IDLENESS. MR. EDITOR,-Every body has his passion; and mine is idleness. Let me, therefore, say a few words of illustration; which you may the safer permit, being assured that I am too indolent to prose at much length. To begin with the beginning,—the curse which fell upon man, that he should live in the sweat of his brow, was a punishment denounced after a grievous offence; from which it may logically be concluded, that to do nothing is the summum bonum; aud idleness the supreme pleasure of paradise. The privileged classes, as they are called, have (it may be observed by the way) pretty well absolved themselves from the consequences of this denunciation; which sufficiently proves them to be the peculiar favourites of heaven; and when even I am inclined to think irreverently of the church, the indolence of the cloth at once recalls me from the error, and bows me in submission before the chosen vessels. All men, it is said, are naturally idle. Horace makes ease the common wish of every class, and declares long-spun and ambitious cares to be the extreme of absurdity. The most active and enterprising of men are represented as toiling and plotting through their youth, merely for the sake of the otium cum dignitate of old age. The 'prentice boy looks at the dusty roadside villa of his master, and buckles-to with renewed vigour in the hopes of a similar retirement. The soldier thinks of the sunny bench at Chelsea, and marches on, though half dead with watching and fatigue. The East Indian casts a prospective eye to Bath and Cheltenham, and a seat in a certain assembly for his evening's nap, and sets bile and dysentery, and the indolence of a hot climate at defiance. The labourer alone has no such cheering vision, but toils on from day to day, to support a bare existence, with no other prospect than that antidote to all ease,-a parish workhouse. General, however, as the love of idleness is, there are few persons who really understand the thing. With most men every employment which makes no return in money is considered as idle. The schoolboy who neglects his task, and is ever to seek for a theme or a copy of verses, is called an idle boy; though he has passed the whole day as the long stop at cricket, in climbing the highest trees, rowing upon the river, or other violent exercise; and goes to bed as fatigued as a coal-porter. Nay, though he should bave been engaged in turning, painting, or music, he will not escape the imputation. So also, at college, I have known many persons enjoying the reputation of idle dogs, whose time was occupied in fox-hunting, or who walked most industriously after a dog, with twenty pounds of gun-metal on their shoulder, "from morn till noon, from noon to dewy eve.” This is obviously erroneous; but the mistake is more excusable respecting that rather numerous category of persons, -Predoom'd their fathers' hopes to cross, Who pen a stanza, when they should engross. The poets in general, it must be confessed, have an exterior of idleness about them that might impose upon the most keen-sighted. Except Walter Scott, in whom the Scotsman and novelist prevail over the poet, I never knew one of the tribe who had the least touch of plodding industry; and a friend whom I could name, who is "every inch" a poet, has a relish for what the world calls idleness, that is worth a good ten thousand a-year. "These indeed seem" idlers; but they have that within which passes show;" theirs "but the trappings and the weeds" of idleness. For whether they linger by the side of brooks, or "lose and neglect the creeping hours of time under the shade of melancholy boughs" in solitude and silence; or whether they pass their time amidst wine-cups and hilarity, their poor unfortunate brains are ever at work, work, work from morning to night; and teem forth a harvest of bright thoughts as unceasingly as the twirls of a spinningjenny, or a charity child in a factory. It is by no means the weight or importance of an occupation that entitles it to the appellation of industry. A man's activity may be expended upon a most trivial object, but still it is labour, and the world does but justice to the activeminded citizen, who runs about from house to house spreading scandal, and interfering in all things, when it calls him a busy body, although, to all intents and purposes of utility, he would have been much better occupied in spitting over a bridge into the water. A mistake of an opposite nature is not unfrequent, by which your genuine idler passes for an industrious man. This occurs more especially with respect to collegiates and Templars, who, if they happen to be of a sedentary habit, and do not stir much about the world, are believed to be great saps. I knew a man of this description, who passed his whole life in slippers and dressing-gown; but on whose privacy I never broke in the evening, without finding the snuffs of his candles an inch long, and crowned with a fungus-like protuberance of soot; while a corresponding drowsiness of demeanour in his whole person sufficiently proved that the snuffers had not been overlooked through 'too close an application to Euclid or Greek metres. In like manner ministers of state sometimes acquire great reputation by a regular attendance in Downing Street; though perhaps they leave all their business to clerks, and spend morning after morning in cutting their pens and spelling the newspapers. Now is it not rather hard, Mr. Editor, that you yourself, for instance, should be railed at as an idler on account of a little procrastination, perhaps, or of lying late in bed, or, like that unhappy youth Mr. Gay, of "writing pastorals in the time of divine service;" while a great lubberly lord shall pass for a plodder, because he has the cunning to envelope himself in the pomp and circumstance of business? There is indeed something peculiarly ungrateful in the avaricious undervaluing of idleness which is so prevalent. Like a vast many other pretences put forth in this island of false appearances, the affectation of industry has more of hypocrisy than of true zeal in it. With the great majority of men, ambition, or the love of money, is the real spring of action; and industry, though tolerated as a means, is detested as an end. There are thousands and tens of thousands, who would willingly take up with the "dolcissimo far niente" if they dared; and Diogenes, with his tub and his cynicism, was less a philosopher than an idler; while Epicurus, in the opposite extreme, turned his philosophy to pretty nearly the same account. For myself, I beg to be understood as loving idleness, pure and perfect idleness, for itself alone,-just as your true sentimental lovers like to be adored, dear souls: and it always struck me that the setting a schoolboy his holiday-task was little better than proffering the cup of Tantalus to be taken under the sword of Damocles. No, sir, none of your constructive idleness for me. Sleeping in the sun, watching the progress of a snail, or the transit of a bubble in the stream, are quite sufficient employment for a genuine idler, and angling is the only sport which does not absolutely break in upon his enjoyment. Idle persons are falsely accused of being ever in mischief; and on this account probably the devil is said to fly away with the roof of a house, if you don't give him an attorney or proctor to carry, or some other such job of journey-work. This is all very false philosophy. Active dispositions may become mischievous, when not profitably employed, exactly as Napoleon went to Moscow, for want of something better to do; but your genuine idler is contented with eating, drinking, and sleeping, or, at most, with playing the cicisbeo, perhaps, or watching a game of chess without understanding the moves. Indeed I question whether Neddy Bray had not a spark of industry in him when he left the cat in the coalskuttle, to count the hackneycoaches which passed the windows of his lodging. In favour of idleness, it must be observed that the idler has no strong passions. Hence the absurdity of making the idleness of monks and churchmen a matter of reproach. Would to heaven they were all idle, and always idle! for there is nothing so much to be dreaded as that such folks should take a sudden fit of industry, and recommence their old meddlings with politics and literature. I'll be bound the French, for instance, would be well pleased to find old Fressynous lounging in a lady's boudoir, or to catch the whole corps of Jesuits "sleeping upon benches in afternoons." The moment a man has a desire to gratify, he ceases to be an idler; accordingly, the greatest sluggards are on the alert towards dinner-time; and a lazy lover is a contradiction in terms. To be a genuine idler, a man must be content with his own sensations as they come to him, and endure ennui without repining. His mind must never go abroad in search of amusement; it must have no world of its own, no castle in the air, the realization of which would cost an effort, and the idea of which would beget discontent. The perfection of idleness is therefore rarely obtained, except through long practice, or under the influence of that morbid state of the biliary system, in which all the finer movements of its vessels are clogged and impeded, and the effort of volition becomes too painful to be attempted. Short of this, indolence is rarely more than occasional; and in youth the merest idler is thrown into activity at the impulse of pleasure. I know a young lady who has very pretty pretensions to idleness, but who has no objection to dancing the livelong night, and who would work at a ball-dress for fifteen hours at a stretch, rather than not go to the assembly. Of this young lady's life, the following specimen, as set down by her mother, may afford some idea, and it proves her to be a real amateur. Rose at ten. Regretted not being able to lie an hour longer. Lamented the necessity of cleanliness. Dressing a great bore. Dogs in this respect happier than men. Watch-boxes still better. Breakfasted till eleven. Sauntered for half an hour, and played with the cat. N. B. She scratched both my hands. Half-past eleven. Sunk in an arm-chair, with a novel, read the same page three times over, and fell asleep. Got up to walk to another chair, and was told I'd a hole in my stocking. I wonder why the maid does not mend them. Twelve. Played half a lesson on the piano. What can Rosina mean by writing such difficult music! One o'clock. Took up a needle and thread, and looked out of the window at the cattle feeding, for three quarters of an hour. Cows lead happy lives. I wonder why man does not ruminate. At two. Luncheon. Three. Forced to walk out. I hate exercise. Was told my petticoat is longer than my gown; but what does that signify? Half-past four. Very tired and very hungry. Played again with the cat. Made Fidelle, the French poodle, fetch a stick three times out of the water. N. B. Fidelle tore my glove to pieces. I wish my brother had been by to take it from him. Five. Played at scratch-cradle, and then three games of Troumadame till dressing time. Can't think why mamma does not allow me a maid to dress me. N. B. scolded for throwing my hair-papers about the room. What has the housemaid to do but gather them up? It's monstrous tiresome to be scolded. Six. Dinner. After coffee sat still doing nothing till bedtime. Thought half-past ten would never come. Went to bed very tired. N. B. Doing nothing is extremely troublesome, and I hate it exceedingly. But then what can one do? Such, with a few trifling variations, is the life of this young lady, except as before excepted, when pleasure is afloat. During the season, as it is called, the case is different, and she undergoes great fatigues and hardships without repining; sits up half the night, and will dance you three or four miles of quadrille, without " fainting by the way." This however is a defect, of which time, I have little doubt, will cure her; and I dare believe that when she is once married, and has the cares of a family on her hands, her conduct will become " simplex duntaxat et unus," perfectly consistent throughout; and that she will relapse into an indolence as genuine and perfect as heart could desire. Heigh ho! Mr. Editor, I never thought I could have written so long a letter. Yours truly, M. SONNET. To the Ruins of Ionia. IONIA-Sad Ionia!-is this wreck All that remains to tell thy splendid tale? Nature with Art, until the priest grew pale Earthquaked by Time-while, at night's pensive noon. Mute as the soft light of their Asian moon ; So fade the fair, the proud, the famed, the streng- J. MOORE'S LIFE OF SHERIDAN.* THE favourite prose reading of the present day is biography. With the single exception of trashy and polemic theology, no books are perused with greater avidity than those various "Lives," "Memoirs," "Reminiscences," "Conversations," and "Letters," which teem forth on the demise of eminent persons, to " prate of their whereabouts." The spreading civilization of the age has drawn men out of the circle of private and professional exclusiveness; and has opened the intellects and the hearts of all classes to a common sympathy with the poet, the warrior, the philosopher, the actor and the artist,-with every one, in short, who has distinguished himself from the mass, no matter in what department of the world's business, or its pleasures. Within the short period which has elapsed since the last "avatar" of the New Monthly Magazine, two biographical works have appeared, which though different in their pretensions, opposite in their style and matter, and of very unequal degrees of importance, will both be extensively read, and will contribute, each in its separate sphere, to the amusement of the town. One of these publications is the life of the late R. B. Sheridan; the other, the "Reminiscences of Michael Kelly," which incidentally treats of the extraordinary person upon whose biography Mr. Moore has expended so much of his time and talent. Whoever has read the Newgate Calendar, "must needs" remember the contrasted figures in the double print of "Charles Price disguised as a beggar," and " Charles Price in his proper dress." Much such a difference of exterior does Mr. Sheridan exhibit, as he shines in the embellished en buste of Mr. Moore, a statesman and a poet, in all the sentimental elevation of his passion for the "beautiful maid of Bath,"and as he appears in Michael Kelly's homely whole-length, the jolly boon companion, intriguing to put off a creditor, or plotting to put off a joke. Yet is not either of these portraits deficient in faithfulness to the particular aspect under which it was drawn; and the difference but serves to show how much the biographer infuses of himself into his hero, and how, in the very best delineations of persons and of things, the resemblance takes its colour from the modalities of thought and feeling of the artist by whom it is sketched. It is not our intention to enter upon an elaborate criticism of Mr. Moore's volume. His merits and demerits as an author, his splendid endowments, and striking peculiarities, are too well known to render such a task necessary. Every one who is acquainted with his style of writing and turn of mind, will readily anticipate that the present, like most of his past works, is remarkable for strong imagery, brilliance of illustration, intensity of feeling, and an abhorrence of abstract reasoning; such as have long stamped him a finished poet and a careless philosopher.† Elegant diction, glowing expression, delicate sentiment, bursts of strong passion, will pretty generally be expected in his pages, rather than a painful analysis of moral problems, or a bold philosophy of those striking events and combinations, which constituted the politics of the bustling and contentious period of Mr. Sheridan's public-life. And * Memoirs of the Life of the Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan. By Thomas Moore. 4to. -"fair Science, to you t "I've long bid a last and a careless adieu!" |