Even Almacks,-ever last to close,- To bet upon the St. Leger The northern 'squires in York meet;- Condemned to stew in Cork Street! Circumstances required my presence in London until October. Behold me, then, regularly booked for an inside place in the metropolis, for the two months during my journey through life in which I should so infinitely have preferred the outside. And now my horrors began. There are plenty of nuisances and abominations in London, to annoy the sensitive, at all seasons; but occupied as I had been of late-gay, and full of spirits, I never particularly heeded them, nor did they ever, in the slightest degree, excite my spleen. But the case was altered now,- for I had leisure to be annoyed. I became quite a Tremainy sort of man, and the least thing fidgeted me.—Not that the evils I am about to relate, are by any means little things, and I wish to heaven there were some law to put them down! Was it not enough, when I paced the hot pavement in melancholy mood, that I was overtaken by no elegant, smooth-rolling, hammer-clothed carriage, or prettily bowed to from its window; but where I overtook many a creeping, rattling, tumble-to-pieces Hackney-coach, (save when a close-built, dark-green chariot, with barouche box, and perhaps leather over the horses' loins, raced swiftly by, and proclaimed itself the vehicle of some medical practitioner)? Was it not enough, that I was ever and anon obstructed in my way by the broken-up pavement, and broken - winded paviours, who were taking the opportunity of mending the streets, while the inhabitants were away? Was it not enough, that I saw the paper-capped painter, be-daubing and be-beautifying many a shop, and shop window, "giving dreadful note" that no customers, now, at least, were expected?-Was not all this enough to increase the spleen of a man already splenetic; but must I have dirty little Jew boys at every street corner, ringing little brass bells in my ears, and clamorously soliciting me to purchase their tiny copper coffee-pots, coalscuttles, and dolls' slop-pails? Must I have a great brawny fellow thrust a vulgar-looking sword-stick into my hands, and insist upon my buying it because it was only two shillings and sixpence? Must I be followed, pestered, and dunned, at every crossing, by a Black, with a red nightcap and stunted broom; or a sailorlooking ruffian, with a poultice round his leg, drawling out, "Now do, Sir! God bless you, Sir! spare a halfpenny:" as if (joking apart!) one really carried halfpence upon all occasions? Must I have," Puy a Proom,-Puy a Proom," screamed in my ear, at the highest pitch of a high Flemish voice, and the article itself thrust into my face? Nor are these brooms, brass bells, copper coal-scuttles and sword-canes, the only articles people want me to carry home in my pocket. I am unceremoniously and incessantly urged to the purchase of bundles of pencils, -knives, with blades sticking out in every direction,— Morocco pocket-books, "only a shilling," and "good strong dolls." Not to mention the nasty little bits of damp paper, pressed upon me every thirty yards, inviting me to the purchase of flannels, the cure of cutaneous disorders, the inspection of a learned pig, or a half-naked man they call a skeleton ! Again, if I walk through Piccadilly, towards the Park, may I not even look at a Hammersmith or Fulham stage, without the man taking me for such a one as would wish to enter therein, as if I looked like a person who wanted to go to Hammersmith ! I am But, worse than all, if I pass through the Haymarket, or the Strand, between the hours of six and nine of an evening, must I be positively beset by a posse of boys, or shirtless Irishmen, who follow me the whole length of the streets, importuning me to " Buy a bill of the play,― Buy a bill of the play?" In vain I say not going,-in vain I tell a lie, and say I have got one; nor oaths nor imprecations avail;-in vain I push one away, another succeeds, like the heads of the Hydra, till I have fairly passed one or other of the theatres. Near Covent Garden and Drury Lane, when those theatres are open, and in the courts leading to them, it is even worse. Now I am upon the subject of nuisances, I will mention one, which concerns the equestrian, who is persecuted, though not equally with the pedestrian. There is no one who ever rode through a single street in town, but is as conversant as disgusted, with the bore of little boys, or ragged men, running after you, and following you street after street, exclaiming at regular intervals, and in the same tone, "Old your orse, Sir?-Want your orse eld?" "Tis vain to swear at them; vain to strike at them with your whip; equally vain to try and escape them, by putting your horse into a trot, and endangering his knees. When you think you have fairly got out of their reach, and the sound of their odious whine, you look round, and behold with dismay the same face, with a nasty sort of knowing grin upon it, and hear with disgust, the same eternal, tormenting, never-to-be-escaped "Old your orse, Sir?- Want your orse eld, Sir?" This may seem a trifle; but trifles sometimes raise our wrath. I do not think I am overpettish, but I own my bile is very severely excited by this annoyance. All these things are bad, and require immediate reformation; and though such evils doubtless exist at all times of the year, yet, as I have said before, I never was so fully sensible of them as at this most melancholy period. But I have not patience to relate my impatience of all these abominations, nor to tell with what weariness and misery I betook myself each night to my pillow; and, in fact, I had better make an end of my story, for I feel I am just imparting that weariness I complain of, to my readers. If I am dull and melancholy, it is no reason why the reader should be dull also. I trust I have, at least, excited his or her compassion; and that he,-I would rather it were she,-will join his or her wishes to mine, that the return of Spring may awaken me again to life, to joy, to London, and to Louisa! DERWENT-WATER. BY THE REV. C. HOYLE. MARK the commotion, listen to the moan Of Winter, hovering on Helvellyn's brow. He comes! in wrath he comes !-the mountains groan, A call divine is in the whirlwind's roar: This hour, this moment wake, or wake no more! |