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high-road. He may cross the fields in the morning to church, in order to take care of his eternal interests upon the same principle on which he takes care of his temporal every other day in the week ; but he confines himself to the path as he goes; he returns by it as ploddingly; and though not so bad as the sourer bigot, who, after insisting all the morning at the meeting-house that the world is a vile world, takes all the selfish or unsocial means he can to prove his words, he spends the rest of the day with almost as little sense of the beauties and kindliness of creation, either eating and drinking himself to sleep in his easy chair, or treating some friends with the provisions he stuffed his carriage with the day before, and cultivating a hot-faced, noisy, and boozing indigestion till bed-time. This, and a confinement all the rest of the weck to close and noisy streets,-the transition from dark rooms with windows half dust and half board, to the bargaining uproar of an Exchange, the total ignorance of all intellectual pleasures, an utter deadness to what is called sentiment,-a person which has no graces in consequence;-
-a face, sometimes jovial but not happy, generally care-worn, and always vulgar,-an enjoyment, such as it is, allied to gambling, and cut with a thousand anxieties, -an unhealthy temperament, always contradicting his comfort also, though he may not know as much,--toil, toil, toil, every morning, -indigestion, indigestion, every evening,-a gout in his old age, and a bad conscience all his life ;-such is the picture of a complete, successful, flourishing, sophisticated, money-getting animal; who is called “ a good man,” because his knaveries enable him to pay; and a knowing one, because he has found out with infinite labour and pains how to make himself forty times as uncomfortable as other people.
All this comes from imaginary wants, and from abandoning nature in order to get as much as possible out of art; whereas art with twenty times the toil will never yield a twentieth part of the real harvest. A third of the industry that is now thought necessary, and an improved knowledge which does not confound good taste with expensiveness, would lead mankind to the enjoyment of a leisure and a happiness, which they have only tasted at intervals. But in the mean time, instead of happiness being attended to, the phrase is, that “ business must be attended to.” The same pains, or mere profligacies, are bequeathed to children ; and with the exception of a few understandings who have survived the convulsions of the times, and have got hold of a weapon against error, which wisdom never had before, and which we trust it will never let go—the middle classes in this green and beautiful country, make a religion of their moneygetting and town habits, sitting in their well-clothed stupidity, and sneering with as much ignorant scepticism at all improvement, as ever their ancestors might have done in their painted skins.
The present generation, in this respect, is too old and too foolish to mend; but the rising one has new light;, and how easily might it see, not only from the sophistications of it's parents, but from their sufferings, and even their little unconscious hankerings after something better, the policy of improving it's habits of thinking! How much better would it be to bave a third of the toil, and a twentieth part of the anxiety! How much better to have air and exercise every day, instead of once a week! How much better to have cheap luxuries, easy digestions, cool slumbers, and quiet minds !
Nor is this nere talking, or a thing only to be found in books; as if there were no medium between the extreme of folly and that of injustice. Let them come out in the fields, and see. Let them read of the smaller country gentlemen, a class which has since vanished, of archeries and other rural sports, of the old mixture of business and pleasure, which were in a more reasonable proportion than now; and let them add to these, the improvements which philosophy would now enable them to make in a thousand matters involving the common good; and they would soon see the folly of wasting their time by a mistaken sense of it.
Upon this subject we shall present our readers by and by with a story of a man who never went out of the metropolis for ten years, and what took him out of it at last..
ANACREON'S PORTRAIT OF HIS MISTRESS.
Αγε, ζωγραφων αρισε. .
Fetch her eyesight out of fire;
Give her nose and cheeks a tint
Let her lip Persuasion's be, And if brush has power to do it, Asking our's provokingly: Paint the odour breathing through it. And beneath her satin chin, Then from out her ripe young cheek, With a dimple broken in, Underneath those tresses sleek, And all about those precious places, Paint her brow of ivory;
Set a thousand hovering graces.
Now then,- let the drapery spread,
'Tis enough : 'tis she! 'tis she! Then as those bright orbs require, O thou sweet face, speak to me.
Orders received by the Booksellers, by the Newsmen, and by the Publisher,
Joseph Appleyard, 19, Catherine-street, Strand.- Price Twopence. Printed by C. H. Reynell, No. 45, Broad-street, Golden-square, London.
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 fourd. 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 Cuculos INDICATOR of Linnæus, otherwise called the Moroc, Bee Cuckoo, or Honey Bird.
There he arriving round about doth Aie,
No. II.WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 20th, 1819.
THE INDICATOR AND EXAMINER.-AUTUMNAL COMMENCEMENT
OF FIRES.-MANTLE-PIECES.-APARTMENTS FOR STUDY, One or two persons, we understand, have supposed that the present periodical work will interfere with the literary part of another, in which the Editor has long been concerned. This is a great mistake. The Examiner will continue to be more literary, as well as painstaking in every other respect, than it has ever been. It will have more than the usual literature, for instance, connected with politics and criticism,--especially the latter. Indeed, should the new paper injure the old one, it would be dropped. The fact is, that as far as the Editor. is concerned, the Examiner is to be regarded as the reflection of his public literature, and the Indicator of his private. In the one he has a sort of public meeting with his friends : in the other, a more retired one. The Examiner is his tavern-room for politics, for political pleasantry, for criticism upon the theatres and living writers. The Indicator is his private room, his study, his retreat from public care and criticism, with the reader who chuses to accompany him.
Here we are then, this chilly weather, with a warm fire. How pleasant it is to have fires again! We have not time to regret summer, when the cold fogs begin to force us upon the necessity of having a new kind of warmth;-a warmth not so fine as sunshine, but as manners go, more sociable. The English get together over their fires, as the Italians do in their summer-shade. We do not enjoy our sunshine as we ought: our climate in general seems to render us almost unaware that the weather is fine, when it really becomes so : but for the same reason, we make as much of our winter as the antisocial habits that have grown upon us from other causes will allow. And for a similar reason, the southern European is unprepared for a cold day. The houses in Italy are almost all summer-houses, letting in the air on every side; so that when a fit of cold weather comes on, the dismayed inhabitant, walking and shivering about with a little brazier in his hands, presents an awkward image of insufficiency and perplexity. A few of our fogs, shutting up the sight of every thing out of doors, and making the trees and the eaves of the houses drip like rain, would soon admonish him to get warm in good earnest. If “the web of our life" is always to be “ of a mingled yarn,”: a good warm hearth-rug is not the worst part of the manufacture.
Here we are then again, with our fire before us, and our books on each side. What shall we do? Shall we take out a Life of somebody, or a Theocritus, or Dante, or Ariosto, or Montaigne, or Mascus Aurelius, or Horace, or Shakspeare who includes them all? Or shall we read an engraving from Poussin or Raphael ? Or shall we sit with tilted chairs, planting our wrists upon our knees, and toasting the up-turned palms of our hands, while we discourse of manners and of man's heart and hopes, with at least a sincerity, a good intention, and. good nature, that shall warrant what we say with the sincere, the good-intentioned, and the good-natured ?
Ah-take care. You see what that old looking saucer is, with a handle to it? It is a venerable piece of earthenware, which may have been worth, to an Athenian, about two-pence; but to an author, is worth a great deal more than ever he could deny for it. And yet he would deny it too. It will fetch his imagination more than ever it fetched potter or penny-maker. It's little shallow circle overflows for him with the milk and honey of a thousand pleasant associations. This is one of the uses of having mantle-pieces. You may often see on no very rick mantle-piece a representative body of all the elements, physical and intellectual,- a shell for the sea, a stuffed bird or some feathers for the air, a curious piece of mineral for the earth, a glass of water with some flowore in it for the visible process of creation,
-a cast from sculpture for the mind of man ;and underneath all, is the bright and ever-springing fire, running up through them heavenwards, like hope through materiality. We like to have any little curiosity of the mantle-piece kind within our reach and inspection. For the same reason, we like a small study, where we are almost in contact with our books. We like to feel them about us, to be in the arms of our mistress Philosophy, rather than see her at a distance. To have a huge apartment for a study is like lying in the great bed at Ware, or being snug on a milestone upon Hounslow Heath.
It is space and physical activity, not repose and concentration. It is fit only for grandeur and ostentation,
-for those who have secretaries, and are to be approached like gods in a temple. The Archbishop of Toledo, no doubt, wrote his homílies in a room ninety feet long. The Marquis Marialva must have been approached by Gil Blas through whole ranks of glittering authors, standing at due distance. But Ariosto, whose mind could fly out of it's nest over all nature, wrote over the house he built, “ Parva, sed apta mihi"-Small, but suited to me. However, it is to be observed, that he could not afford a larger. He was a Duodenarian, in that respect, like ourselves. We do not know how our ideas of a study might expand with our walls. Montaigne, who was Montaigne “ of that ilk," and lord of a great chateau, had a study “ sixteen paces in diameter, with three noble and free prospects.” He congratulates himself, at the same time, on it's circular figure, evidently from a feeling allied to the one in favour of smallness. “ The figure of my study,” says he, ss is round, and has no more flat (bare) wall, than what is taken up by my table and my chairs; so that the remaining parts of the circle present me with a view of all my books at once, set upon five degrees of shelves round about me.” (Cotton's Montaigne, B. 3. ch. 3.) A great prospect we hold to be a very disputable advantage, upon the same reasoning as before ; but we like to have some green boughs about our windows, and to fancy ourselves as much as possible in the country when we are not there. Milton expressed a wish with regard to his study, extremely suitable to our present purpose. He would have the lamp in it seen; thus letting others into a share of his enjoyments, by the imagination of them.
And let my lamp at midnight hour
Her mansion in this fleshy nook. There is a fine passionate burst of enthusiasm on the subject of a study in Fletcher's play of the Elder Brother, Act 1. Scene 2.
Sordid and dunghill minds, composed of earth,
ACONTIUS AND CYDIPPE.
1 A LOVE STORY IN THE ANTIENT WRITERS.
Acontius was a youth of the island of Cea (now Zia), who at the sacrifices in honour of Diana fell in love with this beautiful virgin, Cydippe; but she was unfortunately so much above him in rank, that he had no hope of obtaining her hand in the usual way, The