invade with his merriment the solemnity of death, for even the sanctuary of God he defiles. These are the most adverse characters that can be drawn, and a danger lurks in either. "Hâc lupus urget, hâc canis." Beware! Gravity is the attendant of wisdom, and mirthfulness of generosity and kindness. But excessive gravity degenerates into moroseness, and excessive gayety into foolishness and buffoonery. Let thy character, young man, be formed by those two prime virtues. So will it be beautiful with dignity, and replete with excellence. Thou wilt thus be most useful and happy; and be best enabled to enliven the social circle, and to lend thy countenance to the solemnities of religion. A cheerful and humorous companion is a happy and wholesome benefit. But it is often a high pleasure to sit and enjoy a social laugh by one's self. Such a course, however, when a neighbor is at hand, with leisure, and of the same spirit, would be recommendable to none, save only to those witlings, and witsnappers, and witworms, whose jests, though highly appreciable to themselves, will not pass current among the throng. But a person cannot reason himself into the merry state, more than he can perform a benevolent act by meditating thereon. Pictures are to be created and scanned. Every jest, every repartee, every stroke of wit, is a picture, either ludicrous in itself, or presented in a ludicrous light. And no less a picture is it for being clad in words, while it lacks the lead and oil, for the imagination can build more gorgeous scenes than the paint of a Raphael could express. The genuine wit then becomes an artist, and of no mean order, and far more beneficial than the mere master of the palette. Who could compare the respective merits and benefits of Shakspeare and Angelo? The sublime creations of the former are in all hands, and before all eyes; while those of the latter but grace the Vatican or Cathedral; and if we must needs see them, thither must we go. Time will lay his iron hand on these offspring of the one, but never on those of the other. 66 Let us now take an intimate view of the nature of Wit itself. "True Wit," says Addison, "consists in the resemblance of ideas." "Wit," says Pope," is that which has been often thought, but was never before so well expressed." Wit," says Johnson, "is a kind of discordia concor, a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike." Of which thoeries, the last is by far the most plausible and philosophical. From what has been already advanced, I would hazard this speculation, which, it will be perceived, coincides in its principal feature with that of Johnson, that wit consists of the union of heterogeneous characters and images into pictures, which are presented, through the medium of words, to the imagination, which, indeed, performs full half the work; and hence it is that persons of a dull and languid imagination are incapable of appreciating, to its full force, a stroke of merriment. Whereas, on the other hand, one of a very lively and vivid imagination will often see more than perhaps even the author himself conceived. In such diversity is the human mind constituted! The true wit, as well as the true poet, is thus constituted by nature; though the punster, the anagrammatist, the chronogrammatist, and whosoever else would deal in such like concrements, that may perchance exhale an humorous odor, can be fashioned by art, just as the vampering poetaster. Who does not sigh over human folly, when he thinks of Tryphiodorus, toiling over his Lipogrammatic Odyssey, that he might be father to a Poem, from which every σyua should be excluded? We are very often deceived in regard to such characters: one may, in appearance, be a very Ben Jonson, a mine of solid wit; whereas, in reality, he is no more than a flippant Boswell. Wit is "cerberean." Within, at least, the range of our English literature, it can be classified under three distinct heads, whereof the first is that of noble stature. It is bold and rugged as the Alpine hills, yet not gross; and calls forth, as it were, stately mirth. It is, in fact, a Chimæra, as wonderful as Lycia's. Now it exhibits the strength and lordliness of the forest monarch-now it is mild, and innocent, and sportive-now armed with the serpent's fang. Very few have been able to reach this order, among whom Shakspeare must be master. This is a name that is written among the stars. Who does not regard it with almost superstitious reverence ? Great Bard! thou well-nigh like a God! Poet of Nature, he has filled the world with strains, so touching, so lifelike, so majestic, that Nature's self regards herself anew. His comedy is drawn from men-not from the imagination. And hence it will be enduring. He heaped no sands upon the shores of literature for the very next surge to sweep away; but he planted in the midst of the sea an adamantine tower, which ten thousand tornadoes will career harmlessly by. This head then we would denominate the Shakspearean. Over the second Addison is supreme. This should, with much greater propriety, be termed humor. It is too refined for fun, and too gentle for robust wit. It flows on, like a quiet stream, amid flowering fields, under the moonlight calm and clear, where everywhere dwells loveliness. It never excites the boisterous laugh; but there is ever the flickering smile, lingering like the flame of the dying ember. possesses a simplicity that fascinates-a vigor that commends-a grace that captivates. Recline under a thick shade, on a sultry noon, when the Dog Star rages; the beatitude you feel is like that which creeps over the soul from the pages of Addison. This second head then we would denominate the Addisonean. It The third species of wit is by far the most common, and, with the vulgar particularly, most popular. Of those former, it sinks much below the sublime dignity of the one, and the winning gracefulness of the other. It springs, for the most part, from the uncleansed wells of those minds, quite as numerous at present as formerly, whose principal motive to authorship is money. They must then struggle to gratify the larger portion of the mass-the nether stratum, corrupt and vitiated. They must cater for all their passions, and win their applause; for popular acclamations, gather showers of gold. This popular palate is not very dainty, and proportionally refined are all these literary decoctions. The theatre witnesses their principal, though by no means their entire, exhibition. The stage, as anciently, should be made a school of virtue, not of vice. Some of the noblest minds that ever emanated from the Creator's hands, have been prostituted to the ignoble service of feeding, with similar viands, the depraved appetite of the rude and ruttish mob of the play-house. Dryden, who has engraved his name, where few aspire with any prospect of success, though not by reason of what he contributed to the enchantments of the stage, wrote, it is well known, almost exclusively with a pecuniary end. Whence it is, that so large a portion of his works are of a nature so licentious and gross. Of his plays, whose reception did not equal all his expectations, he himself once remarked, that when he wrote them he thought them bad enough to please; and herein we see at what he aimed. These however contained numerous faults, aside from their moral character. But, under the scourge of age and experience, Dryden was at last compelled to know himself; and his maturer years fully compensated for the follies and errors of his prime. The productions of this period of his life exceed all praise. We can only gaze and admire. And the flood of time, which will sweep to oblivion the sand-built monuments of nearly all others, will roll innocently by Dryden's steadfast rock. But we must nominate Butler for the highest seat in this third style of humorous composition. Here we see a specimen of genius in rags-a diamond before the lapidary had wrought on it. What Cicero remarks of philosophy can with equal propriety be applied to wit and humor: "that time obliterates the fictions of opinions, but confirms the decisions of Nature." Many write merely for their own generation. They catch up the floating opinions, and wring from them all the absurdity and folly possible. They launch their satire against those in power, or those who, in their view, have wandered from the paths of perfect rectitude. Such productions are but ephemeral; or they may, perhaps, linger on in a protracted dissolution. Each succeeding generation understands and cares less about them, than the preceding. Interest falters, and, unless they contain something inherent and adapted to the intelligence and concern of all times, they cannot long survive. Others worship Nature. Nature is the same now, that she was ages ago, and will be ages hence. There is nothing on which universal pleasure can be grounded, except Nature, and they know it. Such write not only for their cotemporaries, but for posterity; and posterity will appreciate and rejoice in their works equally with those who witnessed their production. Of the former class was Butler. He was emphatically a generation poet. The characteristic tenets, and fantastical oddity of the Puritans, furnished a splendid mark for his wit and ridicule. He must win the smiles of his sovereign-and he shoots. We can now see his Presbyterian justice, on his knight-errantry through the land, correcting morals and dosing out instruction; but we cannot laugh half so heartily over him as Charles, and his courtiers, and the Royalists could. Nor does this arise in consequence of our natural predilection for the Puritan character; but we always view passing events with much higher interest than those which transpired deep in the past. That "Hudibras" is deficient in qualities of genius, it would be idle to assert. Of its kind it wears the crown, and always will. It must claim exceeding praise for originality of style and general contour, though the conception, beyond all question, Cervantes furnished. Such a store of wit, of every kind and complexion, was probably never before, nor ever will be again, garnered by a single individual. This was not the offspring of the moment, but lay gathering for years. Hence those who have thought to sit down, and by contortions and writhings to ape this great Inimitable, have rendered themselves bonâ fide monkeys. Such industry in gathering materials—such intimate knowledge of human nature-talents of so high an order-such splendid acquisitions in literature, could but engender a prodigy. And "Hudibras" is a prodigy. Some of its fanciful expressions have become common as household words, and couplets like the following, or "Pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, Beat with fist instead of a stick ;" "Commentators on old Ari stotle oft are found to vary;" have perhaps been as often quoted as some of the finest passages in Gray's Elegy, or Goldsmith's Deserted Village. But if we look at its particular features, it is quite faulty; though we presume it is fully as good as the author intended. Its doggerel measure goes crawling and sneaking along, while the rhyme frequently commences about half way up the line. Nevertheless, the double lines possess a twang peculiarly melodious to many ears. The thoughts are often vulgar. The words are very often vulgar. The allusions are often vulgar. It is like one of those fragment monuments that we meet with in God's Acre, incrusted with dead moss; while yet the pure bright marble sparkles through. In dwelling thus minutely on one author, we have criticised the whole class, and endeavored to expose their principal characteristics. This last head delineated, we would then denominate the Hudibrastic. To conclude, they who possess this estimable talent of wit should aim at that first order. If that be too lofty for their attainment, they should clip their ambition, and seek the second, but ought to indulge as little as possible in this last; though even there is field for interweaving gems. But above all, let them worship Nature. Walk ye, and converse with her. Pry into her mysterious arcana. Study and imitate; otherwise the true wit will be sunk in the buffoon. F. R. A. MUSINGS. ་ The star that rules my destiny."-MANFRED. "Tis evening. Now her pensive eye Unto her eager gaze, she feels "Tis there we meet, and there we write Of those bright seraphs, who around B. |