BY JONATHAN FANCIFUL, GENT.

Chapter I.

READER! you have surely seen the Pilgrim's Progress; if you have not, there is one of the pleasures of life still awaiting you. Poor Christian's expedition from the City of Destruction through the Slough of Despond, the castle of Giant Despair, and the Valley of the Shadow of Death, are all fixed in my memory as indelibly as-what? Were I a commonplaceman, I would say, as life itself; or were I a lover, as-the colour of my mistress's eye; or, if a poet, as-the excellence of my own verses; or, if a lady, as the consciousness of my own charms; but being, by the favour of the gods, neither one nor other, I think I must let the comparison drop altogether. Nevertheless, the Pilgrim's Progress is an excellent book, and John Bunyan was, beyond all doubt, as great a genius as Homer.

It is odd how one thought suggests another. Now that I have mentioned Homer, I cannot help saying a word or two in favour of these good old times, so different from the more modern in which Bunyan lived and wrote. What halcyon days must those have been for poets, at least for such of them as were anxious for the "bubble reputation," when even a blind ballad-singer, one of their itinerant musicians, has been created Commander-in-chief, or rather Perpetual Dictator, Emperor, or Sultan, over all the rhyming population of the world! How many a nameless poetaster, who, in these degenerate days, plods on his weary way unknown and unregarded, would have obtained some honourable post in the golden age of Homer!

Coleridge, for example, would very possibly have been elected door-keeper to the Muses' Temple, whilst Wordsworth would have perhaps been created chief penmaker to Apollo; Southey might have been Homer's pence-gatherer, and Moore's Irish Melodies would probably have procured him the patronage of Jupiter, the best-natured of all the gods,

Goldsmith.

and, besides, particularly characterized by his fondness for bulls *. Dr Johnson said, that the man who could make a pun would pick a pocket. But what has all this to do with my journey?

Chapter II.

Nothing more easily answered. The excursion I am about to take very naturally recalled to my memory the Pilgrim's Progress, and indeed I at one time intended to have given to this account of my travels a name somewhat similar; if not the Pilgrim's Progress, perhaps the "Author's Progress," or the " Philosopher's Progress," or the "Domestic Man's Progress." Upon consideration, however, the plain title of the "Journey round my Chamber" pleased me better than any of these, and so I have adopted it.

"Methinks, babbler! you should tell us something about the chamber, then," says the gentle reader, forgetting, for a moment, his usual character, and assuming a frown of discontent. My sweet reader, you are right, and shall be gratified; but do not, in the sequel, if you find me giving free reins to imagination, and following the associations of my ideas wherever they choose to lead me, oh! do not scowl unpropitiously on my wandering lucubrations;

Chapter III.

I know that it forms one of the apartments of a house in which I have lived for the last twenty yearsI repeat again, for the last twenty years. The ladies may draw what conclusions they please.

Bless me! has he had a house of his own for twenty years? Pooh! he must be some ancient, disagreeable fellow; who cares for his motions, or journeys, or any thing else?" And forthwith away flies the unfortunate book to some remote corner of the room, there to mingle with a crowd of now-neglected volumes, romances, novels, plays, and poems. They may all of them, too, though now lying dusty and degraded, have once enjoyed the patronage, protection, and even esteem of their fickle mistress. All of them have doubtless been held in her snowy hands, some of them may have rested on her lap, and a few of the more favoured may even have been pressed to her lovely lips, if they contained a name she loved, or a sentiment she admired. How sad is the contrast now!

"On the bare ground expos'd they lie," a prey to the ravenous teeth of the unthinking lap-dog, subject to the devastations of the devouring bookworm, and, in short, the miserable victims of dust, time, and the chamber-maid. Such is the sad fate of books, as well as of their authors.

This is a digression, but a useful one. I must now return to my chamber.

It has two windows, looking in different directions, and from each of them you enjoy a prospect seldom equalled. From my window facing the west, the sea is the principal object; its boundless expanse of waters, for ever in motion, and for ever dashing indignantly against the motionless rocks, never failed to call up feelings of a very peculiar, but not unpleasing kind. This is not my favourite window, when the sun is still in the sky, illuminating the whole world with his beams, and imparting the appearance of life and animation to every production of nature that adorns its surface. At such a time, when the ocean shines one glittering plain of blazing silver, I seldom feel inclined to gaze long on the splendid mirror. But, in the scraphic still

ness of a cloudless summer's evening, when the glare of day has given place to the silent twilight, I have sat for hours together, watching the gradual extinction of the golden streaks of light stretched far away in the western horizon. They suggest a thousand gentle images; and when the moon at last, in her smiling majesty, bursts upon me, and restores to my sight the view of some distant island or wandering vessel, pillowed on the scarcely-heaving tide, and formerly lost amid the shades of evening, my eyes have filled with tears, and I have wept, I know not why.

From my window looking to the north, (the one, I must confess, which I most frequently visit,) the prospect is of another cast. In the foreground, a broad and romantic river rolls magnificently on, bordered with picturesque hamlets, villages, and towns. In the distance, various lochs run far up among the towering mountains which surround them, whose bare and lofty sides smile in uninterrupted solitude and repose, clad in the same garb that Nature gave them at their creation. watch the ever-changing shades of light that flit across these mountains, and linger on these lakes, occupies, daily, a few of, perhaps, my happiest moments.

Chapter IV.

To

Having thus explained what I may term the external advantages of "my chamber," I must now introduce the reader into the interior of this my sanctum sanctorum.

Upon opening my door, probably the first thing which would strike a stranger would be the air of comfort and neatness that pervades the whole.

Looking downwards, he would observe a carpet unspotted by a single stain, and of a colour which I have always regarded as peculiarly agreeable to the eye. It is a mixture of green and yellow, at once lively without being gaudy, and simple without being plain. It looks cool in summer, and comfortable in winter, and is, in short, without exceptiony the best carpet I have ever happened

it also tastefully, but not splendidly ornamented, whilst the walls are covered with a delicate violet-coloured paper.

I detest bare walls; there is nothing upon which one looks with less interest than upon a dead surface, whether it be green, blue, or white. But the little decorations on the paper, the flowers, the leaves, or the figures, which have merely a shape, and nothing else, afford some relief to the eye, and present to the mind some idea or other of a pleasing nature. The French use them universally, and they are in the right.

During summer, my table stands nearly in the middle of the room, covered, betwixt breakfast and dinner, with a green cloth, upon which there is commonly placed a China vase, containing a variety of sweet smelling flowers. This vase, before it has held its situation an hour, is, in general, garnished with the books, which, in the course of that time, have found their way from my library. During the same season, my grate also is adorned with some little fanciful embellishments, which the taste of my worthy maiden sister (to whom part of my house belongs, and who has, in some measure, the management of the whole) may suggest.

Such is the arrangement in summer, but in winter the face of things is considerably altered. The table holds no longer its former station, but is moved forwards till its feet almost touch the rug; the China vase has disappeared, and the embellishments of the grate have given place to the still more substantial ornament of a large blazing fire, crackling, and sparkling, and moving, as if actually possessed of life and animal enjoy

however, which I descry every morning at nine, possesses additional charms, when I recollect that all I see is my own.

You will doubtless expect me to describe this landscape, and you shall not be disappointed.

My table, covered with a pure damask cloth, is a fine representation of an extensive track of champaigne country. In the distance, it is shut in by a ridge of picturesque hills, or, in other words, by a large basket-full of towering rolls. In the foreground, a bowl of refreshing milk sparkles like the cool lake in the midst of the fertile valley; and my coffee-pot looks to me infinitely more enchanting than ever the fons Bandusiæ did to Horace. My fountain contains something more substantial than cold water stained with the blood of kids. The cups, cream-pot, and sugarbasin, surrounding this delightful spot, suggest, of course, the idea of various splendid villas, in the possession of the rich, the proud, and the powerful.

But the object which principally attracts my attention is that most bewitching piece of household furniture which my fancy at once metamorphoses into a gay summer bower, to recline in which the god of night descends from Olympus;—its beauties never decay;-it flourishes equally in summer and in winter;-it is an evergreen-a sweet Elysian bower, or, as erring mortals vulgarly denominate it, a large, comfortable, hairbottomed arm-chair.

Who will tell me, that, with this prospect before me, I ought to envy the monarch who sees stretched before his feet a cringing nation? Do the mighty of the earth ever enjoy the calm repose of an easy chair? Do they relish the delicate flavour of an egg? or, while they sip their coffee,. can they believe it to be a beverage not inferior to the nectar of Jove?

Chapter VI.

"Sed quo me rapis, Bacche ?" I. have not yet commenced my journey, although I have made as many preparations for it as if I were on the point of emigrating to a foreign land. I must really summon up a little courage, and set out at once. X

Smile not, dear reader, for I assure you it requires no ordinary share of resolution to leave my elbow-chair, and my comfortable fireside. Heroes have been known to weep upon leaving their native homes,-their lovely cottage embosomed in trees, the abode of all their youthful affections. Heroes have wept, but I shall be more than a hero. I will bid adieu to the residence of my happiest thoughts and most delightful sensations, and not a tear shall glisten in my eye.

Chapter VII.

Upon rising from my chair, the first object that presents itself is my cat. He will probably be discovered stretched at full length upon the cisalpine side of the fender, having at last found out, though not before crossing several times this important barrier, that he will, upon the whole, repose more comfortably where he now is, than were he to make choice of a station still nearer the fire.

I pity those little-minded persons, though they form a pretty numerous class, who have inconsiderately and foolishly adopted a prejudice against the whole feline race. Upon what grounds this prejudice rests I could never discover. It is undoubtedly true, that those respectable persons, vulgarly termed old maids, have in general a very laudable partiality for cats; and it necessarily follows, that every blushing, giggling girl, who looks forward to a husband, as the grand ultimatum of her wishes, as the "one thing needful," must inevitably display the utmost horror at the very sight of so odious a creature. But all the world knows that this is mere affectation. Suppose (if indeed the supposition is not too overwhelming) that this interesting maiden, "just entered in her teens," should, from some unaccountable cause, be allowed to reach her thirtieth summer, unprovided with a mate, and you will find, that, merely from a want of something to fix her affections on, she will, in all probability, relinquish her ancient animosity, and at the same time that she becomes a man-hater, she will become

a cat-lover.

But the old-maid theory does not account for one-third of the instances

we meet with of the most determined hatred of poor puss. The little urchin, who has newly emerged from petticoats, into all the glory which his first suit of more manly clothes can confer, already begins to manifest his dislike of the fated tribe, by practising every kind of torment upon the wretched kittens which ill luck throws in his way. The school-boy ventures on still bolder attacks. Armed with a switch, on whose darability he can depend, and accompanied by a yelping, insignificant dog, who is, nevertheless, a great favourite, he takes his way, about nightfall, through the streets and byelanes, not less formidable to the poor animals I speak of, than the giants of old were to the wretched damsels whom they chanced to encounter in the course of their rambles.

Examine, too, the history of cats, in every country and in every age, and you will find that they every where are, and have always been, the wretched objects upon which cook-maids have either wreaked their own rage, or upon which they have endeavoured to turn (and often too successfully) the anger of their mistresses. Is a piece of china broken,it was the cat that did the deed. Is a cold chicken amissing,-the vile cat must have been the thief. Has a favourite bird escaped,-the cat must have broken into the cage. Is a new gown unmercifully torn,-the marks of the cat's teeth and horrible claws are still visible. Alas! poor pussy! many a hard blow dost thou bear! many a hungry day dost thou pass, and yet thy misfortunes are unpitied, thy fortitude is unregarded.

But, as Cowper said of his hare, I rejoice to think that one cat at least has lived ignorant of the distresses which generally attend the species.

Moses! thou hast been my companion ever since thou wert a kitten. I taught thee to lap milk almost as soon as thine eyes were opened upon the world; I have lifted thee to my knee while yet thou wert too young to leap up to it thyself. I have allowed thee to take thy station nightly at the lower end of my bed, and the gratitude which thy gentle purring expressed has often enabled me to sleep more soundly.

"Is this Moses really a cat?" ex