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In such a night let me abroad remain,
Till morning breaks, and all's confus'd again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renew'd,
Or pleasures, seldom reach'd, again pursu❜d.”

Mr Dyce has not omitted the celebrated poem of the ' 'Spleen,' which attracted considerable attention in its day, and still deserves a place on every toilet, and (as the ladies would justly add, if it had room) in every man's shaving-box. Göthe has said in one of the many delightful passages of the wisest book of this age, the 'Wilhelm Meister,' that people would do themselves a great deal of good, and set their taste to a proper pitch for the day, if every morning they made a point of reading one or two sentences ont of some good author, or hearing some beautiful air. He thinks it would save them from any inferior liking, for the rest of the four and twenty hours; and alive to the beauties that lie ready to be fetched out from a thousand objects in art and nature. Some caveat against spleen and ill-temper would do well in this country, on the same principle. Lady Winchelsea's poem, and Green's with the same title (suggested to him perhaps by his fair predecessor) ought to be bound up together among every set of books, and an extract or two framed and glazed for every bed-room. Green's poem is full of wit, and proposes remedies;-the lady chiefly searches into the affectations of disease, but has something to say also on the worst symptoms of it.

“What art thou, Spleen, which everything dost ape?
Thou Proteus to abus'd mankind,

Who never yet thy real cause could find,

Or fix them to remain in one continued shape.



In the imperious wife—

("Aye," cries the husband, "let us hear that.")

In the imperious wife thou vapours art,
Which from o'er-heated passions rise
In clouds to the attractive brain;
Until descending thence again
Through the o'er-cast and showering eyes
("Just like 'em!")

Upon her husband's softened heart,
He the disputed point must yield,—
Something resign of the contested field,-

("Aye, aye.")

Till lordly man, born to imperial sway,


Compounds for peace to make that right away,
There it is.")

("To be sure.

And woman, arm'd with spleen, does servilely obey
("Just so, by G-d; and I'll bear it no longer."-
Stop, Sir, a moment:-let us proceed.)

Patron thou art to every gross abuse,
The sullen husband-

(,, Aye; now," says the lady, "comes justice.") The sullen husband's feign'd excuse,

When the ill-humour with his wife he spends,

("There, Sir, there; drawn to the life!")

And bears recruited wit and spirits to his friends. ("Charming! Can you deny that? Joneses are in that line.

The son of Bacchus

("There, Sir.")

The son of Bacchus pleads thy pow'r,
As to the glass he still repairs;
Pretends but to remove thy cares,

Snatch from thy shade one gay and smiling hour,
And drown thy kingdom in a purple shower.*
When the coquette-

("There, Madam.")

All the Smiths and Mrs

When the coquette, whom every fool admires,
Would in variety be fair,

And changing hastily the scene
From light, impertinent, and vain,
Assumes a soft and melancholy air,
And of her eyes rebates the wandering fires:
The careless posture and the head reclin'd,
The thoughtful and composed face,
Proclaiming the withdrawn, the absent mind,
Allows the fop more liberty to gaze,
Who gently for the tender cause inquires,

("Ah! how often," cries the husband, "have I done it ?")

The cause indeed in a defect of sense,

Yet is the spleen alleged, and still the dull pretence."

[Here the gentleman bows, smiles, breathes, and looks victoriously happy--saying nothing, because he thinks his silence more distressing. The lady speaks, out of feelings less controllable; and she speaks thus:-"Sir, you may triumph; and much honour may it do you. Airs of triumph are of course put on the most by

* This is a fine couplet.

those who deserve it best. Cæsar, I dare say, stood in his chariot with his arms a-kimbo. But, Sir, you will be pleased to recollect, that it was a lady who wrote these very lines; which shews that she was at least impartial; and I think it would better become your sex, if in their superior wisdom they would do us the justice of setting us a little better example, and endeavour to mend us (and themselves) by kindness and fair play; instead of assuming the only right to be wrong; and following up the consequences of their own narrow training of us, and flattering degradations, by those blows of the mind, Sir,-and those unmanly and shallow satires, which are only the substitutes of a refined age for the real bodily blows of a savage one; and assume a right to ill-treat us, solely (after all) because they can positively beat us if they will. Sir, if your sex were not the strongest, they would not have made the laws so much in their favour as they have; but as they are the strongest, pray make haste and let them become as much the wisest as they think themselves, and then neither side need fear anything."]

A very sensible woman this, and speaks capitally well to the purpose, "though we say it," as the old ladies observe, "who shouldn't." So to return to our other fair philosopher. Hear what she says of the effects of spleen in religion.


-These are thy fantastic harms,

The tricks of thy pernicious stage,

Which do the weaker sort engage :

Worse are the dire effects of thy more pow'rful charms.

"By thee religion,-all we know

That should enlighten here below,―

Is veil'd in darkness, and perplext

With anxious doubts, with endless scruples vext,
And some restraint implied from each perverted text;
Whilst Touch not, taste not,' what is freely giv❜n,
Is but thy niggard voice, disgracing bounteous heaven.
"From speech restrain'd, by thy deceits abus'd,

To desarts banish'd, or in cells reclus'd,
Mistaken votaries to thy powers divine,
Whilst they a purer sacrifice design,

Do but the Spleen obey, and worship at thy shrine." Lady Winchelsea is mentioned by Gay as one of the congratulators of Pope, when his Homer was finished:

"And Winchelsea, still meditating song."


Published by HUNT and CLARKE, York street, Covent garden: and sold by all Booksellers and Newsvenders in town and country.-Price 4d.



No. XXI. WEDNESDAY, MAY 28, 1828.

"Something alone yet not alone, to be wished, and only to be found, in a friend."-SIR WILLIAM TEmple.


[DIEGO LAINEZ, a noble old Spaniard, has received a blow from LOZANO, another noble, which is avenged by Diego's son, RODRIGO de BIvar, afterwards called the CID.]

Scene.-A Room in DIEGO'S use. Enter DIEGO and ARIAS.

Diego. I tell you, Sir, it is impossible.

Conceal it? What! Conceal? What with a face
That never yet could look the easiest lie,

Nor play the wax-lipped servant at the door,
Denying who's within! Conceal it? So!
And smite my conscience, as the dog smote me!

Arias. But, Sir, you live, upon the whole, retired :

Why not live quite so for a time; and so

Let the thing die
your looks.
The Count is sad, believe me; and the King

away, even in

Is most desirous of it.

Sir, I'll tell you.
There is one person living in this city,
Who holds me busily in his respect,

And loves to hold; and were I, as I shall,
To sit alone all day, and wake alone



All night, and almost hold my very breath
As tainted with dishonour, till redress
Free my old halting blood from this new clog,
It could not be concealed from him: and that
Would pull the blood up
in my
cheeks as much
As if the whole world knew it.

Who is he?

Dieg. Diego. Who'll conceal it from Diego?
Who from that self-respecting (once) old man,
And from his haunted head? I cannot stir,
I cannot turn me, but each thing I see,
Even inanimate, a chair, or wall,
Changing its old indifferent or glad aspect
To something dreary, looks of what has been.
The saintly images, as I go past,

Appear to follow me with sliding eyes.
Contempt, with a fierce hand, has scored a line
"Twixt me and joy, and dares my weak old age
To pass; and so I stand, inwardly shrunk,
Doubting, confused, with shades that seem to press
Upon my dull-eyed brain, as if in me

The old house of Lain had fallen in

At top, and presently with a mad break up
Would dash its ribs together to the earth.

Arias. Believe me, reverend Sir, you think of this
Too much, although a Spaniard, since the king
Speaks as he does; and you remember how
The count himself asked pardon of the king.

Dieg. He should have asked it, Sir, of me; and shall.
Yes; there's new life sometimes, although a short,
In this despair; I feel it; my dim eyes

Can flash yet ere they close; this reckless hand
Perhaps may turn its small remaining strength
To one good sum, and spend it like a man.
Sir, to say nothing of myself, I beg

For your own sake you'll leave me: I do indeed :
I shall perhaps say something which I would not.

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