passage affords a fair text of the mind of the
man who is now warning us—as others, many
of them better educated in their day, and less
presumptuous in tone—have warned those who
lived before us concerning scores of other years,
"that eighteen sixty-seven is to be the great
crisis, the testing crisis in the events of history,
in the fulfilment of prophecy, and in the
experience of man." The words overweigh the
meaning even in that little sentence; but to any
one who seeks a certain sort of notoriety, it is a
blessing to be round-mouthed.

The last of the wiseacres, of course reminds
us that the prophets have been stoned. Every
simpleton who is discredited, is free to talk of
Galileo; every quackery, from the Mortality Pill
upward and downward, expects ridicule, and is
resigned to it as the fate of truth that shines before
its day. Ridicule suffered by the wise and true
men of our race has been the shield worn ostentatiously
by every quack for the last century or two.
But for a single word, we do not know whether
we read from the works of Holloway or Morison,
or Hahneman or Doctor Cumming, or a
Spirit-Rapper, when we find a preface ending
with "I need not add that, like all my previous
volumes on prophecy, this will receive plenty of
that style of secular criticism which consists in
scoffs, ridicule, and caricatures." For prophecy
and secular we may read pills and regular, or
homœopathy and allopathic, or spiritualism and
secular, but the rest of the form is but the old
stereotype. It is gross arrogance for a man to
add upon a question about his own speculations,
as the writer here does, that "the world cannot
endure the truths of prophecy." Humble
endeavour at interpretation—and what labour
demands humility so much?—wins the respect
due to it. But when a man puts forward his
own ostentatious claim to be of the school of
the Prophets—even although he has the
moderation to be satisfied with a bargain of the
impossibility of lasting credit, for a seven years'
lease of certain notoriety that shall expire when
in due course his promissory note upon the future
is dishonoured—he attracts a notice by which he
must not hope always to be flattered.

OUR EYE-WITNESS ON THE ICE.

ONCE every year, the earth suffers from a
seizure of a violent and savage nature, which
brings hidden benefits with it, but administers
them with a rough hand: much as a man might
fling a purse of gold at your head, hitting you a
nasty knock, while he conveyed at the same time
certain advantages compensating for the
accompanying thump.

This attack—it is called a Frost—is sometimes
but an affair of a day or two in and about London;
sometimes it lasts for weeks together; while
sometimes it comes and goes, and hangs about
us like an intermittent fever. It is, however,
always sudden in assault. A short warning of
unusual fog and darkness is given, and lo! we
wake one morning at five, while it is yet dark;
we say, "It has turned suddenly cold;" we
hear the subsiding crack of the fuel of our long-
extinguished fire as it sinks together; we stretch
out a reluctant arm for our wadded dressing-
gown, and make use of it as a supplementary
blanket. Nay, we harpoon towards us the
shooting-jacket from the chair by the bedside,
and bivouac under that also, and, in spite of all,
and after all, we find that "we can't get to sleep
again for the cold."

The symptoms develop rapidly: the London
boys outside give tongue, and though thinly
clad, shout to each other in congratulation
on this opportunity of effecting much slide-
mischief on the pavement; the New-road is dotted
with fallen horses; the cabs move at a foot pace;
the water is hard to come at; the pipes are frozen
and roar all day, meaning to burst when the
thaw comes; the wet towels on the horse by the
window, become stiff with ice; and a variety of
other inconveniences occur which cause the
human race generally to be slow in rising from
bed, to be prone to good living, to get grimy
about the knuckles, to be apt to graze the same
against angles of furniture, to feel sore in the
eyes and torpid towards evening, and to make
the best possible excuses for a second glass of
punch before retiring for the night. In short,
it is undeniable that of the four elements the
air has the best of it now. It has locked
the earth and the water up tight, and even the
fire cannot hold its own, and affects a very small
circle just round about it, and no more.

It is not long before rumours go forth that
the Serpentine—or, as some will have it, the
Circontime—will bear, and away rushes the
populace to disport itself upon the broad expanse
of its waters, or to stand in safety on the shore,
scoffing at the misfortunes of its more venturesome
members. Away rushes the populace, and,
after them, away rushes the Eye-witness, to
take note of the predominant characteristics
of the scene.

Peppermint and oranges are the predominant
characteristics. Hot, fiery, appetite-destroying
peppermint, and cold, pale, grief-engendering
oranges. It is impossible to stir five paces, without
coming in contact with a tray full of peppermint
drops, or a basket lined with blue paper to set off
its cargo of oranges. There is evidently a reaction
of the stomach contemplated in this provision.
The orange, which is hideously unripe
and cold, produces such internal anguish
that the consumer of it rushes off for peppermint
to allay his torment; while the heated
diaphragm of the peppermint eater calls loudly
within him for the ever near orange. Nay, in some
cases, there are to be found humane men who
sell the bane and antidote together, having
a division in their baskets with oranges on one
side and peppermint drops on the other.

These two articles of consumption having it
all their own way, it follows that the vendor of
three-cornered tarts with a dab of jam couchant,
in a field of pale paste, must come off second best,
while the purveyors of gingerbread, roasted
chesnuts, oily Brazil nuts, and even of hot elder