The Every-day Book and Table Book. v. 3 (of 3)

Chapter C: Lamb (2)

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There lived in Houndsditch, about the year 1632, one Alexander Hart, who had been a soldier formerly, a comely old man, of good aspect, he professed questionary astrology and a little of physic; his greatest skill was to elect young gentlemen fit times to play at dice, that they might win or get money. Lilly relates that “he went unto him for resolutions for three questions at several times, and he erred in every one.” He says, that to speak soberly of him he was but a cheat, as appeared suddenly after; for a rustical fellow of the city, desirous of knowledge, contracted with Hart, to assist for a conference with a spirit, and paid him twenty pounds of thirty pounds the contract. At last, after many delays, and no spirit appearing, nor money returned, the young man indicted him for a cheat at the Old Bailey in London. The jury found the bill, and at the hearing of the cause this jest happened: some of the bench inquired what Hart did? “He sat like an alderman in his gown,” quoth the fellow; at which the court fell into a laughter, most of the court being aldermen. He was to have been set upon the pillory for this cheat; but John Taylor the water poet being his great friend, got the lord chief justice Richardson to bail him, ere he stood upon the pillory, and so Hart fled presently into Holland, where he ended his days.[40]

[40] Autobiography, vol. ii, Lilly’s Life.

REV. THOMAS COOKE.

The verses at the end of the following letter may excuse the insertion of a query, which would otherwise be out of place in a publication not designed to be a channel of inquiry.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--I should feel much obliged, if the _Table Book_ can supply some account of a clergyman of the name of Thomas Cooke, who, it is supposed, resided in Shropshire, and was the author of a very beautiful poem, in folio, (published by subscription, about ninety years since,) entitled “The Immortality of the Soul.” I have a very imperfect copy of this work, and am desirous of ascertaining, from any of your multifarious readers, whether or not the poem ever became public, and where it is probable I could obtain a glimpse of a perfect impression. Mine has no title-page, and about one moiety of the work has been destroyed by the sacrilegious hands of some worthless animal on two legs!

The list of subscribers plainly proves that Mr. Cooke must have been a man of good family, and exalted connections. On one of the blank leaves in my copy, the following lines appear, written by Mr. Cooke himself; and, considering the trammels by which he was confined, I think the verses are not without merit; at any rate, the subject of them appears to have been a beautiful creature.

By giving this article a place in the _Table Book_, you will much oblige

Your subscriber and admirer,

G. J. D.

_Islington-green._

AN ACROSTIC

On a most beautiful and accomplished young Lady. London, 1748.

M eekness--good-humour--each transcendent grace,
I s seen conspicuous on thy joyous face;
S weet’s the carnation to the rambling bee,
S o art thou, CHARLOTTE! always sweet to me!

C an aught compare successfully with those
H igh beauties which thy countenance compose,
A ll doubly heighten’d by that gentle mind,
R enown’d on earth, and prais’d by ev’ry wind?
L ov’d object! no--then let it be thy care
O f fawning friends, at all times, to beware--
T o shun this world’s delusions and disguise,
T he knave’s soft speeches, and the flatt’rer’s lies,
E steeming virtue, and discarding vice!

G o where I may, howe’er remote the clime,
W here’er my feet may stray, thy charms sublime,
I llustrious maid! approv’d and prais’d by all,
L ike some enchantment shall my soul enthrall--
L ight ev’ry path--illuminate my mind--
I nspire my pen with sentiments refin’d--
A nd teach my tongue on this fond pray’r to dwell,
“M ay Heav’n preserve the maid it loves so well!”

THOMAS COOKE.

* * * * *

~Varieties.~

CURIOUS PLAY BILL.

The following remarkable theatrical announcement is a mixed appeal of vanity and poverty to the taste and feelings of the inhabitants of a town in Sussex.

(_Copy._)

At the old theatre in East Grinstead, on Saturday, May, 1758, will be represented (by particular desire, and for the benefit of Mrs. P.) the deep and affecting Tragedy of Theodosius, or the Force of Love, with magnificent scenes, dresses, &c.

Varanes, by Mr. P., who will strive, as far as possible, to support the character of this fiery Persian Prince, in which he was so much admired and applauded at Hastings, Arundel, Petworth, Midworth, Lewes, &c.

Theodosius, by a young gentleman from the University of Oxford, who never appeared on any stage.

Athenais, by Mrs. P. Though her present condition will not permit her to wait on gentlemen and ladies out of the town with tickets, she hopes, as on former occasions, for their liberality and support.

Nothing in Italy can exceed the altar, in the first scene of the play. Nevertheless, should any of the Nobility or Gentry wish to see it ornamented with flowers, the bearer will bring away as many as they choose to favour him with.

As the coronation of Athenais, to be introduced in the fifth act, contains a number of personages, more than sufficient to fill all the dressing-rooms, &c., it is hoped no gentlemen and ladies will be offended at being refused admission behind the scenes.

N. B. The great yard dog, that made so much noise on Thursday night, during the last act of King Richard the Third, will be sent to a neighbour’s over the way; and on account of the prodigious demand for places, part of the stable will be laid into the boxes on one side, and the granary be open for the same purpose on the other.

_Vivat Rex._[41]

* * * * *

IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.

At Chester, in the beginning of the year 1790, a reputable farmer, on the evening of a market-day, called at the shop of Mr. Poole, bookseller, and, desiring to speak with him at the door, put a shilling into his hand, telling him, “he had owed it to him many years.” The latter asked, for what? To which the farmer replied, that “When a boy, in buying a book-almanac at his shop, he had stolen another--the reflection of which had frequently given him much uneasiness.” If any one who sees this ever wronged his neighbour, let him be encouraged by the courage of the farmer of Chester, to make reparation in like manner, and so make clean his conscience.

* * * * *

CONSCIENCE.

----------There is no power in holy men,
Nor charm in prayer--nor purifying form
Of penitence--nor outward look--nor fast--
Nor agony--nor, greater than all these,
The innate tortures of that deep despair,
Which is remorse without the fear of hell.
But all in all sufficient to itself
Would make a hell of heaven--can exorcise
From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge
Upon itself; there is no future pang
Can deal that justice on the self-condemn’d
He deals on his own soul.

_Byron._

* * * * *

EPITAPH BY DR. LOWTH, late bishop of London, on a monument in the church of Cudesden, Oxfordshire, to the memory of his daughter, translated from the Latin:--

Dear as thou didst in modest worth excel,
More dear than in a daughter’s name--farewell!
Farewell, dear Mary--but the hour is nigh
When, if I’m worthy, we shall meet on high:
Then shall I say, triumphant from the tomb,
“Come, to thy father’s arms, dear Mary, come!”

* * * * *

INSCRIPTION

From the book at Rigi, in Switzerland.

Nine weary up-hill miles we sped
The setting sun to see;
Sulky and grim he went to bed.
Sulky and grim went we.

Seven sleepless hours we past, and then,
The rising sun to see,
Sulky and grim we rose again.
Sulky and grim rose he.

[41] Boaden’s Life of Mrs. Siddons.

A goose-herd in the fen-lands; next, he
Be-doctor’d Norfolk cows; much vext, he
Turn’d bookseller, and poetaster,
And was a tolerable master
Of title-pages, but his rhymes
Were shocking, at the best of times.
However, he was very honest,
And now, poor fellow, he is--“_non est_.”

_For the Table Book._

WILLIAM HALL, or as he used to style himself, “Antiquarian Hall,” “Will. Will-be-so,” and “Low-Fen-Bill-Hall,” or, as he was more generally termed by the public, “Old Hall,” died at Lynn, in Norfolk, on the 24th of January, 1825. From some curious autobiographical sketches in rhyme, published by himself, in the decline of life, it appears that he was born on June 1, O.S. 1748, at Willow Booth, a small island in the fens of Lincolnshire, near Heckington Ease, in the parish of South Kyme.

“Kyme, God knows.
Where no corn grows,
Nothing but a little hay;
And the water comes,
And takes it all away.”

His ancestors on the father’s side were all “fen slodgers,” having lived there for many generations; his mother was

----------“a half Yorkshire
The other half was Heckington,
Vulgar a place as and one.”

When about four years old, he narrowly escaped drowning; for, in his own words, he

------“overstretching took a slip,
And popp’d beneath a merchant’s ship;[42]
No soul at hand but me and mother;
Nor could I call for one or other.”

She, however, at the hazard of her own life, succeeded in saving her son’s. At eleven years old, he went to school, in Brothertoft chapel, for about six months, in which time he derived all the education he ever received. His love of reading was so great, that as soon as he could manage a gunning-boat, he used to employ his Sundays either in seeking for water-birds’ eggs, or to

---------“_shouve_ the boat
A catching fish, to make a groat,
And sometimes with a snare or hook;
Well, what was’t for?--to buy a book,
Propensity so in him lay.”

Before he arrived at man’s estate, he lost his mother, and soon afterwards his father married again. Will. himself, on arriving at man’s estate, married “Suke Holmes,” and became a “gozzard,” or gooseherd; that is, a keeper and breeder of geese, for which the fens were, at that time, famous throughout the kingdom, supplying the London markets with fowls, and the warehouses with feathers and quills. In these parts, the small feathers are plucked from the live geese five times a year, at Lady-tide, Midsummer, Lammas, Michaelmas, and Martinmas, and the larger feathers and quills are pulled twice. Goslings even are not spared, for it is thought that early plucking tends to increase the succeeding feathers. It is said that the mere plucking hurts the fowl very little, as the owners are careful not to pull until the feathers are ripe: those plucked after the geese are dead, are affirmed not to be so good. The number of geese kept by Will. must have been very great, for his “brood geese,” alone, required five coombs of corn for daily consumption.

The inundations to which the fens were then liable, from breaches, or overflowing of the banks, overwhelmed him with difficulties, and ruined his prospects.

“The poor old geese away were floated,
Till some high lands got lit’rally coated;
Nor did most peasants think it duty
Them to preserve, but made their booty;
And those who were ‘not worth a goose,’
On other people’s liv’d profuse.”

After many vicissitudes and changes of residence, he settled at Marshland, in Norfolk, where his wife practised phlebotomy and midwifery, while he officiated as an auctioneeer, cowleech, &c. &c. Indeed he appeared to have been almost bred to the doctoring profession, for his own mother was

--------“a good cow-doctor,
And always doctor’d all her own,
Being cowleech both in flesh and bone.”

His mother-in-law was no less skilful, for in Will.’s words

“She in live stock had took her care,
And of recipes had ample share,
Which I retain unto this day.”

His father-in-law was an equally eminent practitioner; when, says Will.,

“I married Sukey Holmes, her father
Did more than them put altogether;
Imparted all his skill to me,
Farrier, cowleech, and surgery,
All which he practised with success.”

Will. tells of a remarkable and surprising accident, which closed his career as a cowleech.

“The rheumatism, (dreadful charm,)
Had fix’d so close in my left arm,
So violent throbb’d, that without stroke
To touch--it absolutely broke!
Went with a spring, made a report,
And hence in cowleech spoil’d my sport;
Remain’d so tender, weak, and sore,
I never dare attempt it more.”

Thus disqualified, he removed to Lynn, and opening a shop in Ferry-street, commenced his operations as a purchaser and vender of old books, odds and ends, and old articles of various descriptions; from whence he obtained the popular appellation of “Old Hall.” On a board over the door, he designated this shop the

~“Antiquarian Library,”~

and thus quaintly announced his establishment to the public:

---------“In Lynn, Ferry-street,
Where, should a stranger set his feet,
Just cast an eye, read ‘Antiquary!’
Turn in, and but one hour tarry,
Depend upon’t, to his surprise, sir,
He would turn out somewhat the wiser.”

He had great opportunity to indulge in “Bibliomania,” for he acquired an extensive collection of scarce, curious, and valuable books, and became, in fact, the only dealer in “old literature” at Lynn. He versified on almost every occasion that seemed opportune for giving himself and his verses publicity; and, in one of his rhyming advertisements, he alphabetised the names of ancient and modern authors, by way of catalogue. In addition to his bookselling business, he continued to practise as an auctioneer. He regularly kept a book-stall, &c. in Lynn Tuesday-market, from whence he occasionally knocked down his articles to the best bidder; and he announced his sales in his usual whimsical style. His hand-bill, on one of these occasions, runs thus:

“LYNN, 19th SEPTEMBER, 1810.

“First Tuesday in the next October,
Now do not doubt but we’ll be sober!
If Providence permits us action,
You may depend upon
AN AUCTION,
At the stall
That’s occupied by WILLIAM HALL.
To enumerate a task would be,
So best way is to come and see;
But not to come too vague an errant,
We’ll give a sketch which we will warrant.
“About _one hundred books_, in due lots,
And pretty near the same in _shoe-lasts_;
_Coats_, _waistcoats_, _breeches_, shining _buttons_,
Perhaps ten thousand _leather cuttings_.
Sold at per pound, your lot but ask it,
Shall be weigh’d to you in a basket;
Some lots of _tools_, to make a try on.
About one hundred weight of _iron_;
_Scales_, _earthenware_, _arm-chairs_, a _tea-urn_,
_Tea-chests_, a _herring-tub_, and so on;
With various more, that’s our intention,
Which are too tedious here to mention.
“N. B. To undeceive, ’fore you come nigher,
The duty charg’d upon the buyer;
And, should we find we’re not perplext,
We’ll keep it up the Tuesday next.”

During repeated visits to his surviving relatives in his native fens, he observed the altered appearance of the scene from the improved method of drainage. It had become like “another world,” and he resolved

------------------ “to try
His talent for posterity;”

and “make a book,” under the title of “The Low Fen Journal,” to comprise “a chain of Incidents relating to the State of the Fens, from the earliest Account to the present Time.” As a specimen of the work he published, in the summer of 1812, an octavo pamphlet of twenty-four pages, called a “Sketch of Local History,” by “_Will. Will-be-so_,” announcing

“If two hundred subscribers will give in their aid,
The whole of this journal is meant to be laid
Under public view.”

This curious pamphlet of odds and ends in prose and rhyme, without order or arrangement, contained a “caution to the buyer.”

“Let any read that will not soil or rend it,
But should they ask to borrow, _pray don’t lend it_!
Advise them, ‘_Go and buy_;’ ’twill better suit
My purpose; and with you prevent dispute.
With me a maxim ’tis, he that won’t buy
Does seldom well regard his neighbour’s property;
And did you chew the bit, so much as I do
From lending books, I think ’twould make you shy too.”

In the course of the tract, he presented to “the critics” the following admonitory address.

“Pray, sirs, consider, had you been
Bred where whole winters nothing’s seen
But naked flood for miles and miles,
Except a boat the eye beguiles;
Or coots, in clouds, by buzzards teaz’d,
Your ear with seeming thunder seiz’d
From rais’d decoy,--there ducks on flight,
By tens of thousands darken light;
None to assist in greatest need,
Parents but very badly read,
No conversation strike the mind,
But of the lowest, vulgar kind;
Five miles from either church or school,
No coming there, but cross a pool;
Kept twenty years upon that station,
With only six months’ education;
Traverse the scene, then weigh it well,
Say, _could you better write or spell_?”

One extract, in prose, is an example of the disposition and powers of his almost untutored mind, viz.

“_No animation without generation_ seems a standing axiom in
philosophy: but upon tasting the berry of a plant greatly resembling
brooklime, but with a narrower leaf, I found it attended with a loose
fulsomeness, very different from any thing I had ever tasted; and on
splitting one of them with my nail, out sprang a fluttering maggot,
which put me upon minute examination. The result of which was, that
every berry, according to its degree of maturity, contained a
proportionate maggot, up to the full ripe shell, where a door was
plainly discerned, and the insect had taken its flight. I have ever
since carefully inspected the herb, and the result is always the same,
viz. if you split ten thousand of the berries, you discover nothing
but an animated germ. It grows in shallow water, and is frequently
accompanied with the water plantain. Its berry is about the size of a
red currant, and comes on progressively, after the manner of juniper
in the berry: the germ is first discoverable about the middle of July,
and continues till the frost subdues it. And my conjectures lead me to
say, that one luxurious plant shall be the mother of many scores of
flies. I call it the _fly berry plant_.”

Thus far the “Sketch.” He seems to have caught the notion of his “Low Fen Journal” from a former fen genius, whose works are become of great price, though it must be acknowledged, more for their quaintness and rarity, than their intrinsic merit. Will. refers to him in the following apologetical lines.

“Well, on the earth he knows of none,
With a full turn just like his mind;
Nor only one that’s dead and gone,
Whose genius stood as his inclin’d:
No doubt the public wish to know it,
_John Taylor_, call’d the _water poet_,
Who near two centuries ago
Wrote much such nonsense as I do.”

The sale of the “Sketch” not answering his expectations, no further symptoms of the “Journal” made their appearance at that time.

In the summer of 1815, after forty-three years’ practice as an auctioneer, he announced his retirement by the following laconic farewell.

“RAP SENIOR’s given it up at last,
With thanks for ev’ry favour past;
Alias ‘ANTIQUARIAN HALL’
Will never more be heard to brawl;
As auctioneer no more will lie,
But’s thrown his wicked hammer by.
Should you prefer him to appraise,
He’s licensed for future days;
Or still employ him on commission,
He’ll always treat on fair condition,
For goods brought to him at his stand.
Or at your home, to sell by hand;
Or should you want his _pen’s_ assistance,
He’ll wait on you at any distance,
To lot, collect, in place of clerk,
Or prevent moving goods i’ th’ dark;
In short, for help or counsel’s aid,
You need not of him be afraid.”

The harvest of 1816 proved wet and unfavourable, and he thought “it almost exceeded any thing in his memory;” wherefore the world was favoured with “Reflections upon Times, and Times and Times! or a more than Sixty Years’ Tour of the Mind,” by “_Low-Fen-Bill-Hall_.” This was an octavo pamphlet of sixteen pages, in prose, quite as confused as his other productions, “transmitting to posterity,” as the results of sixty years’ experience, that “the frequency of thunderstorms in the spring,”--“the repeated appearance of water-spouts,”--“an innumerable quantity of black snails,”--“an unusual number of field mice,”--and “the great many snakes to be seen about,” are _certain_ “indications of a wet harvest.” To these observations, intermingled with digression upon digression, he prefixed as one of the mottoes, an extremely appropriate quotation from _Deut._ c. 32. v. 29, “O that they were wise, that they _understood_ this!”

In the spring of 1818, when in his seventieth year, or, as he says, “David’s gage being near complete,” he determined on an attempt to publish his “Low Fen Journal,” in numbers; the first of which he thus announced:

“_A Lincolnshire rais’d medley pie_,
An original miscellany,
Not meant as canting, _puzzling mystery_,
But for a general true FEN HISTORY,
Such as design’d some time ago,
By him ’yclept _Will_. _Will-be-so_;
Here’s Number ONE for publication,
If meet the public’s approbation,
_Low-Fen-Bill-Hall_ his word engages
To send about two hundred pages,
Collected by his gleaning pains,
Mix’d with the fruit of his own brains.”

This specimen of the work was as unintelligible as the before-mentioned introductory “Sketch,” partaking of the same autobiographical, historical, and religious character, with acrostic, elegiac, obituarian, and other extraneous pieces in prose and rhyme. His life had been passed in vicissitude and hardship, “oft’ pining for a bit of bread;” and from experience, he was well adapted to

------------------------- “tell,
To whom most extra lots befell;
Who liv’d for months on stage of planks,
’Midst captain Flood’s most swelling pranks,
Five miles from any food to have,
Yea often risk’d a wat’ry grave;”

yet his facts and style were so incongruous that speaking of the “Sketch,” he says, when he

-------------“sent it out,
Good lack! to know what ’twas about?
He might as well have sent it muzzled,
For half the folks seem’d really puzzled.
Soliciting for patronage,
He might have spent near half an age;
From all endeavours undertook,
He could not get it to a book.”

Though the only “historical” part of the first number of his “Fen Journal,” in twenty-four pages, consisted of prosaic fragments of his grandfather’s “poaching,” his mother’s “groaning,” his father’s “fishing,” and his own “conjectures;” yet he tells the public, that

“Protected by kind Providence,
I mean in less than twelve months hence,
Push’d by no very common sense,
To give six times as much as here is,
And hope there’s none will think it dear is,
Consid’ring th’ matter rather queer is.”

In prosecution of his intentions, No. 2 shortly followed; and, as it was alike heterogeneous and unintelligible, he says he had “caught the Swiftiania, in running digression on digression,” with as many whimseys as “Peter, Martin, and John had in twisting their father’s will.” He expected that this “gallimaufry” and himself would be consecrated to posterity, for he says,

“’Tis not for lucre that I write,
But something lasting,--to indite
What may redound to purpose good,
(If hap’ly can be understood;)
And, as time passes o’er his stages
Transmit my mind to future ages.”

On concluding his second number, he “gratefully acknowledges the liberality of his subscribers, and is apprehensive the _Interlope_ will find a very partial acceptance; but it being so congenial an interlude to the improvement of _Low Fen_ and _Billinghay Dale_ manners, to be hereafter shown, he hopes it will not be considered detrimental, should his work continue.” Such, however, was not the case, for his literary project terminated: unforeseen events reduced his finances, and he had not

-----------------------“Pecune
Enough, to keep his harp in tune.”

The care of a large family of orphan grandchildren, in indigent circumstances, having devolved upon him, he became perplexed with extreme difficulties, and again experienced the truth of his own observation, that

“If two steps forward, oft’ three back,
Through life had been his constant track.”

Attracted by the “bodies of divinity,” and other theological works, which his “antiquarian library” contained, his attention was particularly directed to the fundamental truths of religion, and the doctrines of “the various denominations of the Christian world.” The result was, that without joining any, he imbibed such portions of the tenets of each sect, that his opinions on this subject were as singular as on every other. Above all sectaries, yet not entirely agreeing even with them, he “loved and venerated” the “Moravians or United Brethren,” for their meek, unassuming demeanour, their ceaseless perseverance in propagating the gospel, and their boundless love towards the whole human race. Of his own particular notions, he thus says,

“If I on doctrines have right view,
Here’s this for me, and that for you;
Another gives my neighbour comfort,
A stranger comes with one of some sort.
When after candid scrutinizing,
We find them equally worth prizing;
’Cause all in gospel love imparted,
Nor is there any one perverted;
Only as they may seem unlike,
Nor can on other’s fancy strike:
Whereas from due conformity,
O! what a spread of harmony,
Each with each, bearing and forbearing.
All wishing for a better hearing,
Would in due time, then full improve
Into _one family of love_:
Instead of shyness on each other,
My fellow-christian, sister, brother,
And each in candour thus impart,
You have my fellowship and heart;
Let this but be the _root_ o’ th’ sense,
_Jesus the Christ_, my confidence,
As given in the Father’s love,
No other system I approve.”

After a short illness, towards the conclusion of his seventy-eighth year, death closed his mortal career. Notwithstanding his eccentricity, he was “devoid of guile,” plain and sincere in all transactions, and his memory is universally respected.--“Peace to his ashes”--(to use his own expressions,)

“Let all the world say worst they can,
He was an upright, honest man.”

[42] A coal-lighter.

* * * * *

~Winter.~

_For the Table Book._

WINTER! I love thee, for thou com’st to me
Laden with joys congenial to my mind,
Books that with bards and solitude agree,
And all those virtues which adorn mankind.
What though the meadows, and the neighb’ring hills,
That rear their cloudy summits in the skies--
What though the woodland brooks, and lowland rills,
That charm’d our ears, and gratified our eyes.
In thy forlorn habiliments appear?
What though the zephyrs of the summer tide,
And all the softer beauties of the year
Are fled and gone, kind Heav’n has not denied
Our books and studies, music, conversation,
And ev’ning parties for our recreation;
And these suffice, for seasons snatch’d away,
Till SPRING leads forth the slowly-length’ning day.

B. W. R.

* * * * *

A WINTER’S DAY.

_For the Table Book._

The horizontal sun, like an orb of molten gold, casts “a dim religious light” upon the surpliced world: the beams, reflected from the dazzling snow, fall upon the purple mists, which extend round the earth like a zone, and in the midst the planet appears a fixed stud, surpassing the ruby in brilliancy.

Now trees and shrubs are borne down with sparkling congelations, and the coral clusters of the hawthorn and holly are more splendid, and offer a cold conserve to the wandering schoolboy. The huntsman is seen riding to covert in his scarlet livery, the gunner is heard at intervals in the uplands, and the courser comes galloping down the hill side, with his hounds in full chase before him. The farmer’s boy, who is forced from his warm bed, to milk cows in a cold meadow, complains it’s a “burning” shame that he should be obliged to go starving by himself, while “their wench” has nothing else to do but make a fire, and boil the tea-kettle. Now, Mrs. Jeremy Bellclack, properly so called, inasmuch as the unmentionables are amongst her peculiar attributes, waked by the mail-coach horn, sounding an Introit to the day, orders her husband, poor fellow, to “just get up and look what sort of a morning it is;” and he, shivering at the _bare_ idea, affects to be fast asleep, till a second summons, accompanied by the contact of his wife’s heavy hand, obliges him to paddle across the ice-cold plaster floor; and the trees and church-steeples, stars, spears, and saws, which form an elegant tapestry over the windows, seem to authorize the excuse that he “can’t see,” while, shivering over the dressing-table, he pours a stream of visible breath on the frozen pane.

After breakfast, Dicky, “with shining morning face,” appears in the street, on his way to school, with his Latin grammar in one hand, and a slice of bread and butter in the other, to either of which he pays his devoirs, and “slides and looks, and slides and looks,” all the way till he arrives at “the house of bondage,” when his fingers are so benumbed, that he is obliged to warm his slate, and even then they refuse to cast up figures, “of their own accord.” In another part of the school, Joe Lazy finds it “so ’nation cold,” that he is quite unable to learn the two first lines of his lesson,--and he plays at “cocks and dollars” with Jem Slack in a corner. The master stands before the fire, like the Colossus of Rhodes, all the morning, to the utter discomfiture of the boys, who grumble at the monopoly, and secretly tell one another, that they pay for the fire, and ought to have the benefit of it. At length he says, “You may go, boys;” whereupon ensues such a pattering of feet, shutting of boxes, and scrambling for hats, as beats Milton’s “busy hum of men” all to nothing, till they reach their wonted slide in the yard, where they suddenly stop on discovering that “that _skinny_ old creature, Bet Fifty, the cook,” has bestrewed it from end to end with sand and cinders. Frost-stricken as it were, they stare at one another, and look unutterable things at the aforesaid “skinny old creature;” till Jack Turbulent, ring-leader-general of all their riots and rebellions, execrates “old Betty, cook,” with the fluency of a parlour boarder, and hurls a well-wrought snowball at the Gorgon, who turns round in a passion to discover the delinquent, when her pattens, unused to such quick rotatory motion, slip from under her feet, and “down topples she,” to the delight of the urchins around her, who drown her cries and threats in reiterated bursts of laughter.

Now, the Comet stage-coach, bowling along the russet-coloured road, with a long train of vapour from the horses’ nostrils, looks really like a comet. At the same time, Lubin, who has been sent to town by his mistress with a letter for the post-office, and a strict injunction to return speedily, finds it impossible to pass the blacksmith’s shop, where the bright sparks fly from the forge; and he determines “just” to stop and look at the blaze “a bit,” which, as he says, “raly does one’s eyes good of a winter’s morning;” and then, he just blows the bellows a bit, and finds it so pleasant to listen to the strokes of Vulcan’s wit, and his sledge-hammer, alternately, that he continues blowing up the fire, till, at length, he recollects what a “blowing up” he shall have from his “Missis” when he gets home, and forswears the clang of horse-shoes and plough-irons, and leaves the temple of the Cyclops, but not without a “longing, ling’ring look behind” at Messrs. Blaze and _Company_.

From the frozen surface of the pond or lake, men with besoms busily clear away the drift, for which they are amply remunerated by voluntary contributions from every fresh-arriving skater; and black ice is discovered between banks of snow, and ramified into numerous transverse, oblique, semicircular, or elliptical branches. Here and there, the snow appears in large heaps, like rocks or islands, and round these the proficients in the art

“Come and trip it as they go
On the light, fantastic toe,”

winding and sailing, one amongst another, like the smooth-winged swallows, which so lately occupied the same surface. While these are describing innumerable _circles_, the sliding fraternity in another part form _parallel lines_; each, of each class, vies with the other in feats of activity, all enjoy the exhilarating pastime, and every face is illumined with cheerfulness. The philosophic skater, big with theory, convinced, as he tells every one he meets, that the whole art consists “_merely_ in transferring the centre of gravity from _one_ foot to the _other_,” boldly essays a demonstration, and instantly transfers it from _both_, so as to honour the frozen element with a sudden salute from that part of the body which usually gravitates on a chair; and the wits compliment him on the superior knowledge by which he has “broken the ice,” and the little lads run to see “what a big star the gentleman has made!” and think it must have hurt him “above a bit!”

It is now that the different canals are frozen up, and goods are conveyed by the stage-waggon, and “it’s a capital time for the turnpikes;” and those who can get brandy, drink it; and those who can’t, drink ale; and those who are unable to procure either, do much better without them. And now, ladies have red noses, and the robin, with his little head turned knowingly on one side, presents his burning breast at the parlour window, and seems to crave a dinner from the noontide breakfast. In such a day, the “son and heir” of the “gentleman retired from business” bedizens the drawing-room with heavy loads of prickly evergreen; and bronze candlebearers, porcelain figures, and elegant chimney ornaments, look like prince Malcolm’s soldiers at “Birnam wood,” or chorister boys on a holy Thursday; and his “Ma” nearly falls into hysterics on discovering the mischief; and his “Pa” begins to scold him for being so naughty; and the budding wit asks, as he runs out of the room, “Why, don’t you know that these are the _holly days_?” and his father relates the astonishing instance of early genius at every club, card-party, or vestry-meeting for a month to come. Now, all the pumps are frozen, old men tumble down on the flags, and ladies “look blue” at their lovers. Now, the merry-growing bacchanal begins to thaw himself with frequent potations of wine; bottle after bottle is sacrificed to the health of his various friends, though his own health is sacrificed in the ceremony; and the glass that quaffs “the prosperity of the British constitution,” ruins his own.

And now, dandies, in rough great coats and fur collars, look like Esquimaux Indians; and the fashionables of the _fair_ sex, in white veils and swans-down muffs and tippets, have (begging their pardons) very much the appearance of polar bears. Now, Miss Enigmaria Conundrina Riddle, poring over her new pocket-book, lisps out, “Why are ladies in winter like tea-kettles?” to which old Mr. Riddle, pouring forth a dense ringlet of tobacco-smoke, replies, “Because they dance and sing;” but master Augustus Adolphus Riddle, who has heard it before, corrects him by saying, “No, Pa, that’s not it--it’s because they are furred up.” Now, unless their horses are turned up, the riders are very likely to be turned down; and deep wells are dry, and poor old women, with a “well-a-day!” are obliged to boil down snow and icicles to make their tea with. Now, an old oak-tree, with only one branch, looks like a man with a rifle to his shoulder, and the night-lorn traveller trembles at the prospect of having his head and his pockets _rifled_ together. Now, sedan-chairs, and servants with lanterns, are “flitting across the night,” to fetch home their masters and mistresses from oyster-eatings, and quadrille parties. And now, a young lady, who had retreated from the heat of the ballroom, to take the benefit of the north wind, and caught a severe cold, calls in the doctor, who is quite convinced of the correctness of the old adage, “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.”

Now, the sultana of the night reigns on her throne of stars, in the blue zenith, and young ladies and gentlemen, who had shivered all day by the parlour fire, and found themselves in danger of annihilation when the door by chance had been left a little way open, are quite warm enough to walk together by moonlight, though every thing around them is actually petrified by the frost.

Now, in my chamber, the last ember falls, and seems to warn us as it descends, that though we, like it, may shine among the brilliant, and be cherished by the great (grate,) we must mingle our ashes. The wasted candle, too, is going the way of all flesh, and the writer of these “night thoughts,” duly impressed with the importance of his own mortality, takes his farewell of his anti-critical readers in the language of the old song,--

“Gude night, an’ joy be wi’ you all!”

_Lichfield._

J. H.

* * * * *

TAKE NOTICE.

A correspondent who has seen the original of the following notice, written at Bath, says, it would have been placed on a board in a garden there, had not a friend advised its author to the contrary:

“ANY PERSON TRESPACE HERE
SHALL BE PROSTICUTED
ACCORDING TO LAW.”

* * * * *

THE BAZAAR.

_For the Table Book._

The Bazaar in Soho
Is completely the go.--

(_Song._)

Put it down in the bill
Is the fountain of ill,--
This has every shopkeeper undone--
Bazaars never trust, so down with your dust,
And help us to diddle all London.

(_Song._)

* * * * *

Oh how I’ve wish’d for some time back
To ride to the Bazaar,
And I declare the day looks fair
Now won’t you go, mamma?
For there our friends we’re sure to meet,
So let us haste away,
My cousins, too, last night told you,
They’d all be there to-day.