January 8.

“Their calm desires that asked but little room,”

were unheeded, and their usefulness was unknown, until their absence was felt.

street festivitiesPlough Monday

Plough Monday

The firstMondayafter Twelfth-day is calledPloughMonday, and appears to have received that name because it was the first day after Christmas that husbandmen resumed theplough. In some parts of the country, and especially in the north, they draw the plough in procession to the doors of the villagers and townspeople. Long ropes are attached to it, and thirty or forty men, stripped to their clean white shirts, but protected from the weather by waistcoats beneath, drag it along. Their arms and shoulders are decorated with gay-coloured ribbons, tied in large knots and bows, and their hats are smartened in the same way. They are usually accompanied by an old woman, or a boy dressed up to represent one; she is gaily bedizened, and called theBessy. Sometimes the sport is assisted by a humorous countryman to represent afool. He is covered with ribbons, and attired in skins, with a depending tail, and carries a box to collect money from the spectators. They are attended by music, and Morris-dancers when they can be got; but there is always a sportive dance with a few lasses in all their finery, and a superabundance of ribbons. When this merriment is well managed, it is very pleasing. The money collected is spent at night in conviviality. It must not be supposed, however, that in these times, the twelve days of Christmas are devoted to pastime, although the custom remains. Formerly, indeed, little was done in the field at this season, and according to “Tusser Redivivus,” during the Christmas holidays, gentlemen feasted the farmers, and every farmer feasted his servants and taskmen. ThenPlough Mondayreminded them of their business, and on the morning of that day, the men and maids strove who should show their readiness to commence the labours of the year, by rising the earliest. If the ploughman could get his whip, his plough-staff, hatchet, or any field implement, by the fireside, before the maid could get her kettle on, she lost her Shrove-tide cock to the men. Thus did our forefathers strive to allure youth to their duty, and provided them innocent mirth as well as labour. On Plough Monday night the farmer gave them a good supper and strong ale. In some places, where the ploughman went to work on Plough Monday, if, on his return at night, he came with his whip to the kitchen-hatch, and cried “Cock in pot,” before the maid could cry “Cock on the dunghill,” he gained a cock for Shrove Tuesday.

Blomefield’s History of Norfolk tends to clear the origin of the annual processions on Plough Monday. Anciently, alight called thePlough-light, was maintained by old and young persons who were husbandmen, before images in some churches, and on Plough Monday they had a feast, and went about with a plough and dancers to get money to support thePlough-light. The Reformation put out these lights; but the practice of going about with the plough begging for money remains, and the “money forlight” increases the income of the village alehouse. Let the sons of toil make glad their hearts with “Barley-wine;” let them also remember to “be merry and wise.” Their old acquaintance, “Sir John Barleycorn,” has had heavy complaints against him. There is “The Arraigning and Indicting ofSir John Barleycorn,knt.printed for Timothy Tosspot.” This whimsical little tract describes him as of “noble blood, well beloved in England, a great support to the crown, and a maintainer of both rich and poor.” It formally places him upon his trial, at the sign of theThree Loggerheads, before “OliverandOld Nickhis holy father,” as judges. The witnesses for the prosecution were cited under the hands and seals of the said judges, sitting “at the sign of theThree merry Companions in Bedlam; that is to say, Poor Robin, Merry Tom, and Jack Lackwit.” At the trial, the prisoner, sir John Barleycorn, pleaded not guilty.

Lawyer Noisy.—May it please your lordship, and gentlemen of the jury, I am counsel for the king against the prisoner at the bar, who stands indicted of many heinous and wicked crimes, in that the said prisoner, with malice propense and several wicked ways, has conspired and brought about the death of several of his majesty’s loving subjects, to the great loss of several poor families, who by this means have been brought to ruin and beggary, which, before the wicked designs and contrivances of the prisoner, lived in a flourishing and reputable way, but now are reduced to low circumstances and great misery, to the great loss of their own families and the nation in general. We shall call our evidence; and if we make the facts appear, I do not doubt but you will find him guilty, and your lordships will award such punishment as the nature of his crimes deserve.

Vulcan, the Blacksmith.—My lords, sir John has been a great enemy to me, and many of my friends. Many a time, when I have been busy at my work, not thinking any harm to any man, having a fire-spark in my throat, I, going over to the sign of the Cup and Can for one pennyworth of ale, there I found sir John, and thinking no hurt to any man, civilly sat me down to spend my twopence; but in the end, sir John began to pick a quarrel with me. Then I started up, thinking to go away; but sir John had got me by the top of the head, that I had no power to help myself, and so by his strength and power he threw me down, broke my head, my face, and almost all my bones, that I was not able to work for three days; nay, more than this, he picked my purse, and left me never a penny, so that I had not wherewithal to support my family, and my head ached to such a degree, that I was not able to work for three or four days; and this set my wife a scolding, so that I not only lost the good opinion my neighbours had of me, but likewise raised such a storm in my family, that I was forced to call in the parson of the parish to quiet the raging of my wife’s temper.

Will, the Weaver.—I am but a poor man, and have a wife and a charge of children: yet this knowing sir John will never let me alone; he is always enticing me from my work, and will not be quiet till he hath got me to the alehouse; and then he quarrels with me, and abuses me most basely; and sometimes he binds me hand and foot, and throws me in the ditch, and there stays with me all night, and next morning leaves me but one penny in my pocket. About a week ago, we had not been together above an hour, before he began to give me cross words: at our first meeting, he seemed to have a pleasant countenance, and often smiled in my face, and would make me sing a merry catch or two; but in a little time, he grew very churlish, and kicked up my heels, set my head where my heels should be, and put my shoulder out, so that I have not been able to use my shuttle ever since, which has been a great detriment to my family, and great misery to myself.

Stitch, the Tailor, deposed to the same effect.

Mr. Wheatly.—The inconveniencies I have received from the prisoner are without number, and the trouble he occasions in the neighbourhood is not to be expressed. I am sure I have been oftentimes very highly esteemed both with lords, knights, and squires, and none could please them so well as James Wheatly, the baker; but now the case isaltered; sir John Barleycorn is the man that is highly esteemed in every place. I am now but poor James Wheatly, and he issirJohn Barleycorn at every word; and that word hath undone many an honest man in England; for I can prove it to be true, that he has caused many an honest man to waste and consume all that he hath.

The prisoner, sir John Barleycorn, being called on for his defence, urged, that to his accusers he was a friend, until they abused him; and said, if any one is to be blamed, it is my brotherMalt. My brother is now in court, and if your lordships please, may be examined to all those facts which are now laid to my charge.

Court.—Call Mr. Malt.

Maltappears.

Court.—Mr. Malt, you have (as you have been in court) heard the indictment that is laid against your brother, sir John Barleycorn, who says, if any one ought to be accused, it should be you; but as sir John and you are so nearly related to each other, and have lived so long together, the court is of opinion he cannot be acquitted, unless you can likewise proveyourselfinnocent of the crimes which are laid to his charge.

Malt.—My lords, I thank you for the liberty you now indulge me with, and think it a great happiness, since I am so strongly accused, that I have such learned judges to determine these complaints. As for my part, I will put the matter to the bench. First, I pray you consider with yourselves, all tradesmen would live; and although Master Malt does make sometimes a cup of good liquor, and many men come to taste it, yet the fault is neither in me nor my brother John, but in such as those who make this complaint against us, as I shall make it appear to you all.

In the first place, which of you all can say but Master Malt can make a cup of good liquor, with the help of a good brewer; and when it is made, it will be sold. I pray which of you all can live without it? But when such as these, who complain of us, find it to be good, then they have such a greedy mind, that they think they never have enough, and this overcharge brings on the inconveniences complained of, makes them quarrelsome with one another, and abusive to their very friends, so that we are forced to lay them down to sleep. From hence it appears it is from their own greedy desires all these troubles arise, and not from wicked designs of our own.

Court.—Truly, we cannot see that you are in the fault. Sir John Barleycorn, we will show you so much favour, that if you can bring any person of reputation to speak to your character, the court is disposed to acquit you. Bring in your evidence, and let us hear what they can say in your behalf.

Thomas, the Ploughman.—May I be allowed to speak my thoughts freely, since I shall offer nothing but the truth.

Court.—Yes, thou mayest be bold to speak the truth, and no more, for that is the cause we sit here for; therefore speak boldly, that we may understand thee.

Ploughman.—Gentlemen, sir John is of an ancient house, and is come of a noble race; there is neither lord, knight, nor squire, but they love his company, and he theirs; as long as they don’t abuse him, he will abuse no man, but doth a great deal of good. In the first place, few ploughmen can live without him; for if it were not for him, we should not pay our landlords their rent; and then what would such men as you do for money and clothes? Nay, your gay ladies would care but little for you, if you had not your rents coming in to maintain them; and we could never pay, but that sir John Barleycorn feeds us with money; and yet would you seek to take away his life! For shame, let your malice cease, and pardon his life, or else we are all undone.

Bunch, the Brewer.—Gentlemen, I beseech you, hear me. My name is Bunch, a brewer; and I believe few of you can live without a cup of good liquor, no more than I can without the help of sir John Barleycorn. As for my own part, I maintain a great charge, and keep a great many men at work; I pay taxes forty pounds a year to his majesty, God bless him, and all this is maintained by the help of sir John; then how can any man for shame seek to take away his life.

Mistress Hostess.—To give evidence in behalf of sir John Barleycorn, gives me pleasure, since I have an opportunity of doing justice to so honourable a person. Through him the administration receives large supplies; he likewise greatly supports the labourer, and enlivens the conversation. What pleasure could there be at a sheep-clipping without his company, or what joy at a feast without his assistance? I know him to be an honestman, and he never abused any man, if they abused not him. If you put him to death, all England is undone, for there is not another in the land can do as he can do, and hath done; for he can make a cripple go, the coward fight, and a soldier neither feel hunger nor cold. I beseech you, gentlemen, let him live, or else we are all undone; the nation likewise will be distressed, the labourer impoverished, and the husbandman ruined.

Court.—Gentlemen of the jury, you have now heard what has been offered against sir John Barleycorn, and the evidence that has been produced in his defence. If you are of opinion he is guilty of those wicked crimes laid to his charge, and has with malice propense conspired and brought about the death of several of his majesty’s loving subjects, you are then to find him guilty; but if, on the contrary, you are of opinion that he had no real intention of wickedness, and was not the immediate, but only the accidental, cause of these evils laid to his charge, then, according to the statute law of this kingdom, you ought to acquit him.

Verdict,Not Guilty.

From this facetious little narrative may be learned the folly of excess, and the injustice of charging a cheering beverage, with the evil consequences of a man taking a cup more of it than will do him good.

St. Lucian—Holiday at the Exchequer.

St. Appollinaris.St. Severinus.St. Pega.St. Vulsin.St. Gudula.St. Nathalan.

TheSt. Lucianof the Romish church on this day was from Rome, and preached in Gaul, where he suffered death about 290, according to Butler, who affirms that he is the St. Lucian in the English Protestant calendar. There is reason to suppose, however, that the St. Lucian of the church of England was the saint of that name mentioned yesterday.

Is the patroness of Brussels, and is said to have died about 712. She suffered the misfortune of having her candle blown out, and possessed the miraculous power of praying it a-light again, at least, so says Butler; “whence,” he affirms, “she is usually represented in pictures with a lantern.” He particularizes no other miracle she performed. Surius however relates, that as she was praying in a church without shoes, the priest compassionately put his gloves under her feet; but she threw them away, and they miraculously hung in the air for the space of an hour—whether in compliment to the saint or the priest does not appear.

1821. A newspaper of January 8, mentions an extraordinary feat by Mr. Huddy, the postmaster of Lismore, in the 97th year of his age. He travelled, for a wager, from that town to Fermoy in a Dungarvon oyster-tub, drawn by a pig, a badger, two cats, a goose, and a hedgehog; with a large red nightcap on his head, a pig-driver’s whip in one hand, and in the other a common cow’s-horn, which he blew to encourage his team, and give notice of this new mode of posting.

Let us turn away for a moment from the credulity and eccentricity of man’s feebleness and folly, to the contemplation of “the firstling of the year” from the bosom of our common mother. The Snow-drop is described in the “Flora Domestica” as “the earliest flower of all our wild flowers, and will even show her head above the snow, as if to prove her rivalry in whiteness;” as if

—Flora’s breath, by some transforming power,Had chang’d an icicle into a flower.Mrs. Barbauld.

—Flora’s breath, by some transforming power,Had chang’d an icicle into a flower.

Mrs. Barbauld.

One of its greatest charms is its “coming in a wintry season, when few others visit us: we look upon it as a friend in adversity; sure to come when most needed.”

Like pendent flakes of vegetating snow,The early herald of the infant year,Ere yet the adventurous crocus dares to blow,Beneath the orchard-boughs, thy buds appear.While still the cold north-east ungenial lowers,And scarce the hazel in the leafless copse,Or sallows, show their downy powder’d flowers,The grass is spangled with thy silver drops.Charlotte Smith.

Like pendent flakes of vegetating snow,The early herald of the infant year,Ere yet the adventurous crocus dares to blow,Beneath the orchard-boughs, thy buds appear.

While still the cold north-east ungenial lowers,And scarce the hazel in the leafless copse,Or sallows, show their downy powder’d flowers,The grass is spangled with thy silver drops.

Charlotte Smith.

St. Peter of Sebaste.St. Julian and Basilissa.St. Marciana.St. Brithwald.St. Felan.St. Adrian.St. Vaneng.

Of the seven Romish saints of this day scarcely an anecdote is worth mentioning.

1766. On the 9th of January died Dr. Thomas Birch, a valuable contributor to history and biography. He was born on the 23d of November, 1705, of Quaker parents. His father was a coffee-mill maker, and designed Thomas for the same trade; but the son “took to reading,” and being put to school, obtained successive usherships; removing each time into a better school, that he might improve his studies; and stealing hours from sleep to increase his knowledge. He succeeded in qualifying himself for the church of England, without going to the university; obtained orders from bishop Hoadley in 1731, and several preferments from the lord chancellor Hardwicke and earl Hardwicke; became a member of the Royal Society before he was thirty years of age, and of the Antiquarian Society about the same time; was created a doctor of divinity, and made a trustee of the British Museum; and at his death, left his books and MSS. to the national library there. Enumeration of his many useful labours would occupy several of these pages. His industry was amazing. His correspondence was extensive; his communications to the Royal Society were various and numerous, and his personal application may be inferred from there being among his MSS. no less than twenty-four quarto volumes of Anthony Bacon’s papers transcribed by his own hand. He edited Thurloes’ State Papers in 7 vols. folio; wrote the Lives of Illustrious Persons of Great Britain, and a History of the Royal Society; published miscellaneous pieces of Lord Bacon, before unprinted, and produced a large number of other works. The first undertaking wherein he engaged, with other learned men, was the “General Dictionary, Historical and Critical,”—a most useful labour, containing the whole of Bayle’s Dictionary newly translated, and several thousand additional lives. He was enabled to complete his great undertakings by being a very early riser, and by usually executing the business of the morning before most persons had commenced it.

WINTER.From“Poetic Vigils,”byBernard BartonThe flowret’s bloom is faded,Its glossy leaf grown sere;The landscape round is shadedBy Winter’s frown austere.The dew, once sparkling lightlyOn grass of freshest green,In heavier drops unsightlyOn matted weeds is seen.No songs of joy, to gladden,From leafy woods emerge;But winds, in tones that sadden,Breathe Nature’s mournful dirge.All sights and sounds appealing,Through merely outward sense,To joyful thought and feeling,Seem now departed hence.But not with such is banishedThe bliss that life can lend;Nor with such things hath vanishedIts truest, noblest end.The toys that charm, and leave us,Are fancy’s fleeting elves;All that should glad, or grieve us,Exists within ourselves.Enjoyment’s gentle essenceIs virtue’s godlike dower;Its most triumphant presenceIllumes the darkest hour.

WINTER.From“Poetic Vigils,”byBernard Barton

The flowret’s bloom is faded,Its glossy leaf grown sere;The landscape round is shadedBy Winter’s frown austere.The dew, once sparkling lightlyOn grass of freshest green,In heavier drops unsightlyOn matted weeds is seen.No songs of joy, to gladden,From leafy woods emerge;But winds, in tones that sadden,Breathe Nature’s mournful dirge.All sights and sounds appealing,Through merely outward sense,To joyful thought and feeling,Seem now departed hence.But not with such is banishedThe bliss that life can lend;Nor with such things hath vanishedIts truest, noblest end.The toys that charm, and leave us,Are fancy’s fleeting elves;All that should glad, or grieve us,Exists within ourselves.Enjoyment’s gentle essenceIs virtue’s godlike dower;Its most triumphant presenceIllumes the darkest hour.

The flowret’s bloom is faded,Its glossy leaf grown sere;The landscape round is shadedBy Winter’s frown austere.

The dew, once sparkling lightlyOn grass of freshest green,In heavier drops unsightlyOn matted weeds is seen.

No songs of joy, to gladden,From leafy woods emerge;But winds, in tones that sadden,Breathe Nature’s mournful dirge.

All sights and sounds appealing,Through merely outward sense,To joyful thought and feeling,Seem now departed hence.

But not with such is banishedThe bliss that life can lend;Nor with such things hath vanishedIts truest, noblest end.

The toys that charm, and leave us,Are fancy’s fleeting elves;All that should glad, or grieve us,Exists within ourselves.

Enjoyment’s gentle essenceIs virtue’s godlike dower;Its most triumphant presenceIllumes the darkest hour.

St. William.St. Agatho, Pope.St. Martian.

This saint, who died in 1207, was archbishop of Bourges, always wore a hair shirt, never ate flesh meat, when he found himself dying caused his body to be laid on ashes in his hair shirt, worked miracles after his death, and had his relics venerated till 1562, when the Hugonots burnt them without their manifesting miracles at that important crisis. A bone of his arm is still at Chaalis, and one of his ribs at Paris; so says Butler, who does not state that either of these remains worked miracles since the French revolution.

1820. The journals of January relate some particulars of a gentleman remarkable for the cultivation of an useful quality to an extraordinary extent. He drew from actual memory, in twenty-two hours, at two sittings, in the presence of two well-known gentlemen, a correct plan of the parish of St. James, Westminster, with parts of theparishes of St. Mary-le-bone, St. Ann, and St. Martin; which plan contained every square, street, lane, court, alley, market, church, chapel, and all public buildings, with all stable and other yards, also every public-house in the parish, and the corners of all streets, with every minutiæ, as pumps, posts, trees, houses that project and inject, bow-windows, Carlton-house, St. James’s palace, and the interior of the markets, without scale or reference to any plan, book, or paper whatever. He did the same with respect to the parish of St. Andrew, Holborn, in the presence of four gentlemen, from eight to twelve, one evening at a tavern; and he also undertook to draw the plan of St. Giles-in-the-fields, St. Paul’s, Covent-garden, St. Mary-le-strand, St. Clement’s, and three-fourths of Mary-le-bone, or St. George’s. The plans before alluded to were drawn in the presence of John Willock, Esq. Golden-square; Mr. Robinson, of Surrey-road; William Montague, Esq. of Guildhall; Mr. Allen, vestry clerk of St. Ann’s; John Dawson, Esq. of Burlington-street; N. Walker, Holborn; and two other gentlemen. He can tell the corner of any great and leading thoroughfare-street from Hyde Park-corner, or Oxford-street, to St. Paul’s; or from the New-road to Westminster abbey; and the trade or profession carried on at such corner house. He can tell every public shop of business in Piccadilly, which consists of two hundred and forty-one houses, allowing him only twenty-four mistakes; he accomplished this in the presence of four gentlemen, after five o’clock, and proved it before seven in the same evening. A house being named in any public street, he will name the trade of the shop, either on the right or left hand of the same, and whether the door of such house so named is in the centre, or on the right or left. He can take an inventory, from memory only, of a gentleman’s house, from the attic to the groundfloor, and afterwards write it out. He did this at lord Nelson’s, at Merton, and likewise at the duke of Kent’s, in the presence of two noblemen. He is known by the appellation of “Memory-corner Thompson.” The plan of his house, called Priory Frognall, Hampstead, he designed, and built it externally and internally, without any working-drawing, but carried it up by the eye only. Yet, though his memory is so accurate in the retention of objects submitted to the eye, he has little power of recollecting what he hears. The dialogue of a comedy heard once, or even twice, would, after an interval of a few days, be entirely new to him.

St. Theodosius.St. Hyginus.St. Egwin.St. Salvius.

This saint visited St. Simeon Stylites on his pillar and had his fortune told. He ate coarse pulse and wild herbs, never tasted bread for thirty years, founded a monastery for an unlimited number of monks, dug one grave large enough to hold the whole community, when he received strangers, and had not food enough, he prayed for its miraculous increase and had it multiplied accordingly, prophesied while he was dying, died in 529, and had his hair shirt begged by a count, who won a victory with it. He was buried according to Butler, who relates these particulars, in the cave wherein the three kings of Cologne were said to have lodged on their way to Bethlehem.

In hard frosts holes must be broken in the ice that forms upon fish ponds, or the fish will die. It is pleasing to watch the finny tenants rising half torpid beneath a new-formed hole for the benefit of the air. Ice holes should be kept open during the frost: one hole to a pond is sufficient.

At Logan or Port Nessock in Wigtownshire, North Britain, a largesaltwaterpond was formed for Cod in 1800. It is a basin of 30 feet in depth, and 160 feet in circumference, hewn out from the solid rock, and communicating with the sea by one of those fissures which are common to bold and precipitous coasts. Attached to it is a neat Gothic cottage for the accommodation of the fisherman, and the rock is surmounted all round by a substantial stone wall at least 300 feet in circumference. In every state of the wind or tide, winter and summer, when not a single boat dare venture to sea, Colonel M‘Dowal can command a supply of the finest fish, and study at his leisure the instincts and habits of the “finny nations,” with at least all the accuracy of those sage naturalists,who rarely travel farther than Exeter ’Change. From the inner or back door of the lodge, a winding stair-way conducts to the usual halting place—a large flat stone projecting into the water, and commanding a view of every part of the aquatic prison. When the tide is out, this stone is left completely dry, and here a stranger perceives with surprise, a hundred mouths simultaneously opened to greet his arrival.

The moment the fisherman crosses his threshold, the pond is agitated by the action of some hundred fins, and otherwise thrown into a state of anarchy and confusion. Darting from this, that, and the other corner, the whole population move as it were to a common centre, elevate their snouts, lash their tails, and jostle one another with such violence, that on a first view they actually seem to be menacing an attack on the poor fisherman, in place of the creel full of limpets he carries. Many of the fish are so tame, that they will feed greedily from the hand, and bite your fingers into the bargain, if you are foolish enough to allow them; while others again are so shy, that the fisherman discourses of theirdifferent tempers, as a thing quite as palpable as the gills they breathe, or the fins they move by. One gigantic cod, which seems to answer to the name of “Tom,” and may well be described as the patriarch of the pond, forcibly arrests attention. This unfortunate, who passed his youth in the open sea, was taken prisoner at the age of five, and has since sojourned at Port Nessock, for the long period of twelve years, during all which time he has gradually increased in bulk and weight. He is now wholly blind from age or disease, and he has no chance whatever in the general scramble. The fisherman, however, is very kind to him, and it is affecting as well as curious, to see the huge animal raise himself in the water; and then resting his head on the flat stone, allow it to be gently patted or stroked, gaping all the while to implore that food which he has no other means of obtaining. In this pond, cod appears to be the prevailing species; there are also blochin or glassin, haddocks, flounders, and various other kinds. Salmon, which at spawning time visit the highest rivers, could not of course obey their instincts here, and accordingly there is only one specimen of this favourite fish in the pond at present. As the fisherman remarked, “he is farsouplerthan any o’ the rest,” and by virtue of this one quality, chases, bites, and otherwise annoys a whole battalion of gigantic cod, that have only, one would think, to open their mouths and swallow him. To supply them with food is an important part of the fisherman’s duty; and with this view, he must ply the net, and heave the line, during two or three days of every week. He has also to renew the stock, when the pond appears to be getting thin, from the contributions levied on it by the cook.

A letter from Cairo, in a journal of January 1824, contains a whimsical exemplification of Turkish manners in the provinces, and the absurdity of attempting to honour distant authorities, by the distinctions of civil society. A diploma of honorary member of the Society of Frankfort was presented to the Pacha, at the divan (or council.) The Pacha, who can neither read nor write, thought it was afirman(despatch) from the Porte. He was much surprised and alarmed; but the interpreter explained to him that it was written in theNemptchee(German) language, contained the thanks of theulemas(scholars) of a German city named Frankfort, for his kindness to twoNemptcheetravelling in Egypt.

But the most difficult part was yet to come; it was to explain to him that he had been appointed amemberof their society; and the Turkish language having no word for this purely European idea, the interpreter, after many hesitations and circumlocutions, at last succeeded in explaining, “that as a mark of respect and gratitude, the society had made him one of theirpartners.” At these words the eyes of the Pacha flashed with anger, and with a voice of thunder he roared that he would never again be thepartnerof any firm; that hispartnershipwith Messrs. Briggs and Co. in the Indian trade, cost him nearly 500,000 hard piasters; that the association for the manufactory of sugar and rum paid him nothing at all; and, in short, that he was completely tired of his connections with Frank merchants, who were indebted to him 23,000,000 of piasters, which he considered as completely lost. In his rage, he even threatened to have the interpreter drowned in the Nile, for having presumed to make offer of a mercantile connection, against his positive orders.

The poor interpreter was confounded, and unable to utter a word in his defence. At this critical moment, however, Messrs. Fernandez, Pambonc, and others who have access to the Pacha, interposed; and it was some time before they could reduce his Highness to reason; his passion had thrown him into an hysterical hiccup. When his Highness was a little recovered, Mr. Fernandez endeavoured to explain to him that there was no question about business: that theulemasof Frankfort were possessed of no stock butbooks, and had no capital. “So much the worse,” replied the Pacha; “then they aresahhaftehi, (booksellers,) who carry on their business without money, like the Franks at Cairo and Alexandria.” “Oh, no, they are nosahhaftehi, butulemas,kiatibs, (authors,) physicians,philoussoufs, &c., who are only engaged in science.” “Well,” said he, “and what am I then to do in their society; I, a Pacha of three horse tails?” “Nothing at all, your Highness, like perhaps most of the members of their society, but by receiving you into their society, these gentlemen intended to show you their respect and gratitude.” “That is a strange custom, indeed,” cried the Pacha, “to show respect to a person by telling or writing to him in funny letters—you are worthy of being one of us.” “But thisisthe custom,” added Divan Effendi (his Secretary.) “YourHappinessknows that thefriends(Franks) have many customs different from ours, and often such as are very ridiculous. For instance, if they wish to salute a person, they bare their heads, and scrape with their right foot backwards; instead of sitting down comfortably on a sofa to rest themselves, they sit on little wooden chairs, as if they were about to be shaved: they eat thepillaowith spoons, and the meat withpincers; but what seems most laughable is, that they humbly kiss the hands of their women, who, instead of theyashmak, (veil,) carry straw baskets on their heads; and that they mix sugar and milk with their coffee.” This last sally set the whole assembly (his Highness excepted) in a roar of laughter. Among those who stood near the fountain in the middle of the hall, several exclaimed with respect to the coffee with sugar and milk,Kiafirler! (Ah, ye infidels!)

In the end the Pacha was pacified, and “All’s well that ends well;” but it had been better, it seems, if, according to the customs of the east, the society of Frankfort had sent the Pacha the unquestionable civility of a present, that he could have applied to some use.

On the 11th of January, 1825, a sketch of this church was taken from a second-floor window in the house No. 115, Fleet-street, which stands on the opposite side of the way to that whereon the opening was made by the late fire; and the subjoinedengravingfrom the sketch is designed to perpetuate the appearance through that opening. Till then, it had been concealed from the view of passengers through Fleet-street by the houses destroyed, and the conflagration has been rightly deemed a favourable opportunity for endeavouring to secure a space of sufficient extent to render the church a public ornament to the city. To at least one person, professionally unskilled, the spire of St. Bride’s appears more chaste and effective than the spire of Bow. In 1805, it was 234 feet high, which is thirty-two feet higher than the Monument, but having been struck by lightning in that year, it was lowered to its present standard.

St. Bride’s Church, London, as it appeared Jan. 11, 1825.From the opening in Fleet-street made by the Fire of Sunday, November 14, 1824.

St. Bride’s church was built by sir Christopher Wren, and completed in 1680. It has been repeatedly beautified: its last internal decorations were effected in 1824. In it are interred Thomas Flatman the poet, Samuel Richardson the novelist, and William Bingley, a bookseller, remarkable for his determined and successful resistance to interrogatories by the court of King’s Bench—a practice which that resistance abated for ever: his latter years were employed, or rather were supported, by the kindness of the venerable and venerated John Nichols, Esq. F. S. A. whose family tablet of brass is also in this church. As an ecclesiastical edifice, St. Bride’s is confessedly one of the most elegant in the metropolis: an unobstructed view of it is indispensable therefore to the national character. Appeals which will enable the committee to purchase the interests of individuals on the requisite site are now in progress, and can scarcely be unheeded by those whom wealth, taste, and liberality dispose to assist in works of public improvement. The engraved sketch does not claim to be more than such a representation as may give a distant reader some grounds for determining whether a vigorous effort to save a buildingof that appearance from enclosure a second time ought not now to be made. The proceedings for that purpose are in this month, and are entitled to a place in this sheet.

Card-playing.

This diversion, resorted to at visitings during the twelve days of Christmas, as of ancient custom, continues without abatement during the prolongation of friendly meetings at this season. Persons who are opposed to this recreation from religious scruples, do not seem to distinguish between its use and its abuse. Mr. Archdeacon Butler refers to the “harmless mirth and innocent amusements of society,” in his sermon on “Christian Liberty,” before the duke of Gloucester, and the university of Cambridge, on his royal highness’s installation as chancellor, June 30, 1811. The archdeacon quotes, as a note on that point in his sermon, a remarkable passage from Jeremy Taylor, who says, “thatcards, &c. are of themselves lawful, I do not know any reason to doubt. He can never be suspected, in any criminal sense, to tempt the Divine Providence, who by contingent things recreates his labour. As for the evil appendages, they are all separable from these games, and they may be separated by these advices, &c.” On the citation, which is here abridged, the archdeacon remarks, “Such are the sentiments of one of the most truly pious and most profoundly learned prelates that ever adorned any age or country; nor do I think that the most rigid of our disciplinarians can produce the authority of a wiser or a better man than bishop Jeremy Taylor.” Certainly not; and therefore an objector to this pastime will do well to read the reasoning of the whole passage as it stands at the end of the archdeacon’s printed sermon: if he desire further, let him peruse Jeremy Taylor’s “advices.”

Cards are not here introduced with a view of seducing parents to rear their sons as gamblers and blacklegs, or their daughters to

“a life of scandal, an old age of cards;”

but to impress upon them the importance of “not morosely refusing to participate in” what the archdeacon refers to, as of the “harmless mirth and innocent amusements of society.” Persons who are wholly debarred from such amusements in their infancy, frequently abuse a pleasure they have been wholly restrained from, by excessive indulgence in it on the first opportunity. This is human nature: let the string be suddenly withdrawn from the overstrained bow, and the relaxation of the bow is violent.

Look at a juvenile card-party—not at that which the reader sees represented in theengraving, which is somewhat varied from a design by Stella, who grouped boys almost as finely as Fiamingo modelled their forms—but imagine a juvenile party closely seated round a large table, with a Pope Joan board in the middle;each well supplied with mother-o’-pearl fish and counters, in little Chinese ornamented red and gold trays; their faces and the candles lighting up the room; their bright eyes sparkling after the cards, watching the turn-up, or peeping into the pool to see how rich it is; their growing anxiety to the rounds, till the lucky card decides the richest stake; then the shout out of “Rose has got it!” “It’s Rose’s!” “Here, Rose, here they are—take ’em all; here’s alot!” Emma, and John, and Alfred, and William’s hands thrust forth to help her to the prize; Sarah and Fanny, the elders of the party, laughing at their eagerness; the more sage Matilda checking it, and counting how many fish Rose has won; Rose, amazed at her sudden wealth, talks the least; little Samuel, who is too young to play, but has been allowed a place, with some of the “pretty fish” before him, claps his hands and halloos, and throws his playthings to increase Rose’s treasure; and baby Ellen sits in “mother’s” lap, mute from surprise at the “uproar wild,” till a loud crow, and the quick motion of her legs, proclaim her delight at the general joy, which she suddenly suspends in astonishment at the many fingers pointed towards her, with “Look at baby! look at baby!” and gets smothered with kisses, from which “mother” vainly endeavours to protect her. And so they go on, till called by Matilda to a new game, and “mother” bids them to “go and sit down, and be good children, and not make so much noise:” whereupon they disperse to their chairs; two or three of the least help up Samuel, who is least of all, and “mother” desires them to “take care, and mind he does not fall.” Matilda then gives him his pretty fish “to keep him quiet;” begins to dress the board for a new game; and once more they are “as merry as grigs.”

In contrast to the jocund pleasure of children at a round game, take the picture of “old Sarah Battle,” the whist-player. “A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game,” was her celebrated wish. “She was none of your lukewarm gamesters, your half-and-half players, who have no objection to take a hand, if you want one to make up a rubber; who affirm that they have no pleasure in winning; that they like to win one game, and lose another; that they can wile away an hour very agreeably at a card-table, but are indifferent whether they play or no; and will desire an adversary, who has slipt a wrong card, to take it up and play another. Of such it may be said that they do not play at cards, but only play at playing at them. Sarah Battle was none of that breed; she detested them from her heart and soul; and would not, save upon a striking emergency, willingly seat herself at the same table with them. She loved a thorough-paced partner, a determined enemy. She took and gave no concessions; she hated favours; she never made a revoke, nor ever passed it over in her adversary, without exacting the utmost forfeiture. She sat bolt upright, and neither showed you her cards, nor desired to see yours. All people have their blind side—their superstitions; and I have heard her declare, under the rose, that Hearts was her favourite suit. I never in my life (and I knew Sarah Battle many of the best years of it) saw her take out her snuffbox when it was her turn to play, or snuff a candle in the middle of a game, or ring for a servant till it was fairly over. She never introduced, or connived at, miscellaneous conversation during its process: as, she emphatically observed, cards were cards. A grave simplicity was what she chiefly admired in her favourite game. There was nothing silly in it, like the nob in cribbage—nothing superfluous. To confess a truth, she was never greatly taken with cribbage. It was an essentially vulgar game, I have heard her say,—disputing with her uncle, who was very partial to it. She could never heartily bring her mouth to pronounce ‘go,’ or ‘that’s a go.’ She called it an ungrammatical game. The pegging teased her. I once knew her to forfeit a rubber, because she would not take advantage of the turn-up knave, which would have given it her, but which she must have claimed by the disgraceful tenure of declaring ‘two for his heels.’ Sarah Battle was a gentlewoman born.” These, omitting a few delicate touches, are her features by the hand ofElia. “No inducement,” he says, “could ever prevail upon her to play ather favouritegame for nothing.” And then he adds, “With great deference to the old lady’s judgment on these matters, I think I have experienced some moments in my life when playing at cardsfor nothinghas even been agreeable. When I am in sickness, or not in the best spirits, I sometimes call for the cards, and play a game at piquetfor lovewith my cousin Bridget—Bridget Elia.” Cousin Bridgetand the gentle Elia seem beings of that age wherein lived Pamela, whom, with “old Sarah Battle,” we may imagine entering their room, and sitting down with them to asquaregame. Yet Bridget and Elia live in our own times: she, full of kindness to all, and of soothings to Elia especially;—he, no less kind and consoling to Bridget, in all simplicity holding converse with the world, and, ever and anon, giving us scenes that Metzu and De Foe would admire, and portraits that Denner and Hogarth would rise from their graves to paint.

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