bodies worn-out clothes belonging to our
ancestors; we ought to be too wise to clothe
our rninds in their worn-out opinions.

Then we will take up a volume which
contains the numbers of Moore's Almanack
for several years, ranging between thirty and
forty years ago, bound up together. It
happens to have annotations in it, out of
which we deduce the fact, that these numbers
belonged to a lady who enriched the pages
of her Almanack with a few facts out of the
life about her. She has inserted the dates
of the marriages, deaths, and interments that
took place among her acquaintance; she has
carefully noted, every year, on what days the
bees swarmed; she was evidently—as we see
by her entries—housekeeper in the country
seat of a noble lord, who came down
occasionally with his noble lady and
received guests and went away again, leaving
the Almanack-keeper and bee-keeper in
charge. She could not have been young nor
popular among the household, since we find
among her events such chronicles as "This
day John Bunter told me I was an old trump,
and that half what I said was lies." No
doubt she registered the insult in her
Almanack promising herself not to scratch it
out until she was avenged. Against another
date she writes, " This day William Jones
went: a good journey to him, and now I shall
have no more of his imperdince." The
impudence of Jones, and certain things that
passed between her and my lord concerning
it, had also been chronicled, but are unhappily
obliterated by the binder.

On certain pages there occur mysterious
entries, which consist of the simple phrase,
"Lord Coal's Fidler," or "Lord Coal's Mr.
Wilkins," with a written date annexed, from
which we might conclude that the old lady
had a tender feeling for a musical gentleman
attached to a neighbouring establishment
and registered the days on which he came
to take tea in her parlour. This theory,
however, is overturned by the still better-
founded theory that a certain Mr. Micks,
who makes irregular appearances, coming
and going like a comet, and whose coining
and going are always set down in the
Almanack, is the husband of the housekeeper.
Whenever his arrival is entered, there follow
always on the next succeeding dates, thick
and fast, such entries as " A mixture," " A
journey," " A plasture," " This day a seaton
was put in Mr. Micks's back;" from which
we conclude either that Mr. Micks was an
unhealthy subject, or that his wife had a
design upon his life, and called the apothecary
to her aid, keeping at the same time,
however, an account of what poison she got from
him, as a prudent check upon his Christmas
bill. The Almanack does not, however, go
on to inform us that Mr. Micks died, to add
the date of his interment, or to say afterwards
whether on any day Mrs. Micks was
married to Lord Coal his fiddler.

Now we must quit the subject of these
personal associations and be stern. Here
is the year 1815. O thou dull Moore, or are
the stars dull, that they don't exult in the
"æstival or summer quarter," over an event
worthy to be boded in the skies?—if skies
bode anything at all beyond immediate
probabilities of fine or rainy weather. For the
æstival quarter of the year 1815, Moore's
Almanack predicts that " A certain emperor
seems gaining ground, and in favour with
the French nation or French Government, to
the mortification of a certain exalted family.
The arms of England will be mostly successful
or victorious, notwithstanding Britannia has
been, and may be still, in mourning for
many sons," &c. For October, 1815, the
astrologer saw " Some glimmering hope of
bettering our Misfortunes, and converting
our Fears into more peaceful and better days."
For November he suggested " Expectation
of better things, but perhaps not the things
themselves." O Francis Moore, in what
November fog were future things enveloped
when you strained forward to catch sight of
the great deeds of 1815—the fall of Napoleon,
the close of war, and the commencement of
another epoch in the story of the world—and
yet could do no more than all your neighbours
did, expect better things, or rather not
the things themselves, whatever they might
be, but you expected expectation of them.

Now let us be methodical; and, beginning
with the year 1840, follow the prophet through
the ways of history so far as he adverts to
them, and we have leisure to apply a test to
his fore-knowledge. We are soon perplexed
by finding that our Moore is by no means of
a free and open nature. He certainly takes
pains not to commit himself. After the usual
moralities (might we venture to say, Moore-
alities) by way of preface, the great Astrologer
informs us solemnly, as his judgment
for the year 1840, that " On taking a
prospective review of the various motions and
relative positions of the heavenly bodies,
together with the probable effects deduced
therefrom, there is reason to anticipate "—
breathless expectation hurries to read on,—
"that the year 1840 will be chequered with
many events, both as respects nations and
individuals." Certainly, ditferent things
happened in the year 1840, and it is true that
events occurred to individuals as well as
nations. The relative positions of the heavenly
bodies did not, up to that point, mislead
the sagacity of Francis Moore, Physician.
There will be wars, he says, and rumours of
wars, which " relate at this time to Russia,
poor Poland, fine but brutalised Spain,
Portugal, Holland, and Egypt." Well, there
was Beyrout bombarded in that year, and
Saint Jean d'Acre fell; the war in Syria—
which country the stars did not name—related
certainly to Egypt. The other countries,
so far as war was concerned, went on in
their usual way; but the King of Holland