PROSE AND POETRY. 



\vhat with rolling and tumbling over and over, I had become a per- 

 fect snow-ball; and, luckily for me again, there was a ditch, which as 

 I slid in, my foot slid out out of my boot I mean ; and away went 

 the cob, boot and all. Well there I laid a senseless lump of snow; 

 and, God knows, but for one circumstance, I might have laid there 

 till the thaw came. It so happened that my eldest boy was out, 

 wandering about with a gun shooting rooks and crows, and such 

 like, and passing near the spot where I laid, he up with his gun at 

 what he thought was a crow on the edge of the bank. Now, what do 

 you think it was, sir ? it was nothing more nor less than my left 

 hessian boot, the only visible part about me ; rather a critical mo- 

 ment, you'll say, if I could have known the rights of it ; but, luckily 

 for me, I was insensible. If I had moved my foot the least in the 

 world, he'd ha' shot me as sure as a gun ; but the boot was quiet ; 

 so he was doubtful of wasting a charge of powder and shot, and 

 crept up towards it, holding his gun ready all the while. Well ! 

 in course he knew his father's boot, when he come close, and won- 

 dered how it come there. Well ! he tugged and pulled but all to no 

 purpose there it stuck; he little knew at the moment that his 

 father's leg was inside. However, by this time, assistance was at 

 hand ; my horse it appeared had excited some surprise at home, where 

 he had found his way, with my boot hanging at the stirrup ; so one 

 and all set out in search of their master ; but my belief is they'd never 

 have found me, if my hessian boot had not shewn itself above the 

 snow. Well, sir ! I was carried home and thawed inside and out, 

 and luckily for me, very little damage done. Now, sir, I conceive 

 my life was saved, in the first place, by my right- boot coming off; 

 and, secondly, by the left boot keeping on : and 111 only appeal to 

 you as a man of feeling, whether, after such a warning as this, it does 

 not become me to wear hessian boots for the rest of my life !" 



T. W. 



PROSE AND POETRY. No. I. 



THE FOREIGN MINSTHEL. 



I AM a great street- walker : I have spent days, nay weeks, in 

 doing nothing but strolling about the streets, and, when the humour 

 seizes me, become a perfect vagabond in my courses. Nevertheless 

 I abominate all common thoroughfares and general haunts ; the press 

 and throng, whether of commerce or of fashion, are alike odious in 

 my view ; and Piccadilly and Cheapside are to me forbidden ground. 

 On the contrary, I love to wander in some unfrequented district- 

 along the narrow dull lanes of the City, for instance, on a calm Sab- 

 bath ; or to thread my way through the maze of granaries and bond- 

 ing houses at Rotherhithe, and as I slowly wind between those huge 

 receptacles of mercantile wealth and greatness, rising tier above tier, 

 and darkening the face of heaven to the spot of earth they cover, I 

 delight to muse upon the many ventures and the various arts by 

 which the smallest enjoyments of society are provided, and, while 

 every thing is still and solitary around me, to think upon the many 

 thousand eyes, tongues, and hands, that are sure to animate the 



