Chapter 22

The great, though whimsical author of the 'Anatomy of Melancholy' was born at Lindley, in Leicestershire, 1576, and educated at Christ Church, Oxford. He became Rector of Seagrave, in his native shire. He was a man of vast erudition, of integrity and benevolence, but his happiness, like that of Burns, although in a less measure, 'was blasted _ab origine_ by an incurable taint of hypochondria;' and although at times a most delightful companion, at other times he was so miserable, even when a young student at Oxford, that he had no resource but to go down to the river-side, where the coarse jests of the bargemen threw him into fits of laughter. This surely was a violent remedy, and one that must have reacted into deeper depression. In 1621, he wrote and published, as a safety-valve to his morbid feelings, his famous 'Anatomie of Melancholy, by Democritus Junior.' It became instantly popular, and sold so well, that the publisher is said to have made a fortune by it. Nothing more of consequence is recorded of the author, who died in 1640. Although

'Melancholy mark'd him for her own,'

she failed to kill him till he had passed his grand climacteric. He was buried in Christ Church, with the following epitaph, said to have been composed by himself:--

'Paucis notus, paucioribus ignotus. Hic jacet Democritus Junior, Cui vitam pariter et mortem Dedit _Melancholia_!

'Known [by name] to few, unknown [as the author of the "Anatomy"] to fewer, here lies D. J., who owes his death [as a man] and his life [as an author] to Melancholy.'

His work is certainly a most curious and bewitching medley of thought, information, wit, learning, personal interest, and poetic fancy. We all know it was the only book which ever drew the lazy Johnson from his bed an hour sooner than he wished to rise. The subject, like the flesh of that 'melancholy' creature the hare, may be dry, but, as with that, an astute cookery prevails to make it exceedingly piquant; the sauce is better than the substance. Burton's melancholy is not, like Johnson's, a deep, hopeless, 'inspissated gloom,' thickened by memories of remorse, and lighted up by the lurid fires of feared perdition; it is not, like Byron's, dashed with the demoniac element, and fretted into universal misanthropy; it is not, like Foster's, the sad, fixed fascination of a pure intelligence contemplating the darker side of things, as by a necessity of nature, and ignoring, without denying, the existence of the bright; nor is it, like that of the 'melancholy Jacques,' in 'As you Like it,' a wild, woodland, fantastical habit of thought, as of one living collaterally and aside to the world, and which often explodes into laughter at itself and at all things else;--Burton's is a wide- spread but tender shade, like twilight, diffused over the whole horizon of his thought, and is nourished at times into a luxury, and at times paraded as a peculiar possession. In his form of melancholy there are pleasures as well as pains. 'Most pleasant it is,' he says, 'to such as are to melancholy given, to lie in bed whole days and keep their chambers; to walk alone in some solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by a brook-side, to meditate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject; and a most incomparable delight it is so to melancholise and build castles in the air.' Religious considerations have little to do with Burton's melancholy, and remorse or fear apparently nothing. Hence his book, although its theme be sadness, never shadows the spirit, but, on the contrary, from his dark, Lethean poppies, his readers are made to extract an element of joyful excitement, and the anatomy, and the cure, of the evil, are one and the same.

As a writer, Burton ranks, in some points, with Montaigne, and in others with Sir Thomas Browne. He resembles the first in simplicity, _bonhommie_, and miscellaneous learning, and the other in rambling manner, quaint phraseology, and fantastic imagination. Neither of the three could be said to write books, but they accumulated vast storehouses, whence thousands of volumes might be, and have been compiled. There is nothing in Burton so low as in many of the 'Essays' of Montaigne, but there is nothing so lofty as in passages of Browne's 'Religio Medici' and 'Urn-Burial.' Burton has been a favourite quarry to literary thieves, among whom Sterne, in his 'Tristram Shandy,' stands pre-eminent. To his 'Anatomy' he prefixes a poem, a few stanzas of which we extract.

ON MELANCHOLY.

1 When I go musing all alone, Thinking of divers things foreknown, When I build castles in the air, Void of sorrow, void of fear, Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet Methinks the time runs very fleet. All my joys to this are folly; Nought so sweet as melancholy.

2 When I go walking all alone, Recounting what I have ill-done, My thoughts on me then tyrannise, Fear and sorrow me surprise; Whether I tarry still, or go, Methinks the time moves very slow. All my griefs to this are jolly; Nought so sad as melancholy.

3 When to myself I act and smile, With pleasing thoughts the time beguile, By a brook-side or wood so green, Unheard, unsought for, or unseen, A thousand pleasures do me bless, And crown my soul with happiness. All my joys besides are folly; None so sweet as melancholy.

4 When I lie, sit, or walk alone, I sigh, I grieve, making great moan; In a dark grove or irksome den, With discontents and furies then, A thousand miseries at once Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce. All my griefs to this are jolly; None so sour as melancholy.

5 Methinks I hear, methinks I see Sweet music, wondrous melody, Towns, palaces, and cities, fine; Here now, then there, the world is mine, Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine, Whate'er is lovely is divine. All other joys to this are folly; None so sweet as melancholy,

6 Methinks I hear, methinks I see Ghosts, goblins, fiends: my fantasy Presents a thousand ugly shapes; Headless bears, black men, and apes; Doleful outcries and fearful sights My sad and dismal soul affrights. All my griefs to this are jolly; None so damn'd as melancholy.

THOMAS CAREW.

This delectable versifier was born in 1589, in Gloucestershire, from an old family in which he sprung. He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, but neither matriculated nor took a degree. After finishing his travels, he returned to England, and became soon highly distinguished, in the Court of Charles I., for his manners, accomplishments, and wit. He was appointed Gentleman of the Privy Chamber and Sewer in Ordinary to the King. He spent the rest of his life as a gay and gallant courtier; and in the intervals of pleasure produced some light but exquisite poetry. He is said, ere his death, which took place in 1639, to have become very devout, and bitterly to have deplored the licentiousness of some of his verses.

Indelicate choice of subject is often, in Carew, combined with great delicacy of execution. No one touches dangerous themes with so light and glove-guarded a hand. His pieces are all fugitive, but they suggest great possibilities, which his mode of life and his premature removal did not permit to be realised. Had he, at an earlier period, renounced, like George Herbert, 'the painted pleasures of a court,' and, like Prospero, dedicated himself to 'closeness,' with his marvellous facility of verse, his laboured levity of style, and his nice exuberance of fancy, he might have produced some work of Horatian merit and classic permanence.

PERSUASIONS TO LOVE.

Think not, 'cause men flattering say, Y'are fresh as April, sweet as May, Bright as is the morning-star, That you are so;--or though you are, Be not therefore proud, and deem All men unworthy your esteem:

* * * * *

Starve not yourself, because you may Thereby make me pine away; Nor let brittle beauty make You your wiser thoughts forsake: For that lovely face will fail; Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail; 'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done, Than summer's rain, or winter's sun: Most fleeting, when it is most dear; 'Tis gone, while we but say 'tis here. These curious locks so aptly twined, Whose every hair a soul doth bind, Will change their auburn hue, and grow White and cold as winter's snow. That eye which now is Cupid's nest Will prove his grave, and all the rest Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose, Nor lily shall be found, nor rose; And what will then become of all Those, whom now you servants call? Like swallows, when your summer's done They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun.

* * * * *

The snake each year fresh skin resumes, And eagles change their aged plumes; The faded rose each spring receives A fresh red tincture on her leaves; But if your beauties once decay, You never know a second May. Oh, then be wise, and whilst your season Affords you days for sport, do reason; Spend not in vain your life's short hour, But crop in time your beauty's flower: Which will away, and doth together Both bud and fade, both blow and wither.

SONG.

Give me more love, or more disdain, The torrid, or the frozen zone Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none; Either extreme, of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love, Like Danae in a golden shower, I swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possess'd Of heaven that's but from hell released: Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love, or more disdain.

TO MY MISTRESS SITTING BY A RIVER'S SIDE.

Mark how yon eddy steals away From the rude stream into the bay; There lock'd up safe, she doth divorce Her waters from the channel's course, And scorns the torrent that did bring Her headlong from her native spring. Now doth she with her new love play, Whilst he runs murmuring away. Mark how she courts the banks, whilst they As amorously their arms display, To embrace and clip her silver waves: See how she strokes their sides, and craves An entrance there, which they deny; Whereat she frowns, threatening to fly Home to her stream, and 'gins to swim Backward, but from the channel's brim Smiling returns into the creek, With thousand dimples on her cheek. Be thou this eddy, and I'll make My breast thy shore, where thou shalt take Secure repose, and never dream Of the quite forsaken stream: Let him to the wide ocean haste, There lose his colour, name, and taste; Thou shalt save all, and, safe from him, Within these arms for ever swim.

SONG.

If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish, and anon must die; If every sweet, and every grace, Must fly from that forsaken face: Then, Celia, let us reap our joys, Ere time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow For ever, free from aged snow; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade; Then fear not, Celia, to bestow What still being gather'd still must grow. Thus, either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings.

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.

SHEPHERD, NYMPH, CHORUS.

_Shep._ This mossy bank they press'd. _Nym._That aged oak Did canopy the happy pair All night from the damp air. _Cho._ Here let us sit, and sing the words they spoke, Till the day-breaking their embraces broke.

_Shep._ See, love, the blushes of the morn appear: And now she hangs her pearly store (Robb'd from the eastern shore) I' th' cowslip's bell and rose's ear: Sweet, I must stay no longer here.

_Nym._ Those streaks of doubtful light usher not day, But show my sun must set; no morn Shall shine till thou return: The yellow planets, and the gray Dawn, shall attend thee on thy way.

_Shep._ If thine eyes gild my paths, they may forbear Their useless shine. _Nym._ My tears will quite Extinguish their faint light. _Shep._ Those drops will make their beams more clear, Love's flames will shine in every tear.

_Cho._ They kiss'd, and wept; and from their lips and eyes, In a mix'd dew of briny sweet, Their joys and sorrows meet; But she cries out. _Nym._ Shepherd, arise, The sun betrays us else to spies.

_Shep._ The winged hours fly fast whilst we embrace; But when we want their help to meet, They move with leaden feet. _Nym._ Then let us pinion time, and chase The day for ever from this place.

_Shep._ Hark! _Nym._ Ah me, stay! _Shep._ For ever _Nym._ No, arise; We must be gone. _Shep._ My nest of spice _Nym._ My soul. _Shep._ My paradise. _Cho._ Neither could say farewell, but through their eyes Grief interrupted speech with tears supplies.

SONG.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

This witty baronet was born in 1608. He was the son of the Comptroller of the Household of Charles I. He was uncommonly precocious; at five is said to have spoken Latin, and at sixteen had entered into the service of Gustavus Adolphus, 'the lion of the North, and the bulwark of the Protestant faith.'

On his return to England, he was favoured by Charles, and became, in his turn, a most enthusiastic supporter of the Royal cause; writing plays for the amusement of the Court; and when the Civil War broke out, raising, at his own expense of L1200, a regiment for the King, which is said to have been distinguished only by its 'finery and cowardice.' When the Earl of Strafford came into trouble, Suckling, along with some other cavaliers, intrigued for his deliverance, was impeached by the House of Commons, and had to flee to France. Here an early death awaited him. His servant having robbed him, he drew on, in vehement haste, his boots, to pursue the defaulter, when a rusty nail, or, some say, the blade of a knife, which was concealed in one of them, pierced his heel. A mortification ensued, and he died, in 1641, at thirty-three years of age.

Suckling has written five plays, various poems, besides letters, speeches, and tracts, which have all been collected into one thin volume. They are of various merit; none, in fact, being worthy of print, or at least of preservation, except one or two of his songs, and his 'Ballad upon a Wedding'. This last is an admirable expression of what were his principal qualities--_naivete_, sly humour, gay badinage, and a delicious vein of fancy, coming out occasionally by stealth, even as in his own exquisite lines about the bride,

'Her feet, beneath her petticoat, Like _little mice, stole in and out_, As if they fear'd the light.'

SONG.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover! Prithee why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do 't? Prithee why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame! this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her-- The devil take her!

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.

1 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarest things have seen: Oh, things without compare! Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair.

2 At Charing-Cross, hard by the way Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs: And there did I see coming down Such folks as are not in our town, Vorty at least, in pairs.

3 Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, (His beard no bigger though than thine,) Walk'd on before the rest: Our landlord looks like nothing to him: The king (God bless him)'twould undo him, Should he go still so dress'd.

4 At Course-a-park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' the town: Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the Green, Or Vincent of the Crown.

5 But wot you what? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing; The parson for him staid: Yet by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all past (Perchance) as did the maid.

6 The maid--and thereby hangs a tale-- For such a maid no Whitsun-ale Could ever yet produce: No grape that's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice.

7 Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring, It was too wide a peck: And to say truth (for out it must) It look'd like the great collar (just) About our young colt's neck.

8 Her feet, beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light: But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight.

9 He would have kiss'd her once or twice, But she would not, she was so nice, She would not do 't in sight; And then she look'd as who should say. I will do what I list to-day; And you shall do 't at night.

10 Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison, (Who sees them is undone,) For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Katherine pear, The side that's next the sun.

11 Her lips were red, and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin; Some bee had stung it newly. But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on the sun in July.

12 Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit.

13 If wishing should be any sin, The parson himself had guilty been, She look'd that day so purely: And did the youth so oft the feat At night, as some did in conceit, It would have spoil'd him, surely.

14 Passion o'me! how I run on! There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, beside the bride: The business of the kitchen's great, For it is fit that men should eat; Nor was it there denied.

15 Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving-man with dish in hand, March'd boldly up, like our train'd band, Presented and away.

16 When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife, or teeth, was able To stay to be entreated? And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace, The company were seated.

17 Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; Healths first go round, and then the house, The bride's came thick and thick; And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, And who could help it, Dick?

18 O' the sudden up they rise and dance; Then sit again, and sigh and glance: Then dance again and kiss. Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, Whil'st every woman wish'd her place, And every man wish'd his.

19 By this time all were stol'n aside To counsel and undress the bride; But that he must not know; But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so.

20 When in he came (Dick), there she lay, Like new-fall'n snow melting away, 'Twas time, I trow, to part. Kisses were now the only stay, Which soon she gave, as who would say, Good-bye, with all my heart.

21 But just as heavens would have to cross it, In came the bridemaids with the posset; The bridegroom eat in spite; For had he left the women to 't It would have cost two hours to do 't, Which were too much that night.

22 At length the candle's out, and now All that they had not done, they do! What that is, who can tell? But I believe it was no more Than thou and I have done before With Bridget and with Nell!

SONG.

I pray thee send me back my heart, Since I can not have thine, For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on 't, let it lie, To find it were in vain; For thou'st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe, I will no longer pine; For I'll believe I have her heart As much as she has mine.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

Cartwright was born in 1611, and was the son of an innkeeper--once a gentleman--in Cirencester. He became a King's scholar at Westminster, and afterwards took orders at Oxford, where he distinguished himself, according to Wood, as a 'most florid and seraphic preacher.' One is reminded of the description given of Jeremy Taylor, who, when he first began to preach, by his 'young and florid beauty, and his sublime and raised discourses, made men take him for an angel newly descended from the climes of Paradise.' Cartwright was appointed, through his friend Bishop Duppa, Succentor of the Church of Salisbury in 1642. He was one of a council of war appointed by the University of Oxford, for providing troops in the King's cause, to protect, or some said to overawe, the Universities. He was imprisoned by the Parliamentary forces on account of his zeal in the Royal cause, but soon liberated on bail. In 1643, he was appointed Junior Proctor of his University, and also Reader in Metaphysics. At this time he is said to have studied sixteen hours a-day. This, however, seems to have weakened his constitution, and rendered him an easy victim to what was called the camp-fever, then prevalent in Oxford. He died December 23, 1643, aged thirty-two. The King, then in Oxford, went into mourning for him. His works were published in 1651, and to them were prefixed fifty copies of encomiastic verses from the wits and poets of the time. They scarcely justify the praises they have received, being somewhat crude and harsh, and all of them occasional. His private character, his eloquence as a preacher, and his zeal as a Royalist, seem to have supplemented his claims as a poet. He enjoyed, too, in his earlier life, the friendship of Ben Jonson, who used to say of him, 'My son Cartwright writes all like a man;' and such a sentence from such an authority was at that time fame.

LOVE'S DARTS.

1 Where is that learned wretch that knows What are those darts the veil'd god throws? Oh, let him tell me ere I die When 'twas he saw or heard them fly; Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's, Wing them for various loves; And whether gold or lead, Quicken or dull the head: I will anoint and keep them warm, And make the weapons heal the harm.