That man must be an incorrigible fool, who does not, occasionally, like the Vicar of Wakefield, find himself growing weary of being always wise. In this sense, there are few men of sixty winters, who have not been guilty of being over-wise—of assuming, at some period of their lives, the port and majesty of the bird of Minerva—of exercising that talent, for silence and solemnity, ascribed by the French nobleman, as More relates, in his travels, to the English nation. A man, thus protected—dipped, as it were, in the waters of Lethe, usque ad calcem—is truly a pleasant fellow. There is no such thing as getting hold of him—there he is, conservative as a tortoise, unguibus retractis. He seems to think the exchange of intellectual commodities, entirely out of the question; he will have none of your folly, and he holds up his own superlative wisdom, as a cow, of consummate resolution, holds up her milk. If society were thus composed, what a concert of voices there would be, in unison with Job’s—we would not live alway. Life would be no other, than a long funeral procession—the dead burying the dead. I am decidedly in favor of a cheerful philosophy. Jeremy Taylor says, that, “the slightest going off from a man’s natural temper is a species of drunkenness.” There are some men, certainly, who seem to think, that total abstinence, from every species of merriment, is a wholesome preparative, for a residence in Paradise. The Preacher saith of laughter, it is mad, and of mirth, what doeth it? But in the very next chapter, he declares, there is a time to dance and a time to sing. We are told in the book of Proverbs, that a merry heart doeth good, like a medicine.There has probably seldom been a wiser man than Democritus of Abdera, who was called the laughing philosopher; and of whom Seneca says, in his work De Ira, ii. c. 10, Democritum aiunt nunquam sine risu in publico fuisse; adeo nihil illi videbatur serium eorum, quÆ serio gerebantur: Democritus never appeared in public, without laughter in his countenance; so that nothing seemed to affect him seriously, however much so it might affect the rest of mankind.—The Abderites, with some exceptions, thought him mad; or, in Beattie’s words, when describing his minstrel boy—

“Some deem’d him wondrous wise, and some believ’d him mad.”

These Abderites, who were, notoriously, the most stupid of the Thracians, looked upon Democritus precisely as the miserable monks, about Oxford, looked upon Roger Bacon, in the thirteenth century—they believed him a magician, or a madman.

To laugh and grow fat is a proverb. Whether Democritus grew fat or not, I am unable to say; but he died at a great age, having passed one hundred years; and he died cheerfully, as he had lived temperately. Lucretius says of him, lib. iii. v. 1052—

“Sponte sua letho caput obvius obtulit ipse.”

The tendency of his philosophy was to ensure longevity. The grand aim and end of it all were comprehended, in one word, e?f??a, or the enjoyment of a tranquil state of mind.

There is much good-natured wisdom, in the command, and in the axiom of Horace—

“Misce stultitiam consiliis brevem
Dulce est desipere in loco”—

which means, if an off-hand version will suffice—

Mix with your cares a little folly,
’Tis pleasant sometimes to be jolly.

One of the most acceptable images, presented by Sir Walter Scott, is that of Counsellor Pleydell, perched upon the table, playing at high jinks, who compliments Colonel Mannering, by continuing the frolic, and telling him, that, if a fool had entered, instead of a man of sense, he should have come down immediately.

My New England readers would be very much surprised, if they had any personal knowledge of the late excellent and venerable Bishop Griswold, to be told, that, among his works, there was an edition of Mother Goose’s Melodies, with prolegomina, notÆ, et variÆ lectiones; well—there is no such thing there. But every one knows, that the comic romance of Bluebeard, as it is performed on the stage, was written by Bishop Heber, and is published in his works. Every one knows that Hannah More wrote tolerable plays, and was prevented, by nothing but her sex, from being a bishop. Every one knows that bishops and archbishops have done very funny things—in loco. And every one knows, that all this is quite as respectable, as being very reverently dull, and wearing the phylactery for life—stand off, for I am stupider than thou.

I have now before me a small octavo volume—a very bijou of a book, with the following title—Arundines Cami, sive Musarum Cantabrigiensium Lusus Canori, and bearing, for its motto—Equitare in arundine longa. This book is printed at Cambridge, England; and I have never seen a more beautiful specimen of typography. The work is edited by Henry Drury, Vicar of Wilton: and it contains a collection of Greek and Latin versions; by Mr. Drury himself, and by several good, holy, and learned men—Butler, late Bishop of Litchfield—Richard Porson—Hodgson, S. J. B. of Eton College—Vaughan, Principal of Harrow—Macaulay—Hallam—Law—and many others.

The third edition of this delightful book was published in 1846. And now the reader would know something of the originals, which these grave and learned men have thought it worthy of their talents and time, to turn into Greek and Latin. I scarcely know where to select a specimen, among articles, every one of which is prepared, with such exquisite taste, and such perfect knowledge of the capabilities of the language employed. Among the readers of the Transcript, I happen to know some fair scholars, who would relish a Greek epigram, on any subject, as highly, as others enjoy a pointed paragraph in English, on the subject of rum and molasses. Here is a Greek version of the ditty—“What care I how black I be,” by Mr. Hawtrey, Principal of Eton, which I would transcribe, were it not that a Greek word, now and then, presented in the common type, suggests to me, that you may not have a Greek font. It may be found by those, who are of the fancy, on page 49 of the work.

Here is a version by Mr. Hodgson—how the shrill, thready voice of my dear old nurse rings in my ears, while reading the original! God reward her kind, untiring spirit—she has gone where little Pickles cease from troubling, and where weary nurses are at rest:—

Pat a cake, pat a cake, baker’s man,
So I do, master, as fast as I can.
Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with C,
Then it will answer for Charley and me.
Tunde mihi dulcem pistor, mihi tunde farinam.
Tunditur, O rapida tunditur illa manu.
Punge decenter acu, tituloque inscribe magistri;
Sic mihi, Carolulo, sic erit esca meo.

The contributions of Mr. H. Drury, the editor, are inferior to none—

There was an old man in Tobago,
Who liv’d on rice gruel and sago;
Till, much to his bliss,
His physician said this:
‘To a leg, sir, of mutton you may go.’
Senex Æger in Tarento
De oryxa et pulmento
Vili vixerat invento;
Donec medicus
Seni inquit valde lÆto,
‘Senex Æger, o gaudeto,
Crus ovinum, jam non veto
Tibi benedicus.’

Decidedly the most felicitous, though by no means the most elaborate in the volume, is the following, which is also by the editor, Mr. Drury—

Hey diddle diddle! The cat and the fiddle!
The cow jumped over the moon;
The little dog laughed to see such sport;
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
Hei didulum—atque iterum didulum! Felisque fidesque!
Vacca super lunÆ cornua prosiluit.
Nescio qua catulus risit dulcedine ludi;
Abstulit et turpi lanx cochleare fuga.

A Latin version of Goldsmith’s mad dog, by H. J. Hodgson, is very clever, and there are some on solemn subjects, and of a higher order.

How sturdily these little ditties, the works of authors dead, buried, and unknown, have breasted the current of time! I had rather be the author of Hush-a-bye baby, upon the tree top, than of Joel Barlow’s Vision of Columbus—for, though I have always perceived the propriety of putting babies to sleep, at proper times, I have never entirely appreciated the wisdom of doing the very same thing to adults, at all hours of the day.

What powerful resurrectionists these nursery melodies are! Moll Pitcher of Endor had not a greater power over the dry bones of Samuel, than has the ring of some one of these little chimes, to bring before us, with all the freshness of years ago, that good old soul, who sat with her knitting beside us, and rocked our cradle, and watched our progress from petticoats to breeches; and gave notice of the first tooth; and the earliest words; and faithfully reported, from day to day, all our marvellous achievements, to one, who, had she been a queen, would have given us her sceptre for a hoop stick.