The Press.
London, England, 1855-12-22 00:00:00

THE PRESS.

' The Village,' as is well known, is the fast name for London. The
song implies that when the citizens turn out their Noble Member,
somebody will pop into his place merrily all !' "
0, CALL MY BROTHER BACK. By Mr. F--k P—l. "Ad-
dressed to Lord P--n, imploring him to restrain somebody from
his eccentricities."

Tun TRAMP CHORUS. Finale, by John Bull, Esq. "An admirable
sequel, which will be welcome to every one except those to whom it is
addressed. The admonitory Tramp, tramp," the remonstrance, and
then tha repeated and unmistakeable order to be off, are highly
dramatic, and the piece will be loudly demanded at the spring
reunions.

ISSUE OF MACAULAY'S HISTORY.
(From a forthcoming nwmber of the Blue and Yellow.)
THE volumes are out. The publishing day passed over without dis-
turbance. The regulations of Messrs. Longman were received with
submission. Discontent was hushed. Malignity was silenced. The
demand for copies was unprecedented Five and twenty thousand
were sold the first day, at the subscription price of twenty-five shillings
and sixpence per copy.
For greater convenience the work was issued from the binder's.
The establishment of the Westleys is situated in that region of narrow
courts and sinuous lanes bounded on the south by Ludgate-hill, on the
north by Newgate-street, on the west by the Old Bailey, on the
east by Paul's Change. The immediate neighbourhood has been
chiefly famous for slaughter-houses. Henceforth it u ill be classic
ground. To this spot the eye of the New Zealander, when he stands
on the ruined arch of London-bridge, will turn with reverence. The
History will be the delight of the world when England shall have re•
turned to its prima3val wildness, and foxes burrow in every hill and
wolves howl on every plain.
The morning of the 17th of December was obscured by mist. The
sun of genius was enough for that day. Regardless of fog and mud,
every bookseller's shop sent forth its porter or errand-boy. Many
were provided with new bags, lest the weight of their burdens should
burst through the old ones. A majority were shod with high-lows--
a larger proportion still wore corduroys. They acted without concert,
but as they approached the narrow inclosure of Warwick-square, it
seemed that only concert could have brought so vast a multitude to-
gether. Some timid shopkeepers put up their shutters. The pub-
licans, bolder and more politic, threw open their doors, stood behind
their bars, and served all corners with glass or pot. The crowd in-
creased every minute. By nine o'clock the inclosure was filled, and
as the tide of life came pouring in the aspect of affairs became alarm-
ing. A vague sentiment of fear was entertained. No one could tell
what might happen. An accident had nearly led to a collision which
might have been attended with serious consequences. The dustman
on his daily round found himself impeded in the execution of his duty.
He rang his bell violently to clear a passage. The crowd received
this manifestation of authority with derisive shouts. He atte.npted
to lead his horse forward, but fortunately the animal was lame. Two
policemen, with a superintendent in command, at this momeut came
up to the spot. Acting on the instructions they had received, or led
away by popular impulse, they turned the horse's head towards Newgate-
street. The dustman sullenly submitted to his defeat, and the dust-
bins of Warwick-square were unemptied that day.
Meanwhile the pressure at the doors of the binding-house was
tremendous. The crowd kicked, knocked, pushed, jeered, catcalled,
and bonnetted. but these demonstrations were merely the effervescence
of good-humour. Their patience was invincible. A Scotch youth—as
was conjectured by his red hair and high cheek-bones—was the first
to gain admittance. His order was instantly executed He returned
with his precious burden in triumph. The book was out.
After this the stock was delivered with rapidity. There was no
more fear of riot The three policemen marched from the ground.
But up to a late hour in the afternoon the demand continued with un-
abated activity. The postman of Paternoster-row will long remember
that day. As he deposited his pile of letters on Messrs. Longman's
counter, he cherished the hope that he might perhaps that year receive
an extra Christmas-box.
At night all London was illuminated. Rows of gas-lamps lined
the thoroughfares. Light streamed from every dwelling. The book
was in every hand. It was read by the Queen in her palace, the noble
in his hall, the tradesman in his shop, and the artisan in his attic.
Some, remembering the lustre of the diamond in the "Arabian Nights:*
imagined that radiance would stream from the volume to illumine
its pages. The idea was natural, but illusory. Every kind of light was
in requisition, from the gas breaking in a hundred jets through chan-
deliers of or-molu, to the farthing rushlight stuck in a nozzle of tin or clay,
or mounted in the neck of a bottle. No other subject was thought of.
The famous Jenny Lind sung that night to empty benches. Politicians
forgot the war, and householders the price of provisions. Even at the
Council Board the present was lost in the past. The Premier s hilarity
puzzled his colleagues as he declared, alluding to the author, that
nothing was more natural than the predilection of so staunch a Whig
to hiss-Tory.
Mr. Macaulay appeared safe on the pinnacle of fame. He was in
truth environed by peril. Two classes were against him. The great
body of the publishers were deeply mortified at his success. The
eminent bibliopole of the West shut himself up in his study and pon-
dered the possibility of getting out a handbook to the History, but
decided at last that such a work must break down through want of

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