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!" 66 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 66 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 vestrymeeting 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 66 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 teakettles?" to which old Mr. Riddle, pouring forth a dense ringlet of tobacco-smoke, replies, "Because they dance and sing;" but master Augustus Adolphus Riddle, 66 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." 66 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' Lichfield. you all!" J. H. TAKE NOTICE. nal of the following notice, written at Bath, A correspondent who has seen the origi says, it would have been placed on a board its author to the contrary: in a garden there, had not a friend advised "ANY PERSON TRESPACE HERE SHALL BE PROSTICUTED 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 to buy !” 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, At fam'd Soho Bazaar. Just see that picture on the box, How beautifully doue! "It isn't high, ma'am, won't you buy? It's only one pound one." With red and yellow strings; With à" How do you do, You hear them say, At fam'd Soho Bazaar. Miss Muggins, have you seen enough? There's Mrs. Snooks, how fat she looks! "Tom! see that girl, how well she walks ! But faith, I must confess, I never saw a girl before 66 In 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 her gait at any rate, But don't quite like her style." With a "How do you do, Ma'am?" "How are you? How dear the things all are!" Throughout the day You hear them say, At fam'd Soho Bazaar. "That vulgar lady's standing there That 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,”- With a "How do you do, How dear the things all are!" You hear them say, At fam'd Soho Bazaar. Thus beaux and belles together meet, If you have half an hour to spare, Is here to lounge it, with a friend, With a "How do you do, You hear them say, At fam'd Soho Bazaar. Omniana. THE SEASON OUT OF TOWN. The banks are partly green; hedges and trees And wailing to the agitated shores. The fields are dotted with manure-the sheep In unshorn wool, streak'd with the shepherd's red, Their undivided peace and friendship keep, Shaking their bells, like children to their bed. The roads are white and miry-waters run With violence through their tracks-and sheds, that flowers In summer graced, are open to the sun, Which shines in noonday's horizontal hours. Frost claims the night; and morning, like a bride, Forth from her chamber glides; mist spreads her vest; The sunbeams ride the clouds till eventide, And the wind rolls them to ethereal rest. Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xaviere! NAMES OF PLACES. For the Table Book. The names of towns, cities, or villages, which terminate in ter, such as Chester, Caster, Cester, show that the Romans, in their stay among us, made fortifications about the places where they are now situated. In the Latin tongue Castra is the name of these fortifications-such are Castor, Chester, Doncaster, Leicester: Don signifies a mountain, and Ley, or Lei, ground widely overgrown. In our ancient tongue wich, or wick, means a place of refuge, and is the termination of Warwick, Sandwich, Greenwich, Woolwich, &c. Thorp, before the word village was borrowed from the French, was used in its stead, and is found at the end of many towns' names. Bury, Burgh, or Berry, signifies, metaphorically, a town having a wall about it, sometimes a high, or chief place. Wold means a plain open country. Hurst, a woody place. Magh, a field. Innes, an island. Worth, a place situated between two rivers. Ing, a tract of meadows. Minster is a contraction of monastery. Cossack commanders cannonading come, Every endeavour engineers essay, For fame, for fortune fighting-furious fray! Generals 'gainst generals grapple, gracious G-d! Kinsmen kill kindred-kindred kinsmen kill: Men march 'mid mounds, 'mid moles, 'mid murderous mines: Now noisy noxious numbers notice nought Quite quaking, quickly, "Quarter! quarter!" quest; Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome were SONNET SAM SAM'S SON. For the Table Book. The snowdrop, rising to its infant height, Looks like a sickly child upon the spot Of young nativity, regarding not The air's caress of melody and light Beam'd from the east, and soften'd by the bright And muses, like a bride without her love, On her own shade, which lies on waves, and droops Beside the natal trunk, nor looks above:The precipice, that torrents cannot move, Leans o'er the sea, and steadfast as a rock, Of dash and cloud unconscious, bears the rude Continuous surge, the sounds and echoes mock: Thus Mental Thought enduring, wears in solitude. 1827. , P. ८ Some years ago, the fine old font of the ancient parish church of Harrow-on-the hill was torn from that edifice, by the gentlemen of the parish," and given out to mend the roads with. The feelings of one parishioner (to the honour of the sex, a female) were outraged by this act of parochial Vandalism; and she was allowed to preserve it from destruction, and place it in a walled nook, at the garden front of her house, where it still remains. By her obliging permission, a drawing of it was made the summer before last, and is engraved above. On the exclusion of Harrow font from the church, the parish officers put up the marble wash-hand - basin-stand-lookingthing, which now occupies its place, inscribed with the names of the churchVOL. I.-6. wardens during whose reign venality or stupidity effected the removal of its precessor. If there be any persons in that parish who either venerate antiquity, or desire to see "right things in right places," it is possible that, by a spirited representation, they may arouse the indifferent, and shame the ignorant to an interchange; and force an expression of public thanks to the lady whose good taste and care enabled it to be effected. The relative situation and misappropriation of each font is a stain on the parish, easily removable, by employing a few men and a few pounds to clap the paltry usurper under the spout of the good lady's house, and restore the noble original from that degrading destination, to its rightful dignity in the church. Garrick Plays. No. III. Unlawful Solicitings. When I first Mention'd the business to her all alone, Poor Soul, she blush'd, as if already she [From the "Rewards of Virtue," a Comedy, Had done some harm by hearing of me speak ; by John Fountain, printed 1661.] Success in Battle not always attributable to the General. Generals oftimes famous grow By valiant friends; or cowardly enemies ; Or, what is worse, by some mean piece of chance. How little Princes and great Generals With two short arms, have fought with fatal stars ; More for their cause than die; and have been lost, A thousand times; in times of war, when we Lift up her trembling hands to holy Pan, And beg his helps: 'tis possible to think, That Heav'n, which holds the purest vows most rich, And none but he's spoke loud of for the act; Whilst from her pretty eyes two fountains ran Proportion in Pity. There must be some proportion still to pity Modesty a bar to preferment. Sure 'twas his modesty. He might have thriven Innocence vindicated at last. Heav'n may awhile correct the virtuous; Dying for a Beloved Person. |