le,--Sir George and Lady Whitmore, Mrs.
Stopford, Mrs. Nugent, the Bully's, and various others, to the amount
of 150. I acted the 'Great Frost' with considerable effect. Jerdan,
Planche, Nichols, Holmes and wife, Lane, Crofton Croker, Giffard,
Barrow. The Whitmore family sang beautifully; all went off well."

The part of the Great Frost to which Hook alludes was in a masque,
written for the occasion, and printed and sold in the rooms, for the
benefit of the Royal Literary Fund; and among the record of miscellaneous
benefactions to this most admirable charity are registered--"Christmas
masquers and mummers at the Pryor's Bank, Fulham, the seat of Thomas
Baylis, Esq., F.S.A., and William Lechmere Whitmore, F.S.A. (1840), 3
pounds 12s. 6d." Thus carrying out in deed as well as act the benevolent
feelings of the season.

What little plot there was in this production had reference to the
season, the house in which it was performed, and temporary events.
Egomet, an imp, most piquantly personified by Mr. John Barrow, opened the
affair in a moralising strain prophetically applicable to the moment.

After stating who and what he was, he starts:--

"But I'm all over wonder.
Surely the kitchen must be somewhere under?
But where's _the_ room?--the matchless little chamber,
With its dark ceiling, and its light of amber--
That fairy den, by Price's pencil drawn,
Enchantment's dwelling-place? 'Tis gone--'Tis gone!
The times are changed, I said, and men grown frantic,
Some cross in steamboats o'er the vast Atlantic;
Some whirl on railroads, and some fools there are
Who book their places in the pendant car
Of the great Nassau--monstrous, big balloon!
Poor lunatics! they think they'll reach the moon!
All onward rush in one perpetual ferment,
No rest for mortals till they find interment;
Old England is not what it once has been,
Dogs have their days, and we've had ours, I ween.
The country's gone! cut up by cruel railroads,
They'll prove to many nothing short of jail-roads.
The spirit vile of restless innovation
At Fulham e'en has taken up his station.
I landed here, on Father Thames's banks,
To seek repose, and rest my wearied shanks;
Here, on the grass, where once I could recline,
Like a huge mushroom springs this mansion fine.
Astounding work! but yesterday 'twas building;
And now what armour, carving, painting, gilding!