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and the arrival of the hot water ; during which, of course, it is of “no use" to get up. The hot water comes. “ Is it quite hot ?" “ Yes, sir.” “Perhaps too hot for shaving; I must wait a little ?" “No, sir; it will just do." (There is an over-nice propriety sometimes, an officious zeal of virtue, a little troublesome.) “Oh, the shirt-you must air my clean shirt ; linen gets very damp this weather.” “Yes, sir.” Here another delicious five minutes. A knock at the door. “Oh, the shirt-very well. My stockings- I think the stockings had better be aired too." “Very well, sir." Here another interval. At length everything is ready except myself. I now (continues our incumbent)--a happy word, by the bye, for a country vicar)—“ I now cannot help thinking a good deal—who can ?-upon the unnecessary and villainous custom of shaving : it is a thing so unmanly (here I nestle closer)---so effeminate (here I recoil from an unlucky step into the colder part of the bed). No wonder that the Queen of France took part with the rebels against that degenerate king, her husband, who first affronted her smooth visage with a face like her own. The Emperor Julian never showed the luxuriancy of his genius to better advantage than in reviving the flowing beard. Look at Cardinal Bembo's picture - at Michael Angelo's — at Titian's -- at Shakspeare's - at Fletcher's—at Spenser's—at Chaucer's--at Alfred's—at Plato's. I could name a great man for every tick of my watch. Look at the Turks, a grave and otiose people. Think of Haroun al Raschid, and bed-ridden Hassan. Think of Wortley Montague, the worthy son of his mother, a man above the prejudice of his time. Look at the Persian gentlemen, whom one is ashamed of meeting about the suburbs, their dress and appearance are so much finer than our own. Lastly, think of the razor itself-how totally opposed to every sensation of bed-how cold, how edgy, how hard ! how utterly different from anything like the warm and circling amplitude, which
“Sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses !”.
Add to this, benumbed fingers, which may help you to cut yourself, a quivering body, a frozen towel, and an ewer full of ice ; and he that says there is nothing to oppose in all this, only shows, at any rate, that he has no merit in opposing it.
Thomson the poet, who exclaims in his “ Seasons
“Falsely luxurious ! Will not man awake?”
used to lie in bed till noon, because he said he had no motive in getting up. He could imagine the good of rising ; but then he could also imagine the good of lying still; and his exclamation, it must be allowed, was made upon summer-time, not winter. We must proportion the argument to the individual character. A money-getter may be drawn out of his bed by three and fourpence; but this will not suffice for a student. A proud man may say,
“What shall I think of myself if I don't get up?" but the more humble one will be content to waive this prodigious notion of himself, out of respect to his kindly bed. The mechanical man shall get up without any ado at all; and so shall the barometer. An ingenious lier in bed will find hard matter of discussion even on the score of health and longevity. He will ask us for our proofs and precedents of the ill effects of lying later in cold weather; and sophisticate much on the advantages of an even temperature of body ; of the natural propensity (pretty universal) to have one's way; and of the animals that roll themselves up, and sleep all the winter. As to longevity, he will ask whether the longest life is of necessity the best; and whether Holborn is the handsomest street in London,
We only know of one confounding, not to say confounded argument, fit to overturn the huge luxury, the “enormous bliss," of the vice in question. A lier in bed may be allowed to profess a disinterested indifference for his health or longevity; but while he is showing the reasonableness of consulting his own, or one person's comfort, he must admit the proportionate claim of more than one ; and the best way to deal with himn is
this, especially for a lady ; for we earnestly recommend the use of that sex on such occasions, if not somewhat over-persuasive ; since extremes have an awkward knack of meeting. First then, admit all the ingeniousness of what he says, telling him that the bar has been deprived of an excellent lawyer. Then look at him in the most good-natured manner in the world, with a mixture of assent and appeal in your countenance, and tell him that you are waiting breakfast for him; that you never like to breakfast without him; that you really want it too; that the servants want theirs; that you shall not know how to get the house into order, unless he rises ; and that you are sure he would do things twenty times worse even than getting out of his warm bed, to put them all into good humour and a state of comfort. Then, after having said this, throw in the comparatively indifferent matter, to him, about his health ; but tell him that it is no indifferent matter to you; that the sight of his illness makes more people suffer than one ; but that if, nevertheless, he really does feel so very sleepy and so very much refreshed by—Yet stay ; we hardly know whether the fraility of a- -Yes, yes ; say that too, especially if you say it with sincerity ; for if the weakness of human nature on the one hand, and the vis inertiæ on the other, should lead him to take advantage of it once or twice, good-humour and sincerity form an irresistible junction at last ; and are still better and warmer things than pillows and blankets.
Other little helps of appeal may be thrown in, as occasion requires. You may tell a lover for instance, that lying in bed makes people corpulent ; a father, that you wish him to complete the fine manly example he sets his children ; a lady, that she will injure, her bloom or her shape, which M. or W. admires so much ; and a student or artist, that he is always so glad to have done a good day's work in his best manner.
Reader. And pray, Mr Indicator, how do you behave yourself in this respect ?
Indicator. Oh, madam, perfectly, of course ; like all advisers. Reader. Nay, I allow that your mode of argument does not look quite so suspicious as the old way of sermonising and severity, but I have my doubts, especially from that laugh of yours. If I should look in to-morrow morning
Indicator. Ah, madam, the look in of a face like yours does anything with me. It shall fetch me up at nine, if you please
six, I meant to say.
HATS, NEW AND ANCIENT,
E know not what will be thought of our taste in so im
portant a matter, but we must confess we are not
fond of a new hat. There is a certain insolence about it: it seems to value itself upon its finished appearance, and to presume upon our liking before we are acquainted with it. In the first place, it comes home more like a marmot, or some other living creature, than a manufacture. It is boxed up, and wrapped in silver paper, and brought delicately. It is as sleek as a lap-dog. Then we are to take it out as nicely, and people are to wonder how we shall look in it. Maria twitches one this way, and Sophia that, and Caroline that, and Catharine t'other. We have the difficult task, all the while, of looking easy, till the approving votes are pronounced : our only resource (which is also difficult) is to say good things to all four; or to clap the hat upon each of their heads, and see what pretty milk-women they make. At last the approving votes are pronounced ; and (provided it is fine) we may go forth. But how uncasy the sensation about the head! How unlike the old hat, to which we had become used, and which must now make way for this fop of a stranger! We might do what we liked with the former. Dust, rain, a gale of wind, a fall, a squeeze,--nothing affected it. It was a true friend, a friend for all weathers. Its appearance only was against it : in everything else it was the better for wear. But if the roads or the streets are too dry, the new