"Great events sometimes spring from trivial causes," of the truth of this adage, no man is, I think, so great a heretic, as to express any doubt—were such the case, it would be by no means difficult to conjure up a host of evidence, in support of our proposition; but, seeing that "such things are," let us at once to the point.

The present age is so rife in whims and proposals, that I am rather apprehensive, some may doubt the feasibility of the following. Nevertheless, it is, methinks, quite as good, as many others which recently were strangled, in struggling for existence.

In looking over some old pamphlets the other day, I met with the following "true and particular account" of Mr. Peter Pounce, Postmaster, of Petersham, and his horse, Prance.

Now, according to my author (of whose veracity I entreat the reader to use his own discretion) it seems this Mr. Pounce was an exceedingly good kind of man, and that his horse, Prance, was also an exceedingly good kind of horse; moreover, when the postmaster travelled, he usually put up at the George, where there is exceeding good entertainment for both man and horse. Upon one occasion, being in great haste, Mr. Pounce directed the ostler not to put Prance into the stable, but to tie him to the brew-house door. Now, as cruel fate would have it, there was just within the nag's reach, a tub full of wine lees, which, luckless moment for him, (being thirsty) he unceremoniously quaffed off in a trice, without even here's to you.

The consequence was, Prance fell down dead drunk; nay, he acted death so much to the life, that his master, reckoning him absolutely defunct, had him flayed, and sold his skin to a tanner, who happened to be drinking in the alehouse kitchen. Mr. Pounce then walked in a solitary mood to his home, and communicated the melancholy affair to his good lady, who wept bitterly at Prance's untimely fate.

But leaving her to dry her eyes, we return to the nag—the weather being cold, he was by the loss of his skin, &c. quite sobered, and prudently trotted to his master's door, at which he whinnied with much clamour for admission.

Bless me, my dear, exclaims Mrs. P. our nag's ghost is at the door—I know him by his whinnies; upon which Mr. Pounce runs with alacrity to the door, and sure enough there he was—no ghost—but in propriâ personâ except his skin. In this exigence, the gentleman had four sheep killed forthwith, and covered the nag with a woollen garment. To make short of it, the horse rapidly recovered, and bore two tods of wool every year.

From this narration it is proposed to embrace the manifest advantages which offer themselves for improving the woollen trade—that great staple of Britain's wealth, in manner following:—

First, then, let an accurate estimate be taken of the number of sheep annually slaughtered in these kingdoms.

Secondly.—Let proper officers be appointed to collect these skins into commodious warehouses.

Lastly.—That such a number of horses, mares, and geldings as the said skins will conveniently cover, be flayed (without fear of Mr. Martin!) and their backs forthwith enveloped in fleece.

By this arrangement the following benefits will arise to the government and community:—

1. Every horse whose hide was formerly only useful after death, will then afford an annual profit by producing two tods of wool yearly, without any loss to the tanner or shoemaker, who will still necessarily have as many hides as heretofore.

2. The health of that useful animal the horse, which is probably liable to more disorders than any other (the human species excepted) will be much better preserved by woollen than a hairy covering.

3. There will be little occasion for saddles, &c. as the fleece will afford a very easy seat, much softer than leather, and well adapted for ladies and invalids.

Lastly.—There will be an annual acquisition of about 40 millions sterling, from this novel mode of procedure, of which please to accept the following algebraical demonstration:—

Let x be the unknown quantity; a, the horses; b, the sheep; then per simple equations x, plus a, plus b, minus tods, plus sheepskins, equal one thousand—then minus sheep, plus horses, minus wool, plus tods, equal one million. Lastly, horses plus sheep, minus hides, plus fleeces, in all equal forty millions.

Quod erat demonstrandum.

There, reader, if you are still a sceptic, I cannot help it.

JACOBUS.

ANSWER OF THE LONDON STONE. 2

(For the Mirror.)

Why hast thou mortal, on my slumber broken, And dragged my struggling spirit back to earth? Though "walls have ears," yet stones have never spoken. Why am I made the object of thy mirth? Why am I questioned thus to tell my fate, And primal use? Yet hear—whilst I relate. When time was young, and earth was in her prime, Secure I slept within her spacious womb; And ages passed—I took no heed of time, Until some Druid burst my dismal tomb, And dragged me forth amidst the haunts of man. And then, indeed my life of woe began. And ere great Caesar in triumphant pride, Led on by conquest, bade Rome's eagles soar To this fair isle; full many a victim died Upon my breast, and I was drenched with gore: For "midst the tangling horrors of the wood," I stood an altar, stained with human blood. I've witnessed scenes, which I now dread to name, I've seen the captive bound in wicker rods Expire, midst shouts, to feed the sacred flame, And glut the fury of offended gods; Those days soon passed—the gospel's milder ray Dispelled the gloom, and spread a brighter day. Then superstition tottered on her throne, And hid her head in shades of gloomy night; Quenched were her fires—her impious fanes o'er thrown, Her mists dispersed before the Prince of Light, Then sank my grandeur; in some lonely spot I slept for years unnoticed and forgot. Until Vespasian, by Rome's stern command, To quench rebellion in my native isle, Brought his bold legions from a foreign strand, Our land to torture, and our towers to spoil; He hewed me in a fashion now unknown, And dubbed me, what I am, "The London Stone." From me, the miles by Britons once were counted, Close to my side were monies lent and paid; If princes died—some gaudy herald mounted Upon my head, and proclamations read; Till Gresham rose; who used me very ill, He moved the place of commerce to Cornhill. When reeling homewards from the tavern near, Oft with prince Henry has old honest Jack Sat on my breast, and I've been doomed to hear Him talk of valour, and of unpaid sack; And whilst he talked, the roysterers gave vent, To peals of laughter and of merriment. Yes, I'm the hone that "City's Lord" essayed, To make the whetstone of his rebel sword; On me, with mischief rife, rebellious Cade Sat whilst he thought and dubbed himself a Lord; And bade my conduit pipe for one whole year At city's cost, run naught but claret clear.3 I could a tale of harrowing woes reveal, Whilst York and Lancaster for mastery tried: When men the ties of nature ceased to feel, When sires beneath their offsprings' sabres died; And sires 'gainst children clad themselves in arms, And England mourned the din of war's alarms. Yes, I beheld the beauteous virgin queen, And all the dauntless heroes of her court; Where danger threatened, 'midst the danger seen, Bending their fearless way to Tilbury Fort; I heard the shouts of joy which Britons gave, When th' Armada sank beneath the wave. I mind, Augusta,4 well that fatal day, When to thy ports with dire contagion fraught. The laden vessel5 stemmed its gallant way. And to thy sons the plague disastrous brought; Quick through thy walls the foul infection spread, And thou became the city of the dead. Scarce ceased the plague—when to my aching sight Appeared a scene of most terrific woe; Around me burnt one monstrous blaze of light, I warmed, and almost melted with its glow; I burst the chains,6 which bound me fast, asunder, And now remain, to learned men a wonder. And when the city from her ruins rose, I soon was left deserted and forlorn; A porters' bench was raised beneath my nose. And I became the object of their scorn: I've heard the rascals, with a vacant stare, Ask, just like you, what business I had there? Few years have passed, since I, by parish sages, Was called a monstrous nuisance to the street, And, though I'd borne the brunt of varying ages, Was doomed for pavement 'neath the horses' feet, Until a Maiden,7 near to Sherborne Lane, Saved me—and rescued London from that stain. And now, vain mortal, I have told thee all, My fate, my primal use, the what and which; And though my struggling spirit owned thy salt, Once more I'll slumber in my holy niche, And "Britain's sun may set," what's that to me, Since I, stone-blind and dumb, for aye will be.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 359, March 7, 1829

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CHOICE HINTS FOR A PLAN TO DISCHARGE THE NATIONAL DEBT

(For the Mirror.)

ANSWER OF THE LONDON STONE. 2

(For the Mirror.)

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