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parlour in your surcoat, and cloak, and muffler, contemplating, most mournfully, the cold-looking grate and colder hearthstone, which Sally keeps scrubbing and rubbing for at least a quarter of an hour, and then anxiously watching the provoking process of ignition, which the match, and the brown paper, and the bit of dirty dipped candle, help to awaken for the benefit of your frozen shins. If you look out at the windows, there goes the lusty, purple-faced milkman, with his tin copper-edged vessels, looking more like frigometers than anything else; and now and again you hear the ringing of some area bell, and the monosyllabic cry of his calling,-"milk." Over the way, you see the hardy, sturdy little housemaids whitening the steps at the door, or reddening the flagged hall, or with flannel rag brightening up the brass plates and the knockers; and some of them actually enjoying a bit of flirtation with some flour-faced, flour-coated statuary of dough. And with bag on his back, of smoky green, you observe the black-eyed, black-haired, Roman-nosed Jew, tramping along with steady tread, his sharp eyes on the sharp look-out for "a take" of old clothes, from the numerous lodging-houses round about. How shall I ever forget his sepulchral, his deep, his intra-thoracic and prolonged cry of "Old Clo'?" Did you not recognise his avocations, you would think it was "Old Cloe," the lament of a distempered brain. Oh! all is cold, cheerless, and dismal for a long, long half hour or three-quarters-aye, or an hour. At length, the toast (and delightfully made toast it is) appears, with the cold ham; (for London eggs are very suspicious; you don't know how, or by what, or where, or when they were laid,) then the tea, which is of tolerable sloeleaves enough, sends up its agreeable incense, and the chalk and water (the "milk" of these streets) you pour into it for the purpose of making it sky-blue, and, peradventure, also to "correct," as the doctors say, "the acidity" which your nightly wine, or gin, or imitation whiskey, or Anderton's ale, or all together, may have engendered in your Irish stomach. But, after all, you merely snap at a breakfast; the cab is at the door, and you must be off for the train. This rising early in winter is a great nuisance, particularly if you have to travel. May it be long again till I have occasion to disensheet myself as I did on that bitter morning.

THE FIRE.

"Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all.

While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home."
CowPER.

If you are alone, like me, in a bachelor's house of a winter's evening, how will you enjoy your fire! With its ruddy countenance and its flaming top-knot, it seemeth like some cheerful friend just seated near you, administering a flash or two to light up your darkness, and a little of warmth to soften down the iciness that may have encrusted your feelings. A religion of firelight seizeth the soul; you make a holocaust of your cares as well as of your coals, and let them alike brighten into a blending of gladness. In a word, the various relations for which I hold my fire dear to me, I am not in the vein (the truth is, I am not eloquent enough) to eulogise according to their deserts. Suffice it to say, they are beyond praise of mine.

Many are there who, in the moments of solitariness, undertake to "build castles" in the fire! Certes, one may see-does see, in red and burning outline, semblances of structures, castellated or otherwise; semblances of machinery, of trees, of animals; nay, often perhaps have such semblances proved to be happy suggestions; red hot hints, caught up at once by the silent student-the solitary artist; red hot stimuli to his inventive faculty. And here, let no one turn up the sceptical nose, for, let it not be forgotten, that Leonardo da Vinci scorned not to catch a design from the hearth, and was used to frequent old ruins for the purpose of observing the stains of centuries, the grand but frequently grotesque frescoings, the pictatorial allegories of Time upon the walls. These aided his notions of design, taught him a freedom of foliage or drapery, taught him the “quasi per accidens" touches we admire so much in the works of the best artists; in short, the fire-side was his studio alternately with the ruin. Thus things intrinsically trivial will arrest the attention. Again, was there not somebody, I forget who, that took a hint of hydraulics from his-what, I ask you ?-in good sooth, from his tea-kettle !

But I am not of these pyro-plastic en

thusiasts; these fine-flashing hints I never could avail myself of, for the due cultivation or furtherance of an art. In my teakettle, I could never see anything but a coming event which awakeneth palateable recollections. As for old ruins-but first listen to the hints, the only hints that I could ever take from their walls. Once about midnight, I was passing one of these architectural relics-'twas that of a church in a grave-yard, dropping there into its own grave. I was alone the night wintry, the moon showing a cold, consumptive, deadly disc, and struggling to look amiable in the midst of its melancholy hectic. The dampness, and the chilliness, and the exhalations of vegetable, mayhap of animal decay too, taken in connection with the sickly moonlight, had, as it were, entered my pores, and thrilled through my heart the dreariest, deadliest of feelings. I am painfully susceptible of such impressions; this was the time I could be most so. I am not a believer of all that may be told of the nightly resurrections of the dead; but I am a believer of the doctrine that a something can appear, let it come from the grave or beyond the grave. No wonder then that a feeling of awe should creep over me as I approached the ruin; no wonder that my eyes should be strained with "the faith that is in me." They fell upon the ruin. Heavens! how shall I forget my suffering at that moment! Within the ruin they were; these eyes saw them distinctly there-apparitions indubitably they must be; these eyes saw them move, saw them beckon at me! An icy clamminess, like an inner garment, enclothed me; my teeth at first chattered convulsively, then I became lock-jawed, my knees refused even to totter any longer, my heart-pulse sunk deep, deeply within me-I lost sight of everything-I reeled, I fell. How long I lay on the road I have no recollection; but, as soon as I rallied, I essayed to get up, and finding I had strength enough to hazard an attempt to get home, I hurried away with the step of a maniac. I had now got about a hundred yards, when-crack! goes a shot, and-whizz-a bullet through my very whisker! Heavens! what an escape. How are the innocent implicated in danger! The thought struck me I was pursued as a resurrectionist, and with almost a racehorse speed, a supernatural velocity, I fled along the road, never giving up till I reached the town, and fell breathless at my own door. I said nothing of this to my friends, fearing the imputation of cowardice, &c. &c.

began to think no more about it, till one day I attended the funeral of * * * who was buried in this very graveyard. I remembered at once the adventure upon viewing the old church; but what did I find the apparitions to be that startled me almost to death? Stains-uncouth patches of stains upon the walls! Leonardo da Vinci found not such lessons from stains, I promise you, as I did.

If I cannot speculate on my fire as others may do and have done on theirs, still, when seated comfortably, I can enjoy it to the full as well as the monarch his kingdom. The "horse" standing by me with a card cloth thrown over it, I regulate the heat to any degree of Fahrenheit I please; yes, the "horse," for 'twas a contre temps to have furnished my house in summer, forgetting thereby to purchase fire-screens; and Johanna would lend me her "horse" to supply the deficiency. Mayhap you have no idea of Johanna's horse? Then know that her "horse," though wooden, hath by no means the form or stature for which the Trojan colossus was celebrated. It is merely a framework, the which your summer moleskins or Russias, or your winter drawers do bestride, and whereupon they take their seasonable, solstitial airings under the sunshine of heaven, or before that of the laundry fire. Well, with this beside me, cosily do I sit or rather sink in my high-backed elbow chair-I am a Kingmy kingdom is my fire.

I.

Let inter-tropic climates boast
Of melting rays that pierce and roast,
Where white men would require
That Phoebus should, with downy snows,
Just feather all the shafts he throws
From out his quiver dire.
In heat of lucre, still they bear
All other heat such climates wear;
Nor have they such desire
As I, enthroned in elbow chair,
A poker for my sceptre there,
My realm-a cheerful fire!

II.

My subjects are the collier, cook,
The chimney sweep, (sometimes the rook
Will kindly act sans hire;)

The woodman and the turfman too,
When town for country I eschew,

Are loyal to my fire.
Their loyalty is not too dear,
Like that of which we daily hear,
To scorn it-not admire-
Whose quickening fuel but essays
Of kingdoms to create one blaze-
An all-destructive fire!

B

III.

My fuel is so nicely laid,
'Tis by my sceptre calmly swayed;
Nor can it raise my ire
If other kingdoms (I don't joke)
Contrive to carry off their smoke
As well as this my fire.
If Constitution-chimney swell-
If chimney-sweeps political

Sing out in sooty choir

What care have I, while thou wilt mete

My revenues of light and heat,

And sound to boot, my fire?

IV.

My revenue of light, whose hues
Are such-so rich, you can't but choose
'Twixt these and those of Tyre;
The Tyrian crimson-Tyrian blue-
Psha! what their tints to these that you
Can shed, my golden fire?
My revenue of heat, whose glow,
Beginning from my feet below,
Doth waken-doth inspire
My very soul with such a heat,
That wildly oft my pulses beat
For love of thee my fire!

V.

The revenue of sound I've got-
Now like some Lilliputian shot

From some war-engine's gyre-
Now, musical, some lump of coal
Doth sigh away in gas its soul,

And in a flash expire.

Say, what are auto-mousikons?
Your pocketed Euterpions?

Your things of teeth and wire?
These finical affairs I spurn;

Give me the notes that burst and burn Through polish'd bars-my fire!

VI.

But, chief, at night, I love my throne,
And love it then when I'm alone;
While I have, near, my quire
Of smoothest paper, jar of ink,
And pen that catcheth all I think
While looking on my fire;
A box of snuff, a flask of wine-
Of stuff like nectar-quite divine;
For thought will often tire,
Unless such "vis a tergo" speed
From grape-juice or Virginia weed,
Or, from thy heat, my fire.

VII.

"Nay, Mr. Monarch Moody, nay,
Come, this is selfish," you will say-
"I cannot this admire.

Why not forget at times to think
Of that which spills such streams of ink,
On reams that light your fire?"
And so I do "at times," and quaff
With trusty friend, and sing and laugh,
Or touch the "soothing lyre"
To sweetly-agonizing tones-
Concentered echoings of moans,
Thus seated at my fire.

VIII.

Concentered in such mellow'd stream
Of love and sorrow, that you dream
These feelings you respire.

Too well Ierne's griefs can thrill,
The eye too eloquently fill,
Ierne's loves inspire;

As often, often I could tell,

Could words but give the feeling well-
The feeling all entire ;
That's better left to burn within,
And flicker as I sleep, akin
To thee, (toward morn) my fire.

NEW AND OLD CLOTHES.

"A thing of shreds and patches."

Ha!-I've got

I have a horror of new clothes. In this term clothes, I include all the external articles of dress, from the hat to the gloves, from these again to the boots or the shoes. A new hat! -but, stay, -where is this manuscript?it. Reader, this is a manuscript I found inside the lining of my old hat. Doubtless, 'tis an antique, for the writing hath a very foxy hue, and but for the timely discovery of it, that hue would have faded into the jaundice of years, which had already settled upon the paper-into the "sear and yellow" oblivion. But it is merely a fragment. A something went before, and a something came after, which were torn off by the illiterate hatter:-" In theese ages (what ages I can't tell you) there was spred a marvel the whych conserned the ghoste-seers of of theese countreys, (what countries I know not) lykewyse other philosoferes, for the rite understandyng thereoff. 'Twas the rumore for that certayn of theese people, the whych was yclad in the skins of theese beastes, yclept beaveres, had seene the appeerance of an anymal he murthered, the whyle he was sleepyng; and, moreover, for that the goblin did instill into his mynde the planning and considerashin of the mechanisme, the whych hath got the style and tytel of hat since that epock. • Man furst tortured me,' saith the ghoste, and verily shall I do the torture unto hym; and for that he hath a likyng for the makyng of devyces, I shall hereby sudjest a devyce unto thee to give thee proof of dyreful hate to thy race, for, have correct understandyng that I am a hater of man,' and thus saying, the ghoste of the beavre vanished even as the myste. Now, after that thys man awaked, he bethought hym of a devyce, and straiteway contrived it accordinglie. The best tytel for it, he thought, would be hate,' and for his-self, the maker

thereoff, 'hater.' Now, all thyngs have their mutabilities, and tongues of countreys will vary in their sorte lykewyse, forasmuch as'hate' hath been ychanged into hat,' and hater' nowadayes into hatter.' The ghoste-seers and philos―" Here abruptly enough endeth the manuscript. A new hat! I firmly believe the whole story. The hatters are that man's successors:still do they inflict the ghost's hates (new hats) upon mankind! And how I do, in an especial manner, smart and grin and writhe under that portion of the misanthropy which at times encircleth my head, and reddeneth and blistereth my brow so unmercifully! More-it absolutely begets such kind of compression that my vision is perturbed by spectral scintillations-the "malleus" maketh strange noises upon the "incus" (my theory in opposition to all the phrenologists; for what business hath a "hammer" in the auditory economy, or an "anvil," unless for the due forging and fashioning of sound, on which, I take it, the genii of hearing, like little vulcans, are employed in their little auricular smithy?) these strange noises being echoed by the tympanous chambers, and the several soniduct labyrinths, and bruited along the "portio mollis" (is it not that you call it?) to my sensitive sensorium.

Even supposing the absence of these nuisances, I say there is another most annoying inconvenience in a new hat. You cannot salute a lady after the French way; as well might you try to take off your head as your hat. It is as a part and parcel of your head. Minotaur-like, you are semi-beaverheaded! you must content yourself with a soldier-like salutation; or you must do, what happened to a friend of mine, P. O'B—, keep tugging at the leaf till your thumb forces its way through the joining, and tears it so extensively that it hangs as a trophy of your efforts at politeness, festoon-wise over the tip of your nose-your eyes, all the while, looking through the unintentional ellipses with the most abashed vacillation of gaze. A new hat! I know nothing like it. Agony and a new hat are synonymous terms. The look of it too! there it is-its proportions stiff as though 'twere made of iron-its glossiness (how like flattery!) soft as the most impalpable down! Who would think 'twas made for cruelty to animals? and these animals, men-" articulate speaking" men? But whatever is, must be; and even new hats are, and accordingly they must be endured,

A sovereign plan hath of late been recommended to me, to lessen my sufferings on the donning of a new hat. "Give it," saith my friend, "a shower bath; this will render flexible its spasmodic qualities, and the leaf, 'a parte post,' more amenable to the natural obtrusiveness of the collar of your coat.

Your hat would sit easier, and

your head and your coat collar shall give it that shape your movements have given to your oldest of hats." God bless me! d'ye say so? said I; then shall I try the experiment. No doubt it must be literally the drowning of care, and the first step toward that desirable change-the consummation of old-hat-hood. It must be like the shower which gladdens the husbandman's heart. Though it fall upon the hard, stiff, arid soil, yet must I have hope for all it will do. I must await the softening-I must await the seedy season, when the sun shall have embrowned the harvest for the sickle of old Time.

Then the old hat, what a luxury is it? Do-actually do what you like with it. How easily yielding is it to the buffet and the bruize? You are in no trouble about it. You can put it anywhere. It defies dust. It is unstainable, unless peradventure, some spatter of the white-washer falleth upon it. And then, how loosely it slippeth on your head! You can never think, like the coxcomb, of an umbrella-that imbecile parmula which he, indignant against the fruitful rain, impiously thrusts in the face of heaven.

-a 66

A new anything gives me much concern change comes over the spirit of my dream;" I feel I am periodically shuffling off some of the mortal coil, when I doff a dearly beloved hat, or coat, or other vestment, whose weft is of reminiscences of the past-off affections that were; while I smile at the chimerical attempt to re-appear what, in other days, you seemed to force youth from the past into the present-to Endymionize yourself by an effort of imagination-to strut out from some laboratory of the Nines, as from some expurgatory ordeal, clothed afresh in the seemliness of your spring-time. This investiture of unwonted integuments, alas! supposeth not the investiture of the "new man," or the divesting yourself of the "old," no more than the gains-the accessions-assimilations, on the one hand, and the losses-the rejections-the wear and tear in the animal system, on the other, can alter your identity. This investiture of unwonted integuments never yet could give me satisfac

the ancient, degenerate, pantomimed, grotesqued,-in my loose morning gown! Yet of this garment am I fond-so fond that I make a night gown of it also; that is, like the wishing-cap of the fable, I make a wishing gown of it; I nightly wish myself well in it. I am wont to think in it, and write my thinking, and read other people's thinking, till two o'clock A. M., when Morpheus would have me disrobe myself, and coaxeth me between the sheets.

I can't think in a new coat. I am cramped, I am stiffened, I am a very lunatic, I am in a straight jacket. Thought wriggles as it were with every wriggle of the body; it "works with sinuosities along"

tion. Call it, if you will, merely the putting on of civilization. Granted. Civilization hath to answer for our bad innovations. Your civilization, good Sir, is but the refinement of accomplishments which are meant for and directed to all evil tendencies. March of intellect! quotha.March of balderdash, Sir. What hath this to do with a map of the proportions-the principalities, as it were, of the human territory?-with the geography that is parcelled out in broad cloth? Think Think you that the sartorial artificers of old, the framers of the toga and the tunic, had less of intellect than our fractional homunculi-our great Novenarii, whose "stitch in time saves Nine." No, emphatically-no, in--it is a forked lightning. I can't make dignantly no! They scorned to bandage a limb, to excoriate your axilla, to squeeze the body. They scorned the slow but certain manslaughter of things like stays; they impeded not the respiratory or the digestive functions. They left both blood and muscle free and disenthralled; they made the garments to "float as wild as the mountain breezes." Oh! had I lived in such times, how few would be my ailments (few-none at all!) from the infliction of

With what pleasure could I take my diurnal promenade " meditans nugarum totusque in illis ;" and quite at ease in the degagè unstudiedness of my drapery, like Horace, I could placidly respond to any impertinent enquiry after my health, with a "suaviter ut nunc est." I wonder how would Horace, were he clad in our modern costume, have met the puppy on the Via Sacra. Most certainly would he have waxed ferocious. He could not possibly have taken things "suaviter." His dress would have screwed his courage to the striking point. The event of the meeting would be now enacted on our "boards" as the "Tragedy of the Via Sacra," and Macready would strut in all the triumphant dignity of the offended Flaccus.

anything out of it that is not unsafe and dangerous. When fashion obliges you, like the other butterflies, to court the sunshine, wear your new clothes by all means; flutter, whirr, buzz, accomplish all imaginable absurdities, and lay them on the altar of perfumes in that goddess's temple. But, when at home, if you want to think, get yourself into the loosest old coat you can find in your wardrobe, or your morning gown, and I promise you a ready apparition of " thick-coming fancies."

'Tis clear the ancients thought more and wrote more than the moderns, for, their thoughts were never midwived into the world with the corporeal throes the moderns suffer withal. They were wrapt up in body as in mind, with the like feelings of comfort, the same luxury of ease. Their dress interrupted not the kindly, placid current of their ideas with an uncomfortable twitching here, a pinching or a squeezing there; 'twas impossible they could have an awriness of mind. Of the "ills our flesh is heir to," and which that second Pandora, civilization, poured upon us, they had not the slightest perception. What did they know of corns, or corn-doctors, or of the corn-producing craft? Had they known all this, we How I could enjoy too, as Horace did, a should not have had the peripatetics and canal trip to some of our Irish Brundusi- their lucubrations-the Aristotelians, et hoc ums, and concentrate the trifle of wit that genus omne. How could they have walked? lurketh in me, in a journal like his of my-how talked ?-how have taken their perexcursion. Clad in habiliment like his, what odes and episodes and epistles (I am not a satirist) and arts of poetry would I not indite! and, like Tityrus, "recubans sub tegmine" togo, what pastorals would issue from my "gracilis avena?" Alas! I have nothing for it but to fancy I have such covering-vainest and most untruthful fancy that it is. I must enact the ancient in my theatre-the bed-room; but

ambulatory notes, if their feet were trammeled in the vices of leather, if their toes smarted under inflammatory callosities? What did they know of stays, and belts, and braces, and straps, and the constricted, confined ideas of our modern dandies and artitificers of dandies? Nothing; they knew nothing but the liberty of the subject in their mode of dress. Their gait was one of solemnity, dignity, elegance, grace. Their's

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