The Anatomy of Melancholy

Cardano, On the Variety of Things, book 17, chapter 96, finds fault with the location of those rich and densely populated cities in the Low Countries—Bruges, Ghent, Amsterdam, Leiden, Utrecht and others. The air is bad there, and likewise at Stockholm in Sweden, Regium in Italy, and Salisbury, Hull and Lynn here. They may be convenient for navigation, this new kind of fortification, and many other useful and necessary purposes; but are they equally healthy?

Old Rome has descended from the hills into the valley. That is where most of our new cities stand, and building on plains is considered best, to take advantage of rivers. Leandro Alberti strongly defends the air and situation of Venice: although black marshland appears at every low tide, the sea, fire and smoke, he thinks, temper the air. Some even suppose that thick, foggy air helps the memory, as among the people of Pisa in Italy; and our Camden, drawing on Plato, commends Cambridge’s situation because it is so near the Fens.

But whatever the situation of such places, how can we excuse people who have a delightful setting, pleasant air and everything nature can provide, yet through their own filth and slovenliness, their foul and sordid way of life, let their air become putrid and themselves be choked? Many Turkish cities “have a bad reputation” in this respect, including Constantinople itself, where carrion commonly lies in the street. Some find the same fault in Spain, even in Madrid, the king’s residence: excellent air and a pleasant situation, but slovenly inhabitants and dirty streets.

Troublesome, stormy air is as bad as impure air: rough and foul weather, violent winds, cloudy, dark days, as we commonly have here. “A sky foul to look at”—Polydore calls it a filthy sky—“and one in which clouds readily form,” as Cicero’s brother Quintus wrote to him in Rome while serving as quaestor in Britain.

In thick and cloudy air, says Lemnius, people are gloomy, sad and peevish. But if the west winds blow and there is calm or a fine, sunny day, a certain liveliness enters their minds: it cheers people and animals alike. In turbulent, rough, cloudy, stormy weather, however, people are sad, sluggish and deeply dejected, angry, irritable, dull and melancholy. This was Virgil’s observation long ago:

But when the weather and the sky’s shifting moisture Have changed their course, and Jupiter is wet with the south wind, The dispositions of minds change, and in the breast They conceive new impulses…

But when the face of heaven turns From fair weather to storms and rain, Our minds are altered, and at once New thoughts appear within our breasts.

And who does not feel the weather approaching at one conjunction of the planets or another—disturbed in foul weather, dull and heavy in such stormy seasons? “Aquarius saddens the chilly year.” The season calls for it, and autumn breeds it; winter is much the same—ugly, foul, squalid. The air acts on everyone, more or less, but especially on those who are melancholy or inclined to it. As Lemnius holds, they are most affected, and those already mad rave outright during a storm or as one approaches.

Besides, the devil often takes advantage of such storms: when the air stirs the humours, he enters with them, agitates our spirits and torments our souls. Like the sea’s waves, the spirits and humours in our bodies are tossed by stormy winds and tempests.