SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

FIRESIDE ENJOYMENTS.

The evening of Thursday, the 15th of February, 1827, was one of the most delightful I ever remember to have spent. I was alone; my heart beat lightly; my pulse was quickened by the exercise of the morning; my blood flowed freely through my veins, as meeting with no checks or impediments to its current, and my spirits were elated by a multitude of happy remembrances and of brilliant hopes. My apartments looked delightfully comfortable, and what signified to me the inclemency of the weather without. The rain was pattering upon the sky-light of the staircase; the sharp east wind was moaning angrily in the chimney; but as my eye glanced from the cheerful blaze of the fire to the ample folds of my closed window-curtains—as the hearth-rug yielded to the pressure of my foot, while, beating time to my own music, I sung, in rather a louder tone than usual, my favourite air of "Judy O'Flannegan;"—the whistling of the wind, and the pattering of the rain, only served to enhance in my estimation the comforts of my home, and inspire a livelier sense of the good fortune which had delivered me from any evening engagements. It may be questioned, whether there are any hours in this life, of such unmixed enjoyment as the few, the very few, which a young bachelor is allowed to rescue from the pressing invitations of those dear friends, who want another talking man at their dinner tables, or from those many and wilily-devised entanglements which are woven round him by the hands of inevitable mothers, and preserve entirely to himself.—Talk of the pleasure of repose! What repose can possibly be so sweet, as that which is enjoyed on a disengaged day during the laborious dissipations of a London life?—Talk of the delights of solitude! Spirit of Zimmerman!—What solitude is the imagination capable of conceiving so entirely delightful, as that which a young unmarried man possesses in his quiet lodging, with his easy chair and his dressing-gown, his beef-steak, and his whisky and water, his nap over an old poem or a new novel, and the intervening despatch of a world of little neglected matters, which, from time to time, occur to recollection between the break of the stanzas or the incidents of the story?

Such were the reflections that hastily passed along my mind, on the afternoon of Thursday, the 15th of February, 1827, as I sat with a volume of the Tor Hill in my hand, in the back drawing-room of my lodging in Conduit-street. It was about ten o'clock in the afternoon. My dinner was just removed. It had left me with that gay complacency of disposition, and irrepressible propensity of elocution, which result from a satisfied appetite, and an undisturbed digestion. My sense of contentment became more vigorous and confirmed, as I cast my eye around my apartment, and contemplated my well-filled book-case, and the many articles of convenience with which I had contrived to accommodate my nest; till, at length, the emotions of satisfaction became too strong to be restrained within the bonds of silence, and announced themselves in the following soliloquy:—

"What capital coals these are!—There's nothing in the world so cheering— so enlivening—as a good, hot, blazing, sea-coal fire."—I broke a large lump into fragments with the poker, as I spoke—"It's all mighty fine," I continued, "for us travellers to harangue the ignorant on the beauty of foreign cities, on their buildings without dust, and their skies without a cloud; but, for my own part, I like to see a dark, thick, heavy atmosphere, hanging over a town. It forewarns the traveller of his approach to the habitations, the business, and the comforts of his civilized fellow-creatures. It gives an air of grandeur, and importance, and mystery, to the scenes: it conciliates our respect. We know that there must be some fire where there is so much smother.—While, in those bright, shining, smokeless cities, whenever the sun shines upon them, one's eyes are put out by the glare of their white walls; and when it does not shine!—why, in the winter, there's no resource left for a man but hopeless and shivering resignation, with their wide, windy chimneys, and their damp, crackling, hissing, sputtering, tantalizing fagots."—I confirmed my argument in favour of our metropolitan obscurity by another stroke of the poker against the largest fragment of the broken coal; and then, letting fall my weapon, and turning my back to the fire, I exclaimed, "Certainly—there's no kind of furniture like books:—nothing else can afford one an equal air of comfort and habitability.—Such a resource too!—A man never feels alone in a library.—He lives surrounded by companions, who stand ever obedient to his call, coinciding with every caprice of temper, and harmonising with every turn and disposition of the mind.—Yes: I love my book:—they are my friends—my counsellors—my companions.—Yes; I have a real personal attachment, a very tender regard, for my books."

I thrust my hands into the pockets of my dressing-gown, which, by the by, is far the handsomest piece of old brocade I have ever seen,—-a large running pattern of gold hollyhocks, with silver stalks and leaves, upon a rich, deep, Pompadour-coloured ground,—and, walking slowly backwards and forwards in my room, I continued,—"There never was, there never can have been, so happy a fellow as myself! What on earth have I to wish for more? Maria adores me—I adore Maria. To be sure, she's detained at Brighton; but I hear from her regularly every morning by the post, and we are to be united for life in a fortnight. Who was ever so blest in his love? Then again John Fraser—my old schoolfellow! I don't believe there's anything in the world he would not do for me. I'm sure there's no living thing that he loves so much as myself, except, perhaps, his old uncle Simon, and his black mare."

I had by this time returned to the fireplace, and, reseating myself, began to apostrophize my magnificent black Newfoundland, who, having partaken of my dinner, was following the advice and example of Abernethy, and sleeping on the rug, as it digested.—"And you, too, my old Neptune, aren't you the best and handsomest dog in the universe?"

Neptune finding himself addressed, awoke leisurely from his slumbers, and fixed his eyes on mine with an affirmative expression.

"Ay, to be sure you are; and a capital swimmer too!"

Neptune raised his head from the rug, and beat the ground with his tail, first to the right hand, and then to the left.

"And is he not a fine faithful fellow? And does he not love his master?"

Neptune rubbed his head against my hand, and concluded the conversation, by again sinking into repose.

"That dog's a philosopher," I said; "He never says a word more than is necessary:—then, again, not only blest in love and friendship, and my dog; but what luck it was to sell, and in these times too, that old, lumbering house of my father's, with its bleak, bare, hilly acres of chalk and stone, fat eighty thousand pounds, and to have the money paid down, on the very day the bargain was concluded. By the by, though, I had forgot:—I may as well write to Messrs. Drax and Drayton about that money, and order them to pay it immediately to Coutts's,—mighty honest people and all that: but faith, no solicitors should be trusted or tempted too far. It's a foolish way, at any time, to leave money in other people's hands—in anybody's hands—and I'll write about it at once."

As I said, so I did. I wrote my commands Messrs. Drax and Drayton, to pay my eighty thousand pounds into Coutts's; and after desiring that my note might be forwarded to them, the first thing in the morning, I took my candle, and accompanied by Neptune, who always keeps watch by night at my chamber door, proceeded to bed, as the watchman was calling "past twelve o'clock," beneath my window.

Blackwood's Magazine.

TO THE LADY BIRD.

Ibid.

"THE OLD MANOR HOUSE."

The following circumstances respecting the foundation upon which Charlotte Smith built her popular novel, "The Old Manor House," may probably prove interesting to the public. Near Woodcot, where Mrs. Smith resided at the time she commenced her novel, was a very old house and domain called Brookwood, in which resided some Misses Venables, elderly maiden ladies, whom our authoress visited; and her acquaintance with them and their abode, gave her the idea of her romance. They kept an old housekeeper,— one whom we may presume was quite in keeping with the house,—whose niece or daughter was per favour allowed to reside with her at Brookwood— this girl, I need scarcely say, was the Monimia of the novel, nor was her Orlando a feigned character, although a highly-ornamented one; in truth, alas! for the shadowy beauty of romance, alas! for the spell of gorgeous poesy, he was not more made for a hero than was Dulcinea del Toboso for a heroine, being the young butcher of the village!! "Often and often," said the intelligent friend who favoured me with the account, "has he supplied our family with meat when we resided at Brookwood, and the beautiful Monimia, his wife, is only slightly disfigured by an interesting squint." The same friend who had frequently rambled over the house, part of which is now pulled down, spoke of it thus: "It was what I term an ancient Vandyked building, in toto an old manor-house; the exterior had a castellated appearance, nor had the interior much less, with its dim vasty apartments, sliding panels for the secretion of treasure, and secret passages; in one of the chambers is a closet, wherein part of the boarding of the floor is made to slide, and when moved, reveals a kind of vault, the descent down which is by a long narrow flight of steps; use is made of this, I think, in 'The Old Manor House,' but some friends of mine who went down discovered nothing but a gloomy kind of den, not capable of containing more than six persons standing, and nearly filled with oyster-shells. Do you recollect," continued my friend, "in which of Charlotte Smith's novels it is that she describes an eccentric old gentleman manuring his ground with wigs? because the fact is, it really was done by such a one at Brookwood."—New London Literary Gazette.

THE DELICACY OF THE MARIKINA.

The marikina is a pretty little animal which has often been brought into Europe. Its elegant form, graceful and easy motions, beautiful fur, intelligent physiognomy, soft voice, and affectionate disposition, have always constituted it an object of attraction.

The marikina, or silken monkey, can be preserved in European climates only by the utmost care in guarding it from the operation of atmospheric temperature. The cold and humidity of our winters are fatally injurious to its health. Neatness and cleanliness to a fastidious degree are constitutional traits of the marikina, and the greatest possible attention must be paid to it in this way, in a state of captivity. The slightest degree of dirt annoys them beyond measure, they lose their gaiety, and die of melancholy and disgust. They are animals of the most excessive delicacy, and it is not easy to procure them suitable nourishment. They cannot accustom themselves to live alone, and solitude is pernicious to them in an exact proportion to the degree of tenderness and care with which they have been habitually treated. The most certain means of preserving their existence, is to unite them to other individuals of their own species, and more especially to those of an opposite sex. They will soon accustom themselves to live on milk, biscuit, &c. but mild and ripe fruit is most agreeable to their taste, which to a certain degree is also insectivorous.—London Magazine.