so epidemic, as in October. It is a time when, in default of
being conventionally cold, every one becomes intensely cool. A general
chill pervades the domestic virtues: hospitality is aguish, and charity
becomes more than proverbially numb.

In twenty days how different an appearance will things wear! The magic
circle round the hearth will be filled with beaming faces; a score of
hands will be luxuriously chafing the palpable warmth dispensed by a
social blaze; some more privileged feet may perchance be basking in the
extraordinary recesses of the fender. We shall consult the thermometer to
enjoy the cold weather by contrast with the glowing comfort within. We
shall remark how "time flies," and that "it seems only yesterday since we
had a fire before;" forgetful of the hideous night and the troublous
dreams that have intervened since those sweet memories. And all this--in
twenty days.

We are no innovators: we respect all things for their age, and some for
their youth. But we would hope that, in humbly looking for a fire in the
cold weather, even though November be still in the store of time, we
should be exhibiting no dangerous propensities. If, as we are inclined to
believe, fires were discovered previously to the invention of lord mayors,
wherefore should we defer our accession to them until he is welcomed by
those frigid antiquities Gog and Magog? Wherefore not let fires go out
with the old lord mayor, if they needs must come in with the new?
Wherefore not do without lord mayors altogether, and elect an annual grate
to judge the prisoners at the _bar_ in the Mansion House, and to listen to
the quirks of the facetious Mr. _Hob_-ler?

* * * * *

AN APPROPRIATE GIFT.

We perceive that the fair dames of Nottingham have, with compassionate
liberality, presented to Mr. Walter, one of the Tory candidates at the
late election, a silver _salver_. What a delicate and appropriate gift for
a man so beaten as Master Walter!--the pretty dears knew where he was
hurt, and applied a silver salve--we beg pardon, _salver_--to his wounds.
We trust the remedy may prove consolatory to the poor gentleman.

* * * * *

NOT A STEP FA(R)THER.

The diminutive chroniclers of Animalcula-Chatter, called small-talk, have
been giving a minute description of the goings on of His Grace of
Wellington at Walmer. They hint that he sleeps and wakes by clock-work,
eats by the ounce,