1801. January 1. The Union of Great Britain with Ireland commenced according to act of parliament, and the event was solemnized by the hoisting of a new royal flag on the Tower of London, accompanied by the firing of guns there and in St. James’s Park. On the 3d the king received the great seal of Great Britain from the lord chancellor, and causing it to be defaced, presented to him a new great seal for the United Kingdom. On the same day, January 1st, 1801, Piazzi, the astronomer at Palermo, discovered a new primary planet, making an eleventh of that order: he called it Ceres, from the goddess of that name, who was highly esteemed by the ancients of Sicily. * * * * * Usually at this period the rigour of cold is severely felt. The indisposition of _lie-a-beds_ to face its severity is pleasantly pictured by Mr. Leigh Hunt, in a paper in the Indicator. He imagines one of those persons to express himself in these terms: “On opening my eyes, the first thing that meets them is my own breath rolling forth, as if in the open air, like smoke out of a cottage-chimney. Think of this symptom. Then I turn my eyes sideways and see the window all frozen over. Think of that. Then the servant comes in. ‘It is very cold this morning, is it not?’--‘Very cold, sir.’--‘Very cold indeed, isn’t it?’--‘Very cold indeed, sir.’--‘More than usually so, isn’t it, even for this weather?’ (Here the servant’s wit and good nature are put to a considerable test, and the inquirer lies on thorns for the answer.) ‘Why, Sir..... I think it _is_.’ (Good creature! There is not a better, or more truth-telling servant going.) ‘I must rise, however--Get me some warm water.’--Here comes a fine interval between the departure of the servant and the arrival of the hot water; during which, of course, it is of ‘no use’ to get up. The hot water comes. ‘Is it quite hot?’--‘Yes, sir.’--‘Perhaps too hot for shaving: I must wait a little?’--‘No, sir; it will just do,’ (There is an over-nice propriety sometimes, an officious zeal of virtue, a little troublesome.) ‘Oh--the shirt--you must air my clean shirt:--linen gets very damp this weather.’--‘Yes, sir.’ Here another delicious five minutes. A knock at the door. ‘Oh, the shirt--very well. My stockings--I think the stockings had better be aired too.’--‘Very well, sir.’--Here another interval. At length every thing is ready, except myself. I now cannot help thinking a good deal--who can?--upon the unnecessary and villainous custom of shaving; it is a thing so unmanly (here I nestle closer)--so effeminate, (here I recoil from an unlucky step into the colder part of the bed.)--No wonder, that the queen of France took part with the rebels against that degenerate king, her husband, who first affronted her smooth visage with a face like her own. The emperor Julian never showed the luxuriancy of his genius to better advantage than in reviving the flowing beard. Look at cardinal Bembo’s picture--at Michael Angelo’s--at