Oft in the lone church yard at night I've seen,

By glimpse of moonshine checkering thro' the trees,

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