XL. She hurried at his words, beset with fears, A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; This is a slip of the memory, for there were hardly carpets in those days. But the truth of the painting makes amends, as in the unchronological pictures of old masters. XLI. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; The wakeful blood-hound rose, and shook his hide, XLII. And they are gone: ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform : The beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. Here endeth the young and divine Poet, but not the delight and gratitude of his readers; for, as he sings elsewhere "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever." XLIII-A "NOW ;" DESCRIPTIVE OF A COLD DAY. Now, all amid the rigours of the year.-THOMSON. A FRIEND tells us, that having written a "Now," descriptive of a hot day (see "Indicator,") we ought to write another, descriptive of a cold one; and accordingly we do so. It happens that we are, at this minute, in a state at once fit and unfit for the task, being in the condition of the little boy at school, who, when asked the Latin for "cold," said he had it "at his fingers' ends;" but this helps us to set off with a right taste of our subject; and the fire, which is clicking in our ear, shall soon enable us to handle it comfortably in other respects. Now, then, to commence.-But first, the reader who is good-natured enough to have a regard for these papers, may choose to be told of the origin of the use of this word Now, in case he is not already acquainted with it. It was suggested to us by the striking convenience it affords to descriprive writers, such as Thomson and others, who are fond of beginning their paragraphs with it, thereby saving themselves a world of trouble in bringing about a nicer conjunction of the various parts of their subject. Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks Now flaming up to heaven the potent sunNow when the cheerless empire of the skyBut now When now— Where nowFor now-&c. Our We say nothing of similar words among other nations, or of a certain But of the Greeks which was as useful to them on all occasions as the And so of the little children's stories. business is with our old indigenous friend. No other Now can be so present, so instantaneous, so extremely Now, as our own Now. The now of the Latins,-Nunc, or Jam, as he sometimes calls himself,-is a fellow of past ages. He is no Now. And the Nun of the Greek is older. How can there be a Now which was Then? a "Now-then," as we sometimes barbarously phrase it. "Now and then" is intelligible; but "Nowthen" is an extravagance, fit only for the delicious moments of a gentleman about to crack his bottle, or to run away with a lady, or to open a dance, or to carve a turkey and chine, or to pelt snow-balls, or to commit some other piece of ultra-vivacity, such as excuses a man from the nicer proprieties of language. But to begin. Now the moment people wake in the morning, they perceive the coldness with their faces, though they are warm with their bodies, and exclaim "Here's a day!" and pity the poor little sweep, and the boy with the water-cresses. How anybody can go to a cold ditch, and gather water-cresses, seems marvellous. Perhaps we hear great lumps in the street of something falling; and, looking through the window, perceive the roofs of the neighbouring houses thick with snow. The breath is visible, issuing from the mouth as we lie. Now we hate getting up, and hate shaving, and hate the empty grate in one's bed-room; and water freezes in ewers, and you may set the towel upright on its own hardness, and the windowpanes are frost-whitened, or it is foggy, and the sun sends a dull, brazen beam into one's room; or, if it is fine, the windows outside are stuck with icicles; or a detestable thaw has begun, and they drip; but, at all events, it is horribly cold, and delicate shavers fidget about their chambers looking distressed, and cherish their hard-hearted enemy, the razor, in their bosoms, to warm him a little, and coax him into a consideration of their chins. Savage is a cut, and makes them think destiny really too hard. Now breakfast is fine; and the fire seems to laugh at us as we enter the breakfast-room, and say "Ha ha! here's a better room than the bed-chamber!" and we always poke it before we do anything else; and people grow selfish about seats near it; and little boys think their elders tyrannical for saying, "Oh, you don't want the fire; your blood is young." And truly that is not the way of stating the case, albeit young blood is warmer than old. Now the butter is too hard to spread; and the rolls and toast are at their maximum; and the former look glorious as they issue smoking out of the flannel in which they come from the baker's; and people who come with single knocks at the door are pitied; and the voices of boys are loud in the street, sliding or throwing snow-balls; and the dustman's bell sounds cold; and we wonder how anybody can go about selling fish, especially with that hoarse voice; and schoolboys hate their slates, and blow their fingers, and detest infinitely the no-fire at school; and the parish-beadle's nose is redder than ever. Now sounds in general are dull, and smoke out of chimneys looks warm and rich, and birds are pitied, hopping about for crumbs, and the trees look wiry and cheerless, albeit they are still beautiful to imaginative eyes, especially the evergreens, and the birch with boughs like dishevelled hair. Now mud in roads is stiff, and the kennel ices over, and boys make illegal slides in the pathways, and ashes are strewed before doors; or you crunch the snow as you tread, or kick mud-flakes before you, or are horribly muddy in cities. But if it is a hard frost, all the world is buttoned up and greatcoated, except ostentatious elderly gentlemen, and pretended beggars with naked feet; and the delicious sound of " All hot " is heard from roasted apple and potatoe stalls, the vender himself being cold, in spite of his "hot," and stamping up and down to warm his feet; and the little boys are astonished to think how he can eat bread and cold meat for his dinner, instead of the smoking apples. Now skaiters are on the alert; the cutlers' shop-windows abound with their swift shoes; and as you approach the scene of action (pond or canal) you hear the dull grinding noise of the skaits to and fro, and see tumbles, and Banbury cake-men and blackguard boys playing "hockey," and ladies standing shivering on the banks, admiring anybody but their brother, especially the gentleman who is cutting figures of eight, who, for his part, is admiring his own figure. Beginners affect to laugh at their tumbles, but are terribly angry, and long to thump the by-standers. thawing days, idlers persist to the last in skaiting or sliding amidst the slush and bending ice, making the Humane-Society-man ferocious. He feels as if he could give them the deaths from which it is his business to save On them. When you have done skaiting, you come away feeling at once warm and numb in the feet, from the tight effect of the skaits; and you carry them with an ostentatious air of indifference, as if you had done wonders; whereas you have fairly had three slips, and can barely achieve the inside edge. Now riders look sharp, and horses seem brittle in the legs, and old gentlemen feel so ; and coachmen, cabmen, and others, stand swinging their arms across at their sides to warm themselves; and blacksmiths' shops look pleasant, and potatoe shops detestable; the fishmongers' still more so. We wonder how he can live in that plash of wet and cold fish, without even a window. Now clerks in offices envy the one next the fire-place; and men from behind counters hardly think themselves repaid by being called out to speak to a countess in her chariot; and the wheezy and effeminate pastry-cook, hatless and aproned, and with his hand in his breeches-pockets (as the graphic Cruikshank noticeth in his almanack) stands outside his door, chilling his household warmth with attending to the ice which is brought him, and seeing it unloaded into his cellar like coals. Comfortable look the Miss Joneses, coming this way with their muffs and furs; and the baker pities the maidservant cleaning the steps, who, for her part, says she is not cold, which he finds it difficult to believe. Now dinner rejoiceth the gatherers together, and cold meat is despised, and the gout defieth the morrow, thinking it but reasonable on such a day to inflame itself with "t'other bottle ;" and the sofa is wheeled round to the fire after dinner, and people proceed to burn their legs in their boots, and little boys their faces; and young ladies are tormented between the cold and their complexions, and their fingers freeze at the piano-forte, but they must not say so, because it will vex their poor comfortable grand-aunt, who is sitting with her knees in the fire, and who is so anxious that they should not be spoilt. Now the muffin-bell soundeth sweetly in the streets, reminding us, not of the man, but his muffins, and of twilight, and evening, and curtains, and the fireside. Now play-goers get cold feet, and invalids stop up every crevice in their rooms, and make themselves worse; and the streets are comparatively silent; and the wind rises and falls in moanings; and the fire burns blue and crackles; and an easy-chair with your feet by it on a stool, the lamp or candles a little behind you, and an interesting book just opened where you left off, is a bit of heaven upon earth. People in cottages crowd close into the chimney, and tell stories of ghosts and murders, the blue flame affording something like evidence of the facts. "The owl, with all her feathers, is a-cold*," *Keats, in the "Eve of St. Agnes." Mr. Keats gave us or you think her so. The whole country feels like a petrifaction of slate and stillness, cut across by the wind; and nobody in the mailcoach is warm but the horses, who steam pitifully when they stop. The "oldest man" makes a point of never having seen such weather." People have a painful doubt whether they have any chins or not; ears ache with the wind; and the waggoner, setting his teeth together, goes puckering up his cheeks, and thinking the time will never arrive when he shall get to the Five Bells. At night, people become sleepy with the fireside, and long to go to bed, yet fear it on account of the different temperature of the bed-room; which is furthermore apt to wake them up. Warming-pans and hot-water bottles are in request; and naughty boys eschew their nightshirts, and go to bed in their socks. "Yes," quoth a little boy, to whom we read this passage," and make their younger brother go to bed first." XLIV.-ICE, WITH POETS UPON IT. Ir is related of an Emperor of Morocco, that some unfortunate traveller having thought to get into his good graces by telling him of the wonders of other countries, and exciting, as he proceeded, more and more incredulity in the imperial mind, finished, as he imagined, his delightful climax of novelties, by telling him, that in his native land, at certain seasons of the year, people could walk and run upon the water; upon which such indignation seized his majesty, that, exclaiming, "Such a liar as this is not fit to live!" he whipped off the poor man's head with his scymitar. It is a pity that some half dozen captives had not been present, from other northern regions, to give the monarch's perplexity a more salutary turn, by testifying to similar phenomena; as, how you drove your chariot over the water; how lumps of water came rolling down-hill like rocks; and how you chopped, not only your stone-hard meat, but your stone-hard drink, holding a pound of water between pincers, and pelting a fellow with a gill of brandy instead of a stone. For such things are in Russia and Tartary; where, furthermore, a man shall have half a yard of water for his beard; throw a liquid up in the air, and catch it a solid; and be employed in building houses made of water, for empresses to sit in and take supper. Catherine the Second had one. "It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice;" some touches in our account of the "Hot Day" (first published in the "Indicator") as we sat writing it in his company, alas! how many years back. We have here made him contribute to our "Cold Day." This it is to have immortal friends, whose company never forsakes us. thus realising Mr. Coleridge's poetical description of the palace of Kubla Khan. Many a natural phenomenon is as poetical as this, and adjusts itself into as imaginative shapes and lights. shapes and lights. Fancy the meeting an island-mountain of green or blue ice, in a sunny sea, moving southwards, and shedding fountains from its sparkling sides! The poet has described the icicle, " Quietly shining to the quiet moon: but the icicle (so to speak) described itself first to the poet. Water, when it begins to freeze, makes crystals of itself; the snow is all stars or feathers, or takes the shape of flowers upon your window; and the extreme of solemn grandeur, as well as of fairy elegance, is to be found in the operations of frost. In Switzerland gulfs of petrified billows are formed in whole valleys by the descent of ice from the mountains, its alternate thawing and freezing, and the ministry of the wind. You stand upon a crag, and see before you wastes of icy solitude, looking like an ocean heavenstruck in the midst of its fury, and fixed for ever. Not another sight is to be seen, but the ghastly white mountains that surround it ;— not a sound to be heard, but of under-currents of water breaking away, or the thunders of falling ice-crags, or, perhaps the scream of an eagle. 'Tis as if you saw the world before heat moved it,—the rough materials of the masonry of creation. "Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, Mont Blanc appears, still, snowy, and serene- A desart, peopled by the storms alone."-SHELLEY. On the other hand, what is more prettily beautiful than the snow above mentioned, or the hoar-frost upon the boughs of a tree, like the locks of Spenser's old man, "As hoary frost with spangles doth attire or the spectacle (in the verses quoted below) of a Northern garden, "Where through the ice the crimson berries glow." Our winters of late have been very mild; and most desirable is it, for the poor's sake, that they should continue so, if the physical good of the creation will allow it. But when frost and ice come, we must make the best of them; and Nature, in her apparently severest operations, never works without some visible mixture of good, as well as a great deal of beauty (itself a good). Cold weather counteracts worse evils: the very petrifaction of the water furnishes a new ground for sport and pastime. Then in every street the little boys find a gliding pleasure, and the sheet of ice in the pond or river spreads a joyous floor for skaiters. We touched upon this the other day in a "Now ;" but now we have the satisfaction of being able to quote some fine verses of Mr. Wordsworth's on the subject, which we happened not to have by us at the moment. They are taken from a new edition of Mr. Hine's judicious and valuable 'Selections' from that fine poet, just published by Mr. Moxon. They are the more interesting, inasmuch as they show Mr. Wordsworth to be a skaiter himself,-r —no mean reason for his being able to write so vigorously. "SKAITING. -In the frosty season, when the sun The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, It was indeed for all of us; for me It was a time of rapture!-clear and loud The village clock toll'd six-I wheel'd about, And woodland pleasures,-the resounding horn, Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars Image, that, flying still before me, gleam'd Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still Better for great poets to write in this manner, and show Nature's kindliness in the midst of what might seem otherwise, than to do as Dante and Milton have done, and add the tortures of frost and ice to the horrors of superstition. Be never their names, however, mentioned without reverence. The progress of things may have required at their hands what we can smile at now as a harmless terror of poetry. With what fine solid lines Milton always" builds" his verse! Beyond this flood* a frozen continent *The river of Oblivion. Of ancient pile, or clse deep snow and ice, At certain revolutions, all the damn'd Periods of time, thence hurried back to firet. We will take the taste of the bitter-cold barbarity of this passage out of the reader's heart by plunging him into the "warm South," with its good-natured sunshine; where, when he has basked enough in some noon of heat, vine-leaves, and brown laughing faces, so as to make the idea of cold pleasant to him again, t "Serbonis," says Hume (not the historian, but the commentator on Milton), "was a lake of 200 furlongs in length and 1,000 in compass, between the ancient mountain Casius and Damiata, a city of Egypt, on one of the more eastern mouths of the Nile. It was surrounded on all sides by hills of loose sand, which, carried into the water by high winds, so thickened the lake, as not to be distinguished from part of the continent, where whole armies have been swallowed up. Read Herodotus,' lib. iii., and Lucan's Pharsalia,' viii. 539, &c." Todd's edition of Milton, vol. ii. p. 47. We add another note or two from Mr. Todd's Milton,' to show what pleasant reading there is in these Variorum editions, and to recommend them to more general attention. A great poet cannot be too thoroughly studied : "This circumstance of the damned suffering the extremes of heat and cold by turns, seems to be founded upon Job xxiv. 19, not as it is in the English translation, but in the vulgar Latin version, which Milton often used :- Ad nimium calorem transeat ab aquis nivium;- Let him pass to excessive heat from waters of snow.' And so Jerome and other commentators understand it. The same punishments after death are mentioned by Shakspeare, Measure for Measure,' act iii. sc. i. 'and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside "This circumstance of the damned's feeling the fierce extremes is also in Dante, Inferno,' c. iii. 86.— 'I' vengo per mènarvi all' altra riva Are not in such a place And in Heywood's Hierarchie of Angels,' 1635, p. 345:- and his eye turn wistfully to those snow-topped mountains yonder, cooling the blue burning air, let him refresh his wine with the Bacchus of the Italian poet Redi : ICE NECESSARY TO WINE. Col topazio pigiato in Lamporecchio, Stieno in pronto a tutte l' ore Son le nevi il quinto elemento Venga pur da ogni bicocca Neve in chiocca; E voi, Satiri, lasciate Tante frottole, e tanti riboboli, Da la grotta del Monte di Boboli. De' mazzapicchi Sgretolatelo, Finchè tutto si possa risolvere In minuta freddissima polvere, Che mi renda il ber più fresco Per rinfresco del palato, Or ch' io son mortoassetato. Bacco in Toscana. You know Lamporecchio, the castle renown'd But let it be frozen ; Let it be frozen and finish'd with ice, As the coldest that whistles from wintery skies. Of all that sleeps On every village hill and alley. Hold there, you satyrs, Your beard-shaking chatters, And bring me ice duly, and bring it me doubly, Out of the grotto of Monte di Boboli. With axes and pickaxes, Hammers and rammers, Thump it and hit it me, Crack it and crash it me, Hew it and split it me, Pound it and smash it me, Till the whole mass (for I'm dead-dry, I think) *Vallombrosa, which an Englishman may call Milton's Vallombrosa. The convent is as old as the time of Ariosto, who celebrates the monks for their hospitality. Ice is such a luxury in the South of Europe, and has become also such a necessity, that in some places a dearth of it is considered the next thing to a want of bread. To preach tortures of ice at Naples, would be the counterpart of the mistake of the worthy missionary, who was warned how he said too much of the reverse kind of punishment to the Laplanders. Dante was a native of Florence, where they have winters hard enough; and where, by the way, during its delightful summers, we have eaten, for a few pence, ice-cream enough to fill three of our silver-costing glasses in England. They bring it you in goblets. The most refreshing beverage we ever drank, was a Florentine lemonade, made with fresh lemons (off the tree), sweetened with capillaire, and floating with ice. But, if it were not for our subject, we ought to keep these summer reminiscences for next August. We conclude with a proper winter picture, painted by one who has been thought (and is, compared with great ones) a very small poet (Ambrose Philips), but who had a vein of truth in all he wrote, which would have obtained him more esteem in an age of poets, than it did in an age of wits. Goodnatured Steele, however, discerned his merits; and the poem before us, which Steele inserted in the Tatler,' was admired by them all. It was too new in its localities, and too evidently drawn from nature, not to please them; and was, furthermore, addressed to, and patronised by a wit-the Earl of Dorset. A NORTHERN WINTER. Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. For many a shining league, the level main And yet, but lately have I seen, even here, Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow, At evening a keen eastern breeze arose |