_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._