Winter.

“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 thewater poet,Who near two centuries agoWrote 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 hispen’sassistance,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,” arecertain“indications of a wet harvest.” To these observations, intermingled with digression upon digression, he prefixed as one of the mottoes, an extremely appropriate quotation fromDeut.c. 32. v. 29, “O that they were wise, that theyunderstoodthis!”

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 trueFen history,Such as design’d some time ago,By him ’ycleptWill.Will-be-so;Here’s Number ONE for publication,If meet the public’s approbation,Low-Fen-Bill-Hallhis word engagesTo 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 inditeWhat may redound to purpose good,(If hap’ly can be understood;)And, as time passes o’er his stagesTransmit my mind to future ages.”

On concluding his second number, he “gratefully acknowledges the liberality of his subscribers, and is apprehensive theInterlopewill find a very partial acceptance; but it being so congenial an interlude to the improvement ofLow FenandBillinghay Dalemanners, 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

————————— “PecuneEnough, 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 improveIntoone 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 therooto’ 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 meLaden 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 yearAre fled and gone, kind Heav’n has not deniedOur books and studies, music, conversation,And ev’ning parties for our recreation;And these suffice, for seasons snatch’d away,TillSpringleads forth the slowly-length’ning day.B. W. R.

For the Table Book.

Winter!I love thee, for thou com’st to meLaden 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 yearAre fled and gone, kind Heav’n has not deniedOur books and studies, music, conversation,And ev’ning parties for our recreation;And these suffice, for seasons snatch’d away,TillSpringleads forth the slowly-length’ning day.

B. W. R.

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 fullchase 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 thebareidea, 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 “thatskinnyold 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 andCompany.

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 goOn 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 innumerablecircles, the sliding fraternity in another part formparallel 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 “merelyin transferring the centre of gravity fromonefoot to theother,” boldly essays a demonstration, and instantly transfers it fromboth,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 theholly 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 thefairsex, 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 pocketsrifledtogether. 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 oldsong,—

“Gude night, an’ joy be wi’ you all!”

Lichfield.J. H.

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 hereshall be prosticutedaccording to law.”

THE BAZAAR.For the Table Book.The Bazaar in SohoIs completely the go.—(Song.)Put it down in the billIs 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 backTo ride to the Bazaar,And I declare the day looks fairNow 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.With a “How do you do,Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.Some look at this thing, then at that,But vow they’re all too high;“How much is this?”—“Two guineas, miss!”“Oh, I don’t want tobuy!”Look at these pretty books, my love,I think it soon will rain;There’s Mrs. Howe, I saw her bow,Why don’t you bow again?With a “How do you do.Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.Just see that picture on the box,How beautifully done!“It isn’t high, ma’am, won’t you buy?It’s only one pound one.”How pretty all these bonnets lookWith red and yellow strings;Some here, my dear, don’t go too near,You mustn’t touch the things.With a “How do you do,Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.Miss Muggins, have you seen enough?I’m sorry I can’t stay;There’s Mrs. Snooks, how fat she looksShe’s coming on this way:Dear madam, give me leave to askYou,—how your husband is?—Why, Mr. Snooks has lost his looks,He’s got therheumatiz!With a “How do you do.Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.“Tom! see that girl, how well she walksBut faith, I must confess,I never saw a girl beforeIn such a style of dress.”“Why, really, Jack, I think you’re right,Just let me look a while;(looking through his glass)I like hergaitat any rate,But don’t quite like herstyle.”With a “How do you do,Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.“That vulgar lady’s standing thereThat every one may view her;”—“Sir, that’s my daughter;”—“No, not her;I mean the next one to her:”“Oh, that’s my niece,”—“Oh no, not her,”—“You seem, sir, quite amused;”“Dear ma’am,—heyday!—what shall I say?I’m really quite confused.”With a “How do you do,Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.Thus beaux and belles together meet,And thus they spend the day;And walk and talk, and talk and walk.And then theywalkaway.If you have half an hour to spare,The better way by farIs here to lounge it, with a friend,In the Soho Bazaar.With a “How do you do,Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.

For the Table Book.

The Bazaar in SohoIs completely the go.—

(Song.)

Put it down in the billIs 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 backTo ride to the Bazaar,And I declare the day looks fairNow 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.With a “How do you do,Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.Some look at this thing, then at that,But vow they’re all too high;“How much is this?”—“Two guineas, miss!”“Oh, I don’t want tobuy!”Look at these pretty books, my love,I think it soon will rain;There’s Mrs. Howe, I saw her bow,Why don’t you bow again?With a “How do you do.Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.Just see that picture on the box,How beautifully done!“It isn’t high, ma’am, won’t you buy?It’s only one pound one.”How pretty all these bonnets lookWith red and yellow strings;Some here, my dear, don’t go too near,You mustn’t touch the things.With a “How do you do,Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.Miss Muggins, have you seen enough?I’m sorry I can’t stay;There’s Mrs. Snooks, how fat she looksShe’s coming on this way:Dear madam, give me leave to askYou,—how your husband is?—Why, Mr. Snooks has lost his looks,He’s got therheumatiz!With a “How do you do.Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.“Tom! see that girl, how well she walksBut faith, I must confess,I never saw a girl beforeIn such a style of dress.”“Why, really, Jack, I think you’re right,Just let me look a while;(looking through his glass)I like hergaitat any rate,But don’t quite like herstyle.”With a “How do you do,Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.“That vulgar lady’s standing thereThat every one may view her;”—“Sir, that’s my daughter;”—“No, not her;I mean the next one to her:”“Oh, that’s my niece,”—“Oh no, not her,”—“You seem, sir, quite amused;”“Dear ma’am,—heyday!—what shall I say?I’m really quite confused.”With a “How do you do,Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.Thus beaux and belles together meet,And thus they spend the day;And walk and talk, and talk and walk.And then theywalkaway.If you have half an hour to spare,The better way by farIs here to lounge it, with a friend,In the Soho Bazaar.With a “How do you do,Ma’am?” “How are you?How dear the things all are!”Throughout the dayYou hear them say,At fam’d Soho Bazaar.