344 HETs^RY KIEKE WHITE's REMAIJTS. 



tlie gentler emotions of the soul, often feels as strong an 

 interest for what are called brutes, as most bipeds affect 

 to feel for each other, I\Iontaigne had his cat ; I have 

 read of a man whose only friend was a large spider ; and 

 Trenck. in his dungeon, would sooner ha^e lost his right 

 hand, than the poor little mouse, which, gro'vn confident 

 with indulgence, used to beguile the tedious hours of im- 

 prisonment with, its gambols. For my own pnrt, I believe 

 my dog, who, at this moment, seated on his hinder legs, 

 is wistfully surveying me, as if he was conscious of all 

 that is passing in my mind : — my dog, I say, is as sin- 

 cere, and, whatever the world may say, nearly as dear a 

 friend as any I possess ; and, when I shall receive that 

 summons which may not now be far distant, he will whine 

 a funeral requiem over my grave, more piteously than all 

 the hired mourners of Christendom. Well, well, poor 

 Bob has had a kind master in me, and, for my own part, 

 I verily believe there are few things on this earth I shall 

 leave with more regret than this faithful companion of 

 the happy hours of my infancy, W. 



MELANCHOLY IIOTJRS.— No. V. 



'^ Vn sonnet sans riefaut vaut seul nn long 'pc'eme, 

 lilais en vain vniile autenrs y pendent arriver ; 

 A peine * » * * 



* * i^eut-on admirer deux ou trois entre mille." 



BOILEAU. 



There is no species of poetry which is better adapted 

 to the taste of a melancholy man than a sonnet. While 

 its brevity precludes the possibility of its becoming tire- 

 some, and its full and expected close accords well with 

 his dejected and perhaps somewhat languid tone of mind, 

 its elegiac delicacy and querimonious plaintiveness come 

 in pleasing consonance with his feelings. 



This elegant little poem has met with a peculiar fate 

 in this country : half a century ago it was regarded as 



