TOLERATION. The world has afforded some melancholy examples of great and good minds rendered intolerant by mistaking dogmas for religion : but in general, a man's intolerance is in proportion to his want of wisdom and natural kindness. It is only an extreme evidence, from whatever cause arising, of the inability to bear an argument; whether from conscious tendency to doubt, and want of candour or courage to acknowledge it; or from a fierce egotism too proud to be differed with; or from the callousness of mere worldly supereminence, ready to trample down every thing that endangers it's authority, or shames it with it's truth; or lastly, from fright and imbecility, which confound mere custom with every species of security and good. Ordinary intolerance generally arises from the first or the last of these causes. Dr. Johnson, who longed to repose in the bosom of an infallible church, was intolerant from the united influence of doubt rendered melancholy by disease But his intolerance lay chiefly in discourse. He had a great deal of real charity and goodness, with all his dictatorial manners. Henry the 8th was intolerant from a ferocious self-love, changing his own opinion as he pleased, and then calling on others to obey the new ones as they had done the old. Lastly, such a man as Bonner appears to have been intolerant from sheer hard-hearted worldliness, mixed perhaps with an impious belief that the Supreme Being was a tyrant after the fashion of worldly tyrants, and was to be so served and made court to. But toleration has been gradually increasing with the strength of opinion and the press. It is pressed upon with less hardness at every fresh use of the foot of authority, however foolish and uncharitable even that pressure may be. And the last and best proof of it's increase (a proof, which ought to shame all it's enemies) is, that intolerance itself is treated with candour. Knowledge of THE WORLD.-What is called knowledge of the world is in general nothing better than an ignorance of nine-tenths of the creation. ART OF WRITING.-One of the arts of writing, at least as far as the communication of pleasure is concerned, is to write with enjoyment. He whose task gives himself real pleasure for it's own sake, unaccompanied with uneasy thoughts about it's success or with the mere pride of authorship, can hardly fail in communicating some portion of his pleasure to others, if it be only from their witnessing his own gladdened face. Orders received by the Booksellers, by the Newsmen, and by the Publisher, Joseph Appleyard, No. 19, Catherine-street, Strand.-Price 2d. Printed by C. H. Reynell, No. 45, Broad-street, Golden-square, London. THE INDICATOR. There is a bird in the interior of Africa, whose habits would rather seem to belong to the interior of Fairy-land: but they have been well authenticated. It indicates to honey-hunters where the nests of wild bees are to be found. It calls them with a cheerful cry, which they answer; and on finding itself recognized, flies and hovers over a hollow tree containing the honey. While they are occupied in collecting it, the bird goes to a little distance, where he observes all that passes; and the hunters, when they have helped themselves, take care to leave him his portion of the food.-This is the CUCULUS INDICATOR of Linnæus, otherwise called the Moroc, Bee Cuckoo, or Honey Bird. There he arriving round about doth flie, And takes survey with busie, curious eye: Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly.-SPENSER. No. V.-WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 10th, 1819. TO ANY ONE WHOM BAD WEATHER DEPRESSES. IF you are melancholy for the first time, you will find upon a little enquiry, that others have been melancholy many times, and yet are cheerful now. If you have been melancholy many times, recollect that you have got over all those times; and try if you cannot find out new means of getting over them better. Do not imagine that mind alone is concerned in your bad spirits. The body has a great deal to do with these matters. The mind may undoubtedly affect the body; but the body also affects the mind. There is a mutual re-action between them; and by lessening it on either side, you diminish the pain on both. If you are melancholy, and know not why, be assured it must arise entirely from some physical weakness; and do your best to strengthen yourself. The blood of a melancholy man is thick and slow. The blood of a lively man is clear and quick. Endeavour therefore to put your blood in motion. Exercise is the best way to do it; but, you may also help yourself, in moderation, with wine, or other excitements. Only you must take care so to proportion the use of any artificial stimulus, that it may not render the blood languid by overexciting it at first; and that you may be able to keep up, by the natural stimulus only, the help you have given yourself by the artificial. Regard the bad weather, as somebody has advised us to handle the nettle. In proportion as you are delicate with it, it will make you feel; but Grasp it like a man of mettle, Do not the less however, òn that account, take all reasonable precaution and arms against it, your boots, &c. against wet feet, and your great coat or umbrella against the rain. It is timidity and flight, which are to be deprecated, not proper armour for the battle. The first will lay you open to defeat, on the least attack. A proper use of the latter will only keep you strong for it. Plato had such a high opinion of exercise, that he said it was a cure even for a 3d Edit. wounded conscience. Nor is this opinion a dangerous one. For there is no system, even of superstition, however severe or cruel in other matters, that does not allow a wounded conscience to be curable by some means. Nature will work out it's rights and it's kindness some way or other, through the worst sophistications; and this is one of the instances in which she seems to raise herself above all contingencies. The conscience may have been wounded by artificial or by real guilt; but then she will tell it in those extremities, that even the real guilt may have been produced by circumstances. It is her kindness alone, which nothing can pull down from it's predominance. See fair play between cares and pastimes. Diminish your mere wants as much as possible, whether you are rich or poor: for the rich man's wants, increasing by indulgence, are apt to outweigh even the abundance of his means; and the poor man's diminution of them renders his means the greater. Do not want money, for instance, for money's sake. There is excitement in the pursuit ; but it is dashed with more troubles than most others, and gets less happiness at last. On the other hand, increase all your natural and healthy enjoyments. Cultivate your afternoon fireside, the society of your friends, the company of agreeable children, music, theatres, amusing books, an urbane and generous gallantry. He who thinks any innocent pastime foolish, has either yet to grow wiser or is past it. In the one case, his notion of being childish is itself a childish notion. In the other, his importance is of so feeble and hollow a cast, that it dare not move for fear of tumbling to pieces. A friend of ours, who knows as well as any man how to unite industry with enjoyment, has set an excellent example to those who can afford the leisure, by taking two Sabbaths every week instead of one,—not Mcthodistical Sabbaths, but days of rest which pay true homage to the Supreme Being by enjoying his creation. He will be gratified at reading this paragraph on his second-Sunday morning. One of the best pieces of advice for an ailing spirit is to go to no sudden extremes,-to adopt no great and extreme changes in diet or other habits. They may make a man look very great and philosophic to his own mind; but they are not fit for a nature, to which custom has been truly said to be a second nature. Dr. Cheyne (as we remember reading on a stall) may tell us that a drowning man cannot too quickly get himself out of the water but the analogy is not good. If the water has become a second habit, he might almost as well say that a fish could not get too quickly out of it. Upon this point, Bacon says that we should discontinue what we think hurtful by little and little. And he quotes with admiration the advice of Celsus,-that "a man do vary and interchange contraries, but rather with an inclination to the more benign extreme." "Use fasting," he says, "and full eating, but rather full eating; watching and sleep, but rather sleep; sitting and exercise, but rather exercise, and the like; so shall nature be cherished, and yet taught masteries." We cannot do better than conclude with one or two other passages out of the same Essay, full of his usual calm wisdom. "If you fly physic in health altogether, it will be too strange for your body when you need it." (He means that a general state of health should not make us over-confident and contemptuous of physic; but that we should use it moderately if required, that it may not be too strange to us when required most.) "If you make it too familiar, it will have no extraordinary effect when sickness cometh. I commend rather some diet for certain seasons, than frequent use of physic, except it be grown into a custom; for those diets alter the body more, and trouble it less." "As for the passions and studies of the mind," says he, "avoid envy, anxious fears, anger fretting inwards, subtil and knotty inquisitions, joys and exhilirations in excess, sadness not communicated" (for as he says finely, somewhere else, They who keep their griefs to themselves, are "cannibals of their own hearts.") "Entertain hopes; mirth rather than joy;" (that is to say, cheerfulness rather than what we call boisterous merriment); variety of delights rather than surfeit of them; wonder and admiration, and therefore novelties; studies that fill the mind with splendid and illustrious objects, as histories, fables, and contemplations of nature." 66 1 CHARLES BRANDON, AND MARY QUEEN OF FRANCE. The fortune of Charles Brandon was remarkable. He was an honest man, yet the favourite of a despot. He was brave, handsome, accomplished, possessed even delicacy of sentiment; yet he retained his favour to the last. He even had the perilous honour of being beloved by the despot's sister, without having the least claim to it by birth; and yet instead of it's destroying them both, he was allowed to be her husband. Charles Brandon was the son of Sir William Brandon, whose skull was cleaved at Bosworth by Richard the Third, while bearing the standard of the Duke of Richmond. Richard dashed at the standard, and appears to have been thrown from his horse by Sir William, whose strength and courage however could not save him from the angry desperation of the king. But Time, whose wheeles with various motion runne, Who marries Richmond's daughter, born betweene Sir John Beaumont's Bosworth Field. The father's fate must doubtless have had it's effect in securing the fortunes of the son. Young Brandon, we believe, grew up with Henry the Seventh's children, and was the playmate of his future king and bride. The prince, as he increased in years, seems to have carried the idea of Brandon with him like that of a second self; and the princess, whose affection was not hindered from becoming personal by any thing sisterly, nor on the other hand allowed to waste itself in too equal a familiarity, may have felt a double impulse given to it by the great improbability of her ever being suffered to become his wife. Royal females in most countries have certainly none of the advantages of their rank, whatever the males may have. Mary was destined to taste the usual bitterness of their lot; but she was amply repaid. At the conclusion of the war with France, she was inarried' to the old king Louis the Twelfth, who witnessed from a couch the exploits of her future husband at the tournaments. The doings of Charles Brandon that time were long remembered. The love between him and the young queen was suspected by the French court; and he had just seen her enter Paris in the midst of a gorgeous procession, like Aurora come to marry Tithonus. He dealt his chivalry about him accordingly with such irresistible vigour, that the Dauphin, in a fit of jealousy, secretly introduced into the contest a huge German, who was thought to be of a strength incomparable. But Brandon grappled with him, and with seeming disdain and detection so pummelled him about the head with the hilt of his sword, that the blood burst through the vizor. Imagine the feelings of the queen, when he came and made her an offering of the German's shield. Drayton, in his Heroical Epistles, we know not on what authority, tells us, that on one occasion during the combats, perhaps this particular one, she could not help saying out loud, "Hurt not my sweet Charles," or words to that effect. He then pleasantly represents her as doing away suspicion by falling to commendation of the Dauphin, and affecting not to know who the conquering knight was;-an ignorance not very probable; but the knights sometimes disguised themselves purposely. He died in less The old King did not long survive his festivities. than three months, on the first day of the year 1515; and Brandon, who had been created Duke of Suffolk the year before, re-appeared at the French court, with letters of condolence, and more persuasive looks. The royal widow was young, beautiful, and rich; and it was likely that her hand would be sought by many princely lovers; but she was now resolved to reward herself for her late sacrifice, and in less than two months she privately married her first love. The queen, says a homely but not mean poet (Warner, in his Albion's England) thought that to cast too many doubts Were oft to erre no lesse Than to be rash: and thus no doubt The gentle queen did guesse, That seeing this or that, at first Or last, had likelyhood, A man so much a manly man Then kisses revelled on their lips, To either's equal good. Henry shewed great anger at first, real or pretended: but he had not then been pampered into unbearable self-will by a long reign of |