In such a night let me abroad remain, 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? 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, In clouds to the attractive brain Through the o'er-cast and showering eyes ("Just like 'em!") Upon her husband's softened heart, ("Aye, aye.") Till lordly man, born to imperial sway, ("Undoubtedly.”) Compounds for peace to make that right away, ("To be sure. There it is.") 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.") All the Smiths and Mrs The son of Bacchus pleads thy pow'r, Snatch from thy shade one gay and smiling hour, When the coquette ("There, Madam.") When the coquette, whom every fool admires, And changing hastily the scene And of her eyes rebates the wandering fires: Proclaiming the withdrawn, the absent mind, 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. what she says of the effects of spleen in religion. 66 -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; Is but thy niggard voice, disgracing bounteous heaven. "From speech restrain'd, by thy deceits abus'd, Whilst they a purer sacrifice design, Do but the Spleen obey, and worship at thy shrine." Hear Lady Winchelsea is mentioned by Gay as one of the congratulators of Pope, when his Homer was finished: “And Winchelsea, still meditating song." [TO BE CONCLUDED.] LONDON: Published by HUNT and CLARKE, York street, Covent garden: and sold by all Booksellers and Newsvenders in town and country.-Price 4d. PRINTED BY C. H. REYNELL, BROAD STREET, GOLDEN SQUARE. THE COMPANION. 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. A FATHER AVENGED. [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 House. 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, 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 away, even in your looks. The Count is sad, believe me; and the King All night, and almost hold my very breath Free my old halting blood from this new clog, Would pull the blood up in my cheeks as much Dieg. Diego. Who'll conceal it from Diego? Changing its old indifferent or glad aspect Appear to follow me with sliding eyes. Contempt, with a fierce hand, has scored a line 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. Can flash yet ere they close; this reckless hand |