ct the thought, so
wholesome and so human, of Homer. They express themselves in that old
English pagan's allegory of the bird that flies from the dark into the
warm and lighted hall, and from the hall into the dark again. Not to be
capable of these reflections is to be incapable of tasting the noblest
poetry. Such thoughts actually give zest to our days, and sharpen our
enjoyment of that which we have only a brief moment to enjoy. Such
thoughts add their own sweetness and sadness to the song of the
nightingale, to the fall of the leaves, to the coming of the spring. Were
we "exempt from eld and age," this noble melancholy could never be ours,
and we, like the ancient classical gods, would be incapable of tears.
What Prometheus says in Mr. Bridge's poem is true--

"Not in heaven,
Among our easy gods, hath facile time
A touch so keen to wake such love of life
As stirs the frail and careful being of Man."

Such are the benefits of Melancholy, when she is only an occasional
guest, and is not pampered or made the object of devotion. But
Melancholy, though an excellent companion for an hour, is the most
exacting and depressing of mistresses. The man who gives himself up to
her, who always takes too long views, who broods on the future of this
planet when the sun has burned out, is on the high-way to madness. The
odds are that he does not travel all the way. He remains a
self-tormented wretch, highly profitable to his medical man, and a
frightful nuisance to his family. Now, there are, of course, cases in
which this melancholy has physical causes. It may come of indigestion,
and then the remedy is known. Less dining out (indeed, no one will ask
the abjectly melancholy man out) and more exercise may be recommended.
The melancholy man had better take to angling; it is a contemplative
pastime, but he will find it far from a gloomy one. The sounds and
sights of nature will revive and relieve him, and, if he is only
successful, the weight of a few pounds of fish on his back will make him
toss off that burden which poor Christian carried out of the City of
Destruction. No man can be melancholy when the south wind blows in
spring, when the soft, feathery March-browns flit from the alders and
fall in the water, while the surface boils with the heads and tails of
trout.

Perhaps, on the other hand, the melancholy one lives too much in the
country. Then let him go to Paris or Vienna; let him try t