79 THE PHILOSOPHY OF IDLENESS. "La paresse est une belle vertu The best of men have ever loved repose.-THOMSON. Præstat otiosum esse quàm nihil agere.-PLIN. EPIST. Quicumque dormit, non peccat, qui non peccat, salvabitur, ergo qui dormit sal vabitur. YAWN THE FIRST. THE rivers of America are magnificent, and the most vaunting, boasting, rhodomontading, mendacious, poetical, double-tongued, polyoptical Yankee cannot by the finest figure in the choice museum of his magniloquence go beyond the mark in describing them. There is nothing in the current language of the New or the Old World that can possibly bring to the mind's eye a correct idea of their volume and immensity. We have sailed and steamed on them all, and have anchored in their natural bays and harbours, and landed on many of the innumerable little aits or islands which stud them-like bright emeralds on the heaving bosom of a giantess. P.Crakse But we have sought in vain from map or man to discover that delectable river, so congenial in its course to our own indolence, - that river, which a native American has described as "too lazy to run down a hill!" What a gem is that river-a gem of the first water! How wise it is to keep its bed! How unlike those turbulent and unruly streams-those graceless runaways, that are only fitted by Nature for the sea to which they rush. YAWN THE SECOND. Man is a machine, ergo, the more friction he suffers from activity, the more rapidly will he wear out. That great philosopher, Diogenes, whose happiness and contentment even Alexander envied, was so perfectly convinced of this axiom, that he wisely contracted his worldly estate and possessions to the narrowest possible limits, and tenanted a tub. Happy mortal! that, like a snail, could carry his house upon his back. A counterpart of this sage of antiquity was that simple shepherd, who wished for wealth that he might eat fat bacon, and swing all day upon a gate! Thomson, the poet of the seasons, possessed a spice of this enviable spirit; for he loved to saunter about his cool garden at a tortoise-pace, -his hands resting in the hollow of his broad back, and ever and anon to stop and nibble the ripe peaches as they hung upon the wall. What perfection of idleness! It is only given to transcendent genius to arrive at thy pinguifying pinnacle. YAWN THE THIRD. A portrait. Listless Slow was theoretically an industrious man, -practically a pattern of indolence. He was sleek, fair-haired, and, by habit, had superinduced a plumpness that bordered upon the chubby. The house was a very hive of industry, and he a drone. By the influence of his father-in-law he had obtained a situation under government; the fatigues of office were his constant theme, and the ever ready excuse for his repose. Poor fellow! he generally took his chocolate in bed at eight, read till nine, and then, by an effort, leaped into his dressing-gown and slippers, and submitted his chin to the operations of a barber. At ten the omnibus called at his door, and transported him to the office the hours of business being from eleven to two o'clock - where, in winter, he sat with his feet on the fender, punching the inoffensive round coals in the glowing grate, while a junior clerk read the newspaper aloud. In summer he ate strawberries or cherries, and killed time by shooting at the blue-bottles which busily buzzed about his prison, for such he deemed it. Harassed with the toils of the day, having probably been compelled to "Under government." sign his name half-a-dozen times in the course of his incarceration, he hailed the advent of the omnibus with the glee of a school-boy going home for the holidays; and returned to his domestic retreat to count the tardy minutes till dinner was announced. His little active wife and children all sympathised with the parent; and while his affectionate partner proffered a jelly or an ice, or an anchovy sandwich, to recruit his wasted energies, his eldest girl would gently lull his mind by playing soft airs upon the piano, while he lolled at full length upon the yielding sofa. VOL. XII. In fact, he had the art of turning all their tenderness and activity to the promotion of his own peculiar enjoyment. Poor Slow! he was as nearly arriving at perfection in the art of idleness as any mortal breathing, when, unfortunately, the world suddenly lost the benefit of his bright example and profound experience, through the intervention of an apoplectic fit. "Man never is, but always to be, blessed!" G YAWN THE FOURTH. 66 My dear Tom," said an exquisite to a brother idler, "how do you spend the four-and-twenty hours? "In charity!" replied his friend." In charity?" "Yes," continued Tom. "Firstly, I give, twelve hours to sleep, and of the remaining twelve I give two to dress,-four to eating and drinking,-four to the play or opera,-and two to smoking and building!" " Waist of Time." "Building?" "Yes-castles in the air; and I do assure you 'tis a most agreeable pastime. And now, what do you think of my disposition?" "Equitable as 'tis amiable, Tom," replied his friend; "and I must positively take a leaf out of your day-book." "My waste-book, call it," said Tom, "in which the initials L. S. D. may be appropriately construed Lounging, Smoking, Dreaming, and the sum total the luxury of Indolence-the dolce far niente." Tom was a philosopher of the school of Epicurus. Life was made for enjoyment; it is a delicious draught, which your labourer in the vineyard gulps with the avidity of thirst; while your idle man sips, and sips, and enjoys it to the last drop! "The pleasure of life is in ACTIVITY," said the Bee. PCTUIK SE And we agree with the more rational reading of the latter. YAWN THE FIFTH. The most commendable idleness is, perhaps, that which assumes the mask of industry. Knitting, knotting, and netting, oriental tinting, wafer-basket-making, card-work in general, and rug and worsted-work in particular, are all the labours of ingenious idleness. Why, we have seen ladies under young take a canvass with all the earnestness of a committee-man at a contested election, and yet give up, like an unsuccessful candidate, as soon they got worsted; while some have actually spread their canvass for a sale (at a fancy fair), and yet never passed the needles! as |