A MADRIGAL.Translated by Robert Southey Esq.(From Mr. Duppa’s Life of Michael Angelo.)Ill hath he chosen his part who seeks to pleaseThe worthless world,—ill hath he chosen his part,For often must he wear the look of easeWhen grief is at his heart;And often in his hours of happier feelingWith sorrow must his countenance be hung,And ever his own better thoughts concealingMust in stupid grandeur’s praise be loud,And to the errors of the ignorant crowdAssent with lying tongue.Thus much would I conceal—that none should knowWhat secret cause I have for silent woe;And taught by many a melancholy proofThat those whom fortune favours it pollutesI from the blind and faithless world aloof,Nor fear its envy nor desire its praise,But choose my path through solitary ways.
A MADRIGAL.
Translated by Robert Southey Esq.
(From Mr. Duppa’s Life of Michael Angelo.)
Ill hath he chosen his part who seeks to pleaseThe worthless world,—ill hath he chosen his part,For often must he wear the look of easeWhen grief is at his heart;And often in his hours of happier feelingWith sorrow must his countenance be hung,And ever his own better thoughts concealingMust in stupid grandeur’s praise be loud,And to the errors of the ignorant crowdAssent with lying tongue.Thus much would I conceal—that none should knowWhat secret cause I have for silent woe;And taught by many a melancholy proofThat those whom fortune favours it pollutesI from the blind and faithless world aloof,Nor fear its envy nor desire its praise,But choose my path through solitary ways.
Ill hath he chosen his part who seeks to pleaseThe worthless world,—ill hath he chosen his part,For often must he wear the look of easeWhen grief is at his heart;And often in his hours of happier feelingWith sorrow must his countenance be hung,And ever his own better thoughts concealingMust in stupid grandeur’s praise be loud,And to the errors of the ignorant crowdAssent with lying tongue.Thus much would I conceal—that none should knowWhat secret cause I have for silent woe;And taught by many a melancholy proofThat those whom fortune favours it pollutesI from the blind and faithless world aloof,Nor fear its envy nor desire its praise,But choose my path through solitary ways.
It was one of Michael Angelo’s high qualities to bear about him an atmosphere which the parasite dared not approach: no heart-eater could live in it.
He justly estimated whatever was influential in society; and hence though he seemed to look down upon rank as an accident of life, he was not regardless of its use. To those whom distinctions had raised, he paid the deference accorded to their dignities. Yet towards him who touched his integrity, he bore a lofty carriage, and when he condescended to resentthe attack, hurled an impetuous defiance that kindled as it flew, and consumed the insulting defamer, though he were ensconced behind countless quarterings, or ermined and enthroned. To the constant calumny of jealous rivalry, and the daily lie of envy and enmity, he was utterly indifferent. When asked why he did not resent the aspersions incessantly poured upon him by one of his assailants, he answered—“He who contends with the worthless can gain nothing worth possessing.”
Michael Angelo’s temper was “sudden and quick;” but his nature was kind and benevolent. Inferior artists frequently experienced his friendly disposition. He sometimes made drawings and modelled for them. To Minigella, a very indifferent hand, he gave the model of a crucifix beautifully executed, from which the poor fellow formed a mould and made casts ofpapier macheto sell to the country people. Friendship and esteem for particular individuals oftener induced him to undertake works than proffers of large sums. Yet he was not indifferent or insensible to a just estimation of his talents when they were undervalued. For Angelo Doni, a Florentine of taste, he painted a holy family, and sent it home with a note requiring seventy ducats for it. Doni told the messenger he thought forty were enough; Michael replied by demanding the picture or a hundred; Doni said he was willing to pay the seventy; Michael demanded a hundred and forty, and Doni paid the sum.
He honoured worthy men in every station. His purse was open to their necessities; he condoled with them in their afflictions, and lightened their oppressions by his sympathies and influence. To artists and men of talent his liberality was munificent. He neither loved money nor accumulated it. His gifts were the free-will offerings of his heart, and hence its dispensations were unaccompanied by a notoriety which sullies the purity of primary obligation, by exposing the nakedness of its object.
Conversing one day with his old and faithful servant, he said, “What will become of you, Urbine, if I should die?” “I must then seek another master” was the reply. “Poor fellow,” said Michael, “thou shalt not need another master,” and he gave him two thousand crowns. This was a large sum in those days: Vasari says such a donation would only have been expected from popes and great emperors. Michael afterwards procured him an appointment in the Vatican to take care of the pictures, with a monthly salary of six ducats; and preserving his regard for the old man, Michael, though at that time eighty-two years of age, sat up with him by night in his last illness. “His death has been a heavy loss to me,” he wrote to Vasari, “and the cause of excessive grief, but it has also been a most impressive lesson of the grace of God: for it has shown me, that he, who in his lifetime comforted me in the enjoyment of life, dying has taught me how to die; not with reluctance, but even with a desire of death. He lived with me twenty-six years, grew rich in my service, and I found him a most rare and faithful servant; and now that I calculated upon his being the staff and repose of my old age he is taken away, and has left me only the hope of seeing him again in paradise.”
Michael Angelo was never married. To one who lamented that he had no children to inherit his property, Michael answered, “My works must supply their place; and if they are good for any thing they will live hereafter. It would have been unfortunate for Lorenzo Ghiberti, had he not left the doors of S. Giovanni, for his sons and his nephews have long since sold and dissipated his accumulated wealth; but his sculpture remains, and will continue to record his name to future ages.” These “doors” were of bronze. When Michael was asked his opinion of them, he said they were fit to be the doors of paradise.
Throughout the poetry of Michael Angelo, of which there is much in existence, love is a pervading sentiment, though, without reference to any particular object. Condivi had often heard him discourse upon it as a passion platonically; and Mr. Duppa gives the following sonnet, translated from the Italian of Michael Angelo by Mr. Wordsworth, as exemplifying Michael’s turn of thought:
SONNET,By Michael Angelo.Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,And I be undeluded, unbetray’d;For, if of our affections none find graceIn sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God madeThe world which we inhabit? Better pleaLove cannot have, than that in loving thee,Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,Who such divinity to thee impartsAs hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.His hope is treacherous only, whose love diesWith beauty, which is varying every hour;But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the powerOf outward change, there blooms a deathless flowerThat breathes on earth the air of Paradise.
SONNET,By Michael Angelo.
Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,And I be undeluded, unbetray’d;For, if of our affections none find graceIn sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God madeThe world which we inhabit? Better pleaLove cannot have, than that in loving thee,Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,Who such divinity to thee impartsAs hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.His hope is treacherous only, whose love diesWith beauty, which is varying every hour;But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the powerOf outward change, there blooms a deathless flowerThat breathes on earth the air of Paradise.
Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,And I be undeluded, unbetray’d;For, if of our affections none find graceIn sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God madeThe world which we inhabit? Better pleaLove cannot have, than that in loving thee,Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,Who such divinity to thee impartsAs hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.His hope is treacherous only, whose love diesWith beauty, which is varying every hour;But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the powerOf outward change, there blooms a deathless flowerThat breathes on earth the air of Paradise.
The personal beauty and intellectual endowments of Vittoria Colonna, marchioness of Pescara, impressed Michael Angelo with sentiments of affectionate esteem. She admired his genius, and frequently left her residence at Viterbo for the sole purpose of enjoying his society at Rome. He addressed three sonnets and a madrigal to her. In her last moments he paid her a visit, and told Condivi he grieved he had not kissed her cheek, as he had her hand, for there was little hope of his ever seeing her again. He penned an epitaph on her decease: the recollection of her death constantly dejected him.
To the purity of his thoughts, there is a high testimony by Condivi. “In a long intimacy, I have never heard from his mouth a single word that was not perfectly decorous, and had not for its object to extinguish in youth every improper and lawless desire: his nature is a stranger to depravity.” He was religious, not by the show, but from feeling and conviction As an instance, a short poetical supplication, translated by Mr. Duppa into prose, is remarkable for its self-knowledge and simplicity; it is here subjoined:—
“To the Supreme Being.
“My prayers will be sweet if thou lendest me virtue to make them worthy to be heard; my unfruitful soil cannot produce virtue of itself. Thou knowest the seed, and how to sow it, that it may spring up in the mind to produce just and pious works: if thou showest not the hallowed path, no one by his own knowledge can follow thee. Pour thou into my mind the thoughts that may conduct me in thy holy steps; and endue me with a fervent tongue, that I may alway praise, exalt, and sing thy glory.”
Finally, it may be added, that in an age of splendid vice, Michael Angelo was an illustrious example of virtue.
To Michael Angelo—ImmortalMichael! to what thou wert, if I could raiseAn aspiration, or a holy light,Within one reader, I’d essay to praiseThy virtue; and would supplicate the museFor flowers to deck thy greatness: so I mightBut urge one youthful artist on to chooseA life like thine, I would attempt the hillWhere well inspiring floods, and thence would drinkTill—as the Pythoness of old, the willNo longer then controll’d by sense—I’d thinkAlone of good and thee, and with loud cries,Break the dead slumber of undeeming man,Refresh him with a gush of truth, surpriseHim with thy deeds, and show him thine was Wisdom’s plan.
To Michael Angelo—Immortal
Michael! to what thou wert, if I could raiseAn aspiration, or a holy light,Within one reader, I’d essay to praiseThy virtue; and would supplicate the museFor flowers to deck thy greatness: so I mightBut urge one youthful artist on to chooseA life like thine, I would attempt the hillWhere well inspiring floods, and thence would drinkTill—as the Pythoness of old, the willNo longer then controll’d by sense—I’d thinkAlone of good and thee, and with loud cries,Break the dead slumber of undeeming man,Refresh him with a gush of truth, surpriseHim with thy deeds, and show him thine was Wisdom’s plan.
Michael! to what thou wert, if I could raiseAn aspiration, or a holy light,Within one reader, I’d essay to praiseThy virtue; and would supplicate the museFor flowers to deck thy greatness: so I mightBut urge one youthful artist on to chooseA life like thine, I would attempt the hillWhere well inspiring floods, and thence would drinkTill—as the Pythoness of old, the willNo longer then controll’d by sense—I’d thinkAlone of good and thee, and with loud cries,Break the dead slumber of undeeming man,Refresh him with a gush of truth, surpriseHim with thy deeds, and show him thine was Wisdom’s plan.
Pisces.
Pisces.
This zodiacal sign is said to symbolize the fishery of the Nile, which usually commenced at this season of the year. According to an ancient fable, it represents Venus and Cupid, who, to avoid Typhon, a dreadful giant with a hundred heads, transformed themselves into fish. This fabulous monster, it seems, threw the whole host of heathen deities into confusion. His story shortly is, that as soon as he was born, he began to avenge the death of his brethren, the giants who had warred against Olympus, by resuming the conflict alone. Flames of fire darted from his eyes and mouths; he uttered horrid yells, and so frightened the pagan celestials, that Jupiter himself became a ram, Juno a cow, Mercury an ibis, Apollo a crow, Bacchus a goat, Diana a cat, Venus a fish, &c. till Jupiter hurled a rock and buried him under Ætna. The idol Dagon, with a human head and arms, and a fish’s tail, is affirmed to be the symbol of the sun in Pisces, and to allegorize that the earth teems with corn and fruits.
The sun generally enters Pisces about the period of February; for instance, in 1824 on the 16th, in 1825 on the 18th of the month. The Romans imagined that the entrance of the sun into Pisces was attended by bad weather, and gales of uncertainty to the mariner.[1]Thomson sings, that in this month—
Muttering, the winds at eve, with blunted point,Blow hollow-blustering from the south. Subdued,The frost resolves into a trickling thaw,Spotted, the mountains shine; loose sleet descends,And floods the country round. The rivers swell,Of bonds impatient. Sudden from the hills,O’er rocks and woods, in broad, brown cataracts,A thousand snow-fed torrents shoot at once;And where they rush, the wide resounding plainIs left one slimy waste.Thomson.
Muttering, the winds at eve, with blunted point,Blow hollow-blustering from the south. Subdued,The frost resolves into a trickling thaw,Spotted, the mountains shine; loose sleet descends,And floods the country round. The rivers swell,Of bonds impatient. Sudden from the hills,O’er rocks and woods, in broad, brown cataracts,A thousand snow-fed torrents shoot at once;And where they rush, the wide resounding plainIs left one slimy waste.
Muttering, the winds at eve, with blunted point,Blow hollow-blustering from the south. Subdued,The frost resolves into a trickling thaw,Spotted, the mountains shine; loose sleet descends,And floods the country round. The rivers swell,Of bonds impatient. Sudden from the hills,O’er rocks and woods, in broad, brown cataracts,A thousand snow-fed torrents shoot at once;And where they rush, the wide resounding plainIs left one slimy waste.
Thomson.
[1]Dr. Forster’s Perenn. Cal.
[1]Dr. Forster’s Perenn. Cal.
St. Simeon, Bp. of Jerusalem,A. D.116.Sts. Leo and Paregorius, 3d Cent.
St. Simeon, Bp. of Jerusalem,A. D.116.Sts. Leo and Paregorius, 3d Cent.
On the 18th of February 1734, the house of commons received a petition from Mr. Samuel Buckley, a learned printer; setting forth that he had, at his sole expense, by several years’ labour, and with the assistance of some learned persons abroad and at home, made collections of original papers and letters relating to “Thuanus’s History,” written in Latin, in order to a new and accurate edition, in 7 vols. folio, which was finished; that the act of the 8th of Q. Anne,for the encouragement of learning, extended only to the authors, purchasers, or proprietors of the copy-right of any book in English, published after the 10th of April, 1710, and allowed the importation or vending of any books in foreign language printed beyond the seas; so that any books, first compiled and printed in this kingdom in any of those languages, might be reprinted abroad and sold in this kingdom, to the great damage of the first printer or proprietor: he therefore prayed, that he might be allowed the same benefit in his copy of the “History of Thuanus,” in Latin, for fourteen years. Leave was given to bring in the bill, and it afterwards passed into an act.
The protection of this excellent work was a justice due to the spirit and liberality of Mr. Buckley. He had been originally a bookseller. John Dunton says of him, “He is an excellent linguist, understands the Latin, French, Dutch, and Italian languages, and is master of a great deal of wit: he prints the ‘Daily Courant,’ and ‘Monthly Register,’ which, I hear, he translates out of the foreign papers himself:”—a great merit, it should seem, in the eyes of old Dunton.
Mr. Buckley was a really learned printer. The collections for his edition of Thuanus were made by Carte, who had fled to France from an accusation of high treason, during the rebellion of 1715 and while in that country possessed himself of so many materials for the purpose, that he consulted Dr. Mead, the celebrated physician, and patron of literary men, concerning the undertaking. By the doctor’s recommendation, it was intrusted to Mr. Buckley, who imported the paper for it, which, with the materials, cost him 2,350l.He edited the work with fidelity, and executed it with elegance.
Mr. Buckley was the publisher of the “Spectator,” which appeared in folio from his shop at the Dolphin in Little Britain, a place then filled with booksellers. At the close of the seventh volume this popular work was suspended, but resumed by Buckley in Amen-corner. He attained to opulence and respectability, was in the commission of the peace for Middlesex, and died, greatly esteemed, on the 8th of September, 1741, in the sixty-eighth year of his age.[2]
It is related of the great lord chancellor Hardwicke, that he so highly regarded “Thuanus’s History,” as to have resigned the seals for the express purpose of being enabled to read it in the original language.[3]It has been computed that a person who gave his attention to this work for four hours every day, would not finish the perusal in twelve months. It comprehends the events of sixty-four years, during the times wherein Thuanus lived and flourished as an eminent French author and statesman. His English biographer quotes, as a character of his writings, that, “in a word, they are calculated to render those who attend to them better and wiser men.”[4]
Wall Speedwell.Veronica vivensis.Dedicated toSt. Simeonof Jerusalem.
[2]Mr. Nichols’s Lit. Anecdotes.[3]Bibliog. Dict.[4]Mr. Collinson’s Life of Thuanus.
[2]Mr. Nichols’s Lit. Anecdotes.
[3]Bibliog. Dict.
[4]Mr. Collinson’s Life of Thuanus.
St. Barbatus, or Barbas, Bp.A. D.682.
St. Barbatus, or Barbas, Bp.A. D.682.
This saint is patron of Benevento, of which city he was bishop. Butler relates no miracle of him, nor does it appear from him that any other name in the calendar of the Romish church is affixed to this day.
A pretty trifle from the Greek is descriptive of appearances about this period:—
To a Lady on her BirthdaySee amidst the winter’s cold,Tender infant of the spring;See the rose her bud unfold,Every sweet is on the wing.Hark! the purple flow’ret cries,’Tis for thee we haste away,’Tis for thee we brave the skies,Smiling on thy natal day,Soon shalt thou the pleasure prove,Which awaits on virtuous love.Place us ’midst thy flowing hair,Where each lovely grace prevails,Happier we to deck the fair,Than to wait the vernal gales.
To a Lady on her Birthday
See amidst the winter’s cold,Tender infant of the spring;See the rose her bud unfold,Every sweet is on the wing.Hark! the purple flow’ret cries,’Tis for thee we haste away,’Tis for thee we brave the skies,Smiling on thy natal day,Soon shalt thou the pleasure prove,Which awaits on virtuous love.Place us ’midst thy flowing hair,Where each lovely grace prevails,Happier we to deck the fair,Than to wait the vernal gales.
See amidst the winter’s cold,Tender infant of the spring;See the rose her bud unfold,Every sweet is on the wing.
Hark! the purple flow’ret cries,’Tis for thee we haste away,’Tis for thee we brave the skies,Smiling on thy natal day,Soon shalt thou the pleasure prove,Which awaits on virtuous love.
Place us ’midst thy flowing hair,Where each lovely grace prevails,Happier we to deck the fair,Than to wait the vernal gales.
Field Speedwell.Veronica agrestis.Dedicated toSt. Barbatus.
St. Tyrannio, Bp. &c.A. D.310.Sts. Sadoth, Bp. &c.A. D.342.St. Eleutherius, Bp.A. D.532.St. Mildred, Abbess.St. Eucherius, Bp.A. D.743.St. Ulrick.
St. Tyrannio, Bp. &c.A. D.310.Sts. Sadoth, Bp. &c.A. D.342.St. Eleutherius, Bp.A. D.532.St. Mildred, Abbess.St. Eucherius, Bp.A. D.743.St. Ulrick.
This saint was the first abbess of Minster, in the isle of Thanet, founded by king Egbert about 670, in satisfaction for having murdered his two nephews, Etheldred and Ethelbright; to which satisfaction he was “miraculously terrified, by seeing a ray of bright light dart from the heavens upon their grave.” In 1033, her remains were removed to St. Augustine’s monastery at Canterbury, and venerated above all the relics there, and worked miracles, as all saints’ relics did in those favoured times. The churches of St. Mildred, Bread-street, and St. Mildred in the Poultry, London, are dedicated to her.[5]
In St. Mildred’s church in the Poultry, Thomas Tusser, whose “Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandrie” have been cited in former pages of this work, was buried, and on his tomb this
EPITAPH.Here Thomas Tusser, clad in earth, doth lie,That sometime made the pointes of Husbandrie:By him then learne thou maist: here learne we must,When all is done, we sleepe, and turne to dust:And yet, through Christ, to Heaven we hope to goe;Who reades his bookes, shall find his faith was so.[6]
EPITAPH.
Here Thomas Tusser, clad in earth, doth lie,That sometime made the pointes of Husbandrie:By him then learne thou maist: here learne we must,When all is done, we sleepe, and turne to dust:And yet, through Christ, to Heaven we hope to goe;Who reades his bookes, shall find his faith was so.[6]
Here Thomas Tusser, clad in earth, doth lie,That sometime made the pointes of Husbandrie:By him then learne thou maist: here learne we must,When all is done, we sleepe, and turne to dust:And yet, through Christ, to Heaven we hope to goe;Who reades his bookes, shall find his faith was so.[6]
Of this saint, who died the 28th of February, 1154, Butler says little.
“The Flowersof theLivesof the most renownedSainctsof the three kingdoms, England, Scotland, and Ireland, written and collected out of the best authours and manuscripts of our nation, and distributed according to their feasts in the calendar, Bythe R. Father, Hierome Porter,Priest and Monke of the holy order of Sainct Benedict, of the Congregation of England, Printed atDowaywith licence, and approbation of the Ordinary,M.dc.xxxii,” relates of this saint, that he was born in a village called Lenton, or Litton, near Bristol, with many marvels concerning him, and among them this:—He became a priest, but kept hawks and dogs for sport, till he met a beggar who asked alms. Ulrick said, he did not know whether he had aught to bestow: “Look in thy purse,” quoth the beggar, “and there thou shalt find twopence halfpenny.” Ulrick finding as he was told, received thanks, and a prophecy that he should become a saint, whereupon he starved and hermitized at Hessleborough, in Dorsetshire, about thirty miles from Exeter. “The skin only sticking to his bones,” his daintiest food was oaten-bread and water-gruel. He passed many nights without sleep, never slept but when he could not keep awake, and never went to bed, “but, leaning his head to a wall, he tooke a short allowance;” and when he awoke, “he would much blame and chastise his body, as yielding vnto ouermuch nicenesse.” His pillow was ropes of hay, his clothing poor, and lined next the skin with a rough shirt of hair-cloth, till his flesh having overcome its uneasiness, he wore next his skin an iron coat of mail. In the sharpest cold of winter, having first put off his iron shirt, he was wont to get into a vessel of cold water and recite psalms. His coat of mail hanging below his knees, he went to the knight who gave it to him, to take counsel therein. His military adviser persuaded him to send it to London to be cut; but he gave the knight “a payre of sheares.” The knight hesitated, the other entreated. “The one falls to his prayers, the other endeavours with iron and steale to cut iron and steale, when both their labours tooke prosperous effect; for the knight, in his cutting worke, seemed rather to divide a piece of cloath than a peece of iron.” Then the saint, “without any sheeres, pulled asunder the little rings of that part of his coate cutt off, and distributed them charitably to all that desired, by virtue whereof manie diseases were cured.” Envying such rare goodness, an infernal spirit, in most horrible shape, dragged him into the church, and ran him round the pavement, till the apparition of a virgin stopped this rude behaviour; however, the infernal took advantage of the saint when he was sick, and with a staff he had in his hand gave him three knocks on the head, and departed. The devil tormented him otherways; he cast him into an intolerable heat, then he gave him an intolerable cold, and then he made him dream a dream, whereby the saint shamed the devil by openly confessing it at church on Easter-day before all the people. At length, after other wonders, “the joints of his iron coate miraculously dissolved, and it fell down to his knees.” Upon this, he foretold his death on the next Saturday, and thereon he died. Such, and much more is put forth concerning St. Ulrick, by the aforesaid “Flowers of the Saincts,” which contains a prayer to be used preparatory to the perusal, with these words, “that this holy reading of their lives may soe inflame our hearts, that we may follow and imitate the traces of their glorious example, that, after this mortall life, we may be made worthie to enjoy their most desired companie.”
Navelwort.Cynoglossum omphalodes.Dedicated toSt. Mildred.
On the 20th of February 1749, Usher Gahagan, by birth a gentleman, and by education a scholar, perished at Tyburn. His attainments were elegant and superior; he was the editor of Brindley’s beautiful edition of the classics, and translated Pope’s “Essay on Criticism” into Latin verse. Better grounded in learning than in principle, he concentrated liberal talents to the degrading selfishness of robbing the community of its coin by clipping. During his confinement, and hoping for pardon, he translated Pope’s “Temple of Fame,” and his “Messiah,” into the same language, with a dedication to the duke of Newcastle. To the same end, he addressed prince George and the recorder in poetic numbers. These efforts were of no avail. Two of his miserable confederates in crime were his companions in death. He suffered with a deeper guilt, because he had a higher knowledge than ignorant and unthinking criminals, to whom the polity of society, in its grounds and reasons, is unknown.
Accomplishments upon vice are as beautiful colours on a venomous reptile. Learning is a vain show, and knowledge mischievous, without the love of goodness, or the fear of evil. Children have fallen from careless parents into the hands of the executioner, in whom the means of distinguishing between right and wrong might have become a stock for knowledge to ripen on, and learning have preserved the fruits to posterity. Let not him despair who desires to know, or has power to teach—
There is in every human heart,Some not completely barren part,Where seeds of truth and love might growAnd flowers of generous virtue blow:To plant, to watch, to water there,This be our duty, be our care.Bowring.
There is in every human heart,Some not completely barren part,Where seeds of truth and love might growAnd flowers of generous virtue blow:To plant, to watch, to water there,This be our duty, be our care.
There is in every human heart,Some not completely barren part,Where seeds of truth and love might growAnd flowers of generous virtue blow:To plant, to watch, to water there,This be our duty, be our care.
Bowring.
[5]Butler’s Lives of the Saints.[6]Stow.
[5]Butler’s Lives of the Saints.
[6]Stow.
St. Severianus, Bp.A. D.452.Sts. German, Abbot, andRandaut, orRandoald,A. D.666.Sts. DanielandVerda,A. D.344. B.Pepin, of Landen,A. D.640.
St. Severianus, Bp.A. D.452.Sts. German, Abbot, andRandaut, orRandoald,A. D.666.Sts. DanielandVerda,A. D.344. B.Pepin, of Landen,A. D.640.
“Here it is,” says the “Indicator,” “ready laid. Imprimis, tea and coffee; secondly, dry toast; thirdly, butter; fourthly, eggs; fifthly, ham; sixthly, something potted; seventhly, bread, salt, mustard, knives and forks, &c. One of the first things that belong to a breakfast is a good fire. There is a delightful mixture of the lively and the snug in coming down into one’s breakfast-room of a cold morning, and seeing every thing prepared for us; a blazing grate, a clean table-cloth and tea-things, the newly-washed faces and combed heads of a set of good-humoured urchins, and the sole empty chair at its accustomed corner, ready for occupation. When we lived alone, we could not help reading at meals: and it is certainly a delicious thing to resume an entertaining book at a particularly interesting passage, with a hot cup of tea at one’s elbow, and a piece of buttered toast in one’s hand. The first look at the page, accompanied by a coexistent bite of the toast, comes under the head of intensities.”
The weather is now cold and mild alternately. In our variable climate we one day experience the severity of winter, and a genial warmth prevails the next; and, indeed, such changes are not unfrequently felt in the same day. Winter, however, at this time breaks apace, and we have presages of the genial season.
Oxen, o’er the furrow’d soil,Urging firm their annual toil;Trim cottages that here and there,Speckling the social tilth, appear:And spires, that as from groves they rise,Tell where the lurking hamlet lies:Hills white with many a bleating throng,And lakes, whose willowy banks along,Herds or ruminate, or lave,Immersing in the silent wave.The sombre wood—the cheerful plain,Green with the hope of future grain:A tender blade, ere Autumn smileBenignant on the farmer’s toil,Gild the ripe fields with mellowing hand,And scatter plenty through the land.Baron Smith.
Oxen, o’er the furrow’d soil,Urging firm their annual toil;Trim cottages that here and there,Speckling the social tilth, appear:And spires, that as from groves they rise,Tell where the lurking hamlet lies:Hills white with many a bleating throng,And lakes, whose willowy banks along,Herds or ruminate, or lave,Immersing in the silent wave.The sombre wood—the cheerful plain,Green with the hope of future grain:A tender blade, ere Autumn smileBenignant on the farmer’s toil,Gild the ripe fields with mellowing hand,And scatter plenty through the land.
Oxen, o’er the furrow’d soil,Urging firm their annual toil;Trim cottages that here and there,Speckling the social tilth, appear:And spires, that as from groves they rise,Tell where the lurking hamlet lies:Hills white with many a bleating throng,And lakes, whose willowy banks along,Herds or ruminate, or lave,Immersing in the silent wave.The sombre wood—the cheerful plain,Green with the hope of future grain:A tender blade, ere Autumn smileBenignant on the farmer’s toil,Gild the ripe fields with mellowing hand,And scatter plenty through the land.
Baron Smith.
White crocus.Crocus versicolor.Dedicated toSt. Servianus.
The Chair ofSt. Peter atAntioch.St. Margaret, of Cortona,A. D.1297.Sts. ThalasiusandLimneus.St. Baradat.
The Chair ofSt. Peter atAntioch.St. Margaret, of Cortona,A. D.1297.Sts. ThalasiusandLimneus.St. Baradat.
She was a penitent, asked public pardon for her sins with a rope about her neck, punished her flesh, and worked miracles accordingly.[7]
St. Thalasius dwelt in a cavern, “and was endowed with extraordinary gifts of the Holy Ghost; but was a treasure unknown to the world.” St. Limneus was his disciple, and “famous for miraculous cures of the sick,” while his master “bore patiently the sharpest cholics, and other distempers, without any human succour.”[8]
This saint lived in a trellis-hut, exposed to the severities of the weather, and clothed in the skins of beasts.[9]
Herb Margaret.Bellis perennis.Dedicated toSt. Margaret, of Cortona.
A valued correspondent obliges theEvery-Day Bookwith an original sketch, hasty and spirited as its hero, when the sports of the field allured him from the pursuits of literature at college, and the domestic comforts of wife and home.
To the Editor.
To disemburthen oneself of ennui, and to find rational amusement for every season of the year, is a grand desideratum in life. Luckily I have hit on’t, and beg leave, as being the properest place, to give my recipe in the Everlasting Calendar you are compiling. I contrive then to give myself employment for every time of year. Neither lively Spring, glowing Summer, sober Autumn, nor dreary Winter, come amiss to me; for I have contrived to make myself an Universal Sportsman, and am become so devoted a page of Diana, that I am dangling at her heels all the year round without being tired of it. In bleak and frozenJanuary, besides sliding, skating in figures, and making men of snow to frighten children with, by means of a lantern placed in a skull at the top of them, I now and then get a day’s cock shooting when the frost breaks, or kill a few small birds in the snow. In lack of other game, a neighbour’s duck, or goose, or a chicken, shot and pocketed as I sally out to the club dinner, are killed more easily than my dairymaid does it, poor things!
InFebruary, the weather being rainy or mild, renders it worth my while to send my stud into Leicestershire for hunting again; and so my white horse Skyscraper, my old everlasting chestnut Silvertail, the only good black in the hunt Sultan, and the brown mare Rosinante, together with Alfana the king of the Cocktails, a hack or two, and a poney for errands, are “pyked off” pack and baggage for Melton; and then from the first purple dawn of daylight, when I set off to cover, to the termination of the day with cards, I have plenty of rational amusement. Next month, forbearingMarchhares, I shoot a few snipes before they are all gone, and at night prepare my fishing tackle forApril, when the verdant meadows again draw me to the riverside to angle.
My wife has now rational employment for the rest of the Summer in catching and impaling the various flies of the season against my trout mania comes, which is usual early inMay, when all her maids assist in this flyfowling sport. I have generally been successful in sport, but I shall never forget my disappointmentwhen on throwing in a flyline which was not baited by myself, I found that Sally, mistaking her new employment, had baited my hook with an earwig. InJuneI neglected my Grass for the same sport, and often let it stand till the Hay is spoiled by Swithin, who wipes his watery eyes with what ought to be my Winter’s fodder. This gives me rational, though troublesome, employment in buying Hay or passing off the old at market.July, however, affords plenty of bobfishing, as I call it, for roach, dace, perch, and bleak. I also gudgeon some of my neighbours, and cast a line of an evening into their carp and tench ponds. I have not, thank my stars, either stupidity or patience enough for barbel. But inAugust, that is before the 12th, I get my trolling tackle in order, and am reminded of my old vermin college days, when shutting my room door, as if I was “sported in” and cramming Euclid, I used to creep down to the banks of the Cam, and clapping my hands on my old rod, with his long line to him, exclaimed, in true Horatian measure, the only Latin line I ever cited in my life,
Progenie longa gaudes captare Johannes.
Progenie longa gaudes captare Johannes.
Progenie longa gaudes captare Johannes.
But, oh! the 12th day ofAugust, that mountain holiday, ushered in by the ringing of the sheep bell—’tis then that, jacketed in fustian, with a gun on my shoulder, and a powder horn belted to my side, I ramble the rough highland hills in quest of blackcocks and red game, get now and then a chance shot at a ptarmagan, and once winged a Capercaille on a pine tree at Invercauld. In hurrying home for theFirst of September, I usually pass through the fens of Lincolnshire, and there generally kill a wild duck or two. You must know I have, besides my pointers, setters, and spaniels, water dogs of every sort. Indeed my dog establishment would astonish Acteon. There are my harriers, Rockwood, Ringwood, Lasher, Jowler, Rallywood, and twenty more; my pointers, Ponto and Carlo; my spaniels, Dash and Old Grizzle; Hedgehog and Pompey, my water dogs. No one, I bet a crown, has better greyhounds than Fly and Dart are, nor a surer lurcher than Groveller. I say nothing of those inferior “Lares,” my terriers—ratcatching Busy, Snap, and Nimbletoes, with whom, in the absense of other game, I go sometimes for a frolic to a farmhouse, disguised as a ratcatcher, and take a shilling for ferret work.
But now I come to thy shrine, O lovelySeptembria, thou fairest nymyh in Diana’s train, with rolling blue eyes as sharp and as true as those of a signal lieutenant; I come to court thee again, and may thy path be even paved with the skulls of partridges. Again I come to dine with thee on the leveret’s back or pheasant’s wings. We’ve wildboars’ bladders for wine bottles, ramshorns for corkscrews, bugles for funnels, gunpowder for snuff, smoke for tobacco, woodcock’s bills for toothpicks, and shot for sugar plums! I dare not proceed to tell you now many brace of birds Ponto and I bag the first day of shooting, as the long bow, instead of the fowling piece, might be called my weapon. But enough rodomontading.
I now come toOctober. Pheasants by all that’s volatile! And then, after them, I go to my tailor and order two suits—scarlet for master Reynard, and a bottlegreen jacket for the harriers, top-boots, white corderoy inexpressibles, and a velvet cap. Then when the covers ring again with the hallowed music of harriers, I begin skylarking the gates and setting into wind to follow the foxhounds inNovember. When
The dusky night rides down the sky,And ushers in the morn,The Hounds all make a jovial cry,And the Huntsman winds his horn.
The dusky night rides down the sky,And ushers in the morn,The Hounds all make a jovial cry,And the Huntsman winds his horn.
The dusky night rides down the sky,And ushers in the morn,The Hounds all make a jovial cry,And the Huntsman winds his horn.
With three days in the week chace, and pretty little interludes of hunting with beagles, or of snipe shooting, I manage to get throughDecemberto the year’s end. My snug Winter evenings are spent in getting ready my guns, smacking new hunting whips, or trying on new boots, while my old hall furnishes ample store of trophies, stags’ horns hunted by my great grandfather, cross bows, guns, brushes won on rivals of Pegasus, and all sorts of odd oldfashioned whips, horns, and accoutrements, hanging up all round, which remind me of those days of yore when I remember the old squire and his sporting chaplain casting home on spent horses all bespattered from the chase, before I had ridden any thing but my rocking horse. There then have I rational amusement all the year round. And much and sincerely do I praise thee, O Diana! greatest Diana of the Ephesians! at thy feet will I repose my old and weatherbeaten carcass at last and invoke thytutelary protection for my old age, thou who artHunting,Shooting, andFishingpersonified, the trueDiva Triformisof Antiquity.
Imminens Villæ tua Pinus esto,Quam per exactos ego lætus annos,Verris obliquum meditantis ictum,Sanguine donem.
Imminens Villæ tua Pinus esto,Quam per exactos ego lætus annos,Verris obliquum meditantis ictum,Sanguine donem.
Imminens Villæ tua Pinus esto,Quam per exactos ego lætus annos,Verris obliquum meditantis ictum,Sanguine donem.
I have the honour to remain,Yours ever,Jack Larking.
I have the honour to remain,Yours ever,Jack Larking.
AN ADDRESS TO THE MOON,To a“proper new”tune.ORIGINAL.No!—I have nothing new to say,Why must ye wait to hear my story?Go, get thee on thy trackless way,There’s many a weary mile before ye—Get thee to bed, lest some poor poet,Enraptur’d with thy phiz, should dipA pen in ink to let thee know it,And (mindful not to let thee slipHis fingers) bid thy moonship stayAnd list, what he might have to say.Yet I do love thee!—and if aughtThe muse can serve thee, will petitionHer grace t’ attend thine airy court,And play the part of first musician—But “ode,” and “lines,” “address,” and “sonnet,”“To Luna dedicate,” are nowSo plentiful, that (fie upon it!)She’ll add no glory to thy brow,But tell thee, in such strains as follow,That thy mild sheen beats Phosphor hollow!That thou art “fairest of the fair,”Tho’ Phœbus more that’s grand possesses,That tree and tower reflect thy glare,And the glad stream thy ray confesses,That, when thy silvery beams illumineThe landscape, nature seems bedightWith loveliness so rare, that few menHave e’er been blessed with such a sight!And all suchmoonshine:—but enoughOf this tame “milk and water” stuff.
AN ADDRESS TO THE MOON,To a“proper new”tune.ORIGINAL.
No!—I have nothing new to say,Why must ye wait to hear my story?Go, get thee on thy trackless way,There’s many a weary mile before ye—Get thee to bed, lest some poor poet,Enraptur’d with thy phiz, should dipA pen in ink to let thee know it,And (mindful not to let thee slipHis fingers) bid thy moonship stayAnd list, what he might have to say.Yet I do love thee!—and if aughtThe muse can serve thee, will petitionHer grace t’ attend thine airy court,And play the part of first musician—But “ode,” and “lines,” “address,” and “sonnet,”“To Luna dedicate,” are nowSo plentiful, that (fie upon it!)She’ll add no glory to thy brow,But tell thee, in such strains as follow,That thy mild sheen beats Phosphor hollow!That thou art “fairest of the fair,”Tho’ Phœbus more that’s grand possesses,That tree and tower reflect thy glare,And the glad stream thy ray confesses,That, when thy silvery beams illumineThe landscape, nature seems bedightWith loveliness so rare, that few menHave e’er been blessed with such a sight!And all suchmoonshine:—but enoughOf this tame “milk and water” stuff.
No!—I have nothing new to say,Why must ye wait to hear my story?Go, get thee on thy trackless way,There’s many a weary mile before ye—Get thee to bed, lest some poor poet,Enraptur’d with thy phiz, should dipA pen in ink to let thee know it,And (mindful not to let thee slipHis fingers) bid thy moonship stayAnd list, what he might have to say.
Yet I do love thee!—and if aughtThe muse can serve thee, will petitionHer grace t’ attend thine airy court,And play the part of first musician—But “ode,” and “lines,” “address,” and “sonnet,”“To Luna dedicate,” are nowSo plentiful, that (fie upon it!)She’ll add no glory to thy brow,But tell thee, in such strains as follow,That thy mild sheen beats Phosphor hollow!
That thou art “fairest of the fair,”Tho’ Phœbus more that’s grand possesses,That tree and tower reflect thy glare,And the glad stream thy ray confesses,That, when thy silvery beams illumineThe landscape, nature seems bedightWith loveliness so rare, that few menHave e’er been blessed with such a sight!And all suchmoonshine:—but enoughOf this tame “milk and water” stuff.
Δ
[7]Butler’s Saints.[8]Ibid.[9]Ibid.
[7]Butler’s Saints.
[8]Ibid.
[9]Ibid.
St. Serenus,A. D.307.St. Milburge.B.Dositheus.St. Peter Damian, Card. Bp.A. D.1072.St. Boisil, Prior of Melross.
St. Serenus,A. D.307.St. Milburge.B.Dositheus.St. Peter Damian, Card. Bp.A. D.1072.St. Boisil, Prior of Melross.
She was sister to St. Mildred, wore a hair cloth, and built the monastery of Wenlock, in Shropshire. One day being at Stokes, a neighbouring village, brother Hierome Porter says, that “a young gallant, sonne to a prince of that countrey, was soe taken with her beautie, that he had a vehement desire to carrie her away by force and marrie her.” St. Milburge fled from him and his companions till she had passed a little brook, called Corfe, which then suddenly swelled up and threatened her pursuers with destruction, wherefore they desisted. She ordered the wild geese who ate the corn of her monastic fields to be gone elsewhere, and they obeyed her as the waters did. After her death, her remains were discovered, in 1100, by two children sinking up to their knees in her grave, the dust whereof cured leprosies, restored the sight, and spoiled medical practice. A diseased woman at Patton, drinking of the water wherein St. Milburge’s bones were washed, there came from her stomach “a filthie worme, ugly and horrible to behold, having six feete, two hornes on his head, and two on his tayle.” Brother Porter tells this, and that the “worme was shutt up in a hollow piece of wood, and reserved afterwards in the monasterie, as a trophie, and monument of S. Milburg, untill by the lascivious furie of him that destroyed all goodnes in England, that, with other religious houses, and monasteries, went to ruine.”[10]Hence the “filthie worme” was lost, and we have nothing instead but the Reformation.
Apricot.Prunus Armeniaca.Dedicated toSt. Milburge.
If ice still remain let those who tempt it beware:—