THE MELANCHOLY MAN'S MUSINGS.

To the Editor of the City of London Magazine. Pemb. Coll. Cambridge. SIR,-The following Chapters, written by an eccentric Fellow of our College, have come into my hands-no matter how-and I feel myself at liberty to offer them for insertion in your flourishing periodical.

I am, Sir, yours, &c.,

CHAPTER I.

J. T.

THE MELANCHOLY MAN COMPLAINETH CONCERNING POETS.

"But wel-a-day! who loves the muses now?
Or helpes the climber of the sacred hyll?
None leane to them; but strive to disallow
All heavenly dewes the goddesses distill."

No, no! I will never turn poet by profession. "Poetry is excellent
sauce, but they have lived and died poor who have made it their
meat.' It is hard any how to make one's bread of one's brains, but
fancy bred of a poet's brain is of all bread the least nutritious. The
notion of want and leanness seems almost to enter into our very first
conception of a poet ; and it would be nearly as great a wonder for a
bard to mount his Pegasus in a state of solvency, as for a Newmarket
jockey to mount his Eclipse in a state of corpulency. Scott and
Byron were great rarities in this respect. The world wondered to
see men in good condition betake themselves to poetizing, and so they
became notorious at their first start, by reason of the unnaturalness of
their position. When a shrewd Irishwoman, who had just been Scott's
guide over some curious old place, was told that he was
"the great
poet," ""A poet!" she exclaims, never a bit of it-he's a gentle-
man, for he gave me half-a-crown.”

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And why are poets kept poor? Because this is a money-making age. Gain-getting people have souls too low and sordid to appreciate the inspired musings of the minstrel, for

"Their love

Lies in their purses.”

He is not a

A poet is of no use to your utilitarian or pantologist. productive animal. He contributes no facts, he discovers no new expense-saving machine, he cannot so much as invent a cheaper process of smallclothes-mending Therefore he is good for nothing. He may be an amiable sort of creature in his way-but he makes no savings. He is not rich, and never will be; he is therefore floccipauci-nihili-pili-ficated.

"We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : The wealthiest man among us is the best."

Poetry cannot flourish with parsimony-it sickens in the atmosphere of a "shred and candle-end economy."

If you can endure to be lean and penniless, scorned by the rich,

pitied by the poor, oppressed by booksellers, reviled by critics, dunned by tradesmen, and bullied by bumbailiffs; if you can snap your fingers at all the world and all the world's wealth, and can bring forth great and glorious imaginings in a garret-then, and not till then, become a professed poet. But what if I should find some wealthy patron?" What if you should? Will this profit you? You will be petted, and lauded, and fussed with-but that is all. No good comes of it-not one penny-piece. Are you dined ?-you must talk for your dinner-you must make a sensation, and play the lion, and appear gratified when you hear "Well shone, moon;" "Well roared, lion.

"Go tell my good Lord, says the modest young man,

If he will but invite me to dinner,

I'll be as diverting as ever I can

I will, on the faith of a sinner."

Few poets are happy. They are burdened with woes and griefs beyond the ordinary lot of humanity. It is a part of Nature's wise economy, that the man of great intellectual eminence should be disciplined by many sorrows into a befitting humility. The man of lofty thoughts has deep feelings also, and is far more keenly cut than others are by the strokes of misfortune. He may wrestle and grapple with his troubles as they fall upon him-but he cannot escape their wound. He may even make his sorrow a pleasure, and take a gloomy delight in his wretchedness-but, after all, it is but a sorry pleasure, a wretched delight. Melancholy is the tax which nature never fails to lay upon genius; and if he pay it cheerfully it is well for him.

How little do mere spectators see of the depths of passion and emotion which lie unexplored in the bosom of a man of genius. There are a thousand mysterious impulses within, a thousand wondrous combinations of thought and feeling, which he dare not unbosom, or could not explain, to his nearest and dearest friend. There are sometimes faint, yet most touching, remembrances of the past, which are wafted upon the mind, and melt the soul like soft notes of music which distance has mellowed into harmonious indistinctness. Sometimes he dreams of coming hours of happiness, and fancy pictures to him such bright visions as no mortal man may realize; or, if in gloomy mood, he sees all before him dark, and cold, and cheerless, and conjures up the dim and dismal outlines of future sorrows and disappointments, feeling no comfort in things present or past, and foreboding all ill in those that are to come. There are times when his mingled emotions grow so strong and intractable that he cannot contain them, and he is thus forced into language or action which to a cold and unsympathizing world appears strange and unmeaning. He cannot even then-nor cares he to-explain that which, though sacred to himself, would meet with little respect from others, and finds no fellow-feeling with which to claim kindred. This is the reason why such a man loves solitary hours, and holds converse with himself, brooding over his own sorrows, or lingering over his own joys, as though himself were his own sole confidant. He may perhaps upon a time open his whole heart to the Muse, and using her mouth-piece, give the world to know something of what passes.

on in his inner man; or he may keep all these things cooped up within, shutting them out from all human observation, and wearing meanwhile the semblance of an ordinary man among ordinary men. And thus what varied melancholy, and what deep settled anguish, is often disguised under the mask of pretended serenity. When we cast our eyes upon this mimic countenance, we see no more of the man, than when looking on the ocean's face in a calm we see of the unfathomed tract below, with its countless crowds of bustling creatures, its monstrous whales and sharks seeking their prey, the great leviathan who taketh his pastime there, fishes and things creeping innumerable—all this life, and hurry, and incident, this world in the waters, gives scarce a sign of its existence to those that are without, and each little heaving of its surface may seem the chance-work of some light passing air.

CHAPTER II.

THE MELANCHOLY MAN SINGETH A MELANCHOLY DITTY.

My experience of life, whatever it may have been, hath clearly convinced me that there is no perfect pleasure in the world. There are the beginnings of true delights, (yet, oh how mingled with griefs and pains!)-but they are the mere beginnings-the only consummation of bliss is in Heaven. "For what hath man of all his labour, and of the vexation of his heart, wherein he hath laboured under the sun? For all his days are sorrows, and his travail grief; yea, his heart taketh not rest in the night."

CHAPTER III.

THE MELANCHOLY MAN FALLETH IN LOVE, AND SINGETH LOVE-SONGS.

A MAN who is incapable of the tender sentiments of a refined love may be a fit companion for Anthropophagi, but let him be far out of my sight. Should a savage-(he is nothing better)-of this perverse and unnatural temper hear the free out-pourings of my heart, he will probably laugh or sneer. He is welcome so to do. And I will sing my first song to my own first love.

ΤΟ *****

O fling away that violet wreath,
'Tis not so fragrant as thy breath;
Let plainly hang thy auburn hair,
Nor gold nor diamond glitter there;
And that fair neck no floweret press-
"Twill hide a sweeter loveliness.
How deep the blushes of that rose,
That clings upon thy snowy brow;

Ah, envious flower! Methinks it knows
How far less fair itself than thou.

Why not with thy own charms content?
For thee there is no ornament :

Thyself alone O let me see,

Thyself alone were bliss to me!

And now that my voice is attuned to melody, I will venture a new strain. I was enjoying an ideal happiness in the long bygone time when it first found utterance from my lips; therefore, let no poor soul of a critic carp at its old-fashioned phrase.

SONNET

To the Fayre Ladye who pluckt the Grapes.

O sweet those grapes which thou didst send to me,

Fayre ladye; tender was thy courtesie;

Pluckt by thy gentle hand how good they be !

O when those dainties I assay to eat,

In deed they are a twofold luxurie;

They soothe my palate, drie with feverish heate,

They soothe my bosom, for they tell of thee;

The sweetness of thy touch hath sweeter made the meat.
Fayre Dian in the nymph-enchanted wode

Ne'er for Endymion culled such heavenlie fode;

Nor ever did the Gardens of the Blest

Bear fruit so lovelie; nor the grand abode,

'Yelept Elysium, where good pagans rest.

Ladye, grapes all be good, those pluckt by thee the best.

And now bear with me while I rehearse (for I am fond of having listeners) two little odes, the one after Horace, the other after Propertius, which pleased well the fair one for whom they were composed-and what more need I say?

TO CHLOE.

Chloë, why flee me-like a fawn,

Far from her mother on some upland lawn,

Startled at the passing breeze,

And the rustling of the trees,

Trembling in her heart and knees,

If Zephyr through the leafage ramble,
Or lizard creep in brake or bramble?
"Tis not to harm thee that I woo thee,
I am no tiger that pursue thee;
Why so affrighted? Do not dread me-
Chloë, leave Mamma and wed me.

(Hor. O. I. xxiii.)

THE POET'S LAST WISH.

When Death shall close my weary eyes,

Not pompous be my obsequies;

No grand procession bear me to my tomb,
No mournful trumpet blast lament my doom,
No ivory pillars prop the solemn bier,
No glittering ornament be lavished here;
Nor balmy censers shed perfume for me,
No! like a peasant's let my funeral be.

But I will take-'twere pomp enough, I ween-
My verses as a gift to Pluto's queen;
And thou, my love, thy deep-felt grief declare
By sighs, and sad laments, and frenzied air;
On my cold cheek a burning kiss bestow,
O'er my pale brow let fragrant ointments flow;
Then the enkindling pyre my body burn,
Receive my withered dust one little urn;
Let verdant laurels bloom where I am laid-

(I long to slumber 'neath the laurel-shade-)

And let my brief memorial simply say,

"HE WHO LIES HERE WAS TRUE TO CYNTHIA."

(Prop. El. III. iv.)

CHAPTER IV.

THE MELANCHOLY MAN SINGETH OTHER SONGS-CONCERNING DRINKING, AND MOREOVER CONDESCENDETH TO BE FACETIOUS.

TO THE MUSES.

I WILL not steep my reeling sense in wine,

I am no Bacchanal that woo the Nine,

But a sad sober pilgrim. "Tis not true

That frantic jollity is dear to you;

Ye hate the gay carousal's senseless noise,

Who happier seasons know, and holier joys;

Who love the calm eve's meditative hour,

And seek the moss-grown bank, or lonesome bower,
The rippling rill, or grove-embosomed dell,

Far from the haunts where Rout and Frenzy dwell.

Then let the bumper sparkle as it may,

It shall not charm for me one grief away

But I'll quaff yon pure stream, that dances by
Sweet as the fountain-wave of Castaly;

So may I like those crystal waters flow,
Joy's sunshine on my face, and purity below.

Anacreon, we know, has written a famous ode on the necessity of drinking. Tis neat enough, and pretty and pleasing, but lies open to the same objection which our great Mathematician, Dr. Wood, urged against Milton's "Paradise Lost,"-it proves nothing. You will not grudge to hear my translation of it, and also my confutation.