LETTERS FROM A RECLUSE. NO. VU.
You ask me why I have discontinued correspondence. I answer it has been, like everything else, frozen : for the last month my paws have been but a pair of griefs to me, numbed and blue with the cruel cold, and incapable of holding a pen. Now I know the sense of an Englishman's fireside—it is that side which he roasts at the fire, and opposite to the side which is frozen by the wind from the door, or the window, or the well of cold air which lives in our sensibly-contrived chambers a square yard from the grate. Oh! the joys of Christmas ! season of bills, coughs, colds, and catarrhs !—shivering in the house, or slipping and sprawling about at odds and ends on the snow! No hunting—no horse exercise—nothing but perilous walking, or rather toddling like an octogenarian. Skaters are of all the sons of men especially enviable. It is good to turn a season of hardship to a pleasure, to derive enjoyment from what carries an invasion of pain to the rest of the world. But skating has its inconveniences—drowning, for example. Never shall I forget a false position in which I was once placed by the most lively apprehension of witnessing ice on mortal catastrophe. It was at the beginning of a frost, and the ce on the ponds was about the thickness of an egg-shell. I, just recovering from a fever, had strolled out for half an hour's walk, wrapped up to the nose for the life of me, and quaking with the fear of consequences from every puff of wind. Passing a sheet of water, I saw two or three urchins ieeling their weight on the margin of the ice—I uplifted my voice and testified against the temerity,—implored, railed, threatened, and scolded—but all in vain. I was at that moment the living essence of Utilitarianism — an enlightened self-interest possessed me, and showed my safety to depend on the safety of the brats. "If," reflected I, " they-break through the ice, and go bawling and floundering into the water, the world will expect me to go in after them with the alacrity of a Newfoundland dog :—cold after fever, death to me—sliding on egg-shell ice, perverse pleasure of boys :—the disproportion between the categories—causes, and consequences—was dreadful to my mind; for I was much wrapped up in myself and flannel, as I believe are all convalescents. Sick people are vehemently fond of themselves. The fear of losing themselves wonderfully quickens the natural affection. I regarded myself at that instant ten thousand times more than the boys, who were in my view practising against my life, sporting with my existence, sliding me to death's door : but any one who had seen and heard me with anxious gesture proclaiming the brittleness of the ice, and invoking the terrors of mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, nurses, and teachers, would have rated me as the very genius of humanity. As Agamemnon would charitably have expressed it, I would rather the children should not have been drowned ; but what so vehemently moved my concern was, that if they had taken the opportunity of my presence to souse into the water, the force of public opinion would have compelled me to plump into that fearful cold bath after them. The act of Curtius seemed nothing in comparison with the demand. The egg-shell held out, however,—thank Heaven other witnesses arrived; when I walked briskly away with a safe 'conscience, and did not hear of any mishap, the urchins being probably otherwise destined. This is a long story about nothing, you will say ; but for that it is the more seasonable. Your papers now, too, afford no matter to speak of, the merriment of the season driving them to their murders and horrible accidents. The ingenious editor of the Literary Gazette has been so hard put to it, indeed, that he has, I see, served up the assassination of Mr. PERCEVAL anew. Pray, why does he designate it as an unholy murder ? Are there any murders which are holy; or is the murder of a minister a murder officially of extraordinary atrocity? Lest you should be outdone by contemporaries, I advise you to get up Cam and Abel as an original anecdote. You may make Old Nick the witness. He is, you know, a gentleman of the press. I have a question of morals also to propose to you. In a Morning Paper, I read this paragraph :— "FEMALE EQUESTRIANS—The Court Journal of Saturday has a most interesting paper on the Female Equestrians of the day, in which most of the well-known elegantes who grace the Park in the above character are criticised, and their pretensions, in relation to figure, style of dress, equestrian skill, itc. are pointed out and estimated evidently with a learned spirit of human dealing' in such matters. If the writer of this paper be a lady, and she rides as well as she writes, it is to be hoped she has not omitted herself among the models she holds up to admiration of this now so fashionable and favourite --What is this but making public performers of individuals of the sex, whose most honoured grace iaretiring modesty ? There is something always vulgar, coarse, indelicate, in the idea of an exhibiter ; and the same sentiments of distaste. will attach to the exhibited, though unconsentingly exhibited, for admiration. It is surely an inexcusable liberty in the press to make the province of private life a stage for criticism, and the practice cannot but have It depraving tendency on the unlucky subjects of it. Conceive the coarseness of treating delicate females as the heroines of Astley's Circus. lithe admiration be other than disgustful to the party, it must in such a case be debauch*ng. N, modest woman can see herself shown up to vulgar remark vithout pain to her best pride, disgust to her purest feelings.
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