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9, 1861.] his mistress in his hand. But neither prince nor princess had many scruples, political or moral. And looking to what happened afterwards to the whole family, and how near at hand was the time when the Prince of Orange was to drive his aforesaid father-in-law before him out of his own kingdom, the reception given to Monmouth, and the favours lavished on Lady Henrietta, cannot excite much astonishment.

Picture, then, this gallant and captivating youth,—for at this time he was only thirty-five—whose dazzling presence extinguished all rivalry at Whitehall, and who, De Grammont tells us, was the universal terror of all husbands and lovers, employed in the tenderest dalliance at the court of the Hague, teaching the princess new country dances, walking with her every day for hours together on the Mall, and teaching her to skate by the express desire of the prince. The picture is striking; but it would be imperfect without its pendant, which, while this handsome reprobate was at the Hague, shows us his father, the King of England, abandoning himself at Blanket Fair to midnight orgies, over which decent history drops a curtain!

A few years onward bring us to the sequel of these events culminating in the frost of January 1688. The last days of James II. are coming. The rabble are demolishing Popish chapels, and the town houses of the Popish gentry, not sparing even that of the Spanish Ambassador, which they pillage. The Prince of Orange has advanced as far as Windsor. James takes shipping for France, but is obliged to put in for ballast at Faversham, where he is so ill-treated by the populace that he returns to London. It is the fight of a rat with his back to the wall. Seeing that nothing is for it but to put the best face he can upon his helplessness, he sends the General of his forces to “invite” the Prince of Orange to St. James’s. But the General, coming without passport or trumpet, is detained, and the King is warned to retire. James takes this message in dudgeon, but steals off, nevertheless, privately to Rochester, from whence he is persuaded to return, and then does a brave thing. His last struggle. He dines in public, and has a Jesuit to say mass. The next night a council; the next day a second flight to Rochester, and from thence to France, and all is over. The Prince of Orange holds court at St. James’s, and all the world is there, admiring and wondering, and speculating upon his stately reserve and Dutch phlegm. And all this time it is freezing bitterly in the basin of the Thames.

Another revolution of years, and another frost, of seven weeks’ duration, in the winter of 1694-5. In 1715-16, the Thames was frozen from the 24th November to the 9th February. An ox was roasted near Hungerford Stairs, booths were erected, and the sports of the fair of 1684 revived.

Of still more alarming proportions was the Great Frost, so called from its extraordinary intensity and long continuance. It lasted from Christmas Day, 1739, till the 17th of February following, when it began to thaw, and took nearly the rest of the month to disappear. The aspect of the river was like a model in the raw material of some select nook in the Arctic Regions, being covered with icebergs, rising on all sides in gigantic masses. A vast frost fair, rivalling the carnival of 1684, was speedily set in motion, a printing press established, and an ox killed in solemn form by a butcher in a rich laced cambric apron, a silver steel, and a fine hat and feathers, who claimed the office by inheritance, his father having killed the ox that was roasted in 1684, and he having been himself the executioner in 1715. The productions of the press, or presses—for there were evidently more than one—appear to have been rather numerous, and to have consisted, for the most part, of metrical scraps, inclosed in copper-plate borders, representing views of the fair, or fantastical designs. One of these legends will be enough as a sample. It will be seen that it was printed as far down the river as Queenhithe:

1739-40. Behold the liquid Thames now frozen o’er,

That lately ships of mighty burthen bore;

Here you may print your name, tho’ cannot write,

Cause numbed with cold; ’tis done with great delight,

And lay it by, that ages yet to come,

May see what things upon the ice were done.

, aged 6.

Printed on the Ice upon the Thames, at Queenhithe, January the 29th, 1739-40.

On this occasion coals and water rose to a fabulous price, and the poor were reduced to the last extremity of distress. The watermen and fishermen went about the streets, carrying a peter-boat draped in mourning, and carpenters, gardeners, and numerous other workmen made long dismal processions through the town, exhibiting their useless implements also in mourning, and singing doleful frozen-out ditties. The breaking up of this stupendous frost was as disastrous as might have been expected from the peculiarities of its formation. The ice was rent in enormous masses, and drifted away with the rising stream; and early on the following morning the inhabitants of the west side of London Bridge were amazed to see detached settlements of booths, shops, and huts, of different shapes and sizes, without a human being in them, floating down under their windows, and dashing with violence against the arches below. Many of the houses, and portions of the bridge, suffered considerable damage.

In 1768 and 1785 the river was again frozen; but no further attempt was made at an ice festival till 1788-9, when there was a clear seven weeks’ frost, from November to January. Most of the features of the previous years were repeated, and travelling menageries were added to the attractions. The ice was practicable from shore to shore at the lower reach of the river opposite the Custom House; but, notwithstanding the extent of surface frozen, the thaw came so rapidly that the lives of thousands of persons were placed in jeopardy by the terror and confusion it produced. As the ice cracked and broke away down the stream, many ships were torn away from their moorings, and a house at Rotherhithe was lifted from its foundations.

The last time the Thames was frozen over was in 1814. Violent storms of snow, and north-easterly winds, accompanied by an intense frost,