66 When you I have all done, 'veniunt a veste sagittæ,-the greatest provocations of lust are from our apparell.' 'God makes, man shapes' they say, and there is no motive like unto it; a filthy knave, a deformed queane, a crooked carcass, a maukin, a witch, a rotten post, an hedge stake, may be so set out and tricked up, that it shall make as faire a show, as much enamour, as the rest: many a silly fellow is so taken. 'Primum luxuriæ aucupium' one calls it, 'the first snare of lust.' Bossus aucupium animarum; lethalem arundinem,—a fatell reede, the greatest bawde;' 'forte lenocinium, sanguineis lachrymis deplorandum,' saith Matenesius, and with tears of blood to be deplored! Not that comeliness of clothes is therefore to be condemned, and those usual ornaments, there is a decency and decorum to be observed in this, as well as in other things, fit to be used, becoming severall persons, and befitting their estates; he is only fantastical, that is not in fashion, and like an old image in Arras hangings, where a manner of attire is generally received: but when they are so new-fangled, so unstaid, so prodigious in their attires beyond their meanes and fortunes, unbefitting their age, place, quality, condition, what should we otherwise think of them? Why do they adorne themselves with so many colours of hearbes, fictitious flowers, curious needle works, quaint devices, sweet smelling odors, with those inestimable riches of pretious stones, pearles, rubies, diamonds, emeralds, &c. Why doe they crowne themselves with golde and silver, use coronets and ties of severall fashions, decke themselves with pendants, bracelets, eare-rings, chaines, girdles, rings, pinnes, spangles, embroideries, shadows, rebatoes, versicolor ribands; why doe they make such glorious shews with their scarfs, feathers, fannes, maskes, furres, laces, tiffanies, ruffles, falls, calls, cuffs, damasks, velvets, tinsels, cloth of gold, silver, tissue? with colors of heavens, stars, planets, the strength of metalls, stones, odors, flowers, birds, beasts, fishes, and whatever Afrike, Asia, America, sea, land, art and industry can afford? Why doe they use and covet such novelty of inventions; such new fangled types, and spend such inestimable sums on them? To what end are those crisped, false haires, painted faces, as the satyrist observes, such a composed gait, not a step awry? Why are they like so many Sybarites, or Neroe's Poppæa, Assuerus' concubines, so long a dressing, as Cesar was marshalling his army, or an hawke in prun

ing? Dum moliuntur, dum comuntur annus est. A gardiner takes not so much paines in his garden, an horseman to dress his horse, scour his armour, a mariner about his ship, a merchant his shop and shop booke, as they doe about their faces, and those other parts; such setting up with corkes, streigthening with whalebone; why is it but as a day-net catcheth larkes to make young men stoupe unto them."

Burton concludes this complete map of the region Hypochondria, with his excursions into every quarter of it, by these words of mark and wisdom: "Bee not solitary, bee not idle." To which Johnson pertinently added, clenching the point but if solitary, be not idle; and if idle, be not solitary. Sagacious Quarles discriminates justly: "Let not the sweetnesse of contemplation be so esteemed, that action be despised; Rachel was more faire, Leah more fruitful; as contemplation is more delightful, so is it more dangerous. Lot was upright in the city, but wicked in the mountaine."

The portion of the volume with which we have been most gratified, is the Preface, or Democritus to the reader. It is personal and characteristic. The poetical abstract prefixed to the preface is very smooth and neatly turned. But the finest thing ever written upon melancholia, containing the romance and essence of the subject, is unquestionably that perfect poem, the Penseroso of Milton. Almost equally fine are the following beautiful lines from a play of Beaumont and Fletcher:

Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweete,
If man were wise to see't

But only melancholy;

Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes,

A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up, without a sound!

Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks where all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley:

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

These dainty lines leave a sweet relish behind them: after reading which, the reader will acknowledge the pru dence of an immediate conclusion.

XIII.

MEMOIRS OF LADY FANSHAW,

WRITTEN BY HERSELF.

As a true wife, a kind but judicious mother, as a woman of wit and spirit, no less than of feminine softness and modest beauty, the life and conduct of Lady Fanshaw, in a corrupt age and in troubled times, is one of the most pleasing, and one of the most useful narratives of the olden time. The memoirs of Lady Fanshaw were written for the instruction and entertainment of her son; and, like the conversation of a wise old man, rich in experience and tempered by trials, it abounds with practical lessons of familiar morality, and inculcates everywhere a high tone of principle. Sir Richard Fanshaw, her husband, who was chiefly known as ambassador to the Court of Spain in the reign of Charles II., had also been a devoted public servant of the first Charles; and, during the protectorate of Cromwell, whilst in England, managed to obtain the respect of Cromwell, (who tried all means to buy him over to himself,) and to preserve his loyalty to his sovereign, whom he constantly attended on the continent after retiring from England. Sir Richard was one of the very few honest courtiers and able men in the service of Charles II., whose court and government was encircled by a set of witty rascals and heartless flatterers. In such

a sphere Sir Richard was one out of place; his honesty suited not the office, and he was, after all his genuine merit and undoubted services, politely dropped. To the evil influence of Clarendon, (another honest and great man,) the lady attributed the misfortunes of her husband. She suspected a very probable jealousy on the part of the chancellor, who, with his great qualities, had that defect of disposition. The lives of this faithful pair were of the most chequered grain. At one time almost penniless, at another living like viceroys; now in want, proscribed, and under apprehension of death; again rich, flourishing, courted, and happy. But in all adversity, as in the brightest sunshine of fortune, ever constant, forbearing, and hopeful. The husband was a statesman of the best description, learned, (beyond the ordinary acquisitions of his equals in rank,) a great traveller, (who had gained much knowledge thereby,) an accomplished gentleman, down to the minutest formalities of the Spanish court, and yet no mere courtier; with a dash of the author, very expert and clever in diplomacy, and a practical Christian moralist in all his dealings and conversation.

The volume is, in almost equal parts, a biography of her husband, including the events of contemporary history, a description of her travels, an account of herself, and a miscellany of curious matters of fact. Under this last head would come the narrative of a singular trance, in which the mother of our heroine lay for two days; a good old-fashioned ghost story, the scene of which is laid in Ireland, and a fearful instance of the righteous providence of the Almighty in a case of incest and blasphemy. The relation of the principal events of the lives of Lady Fanshaw and Sir Richard, afford genuine materials for history. She describes a very affecting interview between her husband and Charles I.,