after the , and a chair-shaking merriment
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, Itindicates to honey hunters where the nests of wild hees are to be found
It calls them with a cheerful cry, which they answer; and on finding itself recognised,
Aies 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.-SPENCER.
No. I. WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 13th, 1819.
DIFFICULTY OF FINDING A NAME FOR A WORK OF THIS KIND.
Never did gossips, when assembled to determine the name of a
new-born child, whose family was full of conflicting interests, expe-
rience half the difficulty which an author finds in settling the title
for a periodical work. There is generally some paramount uncle, or
prodigious third cousin, who is silently understood to have the chief
claims, and to the golden lustre of whose face the clouds of hesitation
and jealousy gradually give way. But these children of the brain
have no godfather ready at hand: and then their single appellation
is bound to comprise as many public interests as all the Christian
names of a French or a German prince. It is to be modest : it is to
be expressive : it is to be new: it is to be striking : it is to have
something in it equally intelligible to a man of plain understanding,
and surprising for the man of imagination :-in one word, it is to be
impossible, How far we have succeeded in the attainment of this
happy nonentity, we leave others to judge. There is one good thing
however which the hunt after a title is sure to realize;
of despairing mirth. We were visiting a friend the other night, who
can do any thing for a book but give it a title; and after many grave
and ineffectual attempts to furnish one for the present, the company,
which he might have joinea m mmseir, fent to turning a hopeless thing
into a jest. It was like that exquisite picture of a set of laughers in
One rubbed his elbow, thus; and fleered, and swore
A better speech was never spoke before :
Another, with his finger and his chumb,
Cried “ Via! We will do't, come what will come !"
The third he capered, and cried “ All goes well!"
The fourth turned on the toe, and down he fell.
With that they all did tumble on the ground,
With such a zealous laughter, so profound,
That in this spleen ridiculous, appears,
To check their laughter, passion's solemn téars.
Love's LABOUR LOST.