THE Anatomy of Melancholy, is a book oftener mentioned than read, and upon the subject of which it is easier to write than upon the treatise itself. Connected criticism is out of the question, on account of the variety of the topics, and the mosaic character of the text. To say nothing of the tedious diffuseness, (an extravagance in point of copiousness) the harsh, crabbed accumulation of images and scholastic references, and the half medical, half metaphysical style of execution. Some stupid old physician placed this among the volumes "without which no medical man's library is complete." And it is so frequently entitled and ranked in booksellers' catalogues. Neither is it wholly a work of humor or the production of pure wit. It is not a burlesque, but a serious essay of rising seven hundred folio pages. But its chief character is a total want of decided character. It is a medley, a common-place book, a hodgepodge, a complete farrago. He touches incidentally or purposely, upon almost every object under the sun and upon the face of the earth, things known and things unknown, dogmas and mere speculations, medicine and magic, anatomy and the arts, devils and diet, love and madness, religion and superstitious folly. Not a poet or historian, critic or commentator, naturalist or divine, of antiquity, of modern times, or

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of the middle age but is called upon the stand as a witness, and requested to bear his testimony to the author's theories or counsel. A whole sentence of plain English occurs rarely. The usual style is a mixt manner, English cut on Latin, or an interlacing of the two. Half a passage in one language, is balanced by the remaining portion in another, and one member nods to another, as Pope's groves and alleys. Never was a book so made up of quotation and reference. Montaigne used to say, if all his quotations were taken from him, nothing valuable would be left; a similar abstraction from Burton would leave him pretty bare, as his best passages are translations or imitations of rare old writers. This leads to an unnecessary fulness and repetition, and indeed the whole matter might be reduced into one third its present compass. From but a very superficial knowledge of the works, we should suspect it to be tinged with the prevalent defects in two other celebrated treatises, the one political and the other metaphysical; we refer to "Grotius de Jure Belli et Pacis," and "Cudworth's Intellectual System," both of them works always alluded to with respect, but very seldom familiarly read. And however it may astonish a vulgar reader, this fertility of quotation argues an innate deficiency of original power. A good cause

or a sound argument, needs few witnesses and no propitiating patrons. A clear eye needs no spectacles to see through, and the unaided vision of good natural sight is blurred by the speckled glasses of prejudice and traditionary opinion. The learning, then, of this curious treatise, together with its length, and perversely ingenious tautology; its jumble of phrases and ideas, realizing the witty strictures of Hudibras; the endless digressions and want of condensed,|| methodical argument render it a work that will be sought after chiefly for its oddity and fantastic strangeness. It cannot even reach popularity and is indeed written only for antiquarian scholars. Lamb, himself the true lover and warm eulogist of the Anatomy, admitted this fact, nor can it be concealed, that even liberal and philosophic students care for little else than a taste of it, a glimpse of its index and a few particular references -a mere sip at this Lethaen

stream.

We feel constrained to this confession at the risk of losing caste in the eyes of those who make no distinction among the writers of our elder literature. Yet we add, "can these dry bones live?' Is a witty or eloquent description, buried under a long chapter of heterogeneous matter, to save that from decay? There is salt to preserve, but too little of it we apprehend. Ourselves, retrospective critics, we must admit we find not sufficient in Burton to reward a thorough perusal (if indeed any man but Lamb ever read it entirely through.) Johnson's criticism cannot be taken for a standard in this instance, since it proved so unequal and deficient in former cases.Sterne used the book well, but then for thievish purposes, which Dr. Ferrier has tracked with remorseless scrutiny. And here lies its value, as a mine of thoughtsoriginal, borrowed, imitated and palpably exposed to view, in their crude state, and which a skilful plagiarist, one who can steal wisely, may work up to great advantage. For the systematic plagiarist, then, and the mere antiquary Burton is a choice author, and for the reasons we have enumerated. Still, even to the most indifferent reader, we can promise, that though discursive, Burton still possesses a method of his own and a plan; that his matter is almost as copious as his style; both superabundant: and, that, unfinished, Latinized, and corrupt as is his ordinary composition, yet when especially in earnest, he is a writer of racy and idiomatic English. We love in him, a true sympathy with the life and pursuits and character, of that strangely misconceived animal, a scholar. We admire his natural acuteness, visible through all his erudition, and a vein of caustic, homely, rustic humor. Above all, we respect in his

case, as in that of all true scholars, that manly dignity of soul, which is the most invaluable possession of humanity.

Little is known of the author of the Anatomy of Melancholy. He was a man of learning, and disposed to gloomy fits and desponding humors. To drive away these, he resorted to the writing of this work, which occupation, filling and occupying his mind, (the true cure for nervous diseases, hypochondria, and all affections by which the mind infects the body with aches and ills) tended greatly to relieve him. He was accustomed, we learn, to frequent the docks and wharves about London, and would break jests with the watermen, enjoying highly their uncouth smartness. He had the wisdom to endeavor at counteracting his distemper, by every occasion of jollity and laughter. When he adopted the name and title of Democritus, he assumed his proper designation, of merry Philosopher, whose creed was to laugh at the follies of mankind, and jest at his own sufferings, feeling tenderly for those of others. Like the Italian jester he made sport for others, whilst tortured by nameless ills himself, and might now be condemned, as sufficient punishment (for all the evil it is possible he was ever guilty of) to read his book continuously through, word for word.

The Anatomy of Melancholy is (so far as we are informed) the first of a series of similar works, that have appeared, from time to time, the Anatomy of Abuses, the Anatomy of an Equivalent, the Anatomy of Sleep, of Drunkenness, and latest of all, the Anatomy of Suicide, which must afford pleasant reading to a misanthrope. These Anatomies form a series, as the different Pleasures of Imagination, Hope, and Memory, by Akenside, Campbell, and Rogers. It might be perplexing to extend the parallel, so we omit any.

The Anatomy of Melancholy deserves this praise at least, that it is thorough and minute. The very heart of the matter is explored, and its internal system. The thousand causes and correspondent cures of Hypochondria are enumerated and classified, in three partitions. The first partition relates to the different causes of Melancholy, physical and metaphysical; moral and religious; considered as diseases of the body or diseases of the mind or both, reacting on each other; induced by the operations of Nature, or inflicted by the hand of God, or consigned to the malicious employment of the devil and his spirits; the creature of temperament, the companion of sickness, the attendant upon age. It explains how it is begotten in infancy, (if not inherited) through the careless treatment of nurses, or the harsh behavior of parents; how it is caught from gloomy