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them with a mill somewhat bigger and stronger than a maltmill, but of the same kind of make, with a hopper upon it, which will hold a good deal more than a bushel.
This mill should be placed in some corner of the coal-cellar, and the coals, which are laid in for the use of the family, may be just a fourth part of the quantity which they formerly burnt. And whereas it is usual at present, for people to chuse out the largest and most lumpy coal they can get, the fittest for their purpose in this new improvement, will be the smallest and most broken, even, if possible, the very sifting of the Wharfinger's coal-heaps.
The coal, when laid into the cellar, must, as leisure and opportunity offer, be ground down in the mill, by the labour of some servant or a workman, who may be hired for the purpose. The mill must be set so as to grind very fine, for the smaller the powder, the fitter for the business. And if any coals are too big for the teeth of the mill, it will be easy for the workman to break them with a mallet, and thereby reduce them to a size more convenient.
While the coal is thus grinding, and laid up in a readiness in one corner of the cellar, some Lightermen, Ballastmen, or Bargemen, must be agreed with for a quantity of that black owsy mud, which is common on both sides the Thames, from low-water-mark to the banks of the river, and which may also be met with in all ponds, canals, and the ditches of Gardeners, Whitsers, and marsh-lands, which abound beyond number in the fat grounds below bridge.
It is to be noted, that, for the better conveniency of carriage, the owse may be thrown up to dry in round heaps, above highwater-mark, by which means, when the lighters deliver it to carmen, they may bring it in sacks, or without, at their pleasure.
When the owse and the coal are both ready in the cellar, the workman must mix them as follows: To every shovel-full of the powder of coal, he must throw in three shovels full of owse, and work, beat, and mingle them together, till he has got a large heap in the middle of the cellar. He must then make a hollow in the top of the heap, and pour in a quantity of water, just enough to give moistness and consistence to the mixture; after which, he must hack, beat and labour it together with the edges and back of a spade, till it is thoroughly prepared, and will cut close like wax.
He must then, with his hands, make it up into balls, about the size of a large cannon bullet, and lay them to dry, in the manner of pyramids, that the air passing easily through the hollows, between ball and ball, may harden and fit them for the use they are made for.
For the better comprehending all this, we have represented the several parts of the work in a cut, Number 2,
We have narrowly searched, by experience, into the charges and the benefits of this new fuel: the expence in the whole, brings the Culm-balls, when fit for the fire, to less than four pence per bushel, supposing the coals to be furnished at the best hand, and in the summer season; and yet, for pleasure, for heat, for long burning, and cleanliness, one bushel of this is worth
two of sea-coal.
The figure of a fire made of Culm-balls, is exactly what you see in the cut. The owse is so fat and so naturally combustible, that it is impossible for any thing to burn with so striking a liveliness; it throws out a forcible, glowing, and regular heat; it continues to burn from six to eight hours, with scarce any visible lessening and it neither falls out through the grate, like small dusty coals, nor makes any foul smoke, or heavy dark ashes, but goes off to the last with a clear sprightly brightness.
Every thing, we know, is a difficulty to the doubtful. And we are sensible (though nothing can be more plain and practicable,) that most private families will be backward in changing a method made easy and established by custom we therefore, in a more particular manner recommend this improvement to Wharf-men, and those who sell coals; they have very convenient situations for the business, for the owse here required lies every way round them, and they may not only draw an unthought-of profit to themselves from the practice, but be also a means of great service to the poor, and a pleasure to all men.
If ever the use of this new sort of fuel should gain ground, and grow general, the City of London has in its neighbourhood an inexhaustible magazine of the owse we have been speaking of, which was occasioned by the great breach at Dagenham, which has many years drowned a large parcel of land, insomuch,' that at present there are twelve hundred acres overflowed every tide, and all covered high with a new surface of owse, whose extraordinary fertility has shot up a forest of reeds, flags, and rushes, of a monstrous 'height; and the roots are so thick and deep in the earth, that for eight or ten inches, the top being paired away, and cut into squares, of the shape and size of halfa brick, would become, when grown dry, the best fuel in the world, without mixture, being half wood and half turf; and as any man by computation will presently see, (supposing the earth to be paired but six inches down, which is not half what it has gained since the breach,) the fuel so obtained upon every acre, would be more than ten thousand bushels; which, at three pence per bushel, were a profit of above a hundred pounds from each acre, and the land all the while not damaged to the value
of a farthing; so that a very odd paradox might arise from the acccident, that the owners of this land might make far greater profit by it, in its present ruined condition, than they could have reaped when it was at its best common value.
THE NARRATOR.-No. X.
EXAMPLES OF ANCIENT AND MODERN GALLANTRY.
Our Dames of old, held such attractive charms,
I was forced the other day into an unpleasant train of reflections, while seeing several of our fair countrywomen obstructed in their pedestrial progressions, by a cluster of gay young men, who, linked ARM-IN-ARM, like a strong chain impelled by a machinal power, drove all before them, thrusting those over the curb-stones of the common pavement, who should have been regarded with respect, if not with some show of gallantry. Our fore-fathers would not have acted in a way so unmanly, this rude habit of lug-puppy was totally unknown to them, and before they had disgraced themselves like the dandies of the present day, they would have given way to the softer sex, even though they had retreated into the soil of the common channel.
No deeds of honour lift our sons to praise,
Their loves are chang'd, where honour never strays.
Thus our manners are quite altered, and the respect shewn to our great-grandmothers forgotten, for folly-prodigality—and brutality. As there is no legitimate law to arraign, no scourge of justice to correct the evil, let us try what the strictures of the pen can effectuate.
The days of chivalry are gone by,' as Mr. Burke has emphatically described it, and the degeneracy of Englishmen has led them to stifle pure affection with the mercenary plea of their own necessities; true gallantry is now no more to be found among us, than integrity with itinerant pedlars; our youths pervade the public way, coupled like quadrupeds in a stage waggon, overwhelming the image of their mothers, and treating the female with less respect than the cur that follows at their heels. Matrimony is disregarded, except for interested ends :-true love has plumed his wings, and flies to enlighten the population of more unpolished nations.
If, for a few centuries, we turn back the pages of our own history, we shall find the scene greatly changed :--the female was then infinitely more respected, and her charms could mould the gallant into almost any form modesty and virtue might advise. At the manly exercise of the martial TILT, the lover would shew his prowess in the attack, and strive by feats in arms to rivet the affections of his beloved mistress,-the greatest hazard of his life was disregarded for her, and he thought no -more of the point of his adversary's lance, than of the feeble extremity of a bulrush: the anger of his enemy was to him the wrath of a butterfly to a bee upon a rose-bud;-and when he had disarmed his opponent, he would return to the pavilion, where sat the lady of his love, and present her with some trophy of his conquest, when she in recompence bestowed the scarf of reward, and bound it with her lily hand on the vembrace of his polished armour-where shall we, of the present day, discriminate scenes like these? Perhaps in rustic life, something similar may be found, when John encounters his rival in the wrestle, and after giving the vanquishing fall, carries off the silken prize, and presents it to Mary, the object of his tenderest affection;but with our civil or courtly blades, they are no where to be found, insipidity drives afar our ancient spirit in matters of love, and the youth to hide his propensities from the eye of truth, meanly denominates them efforts of prudence. If a creature of this description inclines for matrimony, the first step he takes in the business is (to use a sportman's phrase,) "to see if the game be worth powder and shot,"-satisfied in this particular, to work he goes without consulting the heart, which has but little concern in the pursuit,—a frigid cunning supplies its place: still urging on to the goal of his desires, and now having permission to visit Miss and the family, he employs all his assiduity to become firm in the good opinion of the Lady Mother, for well he knows that one lock of the old Gentlewoman's hair draws more than a team of oxen, and having succeeded, concludes his business half completed and now our adventurer begins to dress and to follow up the fashions with slavish scrupulosity; and now by bowing, cringing, scraping, and seldom ever permiting his body to resume the upright position, he obtains the desired footing, he clothes his face with eternal smiles, and like Graciano in the play, talks an infinity of nothing, and by the frequent recurrence of the words "pon honor," he is now, admitted to greater liberties, and soon acquires a perfect knowledge of the predominating taste and disposition of the object of his pursuit, and by observing the strictest care not to contradict the ladies in any thing, he is reckoned a very good-natured
fellow, and suffered to caress the parlour dog,-to walk by her side in the parks, or to lead Miss by the hand to the door of the carriage, to carry her umbrella, and to whisper in her ear many soft and dangerous things; at length he is admitted a suitor, talks politics with the father, and delights the old gentleman by according with his sentiments, humouring his conceits, and commending his wisdom. And now if the young lady is defective in penetration, he wins her heart: the day for nuptial solemnity is appointed, the knot is tied, the establishment completed, the portion glitters in the husband's eye, to which in truth he has more attachment than to the kind and credulous girl who has unfortunately cast herself away upon an artful scoundrel, whose love is that of the sparrow-hawk for the pigeon, and this is modern gallantry; perhaps for a year or two, to keep up appearance, he shows something like attention towards her, till an ungrateful insensibility draws him from her society, to herd with his former connexions, he mingles again at the tennis-court, he is found at the billiard tables, and at the gaming-houses of notoriety, returning to his home when the daylight first awakens the sons of sobriety; he dips his own patrimony and deserts the bosom of her whose partiality advanced his fortune, and whose virtuous examples could have made him honourable in society; his losses at play become considerable his tandem is sold his horses sent to the repository and fall under the hammer of the auctioneer; his last shilling is gone, his creditors become importunate, he has nothing to gratify them, the lawyers go to work, and to come plete this eventful catalogue, Banco Regis enfolds the prodigal in his iron aris: the wife with her little ones return to her father's house, unpleasant reflections assail her gentle ear, until, by a constant repetition of excesses, the coxcomb is laid under a friendly turf, and gives the unfortunate lady another chance in the great lottery of life.
Such is the conduct of seven-tenths of our gallants; and when I assert that three-fourths of the marriages constructed on modern principles are unhappy, I believe the observation to be consonant with truth: to correct the too frequent recurrence of these scenes would indeed be a glorious exertion; but to prevent unhappy marriages the minds of men must submit to reformation, virtue must move the soul to generous actions, and the tongue speak the language of the heart: then may our fair country women be happy, butt his is only to be brought about by a perfect revolution in our national manners under a rigid Lycurgus, assisted by the perseverance of a Solon and the philosophy of a Plato; then shall marriage be the source of comforts, and the husband exclaim with Milton's Adam