dish of Tea next Winter. I must conclude Fro Bruxelles, In Cateaton Street, Southern part of France and crost the at 2, 3, and 4 o'Clock. I was at Venice within this month: the heat beyond any thing felt in England. I have much ado since I have been travelling in Germany to keep my great coat off. I went to Loretto, where so many of our Countrymen went Pilgrimages in the time of darkness, Ignorance, and folly. Should I try to describe to you the Superstition and folly one hears and sees you would I am afraid almost think your friend took the liberty some travellers do their creeping on their knees round their pretended holy chamber, kissing the dust, makeing maraculus Cakes of it, which I know are wonderfully nasty. Great reasons to bless God for the Reformation that we ought so highly to value, when we see the idolatry, superstition, and nonsense in the Romish Religion. I enjoy a comfortable state of Health. The miserable shifts I have often been put to, and being alone makes it still a greater happiness. A calm easy flow of spirits, but somewhat fatigueing in this Country. As I have not my own Carriage, which is very expensive, am forced to travel one ог two nights together. The roads very bad, the Post Stages always going night and day. I have the pleasure of drawing near to my dear boy and friends, whom indeed I long to see, yet I am not fixt in my returning scheme. May I hope to hear by a letter at the Post House at Rotterdam how you and Mrs. Hamilton do, to whom my best Respects, and tell Her a rambling disposition is not contagious when I come to Her house, where I hope to have the pleasure of drinking a Maxims, by Howard. for the convenience of others; the necessities of others; And even our necessities give way to the extremities of the poor. Sun rises The missel thrush, or mavis, sings. January 21. WINTER. Cottage Stories. The dame the winter night regales The children-silent all the while, And e'en repressed the laugh or smile- At their own shadows on the wall: Till the old clock, that strikes unseen, To finish on to-morrow's eve A GHOST STORY. Clare. At a town in the west of England a club of twenty-four people assembled once a week to drink punch, smoke tobacco, and talk politics. Each member had his peculiar chair, and the president's was more exalted than the rest. It was a rule that if a member was absent his chair should remain vacant. One evening at the meeting of the club there was a vacant chair, which had remained empty for several nights. It belonged to a member who was believed to be in a dying state, and inquiries were naturally made after their associate. He lived in the adjoining house. A particular friend went himself to inquire for him, and reported to the club that he could not possibly survive the night. This dismal tidings threw a damp on the company. They took off their glasses without turning lively; they smoked, and still they were gloomy: all efforts to turn the conversation agreeably were ineffectual. At about midnight, the time when the club was usually most cheerful, a silence prevailed in the room, the door gently opened, and the form, in white, of the dying man, walked into the room, and took a seat in the accustomed chair. There it remained in silence, and in silence was gazed at. His appearance continued a sufficient time in the chair to convince all present of the reality of the vision. But they were in a state of awful astonishment. At length the apparition arose and stalked towards the door, opened it, as if living-went out, and closed the door afterwards. club, who was an apothecary, in the course of his practice attended an old woman, who gained her living by nursing sick persons. She was now ill herself, and, finding her end near at hand, she told the apothecary she could leave the world with a good conscience, except for one thing which lay on her mind.-" Do not you remember, sir," she said, “the poor gentleman whose ghost has been so much talked of? I was his nurse. The night he died I left the room for something I wanted-I am sure I had not been absent long; but, at my return, I found the bed without my patient. I knew he was delirious, and I feared that he had thrown himself out of the window. I was so frightened that I had no power to stir : but after some time, to my great astonishment, he came back shivering, with his teeth chattering, and laid down on the bed, and died. Considering I had done wrong by leaving him, I kept it a secret that he had left the room; and indeed I did not know what might be done to me. I knew I could explain all the story of the ghost, but I dared not do it. From what had happened I was certain that it was he himself who had been in the club room, perhaps recollecting that it was the night of meeting. God forgive me for keeping it secret so long!-and, if the poor gentleman's friends forgive me, I shall die in peace." Sun rises sets After a long pause, a member at last January 21.-Day breaks had the resolution to say, "If only one of us had seen this, he would not have been believed, but it is impossible that so many persons can be deceived." The company by degrees recovered their speech; and the whole conversation, as may be imagined, was respecting the object of their alarm. They broke up in a body, and went home. In the morning, inquiry was made after their sick friend. He dad died as nearly as possible about the time of his appearing at the club. There was scarcely room for doubt before, but now there was absolute certainty of the reality of the apparition. The story spread over the country, and was so well attested as to obtain general belief; for, in this case, the fact was attested by three-and-twenty credible eyewitnesses, all of them living. Several years had elapsed, and the story had ceased to engage attention, and was almost forgotten, when one of the Twilight ends 6 16 The black hellebore fully flowers. January 22. FAMILY DECAY. A MS. diary of a resident of the metropolis, purchased among some waste paper at a place" where it is part of the craft of dealing not to tell how they come by what they sell," contains the following entry :"1772, January 22.-Died in Emanuel hospital, Mrs. Wyndymore, cousin of Mary, queen of William III., as well as of queen Anne. Strange revolution of fortune! that the cousin of two queens should, for fifty years, be supported by charity!"* Of this lady there does not Relics of Literature, 304. Do you know "Our Village?" It is a book-without exception the most delightful book—of descriptions of the country, and country life, and manners, that can be looked into-and all the better for coming from the pen of a lady. There is in it, under the date of to day, a picture of frost scenery, as true and good as a landscape after rain by Constable it is an account of a winter morning's walk and of the village carpenter's daughter, a little girl, so charming that she must be introduced-and then to the walk. The Village Carpenter's Daughter. ? -"Next door lives a carpenter 'famed ten miles round, and worthy all his fame,' --few cabinet-makers surpass him, with his excellent wife, and their little daughter Lizzy, the plaything and queen of the village, a child three years old according to the register, but six in size and strength and intellect, in power and in self-will. She manages every body in the place, her school-mistress included; turns the wheeler's children out of their own little cart, and makes them draw her; seduces cakes and lollipops from the very shop window; makes the lazy carry her, the silent talk to her, the grave romp with her; does any thing she pleases; is absolutely irresistible. Her chief attraction lies in her exceeding power of loving, and her firm reliance on the love and indulgence of others. How impossible it would be to disappoint the dear little girl when she runs to meet you, slides her pretty hand into yours, looks up gladly in your face, and says, 'come! You must go: you cannot help it. Another part of her charm is her singular beauty. Together with a good deal of the character of Napoleon, she has something of his square, sturdy, upright form, with the finest limbs in the world, a complexion purely English, a round laughing face, sunburnt and rosy, large merry blue eyes, curling brown hair, and a wonderful play of countenance. She has the imperial attitudes too, and loves to stand with her hands behind her, or folded over her bosom; and sometimes, when she has a little touch of shyness, she clasps them together on the top of her head, pressing down her shining curls, and looking so exquisitely pretty! Yes, Lizzy is queen of the village!" FROST. January 23d.-At noon to-day I and my white greyhound, May-flower, set out for a walk into a very beautiful world,—a sort of silent fairy-land,-a creation of that matchless magician the hoar-frost. There had been just snow enough to cover the earth and all its colors with one sheet of pure and uniform white, and just time enough since the snow had fallen to allow the hedges to be freed of their fleecy load, and clothed with a delicate coating of rime. The atmosphere was deliciously calm; soft, even mild, in spite of the thermometer; no perceptible air, but a stillness that might almost be felt the sky, rather grey than blue, throwing out in bold relief the snow-covered roofs of our village, and the rimy trees that rise above them, and the sun shining dimly as through a veil, giving a pale fair light, like the moon, only brighter. There was a silence, too, that might become the moon, as we stood at our little gate looking up the quiet street; a sabbath-like pause of work and play, rare on a work-day; nothing was audible but the pleasant hum of frost, that low monotonous sound which is perhaps the nearest approach that life and nature can make to absolute silence. The very waggons, as they come down the hill along the beaten track of crisp yellowish frost-dust, glide along like shadows; even May's bounding footsteps, at her height of glee and of speed, fall like snow upon snow. But we shall have noise enough presently: May has stopped at Lizzy's door; and Lizzy, as she sat on the window-sill, with her bright rosy face laughing through the casement, has seen her and disappeared. She is coming. No! The key is turning in the door, and sounds of evil omen issue through the key-hole-sturdy 'let me outs', and 'I will gos', mixed with shrill cries on May and on me from Lizzy, piercing through a low continuous harangue, of which the prominent parts are apologies, chilblains, sliding, broken bones, lollypops, rods, and gingerbread, from Lizzy's careful mother. 'Don't scratch the door, May! Don't roar so, my Lizzy! We'll call for you as we come back.'- --I'll go now! Let me out! I will go!' are the last words of Miss Lizzy. Mem. Not to spoil that child-if I can help it. But I do think her mother might have let the poor little soul walk with us to-day. Nothing worse for children than coddling. Nothing better for chilblains than exercise. Besides, I don't believe she has any; and, as to breaking her bones in sliding, I don't suppose there's a slide on the common. These murmuring cogitations have brought us up the hill, and half-way across the light and airy common, with its bright expanse of snow and its clusters of cottages, whose turf fires send such wreaths of smoke sailing up the air, and diffuse such aromatic fragrance around. And now comes the delightful sound of childish voices, ringing with glee and merriment also from beneath our feet. Ah, Lizzy, your mother was right! They are shouting from that deep irregular pool, all glass now, where, on two long, smooth, liny slides, half a dozen ragged urchins are slipping along in tottering triumph. Half a dozen steps brings us to the bank right above them. May can hardly resist the temptation of joining her friends; for most of the varlets are of her acquaintance, especially the rogue who leads the slide,-he with the brimless hat, whose bronzed complexion and white flaxen hair, reversing the usual lights and shadows of the human countenance, give so strange and foreign a look to his flat and comic features. This hobgoblin, Jack Rapley by name, is May's great crony; and she stands on the brink of the steep irregular descent, her black eyes fixed full upon him, as if she intended him the favor of jumping on his head. She does; she is down, and upon him: but Jack Rapley is not easily to be knocked off his feet. He saw her coming, and in the moment of her leap sprang dexterously off the slide on the rough ice, steadying himself by the shoulder of the next in the file, which unlucky follower, thus unexpectedly checked in his career, fell plump back wards, knocking down the rest of the line like a nest of card-houses. There is no harm done; but there they lie roaring, kicking, sprawling, in every attitude of comic distress, whilst Jack Rapley and Mayflower, sole authors of this calamity, stand apart from the throng, fondling and coquetting, and complimenting each other, and very visibly laughing, May in her black eyes, Jack in his wide close-shut mouth, and his whole monkey-face, at their comrades' mischances. I think, miss May, you may as well come up again, and leave master Rapley to fight your battles. He'll get out of the scrape. He is a rustic wit-a sort of Robin Goodfellow-the sauciest, idlest, cleverest, bestnatured boy in the parish; always foremost in mischief, and always ready to do a good turn. The sages of our village predict sad things of Jack Rapley, so that I am sometimes a little ashamed to confess, before wise people, that I have a lurking predilection for him (in common with other naughty ones), and that I like to hear him talk to May almost as well as she does. Come May and up she springs, as light as a bird. The road is gay now; carts and post-chaises, and girls in red-cloaks, and, afar off, looking almost like a toy, the coach. It meets us fast and soon. How much happier the walkers look than the riders-especially the frostbitten gentleman, and the shivering lady with the invisible face, sole passengers of that commodious machine! Hooded, veiled, and bonneted, as she is, one sees from her attitude how miserable she would look uncovered. Another pond, and another noise of children. More sliding? Oh! no. This is a sport of higher pretension. Our good neighbour, the lieutenant, skaiting, and his own pretty little boys, and two or three other four-year-old elves, standing on the brink in an ecstacy of joy and wonder! Oh what happy spectators! And what a happy performer! They admiring, he admired, with an ardour and sincerity never excited by all the quadrilles and the spread-eagles of the Seine and the Serpentine. He really skaits well though, and I am glad I came this way; for, with all the father's feelings sitting gaily at his heart, it must still gratify the pride of skill to have one spectator at that solitary pond who has seen skaiting before. Now we have reached the trees,-the beautiful trees! never so beautiful as to the shy beauty so close or so long; and it is pleasant to see him in the grace and beauty of his natural liberty, the only way to look at a bird. We used, before we lived in a street, to fix a little board outside the parlour-window, and cover it with bread-crumbs in the hard weather. It was quite delightful to see the pretty things come and feed, to conquer their shyness, and do away their mistrust. First came the more social tribes, the robin redbreast and the wren,' cautiously, suspiciously, picking up a crumb on the wing, with the little keen bright eye fixed on the window; then they would stop for two pecks; then stay till they were satisfied. The shyer birds, tamed by their example, came next; and at last one saucy fellow of a blackbird-a sad glutton, he would clear the board in two minutesused to tap his yellow bill against the window for more. How we loved the fearless confidence of that fine, frankhearted creature! And surely he loved us. I wonder the practice is not more general. day. Imagine the effect of a straight and May! May! naughty May!' She has frightened away the kingfisher; and now, in her coaxing penitence, she is covering me with snow. Humility. There was a worthy ecclesiastic, of the name of Bernard, who performed the duty of attending the unhappy persons condemned to the hands of the executioner of Paris. Father Bernard's just reputation for benevolence and piety reached Cardinal Richelieu, who sent for him, asked him what he could do for him, told him his exemplary labors entitled him to every attention that could be paid to him, and pressed him to say what he wanted. The good father answered, "I want, my lord, a better tumbril to conduct my penitents in, to the place of their suffering: that indeed is all I want, and I hope your eminence will gratify me in that respect." The Cardinal offered him a rich abbey. He refused it.* Sun rises sets . Twilight ends The wren sings. h. m. 41 41 19 5577 ; 6 19 Our Village, by Miss Mitford, Vol I. p. 9. 27, &c. • Seward. |
